Pulse

by Edna Buchanan

  Her long, tapered fingers covered her face, huge eyes peering over them to stare. “Daniel would be so happy.” A tear skidded down her cheek as her eyes roved to the mantel.

  Frank got to his feet.

  “That’s him? That’s your husband?”

  She nodded, blinking. “The three of us. Taken a few years ago.”

  A small boy perched on a bicycle, his mother laughing, held him and the bike, which appeared to be new. Daniel Alexander stood behind them, smiling. The silver frame was small, only five by seven. But even at a glance Frank saw that this handsome man with deep-set dark eyes was also a total stranger, no visceral connection, no link to his troubling dreams.

  He smiled at the photograph, touched by the solemn gaze of the small boy who resembled both parents. The all-American family. He wondered what happened, why it ended the way it did.

  “I simply wanted to thank you.” He turned to her. “You saved my life.”

  “Oh.” She looked startled. “When they asked me, I never hesitated, not for a moment.” She hugged herself as though suddenly cold, her gaze returning to the photo. “The chance was a tiny anchor in a sea of grief. We had never discussed it, but I’m sure it was what Daniel would have wanted.”

  She offered him coffee.

  “Sure, I’d love some,” he heard himself say.

  “Come on.” He followed her out into a sunny, countrystyle kitchen wondering why he did not follow his plan to say thank you and leave, wondering about the dark-haired woman he had expected. The wallpaper had a green ivy print, a reflection of the real thing growing in water on the windowsill. He sat at a hand-painted wooden table while she brewed coffee. Her husband watched, his expression serious from inside a heart-shaped magnetic frame on the yellow refrigerator. This photo appeared more recent, judging from the hairline just beginning to slightly recede. He felt compassion for the widow, and gratitude, but Frank had expected something else, a physical link, a spiritual sensation of déjà vu, here in the man’s house, looking at his picture, at his wife. But there was nothing. Instead, he felt oddly disturbed and unsettled. The phone rang as she took flowered coffee mugs from a glass-fronted cabinet.

  “Yes,” she answered. “Is he coming?” Stretching the cord, she stepped around the corner into a hallway for privacy. “But …” She lowered her voice. Her muffled words sounded argumentative at first, then reproachful, and finally exasperated.

  She returned, her troubled frown fading when she saw him.

  “A problem?” He was prying; that was unlike him.

  “The man I mistook you for. He’s not coming,” she said, and poured the coffee. As she stirred hers, he looked about the cozy nook. This was how she must have sat opposite her husband on more than a thousand mornings, he thought. If his heart had come to him with a memory, it now suffered from amnesia. This comfortable setting was totally unfamiliar.

  “I’m so glad you came,” she said. “It’s …” She groped for the words. “It’s something. There hasn’t been a lot, you know, since that day …”

  Her eyes grew shiny, focused on his.

  “What I mean is, you are living proof that some good can survive even the worst moments of your life. Do you have any pictures?”

  He was startled for a moment.

  “Your family. Your children.” She held out her hand.

  He fished for his wallet and found a snapshot taken at a Fourth of July celebration. Kathleen and the girls wearing red, white and blue, Casey waving a small flag.

  She studied it, holding the picture in both hands. “They’re all so pretty.”

  “Actually,” he said apologetically, “that’s not too recent. Shandi is nineteen now, going on thirty-five, in her second semester at U. of M. She’s got short hair now and about two dozen earrings, I’m afraid. Casey is eleven, braces on her teeth at the moment. But Kathleen, she looks the same.” He wondered what his wife would think if she saw him now, in Rory Alexander’s kitchen.

  “Is there anything that you need?” he asked. “Anything that I can do for you and your son?”

  She smiled. “You’ve done it,” she said, “by coming here.”

  She walked him to the door where they shook hands. “Would you mind?” she whispered.

  “No,” he said, before he even knew what she intended.

  She undid the third button on his shirt and slid her hand inside, gently positioning her warm palm over his heart.

