Chapter 1
Split Seconds
Monday, May 8th, 1989
The worst thing about accidents and missteps is that we don’t know when or how to anticipate them. If we were able to see the when and how, we might learn to avoid them altogether. But alas, we are only human and can neither choose nor recognize those ill-fated moments when it isn’t safe to let our guards down. A near-miss might cause us to reflect on our whole lives. A direct hit might do the same. Two truck drivers, Tom Dwyer and Frank Mulhaney, will learn this the hard way and react differently to its twenty-year consequences.
At 5:45 a.m. Tom Dwyer and his wife, Laura, were eating breakfast at their tiny Formica kitchen table. Laura had an unremarkable round face, a thick mass of light brown hair, and rimless bifocals. Today, the thirty-nine-year-old woman wore a tan cardigan sweater over a brown print dress. She worked for the telephone company in bill adjustments.
Tom drove a truck for a fast-growing package delivery service based in Baltimore, Maryland. A towering muscular man with clean-shaven gray cheeks, he wore his company’s dark blue slacks and chambray shirt with “Tom” emblazoned across one pocket. He ate his usual Raisin Bran cereal with milk and a packet of artificial sweetener. He held a spoon in one hand and a folded newspaper in the other, while Laura nibbled away at a buttered English muffin. Wielding a pencil in her free hand, she worked at completing a shopping list.
“Where are you off to this morning, dear?” she asked.
“Let’s see, today’s Tuesday. I’ll be learning the Annapolis route with some guy named Frank.” He finished his cereal and pushed his bowl toward the center of the table.
“Will you be late tonight?” Laura took the last bite of her muffin, picked up his bowl and her plate, and placed them in the dishwasher.
“Don’t think so, hon,” he said as he put the paper down and got up from the table. He collected his uniform coat and cap from the hall and left for work. “Bye, see you tonight.”
“Bye,” she called from behind the bathroom door.
* * *
By 9:45 the two drivers were completing their fifth delivery of the morning. Their Express Package Delivery truck sat idling next to the curb at 2320 Slate Street, a deserted one-way thoroughfare close to downtown Annapolis, Maryland. Tom Dwyer, an experienced driver just riding along to learn the more efficient delivery routes, carried a cardboard carton upstairs to an apartment in the adjacent building. Obtaining a signature of receipt, he returned to the truck and climbed in the cab beside the driver.
Frank Mulhaney, a hefty driver with twelve years on this job, had waited behind the wheel. As soon as Tom slammed his door shut, Frank released the emergency brake and lightly tapped the gas pedal. The truck pulled away from the curb and rolled slowly toward the red traffic light at the corner.
In the parking spaces across the street and to the left of the moving truck were six vehicles—a pickup truck, a line of four sedans, and an unmarked white panel truck.
“Where to next?” asked Tom.
Frank gazed up at the traffic light, just turning green, and then down at his delivery list to see his next address. It only took that split second for him to look at the rectangular metallic box holding the packing lists with the addresses, but it would turn out to be the most terrible split second of his life. As his vehicle rolled abreast of the panel truck, Frank returned his attention to the windshield once more and gasped.
“Look out,” shouted Tom.
Bigger than life, Frank saw a woman with outstretched arms and legs plow into their truck’s windshield. He instantly panicked. His foot briefly mis-hit the accelerator before jamming down on the intended brakes. Too late. The woman’s body slid underneath the truck frame. The heavy box truck did come to a stop, but not before the drivers felt the tires thump-a-thump in the road below. Frank applied the emergency hand brake as a matter of habit. He sat shaking for a few seconds, then flung the door open, slid off the seat, and slammed his extra-wide shoes down onto the macadam street.
Tom heaved his six-foot-three body down from the passenger side of the cab and hurried around to join Frank on the other side of the truck. He could feel his heart thumping at a painful rate. His mind was still fixated on the woman’s distorted face as she appeared through the windshield.
Kneeling down, the two men discovered the woman’s battered body lying beneath the cab of the truck. There was no way Frank could move their truck without further mutilating the body, so the two men reached underneath the truck, grabbed the woman under her arms, and dragged her to the opposite sidewalk.
The green lightweight coat on the blonde twenty-something victim had fallen open, revealing a pink housedress with a gray diagonal tire track drawn across its middle. One pink slipper dangled from her left foot. The other was surely still under the truck.
