Whirlwind a novel by Susan M. Nelson Introduction by Steven R. Nelson © 2013 Steven R. Nelson

 

PROLOGUE

St. Paul, Minnesota

     Guinevere ran as if her life depended on her velocity, because it did. She needed to get as far from her house as she could, as fast as she could manage. And she needed to stay in the shadows while she fled. The police weren’t on
her trail yet, but they would be. Or worse, the killers would. Without really dwelling on it, that was what scared her into running. In retrospect, she should have taken her chances with the police, but she was too unhinged. She stopped for a brief moment to catch her breath and to give the sharp pain in her side time to lessen. Each breath was a trial of pain. Guinevere was in such a state of shock, it was nearly impossible to absorb what she had seen. It couldn't possibly
have happened, but it had. Just moments before, she and Charles had been arguing while cooking supper so she’d left to give them both time to cool off. When she had returned to her house, the door was wide open and there
was blood everywhere. The beige carpet and walls that wrapped around her new sofa were drenched in it. Breathless, Guin saw her stepson, Peter, sprawled on the sofa with a butcher knife sticking out of his chest. Spurts and splatters of his blood were flung on the wall like some modern painting, extending to the ceiling above his still warm body. It was her butcher knife, the one she had been using before she left to walk to the market to buy onions. My God, the child was only ten! She entered the room and, hearing raised voices from upstairs, slipped into the kitchenat the back of the house where she found the remainder of her new family.

     Samuel, who was six, was face down in a puddle of blood. He also had been stabbed, more than once—or perhaps shot—Guin didn't know, and in her state of mind it didn't matter. He was dead. His little body, still warm to her touch, held no pulse. Cathy, who was three, had been strangled as she sat in her highchair. The dishtowel was still around her neck. She had also been hit over the head with a golfing trophy, which lay next to the chair. There was blood and bits of blonde hair on the tip. Her husband of five months, Charles, had been both stabbed and hit over the head with another golfing trophy which was lying next to him. When Guin checked his pulse, his eyelids fluttered. Breathing shallowly, Guin stared down at her husband. “The children?” he whispered. She shook her head unbelieving, her vision blurred by tears.
     "Who, Charles? Why?”
     “Run, Guin! Run away from here!”
     One last gasp for air and he slipped away, slumping in her arms. Guinevere gently lay him back down and did as he said. She grabbed her coat on the way out. As she left the house, she heard a male voice calling out to his companions.
     “Isn’t there supposed to be a wife now?”
     “Yeah, find her.” But they wouldn’t find her. She was already gone.

