Nowhere to Hide

by Terry Odell

  The cab dropped her off at the curb. Colleen fought a feeling of abandonment. She glanced toward the main house where yellow crime scene tape waved gently in the breeze. Breaking into a run, she raced to her door and fumbled the key into the lock. Her breathing was ragged. When she got inside, she locked the door behind her, ripped off the scrub shirt and her sports bra, letting them fall on her way to the bathroom. She flung back the shower curtain and twisted the taps, waiting impatiently for the water to run hot.

  The shower might have washed away blood and sweat, but it did nothing for the fear, the anxiety, the pain. Wrapped in a towel, she went into the bedroom and stared at the bed. Knowing it held nothing but nightmares, she got dressed, and called Tracy.

  Thirty minutes later, she was in Tracy’s living room, huddled in a corner of her couch, sipping hot chocolate.

  “You sure you don’t want a shot of brandy in there?” Tracy asked. She hadn’t hesitated when Colleen had called.

  Colleen thought of the bottle of Scotch on her bookshelf. “No. This is fine.”

  Tracy carried her salad to the couch and sat across from Colleen. “He’ll be all right. You have to believe that.”

  “I don’t know what to believe. All I know is I had to get out of that hospital. I couldn’t stay there, seeing him hooked up to all those machines.”

  “You’ve had a tough day, sister. Things will look better tomorrow.” Tracy put down her salad and disappeared down the hall, coming back with sheets, a blanket and pillow. She sat down next to Colleen and embraced her. “You can bunk here as long as you want. A good night’s sleep will work wonders. “

  As if that was going to happen. Not if she saw Gravely’s dying face every time she closed her eyes. Or Graham lying in a bed, a machine breathing for him.

  Somehow, she made it through the rest of the night, although sleep came in short intervals, interrupted by longer bursts of terror.

  Over coffee the next morning, Tracy said, “Go to the hospital. “Talk to him.”

  “Not yet. I can’t. Besides, he can’t talk. He’s on a ventilator.”

  “Doesn’t mean he can’t hear you. You have to see him. I’ll drive you.”

  Protesting took too much effort. “Okay, but I’ll go myself.”

  At the hospital, she got off the elevator and walked down the corridor to ICU, her heart beating faster as each step dragged her closer to Graham’s door. A nurse, her brown hair shot with gray, approached.

  “May I help you?”

  With a dry mouth, Colleen said, “Graham Harrigan. I was here last night.”

  “Two doors down on the left.”

  She waited outside his door, one hand poised on the handle, trying to find the courage to go inside. A flicker of motion inside the room caught her eye and she peeked through the glass. A woman, dressed in black slacks and a black-and-white sweater that accentuated her curves, stood at Graham’s bedside, leaning over him, pushing the hair from his face, running her manicured fingers across his brow. Bending lower, she kissed his forehead. Shoulder-length raven hair obscured her face, but even from Colleen’s vantage point, she could see the woman was tall, slender, and built like—like the kind of woman she imagined with Graham.

  She’d made a big mistake coming here. This was too hard. He’d invited her to Thanksgiving, not proposed marriage. Never said he’d loved her. She’d never said she loved him. Did she?

  How the hell would she know? Thinking of Graham brought none of the warm feelings she’d enjoyed a few days ago. Instead there was fear. Fear and horrible memories.

  Life with Graham would be life filled with fear—fear every time he strapped on his weapon and left for work. He’d been shot, and it had all come back. She couldn’t live with it.

  Easier to make a clean break. He’d get over her—he could have any woman on the planet.

  She had lived this long without needing a man—she could get over Graham. It had only been a couple of weeks. Surely they hadn’t had time for a true relationship to take root. She’d get past it.

  She pivoted and almost ran out of the ICU. At the elevator, she poked the button repeatedly, as if it would speed the car’s arrival. Finally, she was back outside. The sunshine and the clear, bright sky hit her like a slap across the face. It should be raining. Dark clouds, howling wind. Something more appropriate to her mood. She extracted her sunglasses from her purse and headed for her apartment.