Once they had hauled the woman from the street to the sidewalk, Frank’s thick fingers felt her carotid artery. Feeling no signs of life there, he stood up straight, shook his head, then began scanning his environs for anyone else who might have observed the accident scene. No one. Not a soul in sight. Like a child who’d sent an errant baseball through a neighbor’s window, Frank felt a new wave of panic wash over him, as he bolted for the cab and climbed in, slamming the door behind him.
“You can’t leave her lying there like this,” shouted Tom.
“I can’t? You just watch me,” answered Frank. “Get in quick before someone sees us.”
“Shouldn’t we call it in?”
“Not unless you want to lose your license,” said Frank. “I need mine to make a living.”
Tom reluctantly climbed up into the cab and pulled his door shut. Frank released the emergency hand brake and drove off.
* * *
At 9:15 that same morning—a very different breakfast scene. Budreau Atkins sat down at the kitchen table in his Annapolis apartment. The lanky thirty-two-year-old sometimes went by the nickname Buddy, but mostly everyone who knew him called him Muddy. That name stuck because of the many shady deals and troubles he got himself into. Muddy’s large nose tapered to high cheekbones and hollow hawkish eyes. Powerful allergies laid claim to his sinuses that morning and, by painful association, his poor temperament as well.
Anne, Muddy’s wife of eight years, stood in front of the gas range in her faded, thin housedress—one hand holding an iron skillet handle. The three eggs in the skillet sizzled and popped from the excess butter under heat.
“Aren’t them damn eggs done yet?” he demanded. “What’s taking so long?”
“Coming right up, dear.” Anne half-flipped the pan over a large dinner plate and slid the contents onto it. She carried the plate to the table and set it down in front of him. “There!”
Muddy picked up his fork, dug in, and conveyed a large chunk to his mouth before carping, “These blasted eggs are runny again. You know how I hate runny eggs.”
“I know,” she said. “But you’re always so impatient. You hurried me up.”
“Don’t you go blaming your incompetence on me, woman.”
Anne thought seriously about beaning him with the skillet she was rinsing in the sink, but pure reason stopped her. “Why are you starting up with me this morning? I didn’t do anything to you.”
Muddy ignored her question. “Did you pick up my dress shirts from the cleaners like I told you?”
“No, I’ll get them first thing.”
“You dunce, can’t you do anything the first time like I tell you?”
Anne approached him with arms folded across her chest. “I’m your wife, not your damn slave. Treat me with some respect. Just because your sisters were so cruel to you growing up, doesn’t mean you have to take it out on me.”
His chair made a scraping sound on the floor as he pushed it back and stood to face her. A half-dozen seconds passed before he slapped her hard on the right cheek, stunning her, knocking her a step aside. “You dumb bitch! I ought to throw you out on your ear.”
Anne, a 110-pound lefty, responded defiantly with a loud stinging slap to his right cheek. Muddy made a fist and jabbed it deep into her stomach. The blow sent her across the room onto her backside. Facing him, her eyes glazed with surprise followed by pure anger. Then fear set in. She wriggled her way across the floor to the nearest corner and cowered there.
Muddy looked down on her with a sneer and said, “You dumb bitch! I’m not through with you yet.”
“You rotten bastard!” she cried. “One of these days I’m leaving you for good and I’m not coming back.”
“Go ahead, leave. Ain’t no one here gonna miss you anyway.”
She stumbled out the door and slammed it behind her.
* * *
At 7:45 that same evening Tom Dwyer walked in the door and went directly to his favorite recliner, without even announcing his arrival. He and Frank had driven through all the rest of their deliveries like automatons, neither one speaking his troubled mind. Now he sat there sulking in silence, rehashing his dark day in the dimness of his own living room.
“I thought you weren’t going to be late, dear,” Laura called from the kitchen. When she heard no response, Laura went to see for herself why. She perceived something was awry with her husband, who usually came home in a reasonably pleasant mood.
“Why are you sitting there in the dark?” she asked. She entered the living room and flipped the light switch to ON. As soon as she saw him sitting there, she knew for sure something was eating at him. “What’s wrong, dear. Your face is as white as my dish towel.”
“Today we accidentally murdered someone, a woman,” he muttered with his eyes turned down.