CHAPTER ONE

St. Paul, Minnesota

     The doctor came into the waiting room, pulling off his gloves and tugging a pile of hospital forms from under his arm. He was struggling not to spill them onto the shining linoleum floor as he approached Axel. Detective Axel Finley had been sitting on the formed plastic chair for so long, his rear end was stuck to the seat. He awkwardly removed his body from the ugly piece of furniture.
     “Hello Mr. Finley, I am Dr. Jacobs, I am the cardiologist currently assigned to care for Mrs. Finley.”
     Axel stuck out his hand and they shook.
     "She's stable for the moment, sir. Good that you reacted so quickly. Since your wife is a Type 1 diabetic, the symptoms for heart failure aren't so cut and dried; most Type 1 diabetics don't realize the problem until ... well, we need your permission to insert a pacemaker," he announced matter-of-factly. He held out the forms to Axel.
     "A pacemaker! She needs a pacemaker?"
     "Right now, no, but later, I can't say, but we would like the forms signed just in case. Things could move pretty fast, depending on how this goes, and I may not have the time to locate you."
     "But you are sure it is her heart?"
     The doctor suddenly flashed a brief smile. It was unexpected under the circumstances. Axel almost smiled back.
     "Yes, I'm sure about that. However, Mrs. Finley called me an idiot when I told her. She insisted it was the flu and she wanted you to tell me off. Or arrest me on the spot!" Another brief smile. "Then, she had another episode, and
now she realizes ... she's a fighter, that one."
     "Can I see her? Tell her I'm here?"
     "Just for a minute. Follow me." But Axel was already halfway through the door.
     "Sally," he whispered to her, not wanting to wake her up but needing to say her name. He could barely recognize the woman. Her curly, brown-red hair was plastered to her forehead with sweat and who knew what else. It had been
roughly brushed up over the crown of her head just to get it out of the way. Axel gently smoothed it back. She felt cold to his touch. A breathing tube had been slid down her throat and her breath rattled, or perhaps it was simply the sound the machine made. There were what seemed like a dozen machines hooked up to her; some hummed, some chirped, others sent out alarming beeps. Some sent fluids and drugs directly into her veins, others were applied to various parts of her skin. It seemed they were pouring fluids into her blood stream as the flow was steady and rapid. Her face looked pudgy and the skin appeared to be stretched over the puffiness. Her normally rosy cheeks were pale white, her blue eyes closed. Just then the blood pressure cuff began to tighten. He watched the readings. 50 over 40. My God! How low could it possibly go before it was ...?
     "Sir?" Someone touched his elbow. "I need to speak with you." Axel was led from the ER cubical.
     "Is she going to be all right?"
     "We don't know yet. This is extremely serious, though. I won't tell you that it isn't."
     "What are her chances?"
     "I don't know."
     "Tell me, doctor!" Axel was in no mood for guessing.
     "Not good. There seems to be substantial damage to the right side of her heart, damage we cannot repair. It all depends on how she does, and if her heart can repair itself over time. Sometimes, it can. But other times, it's not possible. Her chances, right now, are not excellent. We are adding fluids to make it easier for her heart to pump, with less resistance. We must wait and monitor, test, and wait some more." The doctor was patient. He produced another form for Axel. "We need to give her a blood transfusion."
     She's lost a lot of blood? Axel thought. He was having trouble taking all of this in. He hadn't really gotten past the possibility that it might be the flu. But he signed the form anyway.
     "You should go home and get some rest. She won't be aware that you're here. The drugs that shield her from discomfort also take away from her current grasp of things."
     Axel went back to his chair. He was not about to abandon his wife.
     After another hour or so, Sally was moved from the ER to the Intensive Coronary Care Unit on the hospital's fourth floor. Axel was directed to the ICCU waiting area.
     Another hour passed in another chair not designed for him. The hard, formed plastic was for individuals smaller than he or people who would not be using it for long. Axel was a large man. Not overweight, but comfortably middle-aged with the sort of softness that comes with a good and full life. Sally said he was adorable. Axel smiled briefly. Adorable. She made him sound like a little girl in ringlets or a kitten. But, as long as she liked looking at him, what else mattered? His hair was thin on top—hell, who was he kidding, it was non-existent on the top—but the sides were grey, wiry curls that Sally liked to twirl around her fingers when Axel let it grow too long. How he longed to feel her fingers on him now.
     Finally, a nurse came to get him. She escorted Axel to Sally's room where he saw a more comfortable chair next to Sally's bed. He smiled his thanks and pulled it as close to her as he could. He took her hand that wasn't attached to anything in his, and just held on. His eyes moved from her face to the monitors and IV pumps, then back to her face again.
    The events that got Sally and Axel to this moment in their lives had been a night from the depths of hell. Axel had been awakened by his wife, moaning and twisting in her sleep. He had assumed it was a low blood sugar episode, and all he needed to do was get her some juice and coax her to drink it. But when Sally began to vomit and shake and her breathing became labored, rapid, and shallow, Axel became alarmed.
     "Sally? What do you need?"
     "Call the ER. Ask them about this new flu I've heard is going around. Maybe you need to take me in."
     But it wasn't the flu, not like any flu that the nurse in the ER knew about. When Axel told the woman his Sally was a diabetic, she sent an ambulance.
     A portable x-ray unit was wheeled into the room. Axel was asked to leave the room for a little while. When he returned the chair was about as far from the bed as it possibly could be. He pulled it even closer to the bed so that he could whisper to her. He wanted to be sure Sally was aware that he was right there with her. In fact, Axel sat there for over a week, watching and waiting. The
