Free Cooked Goose by G. A. McKevett

“Mama?” she whispered through cracked, puffy lips.
    Savannah leaned close to her. “What, honey? Did you say something?”
    “Mama?” she murmured again.
    Savannah shot a quick look at Dirk and the nurse. Dirk gave her a nod
    “You’re going to be fine, sweetheart,” she said. “The worst is over and done with. You’re safe now. Everything will be okay.”
    Charlene’s eyes fluttered again and this time she opened one just a crack and looked up at Savannah. When she closed it, tears slid down both her cheeks, and she began to cry. “You aren’t my mom,” she said between sobs.
    Savannah’s heart ached. “I wish I were,” she said softly. “Your sister’s on her way here to see you.”
    “Oh, great. That’s all I need. My sister’s stupid and a drunk.”
    Savannah gulped. So much for close family ties. “Do you want me to try to find your mom for you?”
    At the suggestion, Charlene only cried harder. “You can’t,” she said. “My mama’s dead.”
    “Oh, I’m sorry.” Having struck out twice, Savannah was reluctant to swing a third time, but she had to ask, “Why did you think I was your mother?”
    “You sound like her.”
    “Oh.” The light dawned. “Was your mom from down South?”
    “Savannah, Georgia.”
    “Well, if that ain’t a coincidence. I’m from Georgia, too. And my name is Savannah. Is that close enough?”
    At least Charlene had stopped crying. That was a step in the right direction. So, Savannah decided to press a little further. “This detective who came in with me—his name is Dirk Coulter. He needs to ask you a few questions. Do you feel up to it?”
    At the mention that a man was in the room, a look of fear crossed Charlene’s battered features. “No,” she said adamantly. “I don’t want to talk to him.”
    Dirk took a step back from the bed. “Van, maybe you should do it,” he said.
    Savannah nodded and stroked Charlene’s fingers. “Do you feel like talking to me?” she asked in her most beguiling tone. “Just for a couple of minutes. If you get too tired, we’ll quit.”
    She hesitated, then said, “Okay.”
    “Did you see the man who attacked you?”
    “Yes. Well, sorta.”
    “What did he look like?”
    “He wore a beard, a big white one, like Santa. But it was fake. It slid around when he was, you know, when he was raping me.”
    Savannah glanced over at Dirk, who was suddenly all ears. “When the beard slipped,” she said, “did you happen to see his face?”
    “Not really. Not enough to tell anything.”
    “Do you know if he was Caucasian, or black, or Hispanic, or—?”
    “The other policeman asked me that, too.”
    “I’m sorry, but I have to ask again. Just in case you might remember something else.”
    “It was dark. But I think he was white.”
    “What else was he wearing, besides the beard?”
    “A black shirt, like a sweatshirt. And I think, jeans.”  
    Savannah thought for a moment. “Did the shirt have any words or pictures on it?”
    “No.”
    Of course not , Savannah thought. That would be too easy .  
    Oh, well, it was worth a try. Your average criminal wasn’t known for his high intelligence quotient and more than one had been nabbed because he had committed his particular crime dressed in a T-shirt that said something like, “Dudley Trucking—Bowling Champion 1979.”
    “Could you see the color of his hair?” she asked.
    “No. He was wearing a red and white hat, like Santa Claus.”
    “How big a guy was he?”
    “Bigger than me and a lot stronger.” She began to cry again. “He…he really hurt me.”
    “I know, honey.” Savannah felt tears well up in her own eyes. She glanced over at the young nurse, who was biting her lower lip. “But you’ve got great doctors and nurses here,” she told her. “They’re taking good care of you.”
    “But what if he comes back?” Charlene asked. She was trembling so hard that Savannah could feel the bed shaking as she leaned against it. “What if he comes