Dead In Red

by L. L. Bartlett

  Richard.

  “How did you ever become a doctor when you can’t goddamn follow directions?” I grated.

  “Look who’s talking.”

  I pressed a finger to my lips to silence him.

  He pointed down the hall where I’d just come.

  I shook my head.

  He indicated the floor above us. I nodded.

  Cyn? I mouthed.

  At the next-door neighbors’. Now what?

  I jerked my thumb toward the ceiling.

  He shook his head emphatically. Let’s wait for the cops.

  The cops’ arrival might push Myron to pull the trigger. And if it didn’t, how long would it be before they could pull in a hostage negotiator and a SWAT team from Buffalo?

  Richard’s anxious gaze implored me to think this through rationally. He was right. Why should we give Myron another two hostages?

  Okay, I mouthed.

  Richard turned, reached for the screen door’s handle when we heard scuffling overhead and the muffled sound of yelling.

  Then a gunshot.

  Without thinking, I dashed across the foyer for the stairs, with Richard right behind me. My heart raced as I hit the landing, saw Myron standing in a doorway, an arm around Gene’s shoulder, the shotgun jammed under his chin. A hole had been blasted in the ceiling above them, and powdered plasterboard clouded the air.

  “Back off!” Myron shouted.

  I raised my empty hands in surrender, took a step down, ran into Richard.

  Gene’s legs were bound at the ankles, his hands tied behind his back; his wide eyes were nearly black with fear. A panty hose gag tied around his mouth kept him from screaming.

  “You don’t want to do this,” I told Myron and heard Richard swallow behind me.

  “Oh yeah?” He jerked the gun’s barrel, shoving Gene’s head back farther. Panicked, strangled whimpers escaped the gag.

  Richard backed down two steps, with me following suit, hands still held out in submission.

  “That’s it. Nice and easy and nobody gets hurt,” Myron said, and laughed.

  Richard retreated another couple of steps.

  Gene’s cries weren’t clear enough to understand, but the look in his eyes pleaded, Don’t leave me!

  Myron stepped back, pulling Gene along with him farther down the hall until we could no longer see them. A door slammed shut.

  “Now what?” Richard breathed.

  “Unless he intends to jump, there’s nowhere he can go.”

  The sounds of a struggle broke the quiet. I closed my eyes, my stomach turning as the vision of the bloody hands flashed through my mind.

  Then came the second gunshot.

  I bounded up the four or five steps, thundered down the hallway and kicked open the door.

  Two bodies lay on the floor. Blood and globs of flesh peppered the pale pink walls of what looked like a little girl’s bedroom. I turned away, closed my eyes.

  Dear Jesus, not again.

  Shelley had been killed execution style, though she’d been cleaned up before I saw her that last time. I’d seen another body with a bullet through the brain that had taken off the top of the skull.

  The shotgun blast had obliterated most of Myron’s head.

  Richard pushed past me, paused, taking in the scene—his breaths ragged.

  I held a hand up to block my peripheral vision, could just make out Richard pulling a blood spattered chenille spread from the bed, tossing it over Myron’s body before he knelt beside Gene.

  My hand sank another inch. I could see Gene beyond Richard, took in what was left of his face—bloody, hanging flesh, the white of bone and a few shattered teeth.

  “Holy Christ,” Richard muttered and sank back on his heels. “He’s still alive.”

  “Oh, God, no!” I turned away, quickly stepped into the hall.

  “Jeff, get some towels from the bathroom. And call 911!”

  I escaped and ran down the hall. The linen closet held neatly folded towels and washcloths. I yanked them all off the shelf and barreled back to the bedroom, tossing them at Richard. He balled up several washcloths and tried to staunch the bleeding.

  My chest was heaving, the smell of blood was thick, sickening. I tried not to look, but like a rubbernecker at a car crash, my eyes were drawn to my brother.

  To the glistening, scarlet blood that covered his hands.

  The fear inside me twisted into downright horror.

  “Holy Christ, Rich, you don’t have gloves!”

  Richard didn’t bother to look up. “Did you call 911?”

  “Rich, what if he’s HIV positive?”

  “Goddamn it! Call 911!” he shouted.

  My feet foundered under me and I staggered away from the stench of death, found a phone in the next bedroom, punched in the numbers.

  “I’m calling to report an attempted murder-suicide. He blew half his head off with a shotgun—the other guy’s still alive.”

  Who was the person speaking so calmly? It couldn’t have been me. Shock was catching up with me. My legs felt rubbery. I sank onto the edge of the bed. The phone grew heavy. I wasn’t sure I could hold it up for long.

  I’m pretty sure I gave the address, told them a doctor was attempting first aid. I don’t remember much else about that conversation.

  Over and over again, the vision of Richard’s bloody hands kept replaying in my head.

  Gene was gay—possibly HIV positive.

  You don’t know that! You don’t know that! my mind screamed.

  Exposure to HIV days before Richard was to marry was just not fucking fair. And once again it was All. My. Goddamn. Fault.

  By dragging him into this, I’d risked Richard’s life again. Contracting a fatal disease was not as quick a death, but surely was as lethal as a gunshot.

  “Sir? Sir?” the voice on the telephone implored.

  “Can you give me a hand back here,” Richard hollered.