pacemaker was never inserted. At first, Axel thought that was good news until the doctor told him that the damage had already been done and the pacemaker wouldn't help. It would take more waiting to see what Sally's body did, if anything. The hospital staff tried to prepare him for the worst possible outcome. Axel listened attentively, asked the appropriately timed questions, and he acknowledged their dire words of ongoing events. But in the marrow of his
being, Axel refused to admit she might die. He absolutely refused. Even when he was told she had only about a 10 percent chance to come out of this, he told himself they just didn't know his Sally.
     Axel rested his head on the edge of the bed, intending it for only a moment, but he slept. Sally reached out her hand and clasped his, waking him.
     "Sweetheart?" he mumbled and looked at her. She pointed as best she could at the breathing tube.
     "I know you can't talk. Do you think you can write?"
     When she nodded, he held a tablet and pencil for her, but she struggled. It was like her fingers and her brain were not connected. What few letters she managed were illegible.
     "Do you know what happened to you? Where you are?" he asked. She gave him a blank look.
     "I think she understands what is said to her, but she obviously cannot respond. Some of the drugs she's been given cause her perceptions to be altered, also. She most likely isn't sure of any details," a nurse said to Axel as she checked Sally's vital signs. Sally rocked her head in a back and forth way trying to indicate "no."
     "You do know?" the nurse asked her. Sally nodded. But Axel could see that even that was difficult. Something was injected into the IV and Sally's eyes slowly closed once more.
     For hours, Axel sat next to his wife, reading to her, talking to her, and rubbing lotion into her hands. At one point he got angry with a group of healthcare workers who boldly stood at the foot of her bed discussing how badly things were going and how small her chances were. Axel motioned them from the room, then confronted and lectured them severely.
     "Look here. She is able to both hear you and understand what you're saying. How unprofessional this is, in front of her. You should be reported and ashamed of yourselves! This is my wife, you are so cavalierly dooming."
     "She's in and out of a coma, induced by the drugs. She understands nothing," one particularly irritating doctor told Axel in superior tones of self-importance.
     "And you're positive about that?" Axel demanded.
     "Well …
     "Just do not do it again. Now, get out of here." The doctors were far more careful after that. Several of the nurses smiled at Axel in understanding and agreement.
     The following morning, Axel turned his cell phone back on and attempted to call his office. The phone, however, vibrated in his hand before he was able to
complete the call.
     "Axel? Detective?"
     "Yep."
     "Can you come in for a bit?" Louise, his secretary, asked tentatively, knowing what he'd been going through.
     "Maybe later. I don't want to leave her like this." Axel said and hung up before any argument could ensue.
     When Sally began to come around, nurses and doctors spent more time in the room with them. Since the throat tube restricted Sally's talking, she wrote notes on a tablet. Water. I want water, she wrote. She pleaded for it. I'll do
anything, I'll be so good. Just give me water. Only a little. At least that was the group guess at what was written.
     "Not until the tube comes out, dear," said the nurse of the day. Sally had been sick enough to get her own personal nurse each day, someone always available. But there was to be no water.
     Later that night, Sally pulled the tube from her throat herself. Someone had forgotten to check the restraints on her wrists to prevent such a thing. The nurse and doctor were appalled, but Sally smiled sweetly and pretended that
she hadn't understood what she had done. They gave her a cup full of ice chips to suck on, but threatened to put the tube back in.
     As the hours passed, Axel went to the gift shop on the main level to search out something to read to Sally. He had never read to her before, but he'd run out of things to say to an unresponsive woman and the available magazines did
not interest either of them. Jacob, the Baker caught his eye and he bought it. Axel read and read. When he stopped briefly, Sally moved about restlessly. He knew she was listening and when he finished one book, he picked up another, knowing that this would please her.
     She hadn't been sleeping, and now pneumonia had set in. Her breathing was worsening once again and the doctor wanted to reinsert the tube. Sally actually cried until her nurse suggested they give some breathing therapy a try. Sally didn't like being bothered by the respiratory therapist, but she gave it her best just so that she could get the ice chips. Everyone, especially Axel, could see that she was exhausted. A morphine drip was added to her meds regimen to help her get some serious rest.
     "Sweetheart? I need to go to the cafe for something to eat. I won't be gone long."
     Axel couldn't be positive, but he thought she might have nodded.
     After a cheeseburger and fries, he stopped back. Sally was out of the room. Axel panicked until a nurse came and reassured him that she was only gone for a test. It was going to take a long while she told him and he wasn't allowed in the treatment room while the test was running. Something about inserting a heart catheter, a camera of sorts, up through an artery in her leg and into her heart. He nearly fainted when they explained it to him. The test would take hours and last into the early evening.
     Axel took the time to go shopping for a few clothes: long sleeve T-shirts — underwear, another pair of jeans, and surely some socks. He supposed he could have gone home to get his own clothes, but it felt like that would keep him  away from her for too long. Maybe he just didn't want to face the dog.
     "The dog! Oh Shit!" Axel reached for his cell phone. "Sorry, Miss," he shyly said to the store clerk. He called Louise in a panic. Sally would never forgive him if something happened to her baby her small, black and tan dachshund.
     "Axel … Axel … take a breath." Louise said with calm and patience. "Robie is staying with me. You know he and I are buds. He is and will be … just fine. Axel … you need to concentrate on helping Sally get better."
     "Louise, I owe you big."
     "Axel—you, Sally, and I have been friends far too long for any of us to owe the other."