“Murdered?” she repeated. “A woman?”
“Yes! Somebody’s wife, maybe, or somebody’s mother,” he whined.
“Where? How?”
“Annapolis…we ran her over with the company truck.”
“We? Who was driving?”
“Frank.”
“Are you sure she’s dead?” Laura asked. “Maybe she’s still alive. Did you stop and check?”
“Of course we did. We both checked for her life signs. There just weren’t any.”
“So how is that murder?” she asked. “It sounds more like an accident to me.”
“But we drove off without getting any help.”
“You left the scene?” Laura asked slowly, as though she didn’t want to hear the answer.
“Yeah. There weren’t any witnesses, so Frank panicked and took off.”
“Tom, why are you so sure of that? No witnesses, I mean.”
“Damn it, Laura, it was a deserted side street. I looked it up and down. I even looked at the windows in all the next-door houses. There was no one about. I didn’t want to leave without calling the police and an ambulance, but Frank insisted. He was worried about losing his license.”
“Have you any idea who she was? Did you look in her purse?”
“No, I didn’t! Come to think of it, I don’t remember seeing any purse.”
“None? What kind of a woman leaves the house without her purse?”
“It could have been under the truck. I didn’t look there.”
“Come, let’s have a bite to eat. Your supper’s getting cold. We’ll talk more later.”
“I don’t feel like eating anything,” he said.
“Come to the table anyway,” she coaxed. “Maybe you’ll change your mind.” Laura sat across from him at the supper table with hardly a word said by either one. She ate slowly and sparingly, looking up at him periodically, her mouth parting as though she intended to say something, but she never did.
Tom tried to eat several times, but whatever reached his mouth seemed both tasteless and intolerable. The distorted woman’s face stuck relentlessly in his mind. Whenever he saw Laura raise her head to speak, he didn’t know whether it would be to admonish him or comfort him. Ultimately, she did neither. He was left to deal with his own conscience.
What scarce sleep Tom had that night came with repeated nightmares of the same accident scene—the frightening flash image of the outstretched woman in the windshield in that horrifying instant before she fell beneath the wheels of Frank’s rolling truck. The thump-a-thump sound and smell of the braking tires, the hammer pounding against his chest, and the dominating fear hovering over him. It took possession of him and his life. He was no better than Frank—they had both left the scene of the crime. The future held little or no relief, for he was to be plagued with endless nights full of that awful lifeless image. And, of course he could seek no help, nor could he tell a soul beyond Laura.
The next few mornings they rushed to search the local newspapers for coverage of the accident. The Baltimore Sun carried no mention of an Annapolis hit-and-run, and the Annapolis Journal-Gazette over several days mentioned two similar incidents with few details: different locations and both at night. These items only added to the couple’s consternation.
Chapter 2
The Fling
Saturday, October 16th, 2004
It’s extremely difficult to avoid the consequences of one night’s indiscretion when you are normally a person of decency and principles. Lying, evasion, and denial are not easily found in your arsenal. But excessive celebration sometimes clouds behavior. You submit and you are left with guilt, and the consequences linger long after. Fifteen years have passed since the hit-and-run accident and there is yet another misstep in the making.
Consider the plight of Mark Schwartz, an undergraduate junior majoring in physics at Johns Hopkins University in Baltimore. He and fellow students Bradley Billingsly and Paul Scarbrough were simply out celebrating the end of midterm exams. The venue for this celebration was the Blue Jay Tavern deep in the heart of the Homewood section of the city. The three were seated in a brown vinyl booth toward the rear of the noisy establishment.
“Say, Brad, are you going out for lacrosse again next year?” asked Mark.
Brad took a long drag on his mug of craft beer before answering. “It all depends on whether my torn hamstring heals in time for spring practice.”
“That was a bummer, Brad—ending the season after only one game,” said Paul. “How’d it happen, anyway?”
“I was chasing the ball at midfield, when I got cross-checked, and the Maryland midfielder stole the ball. I planted my right foot to go after him, and as I quickly changed directions, I could almost feel the muscle tear. I went to the ground and couldn’t get up. I had to be helped off the field.”
“Hey, sorry, man,” said Mark. “Hamstrings hurt like hell. My Dad pulled his and he bitched for a week.” Mark picked up his mug and drained it to the bottom.
