Anne Caryl

Page seven
A Christmas Poem
Merry Christmas. Are you kidding me?
About Me
The Gold Train Connection
Back to Reason
Virtual Art Gallery



Abraham gave Wanda Voight a sedative and by the time her sister picked her up she was heavy-lidded and unresponsive, one hand mindlessly stroking the lapel of her blood-spotted shirt. Macie helped her into the waiting car. Impulsively, she kissed the top of Mrs. Voight’s head, the way she would comfort a crying child. The woman didn’t seem to notice. She hugged herself tightly and rocked side to side.

But the sister noticed. “Don‘t touch her, you murdering witch. You couldn’t leave well enough alone, could you? I warned Wanda to stay away from you people, but she never did stand up to that husband of hers. Now see where it’s got her.” She tucked the hem of Mrs. Voight’s coat into the car and slammed the door, nearly catching Macie’s fingers.

Macie stepped back and the old Chrysler lurched down the drive. Squealing tires, it whipped around in the street and sped away. A chill hit her as she watched the taillights fade, and she tugged her open parka together, feeling something sticky. Blood. On her hands, on the coat pocket, on the zipper pull. Her stomach convulsed, legs buckled.

“It’s okay, Baby.” Phil caught her from behind .She turned, clinging to him, crying.

The screen door banged. At the noise, Macie raised her head. A uniformed policeman motioned them back into the house.

“Detective Cagle needs to ask you a few questions, folks.”

Macie cringed. Phil nodded at the cop. They followed him into the house, through an arched opening into the living room.

A man in jeans and a black shirt stepped forward and stuck out his hand. Phil took it, Macie gave the man a weak smile.

“Rod Cagle, Adams County Police. I just need to fill in a few spots in my investigation.” Cagle pulled his glasses down onto his nose, checked his notes, then  pushed the glasses up onto his forehead again. “You’re Mrs. Stone? Macie Stone? You’re the nurse at the clinic frequented by the Voights?”

Macie looked at Phil, took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

“No, Sir. I mean, yes, they come to the clinic but…well, we’re a women’s clinic and...” She glanced at her husband again, and then swallowed hard. “Dr. Sorkin sometimes saw them after hours. As a courtesy, I believe.”

“Then they weren’t regular patients.”

“No, sir.”

“I see.” He pulled the glasses down, studied his notebook again.

Abraham Sorkin sat on the sofa at the far end of the room. Macie tried to make eye contact with him, but he didn’t look up.

“So, Dr. Sorkin isn’t the Voight’s regular physician. Can you tell me… Macie, is it? Can you tell me, Macie, how you happened to visit the Voight’s tonight?”

“They called me. I mean she called me. Mrs. Voight. She said her husband was distraught.”


Macie nodded.

“Did she say why?”

“No, But I figured it was the operation. People get depressed after surgery. The third day, then sometimes later on.”

“What kind of surgery did Mr. Voight have?”

Mace stiffened. The detective was writing something in his notebook. “Eye surgery. I can’t be more specific. Like I said, they weren’t our patients.”

“And yet she called you instead of her regular doctor when she needed help.”

“They’re Dr. Sorkin’s friends. Maybe she thought her husband would respond better to him. I don’t know. When she couldn’t get the doctor, she called me.”

“I see.” Cagle stared at his notebook. Macie heard Abraham clear his throat, the ticking of a clock, the hushed talk of the people in the kitchen. She saw flashes from cameras. Finally Cagle looked up.

“Thank you, Mrs. Stone.”

She felt like he’d poured ice water over her. “I can leave?”

Cagle stuck out his hand, and Macie took it, gave a limp squeeze. He shook Phil’s hand, then turned away from them. They were free.




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Anne Caryl
504 East Furry St.
Holyoke, Co. 80734