by Julie Hyzy
The woman shook her head, making tiny touches to her upper lip with her tongue, just waiting for her moment to jump in. Another head shake. “I’m sorry,” she said with a gleeful lilt. “There’s nothing I can do. Visiting hours are over.”
I veered off to the far left alcove that housed a bank of in-hospital phones. Leaning against the wall with my back toward the reception desk, I hoped it looked like I was a person who belonged there, making some important phone call. Keeping my movements slow, I dug through my cavernous purse and pulled out my trusty notebook.
They were still arguing as I emerged from the alcove, and I’d arranged my face into my best imitation of bored worker bee. I draped my down coat over my arm, knowing that my business-suit attire wasn’t going to hurt me either. The woman gave me no more than a passing glance before she returned her attention to the young man, and I turned the corner away from them just as an elevator opened, as if waiting for me.
Once I made it to her floor, I was fine. No one seemed to question my being there; no one seemed to have any care that it was past eight. Encouraged, I strode into her room full of purpose.
But when I saw her, all my carefully nuanced questions went out the window. They’d moved her out of intensive care into a ward of four women. Diana had the left-hand bed closest to the window and as I made my way toward her, I nodded hello to the three other ladies who dragged their eyes away from the television to watch me with patent curiosity. I couldn’t begin to guess at their individual ailments.
“Diana?”
She’d been staring out the wall of windows at the eastern sky which winked with starlight. Her eyes fluttered in a way that I knew she’d heard me, but as she turned, she grit her teeth, and the tendons in her neck stood out in bas-relief. Her mouth curved in a peculiar way as she croaked out my name.
Pulling a heavy wooden chair to her bedside, looking around at the barrenness of her surroundings compared to those of her roommates, I realized I should have brought something. Flowers, maybe. One of the other women had a bouquet next to her bed, carnations and roses. The scent of them reminded me again of Mrs. Vicks’ funeral, and I reassessed the flower idea. Get well balloons, maybe.
So consumed with getting answers, I’d come empty-handed and I apologized for that. Diana waved the free fingers of her left hand, as if to dismiss my concerns. She wore a cast on that arm which encompassed everything from the knuckles to her shoulder and whenever she moved, even slightly to adjust herself, she winced and used her free arm to bolster herself.
“How’s it feeling?” I asked, indicating her arm.
“Not terrible,” she said in a rusty voice. “But it figures that I broke this one.”
“You’re left-handed?” I said. “I didn’t know that.”
“Yeah.” Her mouth turned downward in an exaggerated frown. “Left-handed people are supposed to be cursed, you know. My mom used to tell me I had to work harder to beat the curse.”
I was about to respond to that with some reassuring remark, but she interrupted.
“You look pretty good.”
“I was lucky, I guess.”
She coughed out a laugh and her dark eyes clouded. “No,” she said. “I watched you go down. You got hit worse than me.”
I pointed to her arm. “But—”
“Cursed.” She gave what might have been a shrug. “Don’t even remember this happening. All I remember is that you didn’t leave me, Alex.” Shaky tears gathered just below her eyes, catching the vaguely bright reflection of the fluorescent lights above. “He would’ve killed me.”
“Who would’ve?”
As she blinked, the trembling pools released, dripping sideways across her face to fall in fat splashes onto the pillow beneath her cheek. She stared out the windows again. “The guy who was in the house.”
Sotto voce, I said, “You know who it was.”
Avoiding my eyes, she bit her upper lip and shook her head.
“We both know who it was.”
More blinks, more tears, and she now sucked in her upper lip so hard that it pulled her nose downward. Long full-bodied sniff.
“Diana,” I tried again, “It was Laurence Grady, wasn’t it?”
This time her eyes snapped my direction, widening and tearing up with an immediacy that took me by surprise. Her right hand shot toward me, grabbed my arm. “It wasn’t him. He swears it wasn’t him.”
Her words stunned me. “He’s been here?”
“He’s got his life back together, Alex. This time he really does. And he wants me back.”
