No Remorse

Waking up on his kitchen floor with no recollection of how he got there concerned Frank Reese; finding his pistol beside him, and discovering his five months pregnant wife, Tracy, dead with two gunsho

No Remorse, Chapter One

I awoke, startled as a jolt of pain shot up my spine. My whole body ached, my limbs tingling and asleep; my head throbbed, the veins in my temples pulsating in time to my rapidly beating heart.

            I struggled to open my eyes. Caked over with crust, it felt as though they were stitched closed. Eventually I managed to blink them open, scraping the crust away with a finger. Blinking the world into focus, my confusion grew as the blurred image of my kitchen ceiling appeared before my eyes.

            After taking a moment to work up the energy, I managed to push myself into a seated position on the floor, I sat there for a moment, trying to keep my aching body as still as possible as I took in my surroundings. What did you do to yourself this time? I wondered, groggy and confused as I took in my kitchen: marble counter tops, matching stainless steel refrigerator, oven and dishwasher, glass kitchen table, four chairs; everything in order, spotless. No evidence of… well, anything. What the hell is going on?

            Now, if this had been five years prior, I would probably not give my current predicament a second thought. It’s a long story, but let’s just say that I didn’t take well to my Honorable Discharge from the Marine Corp just over a decade ago. After I had sustained several severe injuries in Afghanistan, I became hooked on the prescription pain killers and anti-anxiety medications I had been prescribed. But all the pills in the pharmacy couldn’t put a happy face on my past and the vivid memories that continued to haunt me. So I prescribed myself copious amounts of alcohol to drown them out of my head. Drink two bottles, call me in the morning… if you remember.

Fast-forward to the present, and I, Frank Reese, have been sober for five years, one month and twenty-two days. On the other hand, since no other rational explanation came to mind, I guess I’ve only been sober a few minutes.

            However�"even on my worst days burrowed in the bottom of the bottle�"I had always been able to recall that first pill, the first drink, if not the second and third and fourth. That’s what makes this all the more baffling. I can’t remember taking so much as an ibuprofen in over five years.

            It was at that moment, lost in thought, I absently glanced about the room, spotting the gun. My gun, specifically. A Sig Sauer P226. It lay beside me on the kitchen floor, resting within reach of my right hand. I picked the weapon up by the grip and held it, feeling comfort in its heft and familiarity.

            It wasn’t exactly strange to see my gun. Not exactly. I’m currently employed as a Security Specialist for V.I.P. Security, Inc. The job title is just special effects, a euphemism, a fancy term for Bodyguard. So I’m always strapped. Yet, something about finding the gun out of it’s holster left me feeling a sense of foreboding. What had I been doing with the gun?

With these thoughts running endless cycles through my foggy mind, I pushed myself up and stood on wobbly legs, leaning into the counter for support as I moved further into the kitchen. I holstered the Sig and then, exhausted, I plopped down into a kitchen chair. Famished, I grabbed an apple from a bowl in the center of the glass table. I took a bite of it without washing it (I like to live dangerously), and glanced at the clock on the stove. 3:00 P.M. Concentrating with great effort in a futile attempt to recount the hours leading up to this moment, I remembered nothing. It was as though the world had simply pressed fast-forward.

 

            So 3:00 P.M. The last memory I recall is from 7:00 P.M. the previous evening. Dinner, with my wife, Tracy. After that, nothing. Nada.

            But wait.

Tracy.

            “Babe,” I called out. “Trace?”

            No response.

            I shout her name again, louder.

            Once more, no response. The house is silent but for a leaky faucet and a clock, it’s tick echoing from the living room.

            I closed my eyes then, visualizing the scenario: Eight A.M., Tracy comes downstairs to prepare for her Wednesday Hot Yoga class. She finds my lifeless body on the floor, my gun beside me, and, naturally, begins to panic. She calls out to me, frantic, fearing I’m injured or dead. She steps closer, closer, leans down to feel my pulse. Worry turns to concern, and concern morphs to anger as a tsunami of memories envelope her. Which is when she makes the assumption that I had relapsed, collapsing on the kitchen floor in a drunken stupor. Tossing clothes into a gym bag, tears streaming down her face, she hurries out of the house. Fade to black.

            She’s probably at her mother’s, I thought.

            I searched my pockets, glad to find my cellphone. I pulled it out, hoping to find a text message or a voicemail from her. The fact that she’s five months pregnant concerns me. This type of situation, the stress, can’t be good for the baby.

            The screen showed I had forty-six missed calls; thirty-one text messages; twenty-nine voicemails. All from work. I opened one of the messages from my friend and co-worker, Scott. Where R U? Reese, come in quick or call me back.

I ignored the other messages and dialed Tracy’s number. After a brief pause, the phone rang and rang, stopping when a robotic voice asked me to leave a message. I tried once more, and again no response.

As I drummed my fingers upon the table, wondering what to do next, I recalled the phone locator app I had installed on both of our phones a few years back, when the tech experts at my job took the existing technology and made it better. It can track phones that have the application installed, even if the power is turned off. We use it to track our security specialists�"née bodyguards�"as they protect our assets in the field. So tracking my wife should be a cinch. I scrolled through my phone’s menu until I found the icon I was looking for, then tapped the screen. The words Loading… flashed across the display for several seconds, and then a row of names appeared. The list consisted of mostly co-workers, so it took a moment before I found TRACY REESE. I tapped her name and the screen immediately changed, shifting to an animated image of the earth. The living room clock ticked several times in the background, and then the display proceeded to zoom inward, first to North America, then America, the east coast, New York, Long Island, and then a big red pin appeared, signifying the phone’s location, which was… my house.

