The Creation of Amy Page 2

Morse made it to the motel, walked into the reception area, asked for a room, got his key, and went to it, finding it easily. 212, it said on the key card as he slid it through, opening the door.

  Laying on the bed, he stared at the ceiling all night, crying in between, even until well after sunrise. He empathized with the suffering Liz must have endured and considered he could have prevented it if only he had stayed home. If only he had installed the alarm system sooner, as if, somehow, he should have known this was going to happen.

  Grieving their unborn baby, they would never learn its gender and so never had the chance to finalize its name. Of how he or she would never be born, grow up, listen to music, or fall in love. He was thrilled about having a child, about having a family, and had big plans on raising his child with his perfect wife. It ached in his body, debilitating him, having their future annihilated in less than a morning’s amount of time.

  Morse had at one time a drinking problem, but he stopped after his first year in college, (because when he met Liz, he wanted to be a good man for her). Now he had bought a bottle of Jack Daniels.

  After staring at it for a while, he opened it and attempted to drink the pain away.

  He awoke the next day by around ten o’clock the morning to the sound of the housekeeper’s vacuum in the hallway. Still half-drunk, he called the front desk to tell them not bother with cleaning his room.

  He checked his cell discovering Phillips had been calling and left messages, along with a number of reporters looking for reactions.

  He called his old friend back, “Hey.”

  “Hey, what's going on? Tell me that wasn't your place that burnt.”

  “It was,” Morse confirmed in a grave tone. “I'm at the Motel 6. I won't be coming in to work.”

  “Jesus! I will be over, what room?”

  “No, don't. It's okay. I'll be fine for now. Are you at work now?”

  “Yeah, I couldn't get a hold of you by phone, so I was figuring you might be here.”

  “Just tell Ford to give me some time to sort this out, okay? Talk to you later.”

  Morse hung up.

  Chapter Three

  Two weeks later, after the insurance money from the home came, and the plot of land Morse's home once stood had been put up for sale, Morse grew weary of the motel life, of hearing people in other rooms either fighting, having sex, or selling drugs. He could afford a better hotel, but why.

  Morse met with his real estate agent to find a new place. The agent showed him regular suburban homes, condominiums, until finally Morse realized this was not what he was looking for anymore. Something was different in him; life seemed futile at this point. Why work so hard your whole life and achieve something, just to have it taken in an instant?

  The investigation into the fire proved to be arson, and Elizabeth's killer was still at large. The detective informed Morse the bullet was from a .38 caliber and they had no further leads. No one saw anything that day, so all the police had was a sketch artist rendering of the hooded man Morse saw when he left for work that day.

  A void of darkness grew in Morse, unhinging something sinister bent on retribution. To curb this downward spiral, he decided to focus his efforts into something constructive, just to keep himself from losing his mind. To distract him from the fact he would have to go to his newlywed’s closed-casket funeral soon, including facing her parents without knowing how they would react to him. Maybe they blamed him.

  In addition, Morse did not see himself as a BMW owner anymore, (the rat race to him,); the idea of keeping up appearances was dead to him. Therefore, he found a person with a car that he always wanted: a black '70 Dodge Charger and traded his brand-new BMW for a car that needed some work, but it was road-worthy.

  With a 440 and a four-speed, an R/T to boot, he dreamed since youth for the car; a car that he would fix up with his bare hands, the project to keep him busy. Keep him sane.

  You see, Morse was not poor. He came from a privileged background. His father was a defense attorney for decades, thus, did well for himself and his family. They also came from old money in New York, and Morse had a sizable trust fund.

  His old man pushed him to succeed from an early age and never let up. Tensions between father and son were of course, high as a result. Morse's mother and father had since moved to Florida to retire a few years back, and they rarely spoke after that. Morse had no siblings.

  Now with his new home set up, with his project car, and new Snap-On tools in place, Morse decided it was time to go back to work. Instead, he got drunk in front of the TV, (always with a shotgun near,) and put it off for another day. He stopped shaving, stopped bathing regularly, and rarely left the sanctuary of his depressing home.

  With an old TV on top of a set of milk crates, sheets covering the windows, all of the calls from friends and family mostly went unanswered, and the only people who saw him were the pizza delivery or the Chinese take-out drivers.

  Anon, the day came when he had to sober up, clean up, and go to the funeral. He kept the beard.

  The funeral for his better half was in the morning in a quiet cemetery. He pulled up in the Charger and got out. People who knew him could not recognize him; he was pale and gaunt with a scraggly beard.

  Elizabeth's father came over to Morse and declared with his voice hushed, “My God, Rob. I don't know what to say! You look like hell.”

  Her mother was over with a group of family and friends trying not to lose control of her emotions.

  “I don't know what to say either, and I still can't believe it. I failed, I failed you all.”

  “It wasn't your fault. Don't start taking this all on your shoulders. They'll get the monster that did this; I have friends in high places. I have already made my calls.”

  When the funeral ended, Morse stayed long after. Seated in a folding metal chair at the gravestone he chose for his wife, he absorbed the plot next to hers knowing that is where he will end up someday.