  It reminded him of the moments when loved ones touch a pregnant woman’s belly to feel the life of an unborn child. In this case the life was not a new one soon to be born, but that of a loved one gone forever. Her eyes were closed.

  “I can feel it,” she whispered, then withdrew her hand.

  Their eyes caught for a moment as he turned to leave. She was a radiant woman, he thought. He was nearly down the front steps when a nondescript-looking light-color, late-model Chevy made a sharp turn into the driveway and pulled up close behind the station wagon. The driver, a middle-aged man, got out, glanced up at them for a moment, then reached back into the car for something.

  Frank turned to Rory, still behind the screen door. “You expecting somebody?”

  “No.”

  “You know this guy?”

  “Don’t think so.”

  Frank hesitated, then waited as the man strode up thewalk. He wore a cheap sport coat and a bold stare. He nodded at Frank, then swaggered past him, up the stairs.

  “Mrs. Alexander?” The tone was authoritative.

  “Yes.”

  “Glad to catch you at home, I need a few minutes of your time.”

  Frank couldn’t discern her expression, filtered through the wire screen.

  “What’s this about?” There was an uneasy resignation in her voice. He’d heard that tone before. Had it been in his mother’s voice?

  “I think you’d prefer to discuss this in private.” He offered his card and she edged the screen door open to take it.

  She studied it, then let him in.

  “Is everything all right?” Frank asked loudly.

  “Fine.” She smiled and closed the door.

  He went on down the walk. He should go, he thought. His new life waited. Instead he sat in the car watching time pass on the digital clock in the dashboard. The man emerged twelve minutes later.

  Frank got out of the Mercedes and walked briskly up to the driver’s side of the stranger’s car.

  “Mind if I take one of those cards, buddy?”

  The man stared up at him. “Sure.” He dug in his pocket and came up with a business card, slightly rumpled.

  Frank read it. “Mind if I ask your business with Mrs. Alexander?”

  “You a relative?”

  “No.”

  The man looked amused. “Didn’t waste no time, did she?”

  Frank gave him a cold stare. “Does she have a problem?”

  “Only that the broad paid for her husband’s funeral with bad paper. She’s a paper hanger.”

  “I’m sure this has been a difficult time for her.”

  “It’s always a difficult time for my client when his customers don’t pay their bills. It’s not like he can repossess the merchandise or anything.”

  He began to squirm under Frank’s scrutiny.

  “Management is sensitive to the situation. Not like he didn’t give her every break. He put the check through two, three times. So she writes another one, bounced from here to Homestead.”

  “Thanks for your sensitivity. I’ll be in touch.”

  “Yeah. Right.” The collection agent rolled his eyes skeptically and shifted the Chevy into reverse.

  Frank put the collection agency card in his pocket, watched the car pull away and proceeded back up the walk. This time both doors were closed and locked. He rang the bell.

  She was surprised to see him.

  “We have to talk,” he told her.

  “What’s the story?” Frank asked briskly.

  Cheeks reddening, she stared miserably do
wn at the table, back in the country kitchen.

  “No story.”

  He sighed, slightly exasperated. “My intent is not to pry or embarrass you, but the reason I came here was to attempt some sort of payback, to help if there was anything you needed during this tough time. Under the circumstances, don’t you think we should be able to talk like old friends?”

  She tilted her head at him and blinked.

  “Obviously you have a problem,” he said. “Let’s see what we can do to resolve it.”