  The main house was still a crime scene, and Colleen knew she couldn’t remain on the property. Eventually someone would find Jeffrey’s will and figure out who owned it. She doubted she could bear to live there, even if the new owner would let her.

  She filled a suitcase with enough essentials and clothing to take to Tracy’s, but knew she couldn’t impose there much longer, either. She flipped on the television and zoned out on game shows, sitcoms, and old movies until she knew Tracy would have left for work. She’d get some boxes and come back tomorrow and finish packing.

  Using packing as her excuse, she avoided the hospital the next day. And the next, although the packing was done. Tracy didn’t press, but Colleen knew she wasn’t fooling her with pretend updates of Graham’s condition. Even making things up, she couldn’t keep her voice from cracking.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Thanksgiving day, Colleen wandered around Tracy’s apartment clutching a cup of coffee long grown cold. Monday, Tracy had flown home to spend a week with her family, leaving Colleen to house sit and “get her head together.”

  After moving all her boxes from the apartment at Doris’ to Tracy’s place, Colleen crawled back into the cocoon she’d created in Pine Hills. She’d washed and ironed virtually every garment she owned as well as most of Tracy’s, and spent days scrubbing Tracy’s apartment until she’d all but taken the finish off the furniture and the glaze off the tiles. She’d let the battery on her cell phone run down, ignored her computer, and sat on the couch in front of the television set, dozing between nightmares.

  “You have to decide,” Tracy had said. “Life with him, or life without him.”

  Well, if this week was any indication, life without him wasn’t a walk in the park. Would life with him be any easier?

  “Talk to him,” Tracy said, when she’d called to check up on Colleen.

  Other than a daily call to the hospital, Colleen hadn’t been able to talk to anyone. She’d called home once, but had hung up as soon as she heard her mother’s voice. Instead of giving comfort, it triggered more guilt, more failure, more pain.

  This was ridiculous. Damn it, she needed to get her life back. She slammed the coffee mug onto the kitchen counter and went into the bathroom. The image in the mirror scared her. A matted mass of red curls, freckles standing out against deathly-pale skin, red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes sunken over what looked like used teabags. Even her nightmares didn’t look this bad. And nightmares didn’t smell, either.

  A shower, shampoo and copious amounts of conditioner helped a little. Shortly after noon, dressed in clean, pressed jeans and one of the tops Tracy had picked out so long ago, Colleen headed for the hospital.

  Talk to him. Get it over with so you can move on.

  She tried to rehearse what she’d say, but couldn’t get past the mundane.

  “How do you feel?” was ridiculous—he’d feel awful. “Hot for Thanksgiving, isn’t it?” didn’t seem any better.

  One way or another, she was going to do this. Forget everything, march into his room, wish him a Happy Thanksgiving, and tell him it had been great, but things hadn’t worked out, enjoy the rest of your life, thank you very much. So what if it was a big, fat lie. She owed him a face to face.

  The hospital lobby was decorated for fall, with brightly-colored dried leaves arranged in vases on counters, although to Colleen, the weather felt more like early summer. A banner proclaiming “Happy Thanksgiving” hung on the wall behind the reception desk. Graham had been released from ICU, but she didn’t know his new room. She approached the silver-haired woman we
aring a pink smock and a button saying she’d been a volunteer for five years.

  “Graham Harrigan, please?” Three whole words. She was proud her voice didn’t break.

  The woman clicked some computer keys. “Four twenty-two. The elevator is down the hall on your right.”

  Of course, now when she’d welcome a delay, the elevator waited, door open. She stepped inside, sucked in a deep breath, and pressed four. The doors inched closed and with a mechanical grumble, the car jerked upward. All too soon, it dinged on four. Colleen wiped her hands on her jeans and stepped out. Following the numbers on the doors, she worked her way down the corridor. From behind many doors, she heard people chatting, sounds of laughter, television sets. When she got to Graham’s room, she hesitated. No sounds from inside.

  She tapped gently on the polished wood. When she didn’t hear anything, she pushed the door open and peered inside. An empty bed glared at her, sending her heart to her throat. She shifted her focus beyond the bed, to the curtain beyond it. Of course. Two beds. Graham would be in the other one.