  A car arrived and parked; it was Phillips, and he got out, walked to Liz's grave, and greeted Morse with a glum, “Hey,”

  “Hey.”

  There was a long pause and Phillips sat near him.

  Then Morse remarked, “One minute you're here, the next poof! Someone rapes, murders, and burns you. What kind of god allows that? She was the sweetest woman you could ever meet.”

  Phillips's brow furrowed, “I know, this wasn't right. Where have you been? I was beginning to think the worst. Are you handling this okay?”

  “Buddy, I'm still alive because my wife is in heaven, so I'm not going to risk going to hell. Although I think about it often...”

  He trailed off for another moment of silence.

  “But, I’m here now, so I'm not going anywhere. If I was going to do it, I’d have blown my head off weeks ago.”

  “Glad to hear that. We need you back at work; it's time to rebuild your life.”

  “I've already started. I got a new place near the city, and I'm fixing up that black Charger in the parking lot.”

  “That's yours? Where's your Beamer?”

  “Traded it...”

  “Well, return my calls, will you?”

  “I will, buddy. Now let me have some time alone here, old friend.”

  “Okay,” Phillips granted with a compassionate grip of Morse’s shoulder.

  With that, he left him to grieve in solitude.

  Now in solitude beside her grave for the first time, he began muttering and said aloud to his wife, “I guess this is where I'm supposed to say goodbye; it's not going to be goodbye, but more like, see you later, honey.

  “I’ll make sure the cops find who did this: who ended your life, including our child's, along with destroying mine. I feel dead, yet, still alive, but I will never forget you, and I’ll always love you, Elizabeth.”

  ✽✽✽

  A year and a half later, Doctor Morse had been back to work for a while. Added funding for the prosthetics’ research had resulted in more technicians and fancier new toys
in the laboratory. Morse had spent as much time as he could on working. The synthetic muscle project that Morse had been heading had yielded some amazing results. The team had successfully implanted one in the front leg of a dog injured by a car, and he was walking easily after the surgery. This made the first bionic golden retriever.

  To celebrate their accomplishment, Director Ford with the department heads decided to have a little party at the research building later that week. Morse was not interested in parties. He had planned to install a new interior he got from year one in his Charger instead.

  That day at work after the announcement for the weekend party, Phillips suggested to Morse, “Hey, we should get you a date. I'm bringing my girlfriend, Jen, and the new girl, Heather from HR, has been giving you looks ever since she got here. You should ask her to go with you.”

  “I wasn't planning on going. I've got some seats for the Charger I want to put in.”

  “Oh God, that can wait! It's time to have a little fun, you deserve it. I don't believe you socialize with anyone except that car.”

  “Yeah, that doesn't mean that I’m not having fun. I don't know, I'll think about it.”

  “I'll drag you to this party, and I'll ask her for you if you make me.”

  Just before the party, Phillips dropped in at Morse's apartment and knocked on his door.

  Morse plodded to the door with a feigned irritated moan, opened it a wide crack, and leaning on his arm lazily on the doorframe, he smirked.

  “Did you ask the girl out for me?”

  “Yup, she will be there. Will you?”

  “Yeah, I'll be there, don't worry.”

  He closed the door still smirking and shaking his head.

  That Saturday at the party, the whole team was there. They had cleared the chairs to allow for a floor for people to dance and congregate. About forty employees brought friends or some family, and there was Heather, a 28-year-old who worked as one of the secretaries in Human Resources at the government facility. She was wearing a typical office-outing dress that was not too short, black, and had long, strawberry-blonde hair. She was not Morse's type exactly, but he was willing to give it a shot since she was attractive.

  Robert, wearing a conservative suit greeted her, “Hello, Heather. Is this your first office function?”

  “Yes. Well, in this office.”

  “I don't usually come to these things. I spend so much time here with these people; I tend to want to stay away!”

  “Oh, I don't usually, unless I have a date. However, since you are my date, I could not pass it up. I was surprised you wanted to go out with me; you never seemed interested. I guess I wasn't too subtle with my feelings.”

  She tittered.

  “It wasn't you. I just hadn't been so into the idea of moving on until now.”

  She nodded.

  At that moment, the classic rock cover band stopped playing, and Director Ford began to speak on the small stage, “To all our sharp minds in this room tonight, we all know why you're here. You've worked so hard to accomplish what some said couldn't be done, so give yourselves a pat on the back, and enjoy the little party the bureaucrats allotted us to pay for this evening.”

  The crowd applauded and the band resumed playing.

  Doctor Phillips walked over to Morse and Heather, accompanied by his longtime girlfriend, Jen. Jen was 30, with medium-blonde hair.

  “Awe, don't you look cute, just like a couple,” Phillips teased and Morse laughed.

  Heather seemed embarrassed.

  “Well, I'm glad you at least decided to show up. I know that car of yours demands all of your time,” said Phillips, adding great emphasis to the word, all.

  Jen spoke to Morse, “It's nice to see you again, Robert.” She then turned her attention to Heather and said, “He's a really nice guy, maybe you will hit it off.”

  “Well,” said Phillips, “let’s dance,” and they danced for a while.