  The luminous gray-green eyes drowned in desperation. “I’ve never had a good head for figures.” The words came slowly. “Daniel handled all the finances. It’s just that I’ve made some idiotic moves. I don’t even know which account …” she said hopelessly, running a hand through her thick red hair. Her fingers were slim and long, the nails neat but unpainted. “I wrote checks on the usual account, which I thought was backed up by other accounts, a liquid asset and CDs in that bank. You know that, what do they call it? Overdraft protection. The money is there,” she added quickly, “no doubt about it, but I’m not exactly sure where. That’s why I asked the accountant to send somebody who could help me sort it out today, but they say they don’t have the files …”

  “You’re in luck, Rory.” He could not help but grin confidently, thrilled to be the white knight to the rescue. “You just happen to be talking to a certified public accountant. First in my class in business administration at the U. of M. That’s what I did in my early life, before launching my own company.” He rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “Now, where did Daniel …” Speaking the man’s name made him uncomfortably aware of Daniel Alexander watching from the refrigerator door. Something surprisingly chilling skittered along his spine. Unusual, considering the warmth and concern he felt for the man’s widow and child. “Where did your husband keep his files and ledgers, his bank records? His office or here?”

  “Here,” she answered, a faint trace of hope in her voice. “In his study.”

  “Let me at ‘em.” He got to his feet. “I’ll have you squared away in no time. That’s a promise. No reason for you to ever have to deal with characters like the man who just left.”

  “That’s the other thing.” She remained seated, talking into her coffee cup. “His study … that’s where it …” Hersmall voice dropped to a whisper. “Where I found him. When it was all over, I cleaned it, scrubbed it and scrubbed it until my hands bled. I haven’t been in there since. Can’t even bring myself to open the door.”

  “You can’t put that off forever. And I’m here to help you with it now.” He leaned over, voice comforting, his palms flat on the table.

  “The insurance money should be coming soon.” Her brooding eyes avoided his, roaming the room until they rested on the refrigerator-door photo. “That’ll take care of things for the time being.”

  “It’ll be far easier,” he urged, “for the two of us to walk in there together and sort out what has to be done. There are estate matters. You have to be prepared for taxes …”

  “But it’s all such a mess. There’s a stuffed filing cabinet. And cardboard boxes full of papers he brought home …” She glanced up at the clock. “I have to pick Billy and the kids up at school at two-thirty, I’m the car-pool mom this week.”

  “Shall we make an appointment then, and begin early, first thing in the morning? You’ll have a chance to sleep on it.”

  “You don’t have to do this, you know.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  She was smiling when he left.

  He was eager to tell Kathleen, but she was out when he got home, off at some meeting. Then he decided to keep it to himself until it was a fait accompli. Then he could announce that not only had he found his donor’s family, but that he had been right all along, there had been a need and he had filled it, solving their problems. This was part of some divine plan, he was convinced. Syncronicity. Lucca was right. Always listen to your gut.

  They could dine out together when he was finished, hedecided. Kathleen and the girls, Rory and her son. Perhaps they would all become friends. He pondered where to take them. A really nice place, he thought.

  “Whose canary did you swallow?” Kathleen always read him so well. “Is that a feather on your chin?” She shrugged smartly out of her lime green Escada jacket. Single-breasted with gold buttons, over a silky blouse. The woman knew how to dress, always did. Her hair was up, wound into a French twist. She looked like a sophisticated Brickell Avenue executive home from the fray.

  “I’m just happy to see you. How goes it?”

  “Well, Dave Linderman never should have been appointed to the board for the new arts center.” She hung her jacket in the hall closet. “Suddenly, he’s an expert on everything and all the man wants to do is argue. Not a whit of common sense. He gets in the way of whatever we try to do.”

  “Any way to get rid of him?”

  “Nothing short of a coup d'état. He’s the mayor’s appointee. The man’s insufferable.” She fumed. “The rest of us are thinking about raising funds for a paid assassin.”

  He hugged her and kissed her cheek. “You’re cute when you’re mad.”

  “You’ve been watching old movies again, and pilfering their dialogue, haven’t you?”

  “No, but maybe we have time before dinner to go upstairs and make our own movies.” He growled and nuzzled her neck. He closed his eyes, overtaken by the erotic image of a strong and passionate dark-haired woman, a creation, he knew now, of his own imagination.

  “X-rated?” Kathleen nibbled his ear, then slipped out of reach. “I’ve got a surprise,” she said. “We need to talk.”