  Slowly, she tiptoed into the room, to the second bed, moving the curtain enough to make sure it was Graham. An empty chair sat on the opposite side, and Colleen hurried around and sank into it before her knees gave way. Afraid to look at him, she studied the room instead. Behind him, monitors kept track of his vitals. She stared at the display, finding comfort in their steady readouts. Flickering light drew her eye to the wall-mounted television, where a muted football game played. The night table held two floral arrangements, a potted plant and an assortment of cards. She suppressed a pang of guilt at arriving empty-handed. Would the gift shop be open? Should she go down and check?

  A low moan from the bed forced her attention to Graham. His left arm was immobilized. Eyes closed, his complexion only half a shade deeper than the sheets, he shifted in his sleep. His breathing grew louder and more uneven. Should she call for a nurse? His eyelids flickered, opened, shut, then opened again. Pain flashed across his face. He blinked. Looked at the television. Then in her direction. Blinked some more. She knew the precise instant he became aware of her presence. The tingle from her belly downward surprised her.

  “Hi,” she whispered. “Happy Thanksgiving.” She was not going to cry.

  “Water?” His voice was a hoarse croak.

  She jumped up. “Of course.” She followed his gaze to a red-capped plastic container with a flexible straw protruding from the lid. She brought it to his lips. This close, she could see every line of pain, every bead of sweat. She studied the machine hanging near the bedside table, remembering her days after being shot. The control to release the painkiller he obviously needed dangled over the bed rail.

  “I see you’ve got a PCA.” She itched to press it for him, but merely placed it in his hand.

  He clutched the unit. “Patient. Controlled. Analgesia,” he whispered. “My new … best … friend.” Moments later, the pain lines faded.

  “Can I get you anything? Do anything?”

  He shook his head. “Sore throat.”

  Of course. He’d had a tube down his throat, a machine breathing for him. How long had he been off the ventilator? A day? Two days?

  “Don’t talk, then. Do you want to watch TV?” She looked for the remote, found it on the table and offered it to him.

  He pushed it away. Looked at her again, but this time the pain in his eyes was different. “Why?”

  She took the water container and gulped several huge swallows, trying to bring some moisture to her dry mouth.

  “No!” he croaked and tried to reach for her arm.

  “What?” She offered him the container. “You want more?”

  Another head shake. “In and Out. Has to match.”

  Heat rose to her face as she remembered her first days in the hospital. “Oh, God, that’s right.” She took the container into the small bathroom, refilling it with as much as she thought she’d drunk and brought it back. “That should do it.”

  The sound of curtains being pulled aside made her look up.

  “Happy Thanksgiving.” Roger Schaeffer ambled in, carrying a plastic bag. “Sharon sent some pumpkin pie. I told her you probably can’t eat it yet, but she insisted.” He glanced at Colleen, his eyes lingering on her face. If he noticed the strain, he didn’t mention it. “Nice to see you again, Miss McDonald. How are you?”

  “It’s Colleen.”

  “I’m Roger.” He looked at Graham, then at her. “He’s looking good, isn’t he?”

  She nodded. Alive was good.

  “Can I interest you in a piece of Sharon’s pie? She sent enough for all the floor nurses, I think.” Without waiting for an answer, he pulled out a large, pre-sliced pumpkin pie, paper plates and plastic forks. After plating two slices and handing them to Colleen, he put the rest of the pie on the table by the empty bed.

  “Enjoy,” he said. He took one of the plates from Colleen and forked up a huge mouthful. “Don’t tell Sharon—I’m not supposed to be eating this one. Dinner’s at home, and she’s got another one there, plus apple and pecan.”

  She took a tentative bite. Rich and creamy, it slid easily down her throat. She took another. After a third, she glanced at Graham. Her stomach knotted and she set the plate down.

  Schaeffer held a forkful of pie up toward Graham. “Want a bite? I won’t tell the nurses.”

  She thought she saw a wistful look cross Graham’s face before he shook his head. She understood completely. Tasted fine going down, but the return trip was murder.