  At the end of the shindig, Morse took Heather home in the Charger.

  Six weeks later, Morse and Heather were an informal couple, but it was becoming clear to Morse that this woman was excessively in to him. While working on his upstairs apartment, painting the living room, (so it did not look quite so depressing), Heather surprised Morse with a visit.

  They painted the apartment for hours, laughing and whipping paint at each other. That night they went to bed together, just as they had for weeks now. After they made love, they laid in bed next to each other, and the love Heather had for Morse was stronger than she had ever felt for any man.

  Morse, however, was trying to think of how to get her to go home. He had become annoyed with her tiresome antics; always asking if he loved her, knowing the answer she wanted was not the answer he could give.

  He did what he could to deflect the questions.

  “Yeah, I'm going to sleep now. Night,” was all he had the energy for that time.

  He turned his back on her and drifted to sleep.

  In the middle of his REM sleep, Morse awoke to Heather sitting on top of him.

  “Hun, what are you doing on top of me,” he mumbled as he searched her in the darkness with his eyes to see what she was doing.

  He reached over, twisting on the lamp.

  The light revealed her holding a knife over him, still naked from earlier, looking down on him with tears in her eyes.

  “Whoa, what are you doing?”

  “You won't give me a straight answer. Do you love me or not?”

  “Oh, yes! Of course, I do, dear. Yes. I'm just not the kind of guy that can say it all the time. Do you love me?”

  “I love you more than anything. You complete me in ways I didn’t think I could be, Robert.”

  “Well, if you really loved me, you wouldn’t have a knife over me, would you?”

  She sobbed heavily and drips of a mixture of slobber and snot fell on his naked torso.

  “Why don't you put that knife down, give it to me.”

  Like a trained negotiator, he took it from her hand.

  “How about we go for a midnight stroll and let things cool down. Can you put your clothes on, dear?”

  Morse initiated getting dressed, hoping she would do the same.

  “Okay, you're right. I'm sorry, honey,” she relented and dressed with him.

  As soon as she had her shoes on, Morse ushered her out and walked with her down the stairs to the front door.

  He opened the door and flourished with chivalry, “Ladies first.”

  She walked out the door and Morse slammed the door shut, locking her out. Instantly irate, she screamed at him to let her back in.

  “I love you, you bastard,” she shrieked. “What are you doing?”

  “Listen, I don’t think it's working out between us. It's not you, it's me, okay?”

  That statement seemed to make her livid, as she proceeded to kick the door throwing her weight into it. She must have grown tired of that, because she found some rocks and started throwing them through the windows while yelling obscenities at him.

  Morse decided to call the police. When the police arrived, they witnessed her smashing her head against the wall of Morse's building and still yelling. They noticed she also pissed herself, and she was threatening to kill herself. They arrested her after she tried to kick one of the officers. Once she was in the back seat of their cruiser, they knocked on his door and Morse opened it to greet them.

  “Hello, sir. Did you call us?”

  “Yes.”

  “May we come in?”

  “Yes, by all means,” Morse stepped back to allow the two officers in from the doorstep. He met each officer's eyes with a grim expression as they entered. With the officers now in the light, he observed that they were Irish and Italian.

  The one that spoke before asked, “What happened here?”

  He was the Irish officer, and it looked as though he would be the one to question Morse, while the Italian cop would be hanging back, listening.

  “Officer, things
were going okay with her for weeks now, but I woke up in the middle of the night tonight with her holding a damn knife over me! I told her whatever she wanted to hear, convinced her to put her clothes on, and escorted her out of my house by telling her we would go for a midnight stroll. Then I locked her out.”

  “Why was she holding a knife on you?”

  “Because she was way into me but my feelings aren't mutual for her. She wanted me to tell her I love her, but I just don't.”

  “Did she hurt you? Were there drugs or alcohol involved? I also need your name and ID, please.”

  “My name is Doctor Robert Morse. No, we didn’t use alcohol or drugs, and no, she didn't hurt me, but after this, I don't want anything to do with her.”

  Morse opened the wallet he retrieved from his back pants pocket and produced his license, handing it to the officer.

  The cops both chuckled and the Irish one of them said, “I don't blame you! I suggest that you get a restraining order just to be safe, but we're taking her to the hospital from here. We need the knife to corroborate your story.”

  “It's upstairs in the bedroom.”

  The officer with Morse’s license went out to their car that still had the blue lights flashing and apparently crosschecked his records for outstanding warrants and criminal history using its information.

  Soon after, he came back and said, “If you would like to press charges, I have the documents to file here,” he paused pressing his fingertips into the clipboard holding the forms, “and you may file a police report to cover the damages she made on your building with your insurance.”

  He explained to the officer that he was not interested in pressing charges since she was obviously not well, and the police report would be helpful to file a claim with his insurance plan, which covered random vandalism considering the location of his property. Filling out the form, he rushed himself so everyone could leave. The Italian officer went to retrieve the knife. The younger, Irish, officer stood with Morse in the doorway.

  “Nice car,” the officer commented, “A 1970, right?”

  “Yes, sir,” Morse said as he glanced up and flashed a grin.