“I thought I had only pulled mine, but then they told me it was a tear. I got this huge lump in the back of my upper leg and I couldn’t walk without a cane for a couple weeks,” said Brad. Then he too drained his mug to the last drop.
“It looks like no one’s servicing the tables tonight,” said Paul. “I counted more than a dozen bottles on the table. Who’s ready for another round?”
Mark nodded yes.
“Count me in,” said Brad. “I’ll get them.”
“No, it’s my turn to buy,” insisted Mark.
The young man slid out of the booth and wavered a little before completely standing. He headed for the restroom first, and on his way back to the bar he passed a table with four attractive young ladies. Mark recognized none of them, so he kept going until he heard his name called. He turned and saw one of the young ladies standing.
“Mark,” she called. “Mark Schwartz. Don’t you remember me?”
“I, I’m sorry. I don’t,” he replied, sheepishly.
“So soon they forget. It’s Daisy,” she replied. “Student nurse Daisy Lynn Bacon. I attended to you at the university hospital. You had pneumonia.”
“Ah, yes,” he admitted. “Now I remember. You sat on the edge of my bed, and we talked for nearly an hour before that mean old head nurse caught you goofing off.”
“Yeah, I really got chewed out for that,” she said. “I never got a chance to see you again.”
“I was bored out of my gourd until you showed up. I wanted to see more of you, but they discharged me the next day.” Mark put a hand on her back and steered Daisy to a nearby empty booth. She went willingly.
“Why didn’t you call?” she asked, as soon as they were seated.
“I tried, but by the time I did, you had been shifted to another service. I had no way of tracking you down. All I remembered was your first name. I apologize, my bad.”
Paul poked his head around the edge of the booth. “So that’s where you wound up. We were wondering what happened to the beers you were getting us.”
“Sorry, something more pressing turned up. I met Daisy here,” said Mark with a guilty grin.
“Hi, Daisy,” said Paul. “Can I get you two something from the bar?”
“A Natty Boh draft for me and…” Mark looked to Daisy.
“I’ve been drinking white Zinfandel,” she replied.
“Got it,” said Paul as he headed for the bar with their order. He returned shortly, deposited their drinks on the table, and disappeared.
Mark and Daisy chatted freely and consumed two more rounds of drinks before he caught her staring bleary-eyed at him. She seemed to be concentrating, soaking up every last word he uttered. Her hand let go of her half-empty glass, and he reached across the table to touch and hold it. She smiled and then pursed her lips into a short oval pucker resembling a kiss. He did the same. This state of pleasurable existence lasted for the better part of an hour with only a smattering of wordy exchange.
“We could catch a cab and go back to my place, but I’m not sure who would be home at this hour,” suggested Daisy.
“I’ve got a better idea,” said Mark. “We could walk three blocks to my apartment, which is guaranteed free of roommates for the entire weekend.”
“Umm.”
“Is that all you can say?” he challenged.
“It’s as good as a yes, isn’t it?” she replied. “Maybe I should have said “Yum!”
Mark paid the bar bill with a healthy tip, and the two half-staggered and half-strolled out onto the sidewalk. The crisp October air and bright streetlight perked up both of them for the walk to his place. They climbed the stairs to his second-floor apartment in a four-story, red-brick row house. The two leaned on each other in front of the door to the right-rear apartment while Mark fumbled for his keys. As soon as the door closed behind them, they shed their coats and dropped them on the floor where they stood.
Daisy jumped into his arms and straddled his hips with her legs. As her legs slipped downward, she began to kiss any part of Mark she could reach and he responded in kind.
As her feet touched the floor, she said, “I want you, but the damn room won’t stand still.”
“I want you, too, but first, let me put up some coffee.” He led her over to the big blue sofa, where she collapsed in a sitting position.
“I’m not sure I want any, but you go fix yourself some,” mumbled Daisy in slurred words. “I’m feeling a buzz right now—too good to spoil with coffee.”
I’m not sure what’s happening here, thought Mark. I’ve got a dilemma. If we try to hook up now she’ll fall asleep on me in the middle. If I make the coffee, I’m not sure she’ll be awake enough to drink it. In any case, we’re not doing it while she’s passed out cold.