The catch in her voice spoke volumes, and I looked away, needing to gather my thoughts. I noticed the three other women in the room had turned their attention from the ceiling-braced TV, to watch us. They’d even turned down the volume. Lately, it seemed I was forever on display.
I spoke in whisper. “I talked with Dr. Hooker.”
Her pained expression relaxed. “You did? Good. Because he’ll tell you, too. It wasn’t Larry who hurt us. Larry wouldn’t hurt anyone.”
“That’s part of what I want to talk with you about. Dr. Hooker won’t tell me much about Laurence.” I couldn’t quite bring myself to refer to him as Larry. “He says he’ll only tell me what I need to know.”
Diana’s dull expression told me that she didn’t see the problem.
Tamping down my exasperation, I tried to soften my words with a smile. “Dr. Hooker might not realize something’s important. Maybe if you give him permission to talk to me about Larry . . .” I let the thought hang, and take hold.
She bit her lip, and seemed to ponder that.
“I know Larry didn’t hurt us, and I know he didn’t hurt Mrs. Vicks,” she said, finally. “So, okay, when I talk with Dr. Hooker next, I’ll tell him he can tell you anything. Would you like me to do that?”
I patted her hand, just as a black nurse came in with a tiny paper cup of pills for Diana to take. “Visiting hours were over at eight,” she said with more than a little annoyance. She grabbed at the privacy curtains and tugged. The ceiling-mounted hooks slid with set-your-teeth-on-edge-scraping, till Diana’s bed was completely blocked from view of anyone else in the room. “And it’s time for her to sleep.”
* * * * *
The hospital smells seemed to have shifted in the short time I’d spent with Diana. On the way out, through the labyrinthine corridors, I caught the scent of fresh-brewed coffee and microwave popcorn. It was after nine o’clock, and my guess was the night shift needed to gear up for the long lonely hours ahead with snacks and solid jolts of caffeine.
I probably shouldn’t have stayed so late, I mused, as I exited the final corridor and headed for the parking garage elevator. I’d missed the herd that must have departed just as I’d arrived, and it left the area quiet except for a few stragglers.
Two men, one elderly, one young, obviously together, but not talking with one another, both looking deep in thought, made me wonder who they’d been visiting. The young man’s mother, perhaps? They waited with me and we took the same elevator. They got off at two, and I continued the climb to my level, stepping out of the bright box at eleven.
The door sliding shut behind me—the accompanying whirr from the electric box that operated the elevator systems—these were lonely sounds in the dark.
I started up the gentle ramp to my Escort. The only car on the entire level now, it caught the reflection of lights from the city surrounding the open-air lot. I heard my footsteps echo, making tiny clip-clops so loud in my ears that it drowned out all thought.
Maybe it was the lack of direct lighting, or the distant train whistle that sounded, but I shivered, suddenly vulnerable as the weight of all that had happened resurfaced in my memory.
Jitters. Too much going on, too quickly, I thought.
Like a dream where I run but can’t move, I felt as though every step I took toward my goal fought against an unseen current, making my movements slow and heavy. Even as I tried to pick up my pace, the car didn’t get closer
. My clipping steps annoyed me. Too noisy, they broadcast my location, my alone-ness. I wished I’d worn my Reeboks.
An out-of-place sound stopped me in my tracks. A whishing, scraping noise, like fabric against concrete.
I turned my head in short twists, trying to catch the source.
Nothing.
There were two main pillars at each end of my section of ramp. Both were fat columns of cement, and the one I’d passed had had a bright red metal call box, with a huge white sign above: “If you need assistance, please call security.”
My car sat thirty feet to my left; the call box forty feet to my right. And my imagination sat closest of all, in super-high gear.
The noise again.
It came from the pillar just past my Escort. If someone stood behind it, no way would I beat him to the car, get my keys out and get safely inside before he got me.