CHAPTER TWO

St. Paul, Minnesota

     Guinevere was terrified with the kind of fear she couldn't even imagine, but she was also too afraid to seek help or to go to the police. They would think she murdered her family and arrest her. Charles had a lot of family money, and didn't the police always suspect a new spouse if there was money involved? Guin knew her sister-in-law would see to it. But, she didn’t take time to figure it out.
She just ran.
     Lynn Stone-Franklin, Charles’s sister, had been telling anyone who would listen, that Guin was a conniving bitch who was only after the family money. So, there would be no help from her. Besides, Lynn Stone-Franklin's husband was a lecher who always gave Guin the creeps. Her only hope was to leave town before the murders were discovered, then plan what to do. When she was safely far away, only then would she consider contacting the police. Right now, she just couldn't plan anything. The way her family lost their lives was so far beyond her comprehension, she could not take it all in.
     Her first stop was the ATM where she withdrew nearly all of her own money. Next, she went to the bank branch to empty her savings account. Twelve thousand, seven hundred and fifty dollars was all she had, but it would have
to do. She left all of Charles’s money right where it was.
     Startled by every little noise, she made her way the two miles to the bus stop and then on to the airport, where she noticed the blood on her hands and sleeves. No wonder the bank teller had eyed her with suspicion. She was
probably expecting a threatening note to hand over all the money or else. The woman had undoubtedly phoned the police by now.
     Guin had her husband's blood on her. Charles. She gulped back an audible sob. Guin went to a washroom to rinse off what she could, then rolled up her sleeves to hide the stains. Her coat covered most of the mess on her blouse and pantsuit.
     With no passport and limited funds, she simply took the first flight out of the Twin Cities. It was to Portland, Oregon, where she knew no one. She bought a large felt hat with a wide brim, stuffed as much of her shoulder length
blonde curly hair under it as she could and purposely avoided the security cameras, keeping her glance low. Even though she was quaking in her black leather boots as she entered the gate, Guin walked with a confident stride that
told the staff she knew where she was going. She even managed to smile at everyone when she got her boarding pass.
     “Luggage, madam?” the airline agent asked politely. Guinevere had a moment of panic and then recovered smoothly.
     “No, I’ve been here just for the day, and am already flying home … a business meeting,” she answered, very relieved she was still dressed in a suit for work, and not her usual jeans and sweater. Guinevere hadn’t changed her driver’s license yet, so it was easy to buy a boarding pass with it and in her maiden name, Igraine G. Fairchild. Her mother had been a great fan of the King Arthur legends and named all her children and various pets accordingly, with names of the era, Cei, (pronounced Kay), Merlin, Lance, and the pets, Pendragon, Pellinore, and Nemue. My God, what was the woman thinking. Guinevere often wondered. The entire family loved the legends of the mythical king, though, and the stories were told and retold every night in the Fairchild home. Stories of knights and quests and magic, bravery, love, and treachery were the fuel of her
childhood.
     Once in the plane, Guin began to breathe easier. She was safe for now, but what the hell had happened to her family? She was too stunned and numb to cry. She kept asking herself the same questions repeatedly, like a mantra.
Who would want my family dead? Why kill the small children? As the plane began to taxi toward the runway, she pushed herself deeply into her seat and closed her eyes. They flew open immediately as the pictures of her family
came into focus once more. Guin was shivering in shock, trembling so hard her teeth were chattering.
     The airplane raced down the runway for take-off. Guinevere could think of nothing but the images of her dead family: the sight of the small bodies of her
stepchildren, and Charles’s last words: “Run Guin, run away from here.”
     Guinevere had met Charles at the Saint Paul Hotel in the downtown area, where they both were attending a convention. It was love at first sight; a whirlwind romance ensued. Just like a “neat meet” scene from a Hollywood movie. They noticed each other from across a room packed with convention participants and each simply gravitated toward the other. After they shook hands with introductions, they were goners. The first night they shared a dinner at a little Italian place across the street from the hotel. He ordered shrimp scampi with lots of garlic butter and she had the lasagna stuffed with crab. They switched plates and drank from the same wine glass over the glow of romantic candles. The second day they skipped the convention meetings in the afternoon and spent the time at the Science Museum of Minnesota, only a couple of blocks 
