DEATH BY TRIAL AND ERROR

By R. Barri Flowers

She wanted to kill the bloody bastard.

But how?

Run him down with her car?

She could imagine him begging for his life, as he lay wounded in the street, bones broken from head to toe. She would make him suffer before again rolling the car over the damaged goods.

And again, until the life had been snuffed out of him.

Perhaps she should lace his chicken noodle soup with cyanide?

She would get a great thrill out of seeing him clutch his burning throat in a desperate attempt to relieve his agony. Or roll his eyes from a combination of the poison taking effect and the sheer disbelief of it all.

She would dance with delight watching him squirm on the floor as if he had been possessed by the devil himself.

And in that final moment of distress between life and death, she would laugh at him spitefully, the way he surely had been laughing at her for the last six months. Or however long it had been since he’d decided sharing another woman’s bed gave him more pleasure and passion than sharing hers.

It was exactly one week ago, as she lay in their bedroom, that Harrison had told her of his affair. His intonation, usually deep with assurance and rich with confidence, had come across as flat and unrepentant. She felt as if she had been lowered in molten lava. Or told she had a malignant tumor. The pain could not have been any worse.

“What—?” The word shot from her throat like a cannon. She was certain she had misunderstood him. Or even if she understood him correctly, he surely couldn’t have meant that which she feared most.

Perhaps he was only playing with her, looking for some sort of reaction. He often liked teasing her, telling her things that would incense her, only to laugh playfully like a schoolboy who had pulled up a schoolgirl’s dress merely for the sake of fun and frolic.

She hated this in Harrison, this power he had over her to bring to the brink of tears, to make her feel her whole world was about to collapse, then just as easily make her believe she had the whole world and all its wonderful blessings in the palm of her hand again.

With him being her most cherished blessing of all.

Yes, he brought out the best and worst in her, often with merely a gesture, a smile, a frown, a comment, a non-comment, or some other manner of communication that could only exist between a husband and wife.

She looked at him, standing in the entryway of the bedroom, as if to support the frame of rich mahogany. Or the alabaster walls on each side, decorated with framed photographs of them during happier times when all seemed as if it were meant to be.

For just an instant, it was as if she had gone back in time some two decades earlier when she first met Harrison Kincaid and fell in love almost the moment he flashed her his megawatt smile. He was tall, dark, and alluring. His build was solid muscle, as if made to her most ideal specifications. Raven hair stood atop his head in tiny curls, and perfectly suited his square-jawed face. His eyes were a dark shade of gray. They were the type of eyes that penetrated to the depths of your soul when he fixed you with them. She thought he was easily the most handsome man she’d ever seen.

That much had not changed in all these years, she admitted, if only to herself.

It had been a childless marriage, borne as much from genetic mismatches as the decision to forgo having children in favor of their careers and each other.

He had gotten up, careful not to wake her, and dressed as if it was just another day in the life of Harrison Kincaid: author, pilot, lecturer, investor, and major league asshole. She wondered how long he had stood there watching her, replaying his revelation over and over in his mind, trying to think of how best to let her down easily. For all Harrison’s faults, he had always tried to cushion the blow whenever he had something bad to tell her, as if he could somehow come across as an angel of mercy rather than the devil in disguise.

Or perhaps the party caught in the middle of dire events, but not to be blamed for circumstances beyond his control.

Sitting up in bed, Emma suddenly felt more vulnerable than she had in all her life. She saw herself as a forty-five year old hag, with breasts that had begun to sag and hips that had expanded with each year and thighs that were beginning to resemble something akin to cauliflower. Ebony hair that was once full and vibrant had become listless and lifeless, and seemed determined to remain a convoluted salt and pepper no matter how many different dyes she applied to it. Crows feet had taken up permanent residence at the corners of her eyes, a rich café au lait, which had once been surrounded by taut, butterscotch skin that now seemed dull and tired.

She wondered if he saw her that way. Had she gotten too old for him, now that she had left behind the young gorgeous woman he once said he worshipped? Was she no longer enough for him now that he began to sense his own mortality at the age of forty-eight?

Had he really betrayed her in the worst way a husband could ever betray a wife?