  “Uh-oh.” Kathleen had held back, obviously uneasy sincethey’d resumed their sex life. Having to reassure her that gasps, moans or heavy breathing during intimate moments were signs of passion, not imminent death, was not a turnon. Was it all an excuse? Had she ever really enjoyed sex with him? Or did she really fear he would die in her arms?

  “Listen,” she said cheerfully, perched on the arm of his chair. “We’ve got to keep this under wraps for a few weeks, but it appears that I am going to be named president of the Committee for Art in Public Places.”

  She chuckled, clearly delighted.

  “Madame President.” He stroked the silk of her blouse, his sensitive fingertips seeking her nipple. “Sounds good to me. But you’re already on the boards for the South Florida Historical Museum and the new arts center. Won’t it all be too demanding?”

  “Of course not, silly. You know how organized I am. I may have to hire a secretary, but now that you’re well and going back to the office and the girls are so busy with school, it’s something I would love to do. Do you realize that with the right people aboard, our committee could change the look of this entire community?”

  He waxed enthusiastic and supportive, while wondering why she had not mentioned it sooner. As he lay dying, his life slipping away, he had vowed to create lifelong memories for his loved ones should he survive. This development could put a crimp in the Norman Rockwell family image he had envisioned. No point boxing shadows, he thought, she has not been appointed yet.

  His dreams that night were excitement-charged, as though he had boarded a high-speed train roaring headlong toward a secret destination. He slipped out of bed in the dark and dressed before dawn in an open-necked pullover andtwill slacks. He dug his old monogrammed leather briefcase out of the closet and removed the small bars of sweet-scented soap Kathleen kept inside to keep the leather fresh and Miami’s mildew away. He shoved several legal pads, sharp pencils, index cards and a calculator inside and took the laptop, a small notebook computer, from his desk.

  “What on earth?” Kathleen stood in the doorway, sleepy, still in her nightdress.

  “It’s off to work I go,” he said cheerfully.

  She yawned. “Want coffee?”

  “I’ll pick some up on the way.”

  She looked doubtful. “What business are you conducting this early?�
�

  “Have to do some calculating and organizing on investments and tax matters. Early morning is best, no interruptions.”

  “Can’t you do that here?”

  Damn, I should tell her now, he thought, but there was so much to tell, and he was impatient, a man in a hurry.

  “The paperwork is there.” He did not say where.

  She eyed him skeptically. “You always hated to get up this early. You never did if you could help it.” She touched his cheek. “Did you sleep well? How do you feel?”

  “Excellent. It feels great to be back in harness.”

  She smiled indulgently. “Well, please don’t do too much. And do come home by two. That’s when the Guard-Tec consultant and that detective will be here to discuss the security system.”

  He slapped a palm to his forehead. “I nearly forgot. I’ll be back. If I’m a few minutes late, just work with Lucca and give him whatever he needs. You’ll like him. He’s good.”

  He stopped at a Burger King drive-through for black coffee and scanned the morning paper. Still nothing about a lostboat or a drowning victim. He blamed the paper. The local section had become lackluster. That’s what happens in a one-newspaper town, he thought. Coverage suffers without competition. The story had gone unreported, he thought, or the boater had somehow saved himself.

  He drove with the flow of traffic, windows open. Unlike the stifling hot dead air of summer, there had been cooling fall breezes almost every day. He felt eager and energetic, ahead of rush hour, which would soon stream in the opposite direction, toward downtown. Unscrambling figures, making numbers talk until they spit out the bottom line, had always been an irresistible challenge. Heady with anticipation, he made the turn onto Rory’s street. A police car sat in her driveway. He stopped, overtaken by dread. There were two uniformed officers, one retrieving something from his cruiser, the other near the front door, which stood open. He snatched his briefcase, locked the Mercedes and hurried up the walk.

  “What’s wrong, Officer? Is there a problem?”

  Rory appeared in the doorway, wearing blue denim, her hair loose, down her back. She seemed to be all right. From behind her, a small boy stared at the policemen.