  “Sorry I couldn’t get by yesterday.” Schaeffer perched on the plastic-covered mattress of the second bed, leaning forward with his arms resting on his thighs. “Lots of loose ends to tie up. You ready for an update?”

  She marveled at the way Schaeffer continued to talk, as if he and Graham were at the station.

  “Doris was part of it. At least to some extent. Gravely had convinced her she had to play along to stay out of the rest home. She’s out of it half the time, and I think half the time she’s not out of it, she’s pretending to be out of it. We can’t tell if she knew Jeffrey was dead, or honestly believed he was in Alabama, sending her e-mails.”

  “How?” Graham asked.

  Schaeffer finished his pie, got up and tossed the plate and fork into a wastebasket. “Gravely installed a nifty computer program on Jeffrey’s system that let him access everything from his own. Since Jeffrey had his computer set to remember all his passwords, he was a sitting duck. As long as Doris didn’t turn off the computer, Gravely could do most of his finagling without ever having to go to Jeffrey’s house.”

  “I saw that,” Colleen said. “Freaked me out to see his computer doing its own thing. I suppose that’s how Gravely faked the e-mails from Jeffrey.”

  “No need. Gravely created a Hotmail account in Jeffery’s name. Easy enough for him to send e-mails that appeared to be from Jeffrey. For that, he could log on from anywhere. Once he knew you—” he glanced her way—”were living in the apartment, if he had to show up in person, he parked around the block.”

  Some guilt left—she hadn’t missed seeing Gravely’s car. “Who killed Townsend?” She kept her eyes on Schaeffer.

  “We’re piecing it together. Jeffrey Walters was with Gravely when Townsend called, like we knew. Townsend told them he was taking pictures of the eagle nests and was going to send them to the feds and blow the whistle. Apparently, Jeffrey was already done with the project, but we dug around and discovered there were still some Is to dot and Ts to cross before Jeffrey was completely out of the picture. Gravely needed the illusion Jeffrey was alive.”

  “Meanwhile,” Graham began, then paused to take three slow breaths. “He was making money … selling the land over and over.” He coughed and Colleen offered more water.

  “I told you to take it easy, Harrigan. That’s an order,” Schaeffer said. “But you’re right. After the phone call, Gravely went to meet Townsend, and Jeffrey insisted on going along. Gravely and Townsend got int
o a fight. The autopsy confirmed Townsend’s death was accidental.”

  “Okay, so Gravely accidentally killed Townsend. Who killed Jeffrey?” Colleen asked.

  “That’s where Harrigan comes in. Ballistics matched the bullets from Jeffrey Walters with the ones the surgeons took out of our hero here, all of which came from Gravely’s gun. Near as we can figure, Gravely convinced Jeffrey to help him hide the body in the St. Augustine animal pit. Then Gravely shot Jeffrey to eliminate his witness and drove him back to a local construction site so the bodies weren’t found together. I guess he figured by having them in separate counties, nobody would connect the cases. St. Johns is working on putting Gravely at the animal pit, and we have a witness who saw Gravely’s car at the construction site.

  “Harrigan? Harrigan?”

  At Schaeffer’s tone, Colleen snapped to attention. Graham’s hair looked damp, and there were beads of sweat above his upper lip. The monitors bleeped at a rapid pace. His arms began a rhythmic jerking and releasing, jerking and releasing. She leapt to her feet and reached for the call button.

  Two nurses arrived at Graham’s side before Colleen’s finger touched the button. One busied herself with the tubes and needles, the other paged Dr. Weinberg, stat. Colleen’s heart stopped at the word. She knew damn well “stat” was not a good thing.

  The nurses motioned Colleen and Schaeffer toward the door. “I’m sorry, but you’ll have to wait outside. The doctor needs room to work.”

  “Why? What’s happening?” Colleen struggled to keep from screaming the words.

  “He’s having a seizure and his blood pressure is dropping. Please, wait outside. We’ll call you as soon as he’s stabilized.”

  Colleen picked up her purse and ran out of the room, with Schaeffer following close behind. He took her by the elbow and sat her down on a bench near the elevator.

  “He’ll be all right. He’s doing better. I probably overexcited him with talk about work.”