He seemed to be reading her mind as he stared at her without blinking. He remained wedged inside the doorway, as if to come closer would only make what he had to say that much more difficult. His lips were in bunches and opened slightly as if trying to say words that wouldn’t come out. She noted now the furrow ever deepening on his brow and couldn’t help but think that he suddenly looked every bit his age and then some.

Finally, he stepped into their room and up to the foot of the bed. He turned away, as if he could not stand the sight of her, before meeting her gaze head on.

“I said I’m involved with another woman.”

This time there was no mistaking his meaning, Emma thought. He was having a sexual relationship with someone else. He had forsaken their marriage vows to be with someone, no doubt younger, sexier, able to bear his children, brainless.

Even then, painful as it was, she wanted to make him tell her in clear English what he meant.

And with whom he meant it.

I wouldn’t want to make false assumptions.

She was wearing a silk and lace coral nightgown that he had given her for their twenty-fifth anniversary just this year. But she felt naked and humiliated, as if she had just been violated, and pulled the satin comforter up over her chest.

“I’m not a mind reader, Harrison,” she spoke as nonchalantly as possible. But I can read the guilt written all over your handsome face. “What on earth are you talking about? You mean you’re involved with a woman on yet another committee for dealing with substance abuse or illiteracy?” Aside from his writing, Harrison had practically made a career out of taking on various causes for making the world a better, kinder place to live in.

Now she wondered if, in reality, he had been thinking more about his own world in Elk Springs, Oregon, the coastal town they lived in where the laidback, outdoorsy life was much the same as it had been for over a century? Including apparently the keeper of shameful secrets that ultimately rose from the depths of the murky waters of the ocean to the surface where ripples threatened the façade of calmness.

His eyes hardened and lower lip quivered. “For heaven’s sake, baby, don’t make this anymore difficult than it already is.”

She felt the bile rise from her throat. Glaring, she said, “If you expect me to make this easy for you, you’re sorely mistaken.” She could feel the rapid beat of her heart slamming against her chest like a drum. Do I really want to hear what he has to say? Might this all somehow seem like a bad dream, someone else’s bad dream, if she refused to listen to any more?

But Emma knew she must listen. She wanted to--had to--hear all the gory details of his betrayal. It was the only way she could possibly come to terms with it.

And deal with him.

***

Maybe it would be better if I shot him between the eyes? Emma considered seriously.

She had become an expert markswoman thanks to him and his damned fascination with guns. Big ones, little ones, and everything in between. She would make certain that the last thing he ever saw with those smug, deceiving eyes was the hatred he had created in her before she pulled the trigger.

Then, for good measure, she would shoot him down there between his legs, where he had taken what was hers and given it to someone else.

Someone who had no right to him.

Someone who hadn’t been through the ordeals, stresses, and strains he had put her through.

Someone who hadn’t bankrolled his aspirations for years till they finally began to pay for themselves.

Someone who hadn’t invested the years in a marriage that was supposed to be till death do them part.

She found him in the study that morning, having said he would wait for her there while she got dressed. She had not argued the point, having no desire to hear about his infidelity in the bedroom of all places.

Their bedroom.

Had she slept with him in there?

Did they make love in our bed?

Over and under their velvet blankets and silk charmeuse sheets?

Harrison had taken the liberty of fixing them both a brandy. Emma suspected that this was probably his third or fourth this morning. He wasn’t a heavy drinker by and large. But that didn’t stop him from indulging whenever it suited his fancy, usually to calm his nerves.

Or guilt.

She took the crystal goblet he extended to her, but drank none. It was as if, coming from him she saw it as something akin to poison.

“I never planned for this to happen,” Harrison uttered pathetically. “It just did.”

Like hell it did.

Nothing ever just happens, Emma thought, seething. It takes two selfish, sinful people to make it happen.

She flashed hateful eyes at one of them. “How long?” Emma heard herself say, as if this would somehow make a difference in the way she felt.

Had it been going on for years, without her ever suspecting?

Or had he decided practically overnight that having another lover was precisely what the doctor ordered to satisfy his overpowering sexual cravings?