            She probably forgot her phone again, I thought with a sigh. Should have figured.

            Since I hadn’t heard the phone ring when I called earlier, I assumed she had left it on silent. I recalled the feature on the locator app that makes the phone emit a series of beeps to alert you to its location, regardless if the device is on silent or powered off. I tapped the button to do just that, and a moment later I heard beeps and dings coming from upstairs.

            I stood slowly, using the table to steady my trembling legs. I was weak, dehydrated, my head foggy and aching. My mouth was incredibly dry, so I ran the cold water in the sink and took a long drink directly from the faucet. I savored it, the chill feeling great on my throat. With water dripping off my chin I headed out of the kitchen and up the stairs.

            The beeps and dings grew in volume as I climbed the stairs and moved closer to the bedroom. The door was closed, which was unusual�"however, waking up on the kitchen floor isn’t exactly a normal occurrence for me these days, so I didn’t consider the closed door a sign of the apocalypse.

            I made it to the bedroom, the door creaking as I pushed it open. The curtains were closed so the room was dark, the only illumination coming from the hallway behind me, or what seeped through the edges of the curtains. I could barely see a thing.

            I stepped further into the room, now able to make out the large shape of the bed positioned in the center of my view. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness I was able to distinguish the lump of a figure lying on the bed, tucked beneath the covers. Tracy. She’s been home all along.

            I spot her cell on the mahogany nightstand beside the bed. The noise didn’t seem to bother her at all. She didn’t stir.

Scooping it up, I stopped the beeping and sat on the edge of the bed beside my wife. I closed my eyes, savoring this moment of peace, knowing that as soon as I wake her there would be an argument; knowing that she would want answers I would be unable to provide. I steeled myself and leaned in, kissing her forehead. “Trace,” I whispered as my lips left her skin.

            Her skin was cold.

            I reached out and turned on the lamp, and was immediately concerned by what I saw.

            Tracy’s skin was a ghostly pallor, with a slight tint of blue. “Tracy,” I said as I stood, pulling the covers down to the floor.

            And that’s when I saw the blood. Oh, god. So much blood.

            “Trace!” I shouted. “Tracy!”

            I gently shook her, and after she gave no response, I placed my fingers upon her neck, feeling for a pulse. Finding none, I grabbed her arm, going for her wrist, but her limbs were stiff and tough to bend. Oh, God, no. Tracy!

            Staring at her lifeless body, I then saw two bullet holes amid the thick pool of crimson-stained fabric of her shirt. Both were entry wounds. One in the chest, the other in the stomach. The baby. No, God, please not my baby!

            Just as my world was collapsing around me, I collapsed upon the floor, feeling as though a knife had penetrated my gut, my heart, my throat. I vomited on the floor, once and then again, continuing to dry heave, occasionally spitting up nothing but bile.

 I sobbed for a moment until I forced myself into action. I grabbed her phone from the nightstand and dialed 9-1-1. After what seemed an eternity, someone finally answered. Frantic, I shouted for an ambulance. I gave my address, my name, and answered the few questions I could. I must have been incoherent because I was asked to repeat myself several times.

            I had been in the process of explaining how I found her when I heard a noise outside the bedroom window. I brushed the curtain aside as a police car, lights flashing, screeched to a halt in front of my home. It was followed by another, and then another. And another.

            The 911 responder had said that an ambulance and police unit were at least seven minutes away, so this wasn’t from my call. I dropped her phone, the soft, tinny echo of the 911 operator’s voice still discernable as the phone lay on the floor.

            It came to me in flood of vivid images: awakening on my kitchen floor, my gun beside me. Tracy shot, twice. Tracy. The baby. My gun. Awakening on my kitchen floor.

            With a burst of adrenaline, I pounded down the stairs as fast as my legs would allow, and rushed through the kitchen. I unlocked the back door, my aching body screaming in protest as I marched across the deck and down the steps.

            This can’t be happening.

            But it was happening.

            I was being set up. Framed for the murder of my wife an unborn child.

            I dashed across my lawn, moving low through a set of tall bushes and trees in an attempt to reach the fence beyond them. Branches scraped my exposed limbs and scalp, but my hands soon felt the rough, sanded wood of the fence.

            I began to climb, and managed to get one leg over the fence when, behind me, I heard, “Don’t move!”

Startled, I froze and instinctually glanced toward the voice. At the edge of the tree line I spotted a stocky police officer, uniformed, his short and stubby arms aiming his gun at me. I rolled over the rest of the way, crashing down on a pile of leaves and fire wood.

“He ran out the back,” I heard the police officer say, shouting into his radio as he gave chase.

I picked myself up when heard the rustle of bushes as the officer made his way to the fence. I glanced around, searching for an exit, and then dashed around a covered, above-ground swimming pool, stopping when I reached a metal gate. I struggled to open the latch, then pushed my way through just as the police officer dropped into the yard, barely twenty-five yards away.

            I stepped through the gate and slammed it shut behind me, ignoring the commands of the police officer in the distance.

            With images of my wife flashing through my mind, I ran.

            And I was determined to keep running for as long as it took to find the truth.

Reviews

[Riddhi]

That is nice...great work....you have wrote the plot of the story very nicely and the characters were like real...Sometimes while reading i felt like my heart was in mouth...i was very scared sometime....not for a single moment in the story i felt that it was a fiction......It was indeed very nice...you have the great ability to convince a reader with your characters and make him fell like..everything is happening before your eyes and every thing is real...But i pray god that this should never happen in real life...
Keep on writing and thanks for sharing...
Riddhi