All’s Well
Don Hornbostel

Don Hornbostel lives and works in the Phoenix area
where he enjoys hiking mountain and desert trails
and photographing everything he sees. In his
spare time he writes Science Fiction, Dark Fantasy,
Mystery, Westerns, and Humor.
©Copyright 2001
Don Hornbostel

“I don’t want to see you. I don’t want to meet you.” Joan Verran
took in a short gulp of breath and squeezed her eyelids down for a
long, tight blink. “That’s the way it has to be.”
A smoker’s laugh rattled the phone. “Long as I get my money,
lady.”
“You’ll get the full twenty thousand. Like I told you, I put half in
the train station locker this morning when I picked up Earl there.
The other half you’ll get when Earl’s... when the job’s done.”
“Small bills. I said small bills.”
“I know. It’s tens and twenties, mostly.”
“And I think we agreed on the sixteenth, no seventeenth, right?
Tuesday.”
“Yes, yes.” Joan’s voice deepened with impatience. “I thought you
were a professional. You sure you’ve taken care of this sort of
business before?”
“Lady, you just come up with the cash. I know what I’m doing.
Your husband will be dead as a-”
“Shhhh! What’s the matter with you?
“What’s the matter with you? Can’t stand the word?”
Joan huffed a breath. She was a meticulous woman, an organizer
who left no room for error. “Tuesday, the seventeenth. And don’t be
late. Eleven p.m. The back door will be hooked, but like I told you,
the screen is torn. A bent coat hanger will get you in.”
“And make it look like a robbery, but don’t take anything. Like
we talked about?”
“That’s right.”
“I’ll do what I can. Can’t make any promises. In my business, you
see an open shot, you-”
“No details. I don’t want to hear about guns and, and... things like
that.”
“Oh, no. Course not.”
“And don’t make a mess.” Her tone rose with conviction. “Be
neat. After all, I’ll be the one who has to clean up.”
“When you get back after driving into town to tell the sheriff?”
“Yes, when I get back and whatever inept investigating the county
officers do is finished.” Joan’s finger tapped nervously on the phone
booth glass. “You screw up, you don’t get the rest of the money.”
“Yeah?”
“That’s right.” Joan abruptly hung up the phone and exited the
booth, bumping into a tall, well-dressed man with a Newsweek
clamped under one arm. “Sorry,” she flustered. “I-I didn’t know you
were waiting. Hope I didn’t-”
One corner of the man’s mouth crinkled as he stepped into the
phone booth and pulled the door.
“Oh, my,” Joan whispered aloud without meaning to. “Oh... my.”
The Verrans’ home was a small, neat, cabin-like dwelling nestled
comfortably in rolling hills about four miles from the nearest town.
An unreliable well supplied water. Wires at the mercy of winds and
ice took care of their need for electricity. Climbing up from the
county blacktop road, a rutted lane widened into a double parking
space just short of where the front yard began. There was no
phone.
When Tuesday, the seventeenth, arrived, Joan Verran found
herself noticeably agitated. She took two sedatives with her morning
juice and settled into a dull routine, hoping not to set off any
suspicions in her husband’s mind. “I need to clean out the kitchen
cabinets,” she announced loudly. “Been putting it off for months.”
Gathering her dark hair into a tight ponytail, she tucked it up under
a Yankees cap and pulled on a bulky flannel shirt to protect her
blouse. From the broom closet she produced a step stool high
enough to allow her to reach the uppermost shelves.
Earl stepped into the kitchen, morning paper held out before him
as he peered at it over his glasses. He was a small man, small in
stature, thought, and idea. “Want me to help?”
“No. No. Why don’t you work outside? Clean up the yard?”
“Yeah, maybe I will. At least rake the leaves away from the
foundation. Might even wash my car while I’m at it- if the well
pump holds up.”
“You do that,” Joan agreed. “And don’t forget to scrub that oil
spot out of the carpet on the passenger side.”
Earl nodded and knelt to access the cabinet beneath the sink.
“Bought this new dissolver stuff. It should-” 
“Just get it clean.” Joan hooked her fingers through several cup
handles and eased them down to the countertop. “Now I’m real
busy here, so scoot.”