Or faltering sexual prowess?

Harrison put the goblet to his lips thoughtfully. “Is that really important?” he hesitated uncomfortably.

“How long?” Her voice rose threateningly. She needed to know just how long he had played her for a fool.

How long he had abused her love and devotion to him.

How long he had taken everything she had ever wanted in life and destroyed it in an instant.

“Six months,” he said matter-of-factly.

Half a year.

One hundred and eighty-two days.

One hundred and eighty-two nights.

When he wasn’t with her, he was with his whore.

When they made love, which wasn’t very often in the past six months, had he really been making love to her?

And what about when they weren’t making love? Had he been sleeping with his mistress when Harrison claimed to be at his office or the cabin, writing?

Or when he was supposed to be on a book tour?

Or giving a lecture?

Or hunting?

Or flying that damned plane he loved to do as a hobby?

Had she been the first? Or the latest in a string of lovers?

Emma felt sick to her stomach. She bent over in pain, as if she had been on the receiving end of a George Foreman punch to the midsection. Harrison, feigning concern, put his hands on her.

“Are you all right?” His voice was thickly coated with sincerity. Or perhaps pity.

She would accept neither. Whatever he was offering came too little, too late.

Of course, I’m not all right! What woman would be were she in my shoes?

She willed herself to put aside the nauseous feeling, straightening up, and slapping his hands away like they were on fire.

“Don’t you touch me, you bastard!”

Harrison looked as if it was he who had been crushed, betrayed, and humiliated. “I know how you must feel.” Even then he averted his face, realizing how hollow the words must have sounded.

Her eyes became razor slits. “You can’t possibly know how I feel. How could you? I’ve given my life to you, Harrison. I’ve been faithful to you. I’ve allowed you to lead a life often separate from our life. All I ever asked in return was that you remain loyal to me, in and out of bed. But you took advantage of my love and naivety, and I hate you for it!”

Do I really? Emma had to ask herself.

Could she truly hate the only man she had ever loved no matter what he did?

But how could she ever love him again, in spite of her feelings?

Her mouth felt dry, as if she had been in the desert for a month. She found herself lifting the brandy from the bar and drinking it, if only to wet her throat.

Though she wanted only to drown herself in sorrows, there were still other questions, other answers Emma needed to concern herself with. Because she’d had no experience with a cheating husband, she had not been prepared to face all the implications that came with the territory.

Why had he told her of his affair? To absolve his guilty conscience?

To cruelly hurt her in the worst way possible?

Or was it because he was planning to leave her for this other woman?

The mere notion sent a shiver up and down Emma’s spine. Somehow, in her shock, she had not considered that it was he who might want to dump her rather than the other way around.

Was he even worth fighting for? she had to ask herself. Or should she be grateful that he had revealed his secret life, thereby making him worthless to her?

Maybe he was telling her this because the affair was now over and Harrison wanted her forgiveness.

And to renew their love and commitment to one another.

Could their lives ever possibly be the same again?

Or had his admission made trust a veritable impossibility from this day forward, no matter what else happened?

“Who is she?” Emma asked him pointblank, as if she needed to know this in order to put a face and body to this nightmare where there seemed no escape.

Her mind conjured up the possibilities.

Was it Karin Bremmer, Harrison’s editor that he had been spending an increasing amount of time with in the last year? She was an attractive bottle-blonde, a few years younger than Emma, who couldn’t seem to find enough reasons not to see Harrison.

How about Evangeline del Grenada, the best selling romance novelist who wore her hair in shimmering Senegalese twists and had a body to die for? At least Emma saw it that way. She was sure Harrison did as well during the time they spent together at book functions and supposedly chance meetings.

Or perhaps Lena Richardson, the thirtyish and vivacious organizer of the nonprofit group offering assistance to inner city children on the brink of delinquency? Against Emma’s wishes, Harrison had insisted on volunteering his services in raising money and counseling youth on the pitfalls of running away, substance abuse, and antisocial behavior, though he himself had come from an upper middle-class, functional family and never saw the wrong side of the law. For this participation Lena Richardson was eternally grateful.

