The Coldest Fear by Rick Reed Page A

several large pillows, and everything, bedding, and clothes were soaked in urine.
    His excitement at being on the front page of the newspaper had lessened gradually throughout the workday, but the sight of his mother’s frail and almost bony figure lying in that filthy mess finished off any thoughts he’d had of himself or his own importance. I shouldn’t have left her alone for so long, he thought.
    â€œCouldn’t you reach the bedpan, Mother?” he asked, and her expression hardened.
    â€œPah! Why don’t you use the bedpan?”
    S he did this deliberately to punish me, he thought .
    The doctor had told her to use her walker and go to the bathroom. Lying in bed all day was not good for her. But she was stubborn, and seemed to take pleasure in her selfimposed helplessness. Regardless, she was his mother, and he couldn’t bring himself to be cross with her.
    With a resigned sigh he said, “Let’s get you cleaned up, Mother. Then I’ll bring you some sweet tea.”
    â€œHmmpf,” she said, and looked down at the floor beside the bed. Arnold followed her gaze and spotted a pile of urine-soaked newspaper. He recognized the front page. His story. His front-page story.
    So. I guess that’s what she thought of my story, he thought, and dutifully bent to retrieve the wet mess.
    In the master bathroom he disposed of the wet newspaper in a plastic bag, tied it shut, and set it by the door. His hands were smeared with black ink from the wet newspapers, so he used his elbow to turn the hot water handle on the sink.
    He scrubbed his hands with lilac-scented hand soap under the scalding hot water and counted silently, One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi, until he reached twenty.
    As soon as he turned the water off his mother yelled from her bed, “I didn’t hear you count, Arnold!”
    â€œI counted to myself, Mother.”
    â€œI said . . . I didn’t hear you!” Her voice was sharp. “Don’t sass your mother, you ungrateful twit.”
    Arnold turned the faucet back on, and this time counted loudly so that she would hear, but he didn’t put his hands back under the water. The skin on his hands was red and painful from the hot water as it was. This was his little rebellion. A small thing really. A concession. He had been pretending to obey her for such a long time now that it came easily.
    He smiled and began filling the tub with water for Mother’s bath.
    â€œAre you filling the tub, Arnold?”
    â€œYes, Mother.”
    â€œWell, don’t get it so hot this time!’
    â€œI won’t, Mother.”
    â€œAnd don’t get it too cold!”
    â€œIt will be perfect, Mother,” Arnold said, his mind filled with the memory of Bernice’s smile.

C HAPTER T WENTY-TWO
    Liddell had somehow squeezed into the backseat of JJ’s souped-up Pontiac Firebird police cruiser, but it was a very tight fit. Jack sat in the front passenger seat, holding on to the hand strap above his window as JJ expertly negotiated a curve. A fiery bird was painted on the hood of the cruiser, and Jack felt that was appropriate as they flew down the hill toward the center of Shawneetown.
    When they had explained to Lieutenant Johnson why they were in Shawneetown they weren’t surprised that he knew where Cordelia lived. After all, it was a small town. But they were taken aback by the fact that Johnson had grown up with her.
    â€œMy parents was killed in a car wreck when I was three. Aunt Elmira took me in like I was her own. Elmira adopted Cordelia about the same time, or maybe Cordelia was left with her as a foster parent. Can’t say for sure because it never mattered to us. We was family,” JJ said.
    â€œSo you probably know more about Cordelia than anyone ?” Liddell probed.
    â€œWe went through grade school and high school together. Friends are mostly the same. Jon was always her best friend