Taking his wife’s stern directions as just more of her impatience,
Earl unspooled a handful of paper towels and headed out to where
his ten-year-old Buick rusted in the shade of an oak. Parked next to
it in the space closer to the dwelling, Joan’s new Thunderbird
convertible sparkled showroom clean. As Earl passed it, he paused
briefly to pick an errant leaf off the hood, being careful of course
not to smudge the paint with his fingerprint.
The oil spot proved more stubborn than Earl had anticipated, and
before long he found himself on his knees beside the car as he
employed a stiff-bristled brush to work a dab of solvent into the
dark circle. “Better get this out,” he said between grunts, “or Joan’ll
have a fit. Thank goodness her carpet didn’t get the stain- there’d
be hell to pay.”
A gunshot broke the morning stillness and echoed down the long,
wooded valleys. Earl jerked his head at the sound and bumped it
hard against the bottom of the dashboard. A screwhead bit into his
scalp and drew a trickle of blood. Pressing a finger against the skin
puncture, Earl stood up next to the car and stared off into the
woods. “Sounded close,” he muttered to himself. “Awful close.” He
gave the nearby woods a quick scan before heading toward the
house and first-aid he knew he would have to administer to himself.
As he walked, he glanced back at the trees, but his mind was full of
imaginings as to how he would tend to a wound which would
likely be difficult to see, even in the bathroom mirror.
But, what Earl dreaded more was the berating he was sure to get
from his wife. She’d call him an idiot, he knew. A clumsy idiot...
like the time he fell backwards off the porch while nailing down
that loose board. He had hurt his back then. Dislocated disk, the
doctor said. But worse than the pain was the teasing from his wife
every time he let out a groan. Earl Verran learned long ago to be a
silent sufferer.
“Just coming in to use the bathroom,” he said, as he eased the
door closed behind him. He knew better than to let it slam.
Joan had no reply, but then Earl had grown used to her cold
silence.
He closed the hall bathroom door behind him and tended the
small dent in his head. A bandage wouldn’t be necessary- just a
little pressure to stop the oozing of blood. Earl bent this way and
that trying to assess the wound in the mirror but just couldn’t find
the right angle. It did occur to him to use a hand mirror to look into
and hold it just right...
Something was wrong.
The feeling came over Earl like a creeping chill. Why hadn’t Joan 
answered him? She always reminded him to wipe his feet when he
came in from working outside. And why was the house so quiet?
Earl washed the blood from behind his ear and crept down the
hallway, still drying his hands in the white hand towel Joan insisted
on using. “If it’s dirty,” she said, “you can see it right away and toss
it in the laundry.”
“Joan?” Earl attempted as he neared the kitchen doorway. “How’s
the cl-”
Joan was sprawled on the linoleum, her left arm folded at an
impossible angle and her legs tangled in the step stool she used to
reach the highest cabinets. She lay face down, her head twitching
awkwardly. Scattered at her feet were jagged diamonds of window
glass.
Earl hurried to her, kneeling at her side, and picking her up in his
arms. Only then did he see the blood, smell its coppery dampness
as it soaked into Joan’s shirt and the knees of his pants.
“Joan... what?”
Her head jerked to one side then the other as she seemed to
survey the mess of blood dripping from her.
Earl cradled her head in his hand and felt the gaping hole near
the base of the skull. “Joan, you’ve... been shot!” he said. His gaze
fixed on the blank look in her eyes. “I-I heard the gun. I mean...
outside.”
Joan’s right arm flailed and weakly tugged the towel from Earl’s
grasp. As he looked on in shocked horror, she pulled herself away
from him, tried to raise up on the broken arm and wipe at the
blood on the floor. “Cleaning,” she said breathily. “Got to wipe up
this... this mess.”
“Mess,” Earl repeated, nodding somewhat numbly. He knew help
was only a frantic five-minute car trip away. And he realized that
every second counted, if he were to have any chance of saving his
wife’s life.
“Oh, Earl,” Joan said. Her lips bubbled blood.
“Oh, Joan.” Earl said. He took the towel from his wife, folded it to
bring up a clean white surface, and pressed it down hard over her
nose and mouth.
As Joan’s eyes fluttered and the lids began to relax, Earl
whispered, “You clumsy idiot. Just look what a mess you’ve made.”
And he smiled.