Then there was Samantha Warren, the newly widowed next-door neighbor. She was barely forty, gorgeous, lonely, well to do, and made no secret of her attraction to Harrison. He, of course, scoffed at the notion, insisting she meant nothing to him. But that didn’t stop him from feeling obliged to assist her with household maintenance and landscaping projects at every opportunity now that she was left without a husband to perform these tasks.

Or apparently the will to hire professional help. Especially with such a willing and available neighbor to come to her rescue like a black knight in shining armor.

Harrison hastily poured himself another drink, while seeming to get into her mind and understanding what she must have been thinking.

“It’s not anyone you know,” he said, as if she should somehow applaud him for this consideration. “We met at a book signing earlier this year. We hit it off right away, like we were...”

He checked himself, as if the weight of his words were too haunting for even him to say.

“Meant for each other,” Emma finished for him, what they both knew he had once felt about her.

He drank the brandy and, with wet lips, said with an apologetic tone, “She’s quite young...in her early twenties. She’s actually read everything I’ve ever written. Even those pieces that appeared in obscure magazines. I was amazed.”

And obviously pleased with this ego-tripping worship of his young tart, Emma thought sickeningly. She too had once fed his ego until it had become more accommodating than honest.

Had this caused Harrison to look elsewhere for such attention? Am I supposed to blame myself for neglecting him and leading into the arms of another woman?

Harrison’s eyes lighted as if he was floating on a cloud of energy. “She makes me feel young, alive, needed.”

But I need you, Emma thought. She had always needed him. Why couldn’t he see and respect that?

When had he stopped needing her?

“Do you love her?” The very words played back in Emma’s mind like a broken record. Asking them and waiting to hear the answer was like being strapped to the electric chair and waiting to see if there would be a last second reprieve or a violent, painful death by electrocution. Did she really want to hear his reply?

Could she stand it if he actually loved this girl toy who had caused him to forsake his marriage vows?

The thought of being unloved caused Emma greater anxiety than anything else. With the possible exception of loving a bastard who had torn her heart out.

In evading her question, Emma knew that Harrison had said everything she didn’t want to hear loud and clear.

***

She should hack him up into little pieces.

And send his remains to his starry-eyed slut.

Along with the burned pages of his manuscripts.

Then the bitch would have his life’s work in ashes to remember him by.

Or perhaps it would be more appropriate and painful if it was he who burned to death, Emma pondered, surprised by the wickedness of her thoughts. She could imagine pouring gasoline or cooking oil over him and his mistress while they were asleep, after making love. She would wake them so they could see the revulsion in her eyes, just before dropping the match.

Their inflamed bodies would light up like a torch. Deathly, hideous screams would roar from their mouths while the flesh tore from their limbs and nerve endings sizzled excruciatingly. Soon they would be reduced to charred bones and ashes.

All the while Emma would watch this horror unfold and curse Harrison for turning her into an unforgiving beast who no longer cared about life, living, and compassion.

***

“I hope we can still be friends,” Harrison told her as if he knew it was as unlikely as man traveling to Mars and back in their lifetime.

He was putting clothes in a bag atop the bed two days after telling Emma in effect that he was in love with another woman. Even if the words failed to come from his lips as if to do so might send her over the edge.

The mere thought of had done just that. She had slapped him but Emma felt as if it was she who had been hit harder than she could ever have imagined. She had told him to get the hell out, hoping that Harrison might somehow come to his senses, tell her it was all a mistake, and beg her forgiveness.

But it was not to be.

He had left without so much as a meager attempt at reconciliation, having clearly anticipated such and made other plans for living arrangements.

Plans that no longer included Emma. Or her wishes that they stay together as husband and wife.

“The moment you slept with another woman—if you can call it that,” she had told him, “you ended any chance of us remaining friends. I have no intentions of going from your wife and lover to someone you think you can come to for comfort when your little bimbo decides you are too old, ugly, unsatisfying, and too much of an asshole for her.”

Harrison had flung several pairs of designer slacks and knit boxer shorts into the bag, and hit Emma with a contorted glare. “Sorry you feel that way. I was truly hoping we could somehow end this more civilized.”