from the hotel, collecting information about dinosaurs and plastic models of the creatures for the his kids. Charles surprised her with a garnet necklace from the museum gift shop. That evening they had a steak dinner at the hotel where they were so lost in each other they failed to notice the famous people: Garrison Keillor surrounded by his usual gob of adoring fans and the governor of the state with his work-a-day entourage in tow. Later, they went to the Ordway Theater just across a small city park from the hotel. They saw “Rent” and loved it. Walking back to the hotel through the tiny romantic park that was full of
couples, they kissed, then kissed again and again. Their kissing grew quite serious and involved. Guinevere had never been kissed so thoroughly and so completely before. Charles and Guin were simply drawn to each other. It was
fate. By the third night, Guinevere had stars in her eyes and was sharing Charles’s hotel room, number 720. It had a wonderful view of the park, beautifully lit up with tiny lights. Charles was an early riser and there were coffee and scones for her when she finally opened her eyes. It was a living fairy tale. Guinevere was the lost princess saved by her handsome prince.
     The couple had been married within a month of their first meeting. They still had date nights even after they were married. Her new husband (her first marriage, his second) had seemed so perfect for her. They both had careers: he a computer programming engineer for a busy design firm, she a project manager for a millwork company. They shared the household chores and the child care. They took turns driving the kids to school or other activities. Motherhood had always frightened Guinevere, but she found the children so delightful that even when they disagreed on something or fought between themselves, she coped beautifully. Charles told her she was made for the
job. The children were a constant source of love and companionship; a great reason for getting up on a Saturday morning, something she had been loath to do all of her adult life. Guinevere became more comfortable with the role of mother. She loved the three children with a strength she didn’t think possible. As Guin shared her family tradition of the stories of Camelot, she was continually
amazed at their imaginations and loved to see their reactions to the feats and adventures of King Arthur. Charles acted like they were hers as well as his own, which made it easier. He had been such a great husband and father. But, Guinevere thought, there must have been more to the man. Why else would this have happened?
     She sighed heavily as she stared out the window, not noticing the beauty of the night sky. Her arms ached to hold sweet little Cathy, her loving blond cherub, and Sammy who just that morning had shyly called her “Mommy”. And there was Peter, the dinosaur-loving boy who wanted nothing more than to be a paleontologist when he grew up. He could already spell the word. “I want to dig in the dirt, Mom.” Who would want these intelligent, beautiful children dead? So what the hell was happening? Her head was pounding and she felt sick to her stomach. She barely made it to the bathroom before she threw up. Her breathing was shallow and ragged. She washed her face, rinsed out her mouth. Guin was pale and drawn looking in the dim light of the bathroom. The mirror gave her a harsh appearance of someone she didn't know any more.
     “What am I going to do?” she asked herself out loud, twisting her fingers and wedding ring.
     “Are you okay, Miss?” asked the attractive flight attendant. Her name tag read Cynthia and she looked at Guinevere with concern. “Do you need anything? Coffee, tea, a drink? Maybe something to eat?”
     “Maybe some red wine?” Guinevere smiled at her and tried to look relaxed.
     “Sure, Zinfandel or cabernet?”
     “The cabernet would be great.”
     “Oh my, you have blood on your suit!” Cynthia exclaimed. “Are you hurt?”
     Guinevere jumped a little and pulled her coat closed tightly. “I had a nose bleed. I almost always do during takeoff,” she offered lamely.
     “Oh, lots of people do. I have just the thing. I’ll get that for you, along with your wine.” And she was gone. She returned with a small stick of something that looked like a clear crayon. Cynthia told her to “Gently rub on the spot until it fades,” and lightly patted her shoulder.
     Guin thanked Cynthia for her help, and started working on the most visible spots on the front of her coat.
     “Don’t worry now. The flight will go smoothly,” she calmly said, and left to attend to the other passengers. How kind, Guin thought. How normal. How unaware of who was sitting in this seat, the strange woman whose family had just been brutally murdered only hours before.
     Guinevere sipped her wine and dimmed her light. Her thoughts kept returning to the carnage … she shivered again. It would never fade; the color red would remain as startlingly bright as it had appeared on her family. It was a sight Guin would never erase from her mind or her heart. It would follow her every day, everywhere, forever.