But, was anybody there, or was I just being foolish? Right about now, I knew I’d rather be safe and feel a fool, than be brave and find trouble. I inched closer toward the call box, trying to keep my shoes from making tell-tale noises, while digging my right hand into my purse, searching for my pepper spray, hoping my shallow breaths and pounding heart wouldn’t give me away.
Tip-toeing, I kept my eyes trained on the far pillar. Nothing. No movement, no sound. Small backward steps, slow steps, they brought me closer to the call box, and took me farther from my car.
My fingers finally wrapped around the black plastic handle of the pepper spray, and I used my thumb to release the sliding safety device. “Okay,” I whispered, more to affirm my bravery than anything. “Almost there.”
Still keeping close watch on that far pillar, I switched the pepper spray to my left hand and reached around with my right to grab the phone. When I encountered nothing but cold metal, I looked over in fear. “Shit,” I said, louder than I intended. The phone had been ripped out of box, leaving a mass of multi-colored wires extending out into the dark like so many helpless arms.
The elevator was no more than fifteen steps away. The stairs—adjacent. And maybe, just maybe, I’d simply imagined these noises. My hand back in my purse once again, I had a fleeting giddy thought that my purse was like Batman’s utility belt, and all I needed to do was reach the right tool. My cell phone, this time. I hit the power button as I moved toward the scant light of the elevator waiting area, still walking on tip-toe, still watching that far, far pillar.
For the first time all night, something went right. My phone came on and registered in-service, much more quickly than it ever had before. “Thank God,” I muttered, as I dialed *911. I heard the tiny beeps as each digit sounded.
“Emergency 9-1-1,” a flat voice answered.
As I pulled in a breath to answer, the phone gave an extended beep and powered down. “Shit,” I said again. The damn battery.
From behind me, movement. Breathing. Someone shifting their weight. Someone waiting. For me.
“Who’s there?” I shouted, bolting for the stairs.
The clip-clop sound of my shoes blurred as I sprinted. God, please don’t let him follow me. Visions of the night Diana and I were attacked rushed through the pounding blood in my head, and through the red lights of panic flashing before me. I could barely make out the yellow metal door that would be my salvation.
His gloved hand grabbed me, stopping me cold, the yank on my upper arm strong even through the thickness of my down coat to make me wince.
Panicked, I spun.
“C’mere, bitch.”
Laurence Grady stared back at me, his eyes glittering with anger and something more. Hatred? I felt the fear in my stomach drop as my heart rate skyrocketed—all the power to my legs, to my feet, dissolved.
“Where do you get off reporting me to the cops?” He pulled me so close that his hot beer breath steamed against my face.
He had me up on my toes, and as I opened my mouth to scream, he jammed his other hand over it, gagging me.
I flailed against him, trying to bite down, but the leather of his glove was too thick. My left hand strove for leverage to push away, when I suddenly remembered the pepper spray. Feeling triumphant and stupid at the same time, I rushed my hand up toward his face, pressing the trigger as I clenched my eyes and held my breath.
He’d been saying something about the police when the orange-yellow spray hit with a wet hissing sound of splatters on skin. He grunted in pain, the attack startling him. For the briefest second he froze. But it was enough for me to wrench free. Giving his shin a quick kick, I ran, coughing, my eyes teary-eyed and stinging, to the sanctuary of my car. I’d caught some of the spray, but Grady had taken it full in the face. Judging from the intense smarting I felt, he had to be in excruciating pain.
As if I’d willed them to do so, the keys leaped into my hands. Vowing that my next car would have remote entry, I jammed the right one into the lock, yanked the door open, jumped in and locked myself inside before I chanced a look back.
He was gone.
Twisting my body within the confines of the seat, my puffy coat making the effort ever more difficult, I tried to see where he’d gone. My right hand had found the ignition, and I started up the car, still coughing, a sharp vile taste in my mouth, and my eyes feeling as though I’d stood downwind of a raging fire. I didn’t care that the world blurred before me and I could barely see to drive; I was getting out of there.
Chapter Seventeen
Detective Lulinski voice was thick with anger when I called him from home. “Why didn’t you get ahold of me sooner?”