“No you weren’t,” she challenged him. “You were hoping to get the best of all worlds, just like the characters in one of your damned novels. But it doesn’t work that way in the real world. You made your uncivilized bed, Harrison. Now I hope you and your mistress drown in it!”

Emma found that it had become increasingly easier to vent her feelings to him and herself. She knew that she couldn’t simply go away like the good wife who had been taken advantage of and mistreated. He didn’t deserve to get off that lightly. She had worked too hard at making their marriage successful to watch it come apart at the seams and dismiss it as if simply swatting away a gnat.

There were no more words exchanged between them until Harrison had zipped his bag, grabbed it, and on the way out of their room, said colorlessly, “I’ll pick up the rest of my things later. I’m sure we’ll be able to work out a satisfactory arrangement on property settlement and the like.” He paused, looking at her with perhaps a twinge of regret, but not enough to stay. “Goodbye, Emma.”

She said nothing, wanting only to hear him leave, for she could no longer stand the sight or smell of him. When she heard the front door click shut, Emma knew that the world she had come to know and love had changed forever.

And for the worst.

She had sunk down to the maple hardwood floor, in the room Emma had once felt so comfortable in, and cried for the first time. The tears stung her cheeks like angry bees and seemed to embody all the feelings that raced through her like a locomotive out of control. She no longer had a husband. Or a lover. Or a confidant. Or a best friend.

Another woman had inherited the man she’d dedicated herself to in body and spirit.

But, instead of being engrossed with self-pity, Emma found herself absorbed with anger.

Loathing.

Discontent.

Revenge.

She wanted to kill him. Plain and simple.

It was the only way to free herself from the unbearable feelings of betrayal and anguish.

And prevent him from taking what was hers and giving it to another woman unjustly.

Now, as she sat in the room where her life fell apart, Emma contemplated the many ways in which she could carry out the deed.

A single gunshot to the head.

Or maybe it would take several bullets to get the job done.

Carbon monoxide poisoning.

Strangulation.

Asphyxiation.

Electrocution.

Hanging.

Bludgeoning.

Running over with her car, again and again.

Castration.

That last thought clung to Emma like a second skin. She wondered how long it would take Harrison to bleed to death from the source of his abandonment and utter betrayal.

She wished death would not come too swiftly, for it would only be equitable to what she felt if he were forced to suffer for some time before the end came without mercy.

***

The woman sat impassively at the defense table beside her court-appointed attorney in the Elk Springs courthouse. She was on trial for the murder of her husband and attempted murder of his lover. He had been shot ten times at close range. His lover had been shot three times, miraculously surviving the assault, though left a paraplegic.

Across the room, the prosecutor fidgeted nervously at his table, glancing occasionally at the defendant.

The jury sat tensely, carefully avoiding looking directly at anyone, as if to do so might tip the scales one way or the other.

The judge took all this in, drew a sigh, and regarded the jury foreman. “Have you reached a verdict?”

Swallowing evenly, he said, “Yes, we have, Your Honor.”

The verdict was passed from the bailiff to the judge, who glanced at it with no indication from her facial expression of what it read, before sending it in reverse order back to the jury foreman.

“Will the defendant please rise,” the judge ordered.

Her attorney stood first, then urged her upward. The prosecutor joined them.

The judge knew this was the moment of truth when life and death hung in the balance like time standing still. She considered this with a sense of satisfaction for a moment or two before regarding the foreman.

“You may read the verdict.”

The foreman licked his lips, refraining from eyeing the defendant, as if to do so would result in its own form of punishment. “We, the jury, find the defendant guilty of first degree murder and attempted murder.”

Judge Emma Kincaid quickly restored order to the court and immediately directed that the newly convicted be remanded to the county jail to await sentencing.

Emma gazed down at the attractive woman as she was being led away by sheriff’s deputies. For a moment their eyes met, and Emma felt empathy that she could never express to the woman. Or, for that matter, anyone else.

In the courtroom she was a judge, sworn to uphold the law to the best of her ability.

In her private life, she was a female on the brink of insanity. One who had all the frailties, weaknesses, and vulnerabilities of a woman scorned.