Mark decided to head to the kitchen and make the coffee anyway. Upon his return to the living room he found she had not only stretched out on the sofa, but fallen fast asleep and was even snoring. He returned to the kitchen and had his coffee by himself. Before retiring, he fetched an extra blanket from the closet and draped it over her sleeping form.
Toward morning, but not yet light, Mark sensed someone else in bed with him. He felt Daisy’s nakedness all the way from the cleft between his shoulder blades down to her knees, fitted into the back of his own. She truly had come to fulfill the promise she’d made the night before. Veni, vidi, vici; she came, she saw, and she conquered while they found the pleasure in each other.
But when he awoke, Daisy was gone. He had no way to thank her for the pleasures in the night. He still had no way to get in touch with her, as he couldn’t remember her last name.
* * *
Daisy never showed up at the Blue Jay Tavern again, nor did she bother to contact him in any way. That is, until four months had passed. It was one snowy Friday, February 11th, 2005, when Mark’s landline phone rang at 8:20 that evening.
“Hello…Who? Daisy who? Ah-ha, that…Daisy…No, I haven’t forgotten you…How are you?”
“I’m four months pregnant with your baby,” replied Daisy.
“Whoa, my baby? How do you know it’s my baby?”
“It’s been a year since I had sex with anyone else. That’s how. What do you intend to do about it?”
“Do?” he exclaimed. “Oh! So you need help with an abortion. I could probably get some cash from my dad if you need it. But I’m not looking to be a father any time soon, nor do I want to be a husband, if that’s what you have in mind.”
“How dare you?” she blurted out. “Don’t you have any sense of decency? Abortion is out of the question. Four months is too late. Besides, I’m Catholic andpro-life. I’ve even protested in two marches.”
“So why did you wait four months to tell me?” he retorted. “And let’s get this straight. It was you who first suggested we go back to your place. What were we going to do there? Play Tiddlywinks?”
“I would have made coffee and we could have talked.”
“Yeah, sure,” said Mark. “Second of all, we went back to my place, and you were all over me before the damn door was even closed. And when I went to make coffee, you fell asleep on me.”
“I did?”
“Yeah, so I covered you up on the living room sofa and I went to bed all by myself. Sometime later, you climbed into bed with me of your own free will and without your clothes. Since you didn’t ask about protection, I just assumed you were on The Pill.”
“I don’t use birth control. It was supposed to be the wrong time of the month for me to conceive. I must have figured it out wrong. So maybe I’m bad, but you had a part in this, too. And you got some enjoyment as well. Are you going to step up or not?”
“Not!” he returned. “However, I will still help to support an abortion. I don’t feel so totally responsible in this case. You were the aggressor here. It was nothing more than a one-night stand, a fling, for the lack of a better word. You have to admit that you had no lasting feelings for me that night. Hardly any more than lust, I suspect.”
“How do you know what I was feeling back then?”
“It sure didn’t feel anything like wedding bells.”
“I told you I’m not aborting and I don’t care about your money. That’s not a problem on this end. What about marriage?” she asked in a tearful voice. “Don’t you care that you’re gonna have a child out of wedlock?”
“Out of the question is more like it,” he replied. “We are of different faiths and ideas. We’re incompatible on so many things. A marriage wouldn’t work. The child is your choice, your mistake.”
The line went dead.
* * *
Five months later Mark received a second phone call from Daisy. It was Monday, July 23rd, at 3:30 p.m.
“I just called to inform you that you are the father of a beautiful eight-pound, five-ounce baby boy. He is nineteen inches long, and I’ve decided to call him Samuel Atkins Bacon, that is, unless you plan to step up at this late time.”
“That is still a definite No, my dear Daisy. I have no interest in becoming a father at this time.”
“Don’t you have the least interest in a child that you helped to create, that you helped to bring into this world—not even a teensy bit of curiosity as to what your son looks like?”
“Please stop this harassment, Daisy. You already know my attitude on this subject. I’d like to remain your friend and I can be of some help financially if you ever need it. But that’s all.”
“That’s not the kind of help I need. I need someone to help me raise Sammy. He needs a father.”
Mark could almost hear the tears in her plea, and then she hung up. The young man wasn’t heartless. He felt a measure of guilt, but he was pretty damned sure his life was meant to take him elsewhere.