I started to say tell him that my cell phone had gone dead, when he interrupted.
“And why the hell were you alone in a deserted parking garage at night?”
In my mind’s eye, I could see red-hot frustration work its way over his face. I suddenly realized that I was a trial to this man. Here he was, trying to clear a murder, stuck working with a member of the media he so despised, and at every turn, I made huge mistakes and gross errors in judgment.
Knowing, however, that the best defense is a good offense, I snarled right back at him. “I was trying to get information for you, in case you forgot.”
He muttered something I didn’t catch.
“What was that, Detective?”
“Nothing you need to hear.” I could tell he took a deep drag of a cigarette, taking his time to blow it out before continuing, much toned down: “All right. We talked with Grady’s parole officer this morning and made it clear that he’s supposed to stay away from you, Diana, the neighborhood. He’s obviously not cooperating, so I’ll put out a pickup order on him. Aside from him grabbing you . . . and the battery charge I’ll nail him with, what else?”
“I blasted him with my pepper spray.”
I could almost see his terse nod. “Good girl,” he said. “I’ve requested extra coverage past your house for the next few days. And yes,” he added, answering my question before I spoke it, “I’m covering your aunt’s house too. As long as nobody’s in Mrs. Vicks’ house, I’m not too worried about that one, but they’ll keep their eyes peeled.”
“Thanks.”
“Part of the job. And Alex . . .”
“Yeah?”
“Keep the goddamn phone charged.”
* * * * *
Lucy had been listening from the tiny hallway that separated our bedrooms. She hung on the corner, like a little kid caught doing something wrong, her expression half-curious, half-frightened.
“Is Grady that the same man who talked to me yesterday?”
I nodded.
“Did he hurt you tonight?”
I shook my head, but as I moved to sit at the kitchen table, I winced.
“He did hurt you!” Lucy said with alarm, as she pushed off the wall to help me.
“No, it’s just leftover aches and pains.” I forced a smile. “Too much excitement today and I forgot about them. Now they’re all back. With a vengeance.” Grady’s appearance tonight had shaken me up more than I cared to admit. �
�Listen, Lucy, if you see the guy again, or even if you just think you see him, you let me or Aunt Lena know, okay?”
Her right hand reached behind and she twisted her hair. “I don’t think he’s a bad guy. He was nice to me.”
“Until we know what he wants, we can’t be sure,” I said. Torn between wanting to come down hard on Lucy, to make her understand the stakes, and keeping her from being too terrified to step outside the house, I treaded a fine line and my reasoning sounded lame, even to my ears. “Just stay with someone. Me, Aunt Lena, Uncle Moose. Someone we know, okay?”
“Okay.” She dropped the twisted piece of blond hair as she nodded.
“By the way,” I asked, “any phone messages? Anybody call?”
“Yeah.” Concentration crossed her face as she struggled to remember. “Somebody for you. A man.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, he said something about wishing you were there.”
My mood brightened with a suddenness that surprised me. I glanced up at the clock. Ten. That made it about eight o’ clock in San Francisco. I could still call him back and maybe we’d have a chance to catch up. I’d love to be able to bounce some of this stuff around with William.
“You didn’t erase it?”
“No.”
I hit the button on my answering machine and the mechanical voice announced that there was one saved message. I smiled at Lucy, who was grinning back, trying hard to understand my sudden attitude change.
“Hello, Alex.”
The instant I heard David’s voice, my exuberance plunged with the impact of a gut-punch. His words drifted past me, but the room had closed in and I missed the entire message.
“Is that the guy you were hoping to hear from?” Lucy asked.
“No,” I said, stringing the word out. I turned my back to her as I pressed the repeat button. She was the most perceptive soul I’d ever encountered and I didn’t want her to see my disappointment. Injecting false cheer into my voice, I said, “My mind wandered. Let me hear that again.”
David, his voice warm, soothing, had expressed regret at my leaving the bank before he’d arrived that day. He wished I’d been there. He said we needed to talk.