A woman who no longer cared to uphold laws with respect to her own marriage. Or what was left of it.

Emma departed the courthouse a short while later and went directly home. She was still thinking about the case she had just presided over and its ironies when she pulled up to her driveway. Waiting there beside a dark sedan were two tall men dressed in cheap suits. By their demeanor and respectful but uneasy expressions, Emma knew instinctively they were police detectives. After all, she had seen enough of them show up in her courtroom.

What she didn’t know was why they were at her house.

Could they possibly read my mind? Know what I’m planning, only to arrest before the crime?

She stepped out of her car, a silver Lexus Coupe. They approached her.

“Judge Kincaid,” said the older of the two, removing his police identification from his pocket, “I’m Detective Bochco and this is Detective Jefferson. We need to talk to you.”

Emma lifted a brow, perspiration building beneath her white polka dot skirt suit.

“May I ask what this is all about?” She tried to keep her voice curious but calm.

The detectives looked at each other, as if carrying a great secret.

Detective Jefferson, an African-American, scratched hair bumps on his chin and said tonelessly, “Mind if we go inside?”

I would just as soon hear what you have to say out here, thank you, she thought warily.

“Has something happened to my husband?” It seemed a perfectly natural question to Emma for some reason. Hardly indicated she had some sixth sense.

Again the detectives exchanged glances and frowns as though she were onto something.

Emma’s heart skipped a beat. “Something has happened to him. Has Harrison been in an accident?” She wasn’t sure why she chose to use the word “accident” instead of say, “heart attack,” victim of a crime, or some other reference to death or dismemberment.

Detective Bochco’s look was grim, and he said, “There was a plane crash, a twin engine Cessna. It went down in the Cascade Mountains. There were two people on board, Harrison Kincaid, and a young woman who hasn’t been identified yet.” He gulped, and his face turned beet red. “I’m afraid that neither one survived.”

Like the good wife, Emma flushed and began to wail like a newborn baby. “No-o-o-o,” she cried out. “There must be some mistake!”

She knew there was no mistake. Harrison had told her he and his mistress were going to the cabin to chill out for a couple of days. He always took a rented plane up there, preferring the air to the narrow, often perilous mountain roads.

Obviously he never made it.

Or they never did.

When she finally got rid of the detectives a half-hour later, Emma felt sorely in need of a drink. She went to the study and filled a wineglass with brandy, before retreating to her sanctuary--the bedroom she once shared with her husband. She was in disbelief over the turn of events. It was almost as if she had willed the accident to happen.

And yes, it had been an accident, she mused, hilarious as it sounded.

Emma had never even considered Harrison’s death by plane crash, though somehow it seemed fitting. She imagined the terror he and his ill-fated lover must have felt as the plane was spiraling out of control, knowing that death was imminent...mere seconds away, that seemed like years.

She wondered if Harrison had thought of her just before the moment of impact.

Had he considered that the circumstances that would result in his tragic death might never have occurred were it not for his own misguided choices?

If not, maybe you should have, sweetheart.

Emma sat on the antique brass bed and sipped on the brandy, while laughing hysterically. “To my darling late husband. May you and your whore rot in the hell of your own making.”

She tasted a bit more of the brandy and thought about how justice seemed to have a way of prevailing when all was said and done.

How deliciously sweet it was, she thought.

Emma suddenly felt a tightening in her stomach and lightheaded. Then her throat felt as if it was on fire.

What was happening to her?

She stood up so swiftly that the brandy went flying and the glass fell from her hand onto the floor, shattering into a thousand pieces.

Clutching her throat, Emma felt as if a foreign enemy was invading her entire body like cancer. One determined to make sure she did not survive. But not before seeing that she suffered horribly.

She fell backward, her body wracked with pain, before she hit the floor with a thud. Her voice rasped, but she was unable to scream.

As she lay on the bedroom floor, eyes fixed on the mahogany entryway, Emma envisioned Harrison’s face. His chilling gaze was looking down at her with satisfaction. So consumed with his death, she had forgotten when pouring the brandy that it had been laced with strychnine intended for her husband as a fitting and undeniable end to their journey.

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