  The tinny-sounding voice kept calling me, but I dropped the receiver as the sound of running footsteps came from the stairwell. I dipped into the hall in time to capture a breathless Cyn. “What happened? What happened?” she cried, frantic to escape me.

  “Myron’s dead—but Gene’s been badly hurt.”

  Her struggles intensified.

  “Believe me—you don’t want to see him right now.”

  More footsteps pounded up the stairs. Cops, firemen, EMTs. The house had suddenly exploded with people. I pulled Cyn into the bedroom, where the voice on the phone still bleated.

  “Oh god,” one of the cops wailed from down the hall.

  Cyn sagged in my arms, her wrenching sobs robbing her of any strength she might’ve had left. I pulled her close, this woman who had directed her hatred at me for the past two weeks, had threatened me, and I let her cry, her tears soaking into my shirt.

  She faced the death of a loved one.

  I wondered if I was in the same position.

  # # #

  CHAPTER 25

  The water ran hot. Steam curled into the air, vapor clinging to the cabinet mirror overhead. I watched as the last of the rusty water went down the drain, unable to take my eyes off the soapy brush in Richard’s right hand. He worked at his fingernails, scrubbing, scrubbing, adding more soap, scouring hands that were already lobster red.

  A uniformed cop stood in the hall outside the bathroom, watching, listening to us. We hadn’t yet given a statement. They didn’t want us talking about what we’d seen, comparing notes—contaminating each other’s potential testimony. I didn’t give a shit about their procedures. I had more important matters on my mind.

  I cleared my throat, afraid to voice the fear that had been torturing me for the past twenty-seven—and longest—minutes of my life. “They can test Gene’s blood. You could probably know tomorrow if he’s HIV positive. Right?”

  Richard avoided my gaze. “It’s not as clear-cut as you might think.”

  “What does that mean for you?”

  “It
means I’ll have to get tested for the next six months to see if I develop antibodies.”

  “And then?”

  “And then we’ll know.”

  He sounded so goddamned calm.

  “But . . . you’re supposed to start a new job at the clinic in a few weeks.”

  “They’ll restrict me to noninvasive procedures.”

  “You were going to get married day after tomorrow.”

  He looked up sharply at me. “If Brenda still wants me—I will get married.”

  “Yeah, but, now—”

  “Brenda and I are medical professionals. Risk of infection is something we and every other doctor, nurse, and EMT deals with every day. Granted, this isn’t something I would’ve wanted to happen, but I wasn’t going to stand by and just let Gene die.”

  “Oh, come on. He hasn’t got a chance.”

  “Yeah, and where did you get your medical degree?” He turned his attention back to the brush in his hands.

  I settled my weight against the wall, grateful the bathroom wasn’t closet-sized. Richard squirted on more soap, began working on his other hand again.

  “What about your honeymoon?”

  “What about it?”

  “The whole idea of a honeymoon is to—”

  “Brenda and I have been together seven years. Besides, there’s more to intimacy than just intercourse.” His words had an edge, but I guessed they were directed more at the situation than at me.

  The din of voices continued down the hall. Thanks to Richard’s actions, the EMTs had been able to stabilize Gene and he’d been whisked away in an ambulance that would meet a Mercy Flight helicopter once they got clear of the hills. He was on his way to a trauma facility in Buffalo where he’d either live or die. And if he lived, his disfigurement would probably make him wish he’d died.

  Some future.

  We might never know if Myron meant to take himself out or if Gene’s struggles to get away had caused Myron to pull the trigger. Myron . . . Veronica . . . was going to miss her opening night at Big Brother’s. Margarita Ville would have to step back into the star’s limelight. Somehow I didn’t think she’d mind. Life at the drag club would go on, just as it had gone on at The Whole Nine Yards without Walt.

  Some epitaph.

  Richard set the nail brush aside and turned off the water. I straightened, handed him a clean towel from the chrome wall rack. “I’m sorry.”

  He wiped his hands. “What for?”

  “They were your hands I kept seeing. I didn’t know that. I could’ve warned you. I could’ve—”

  Richard grimaced. “You’re not going to start with that guilt crap again, are you?”

  I winced at the rebuke. “Well, I kinda thought I might.”

  “Give it a rest.” He tossed the towel into the sink. “One of these days you’re going to learn that shit happens. Today it happened for Veronica and it happened for Gene. But guess what, of the three of us, I’m the only one walking out the door and I’m damned grateful for it. I’m going to celebrate. I’m going home, kiss my fiancée, and in two days I’m going to get married. Then I’m going to Paris, drink the best-damned champagne and have the time of my life. And when I get back home, I’ll start my new job and a new phase in my life. Just like you did.”

  “Me?”

  “Hey, you could’ve just given up after you lost your job, had your head smashed in, and lost almost everything you had. But you didn’t. And you know why? Because despite all the garbage in our pasts, we survived. We’re alike. We’re brothers.”

  Yeah. We were.

  * * *

  Read on for more about the author and her books, plus a SNEAK PREVIEW of

  CHEATED BY DEATH

  CHAPTER 1

  My long-dead father came back to life on a mild afternoon in early November. He’d never been dead it turned out, but I didn’t know that at the time. It’s funny how one incident can snowball and change your life forever.

  Take me. Eight months ago, I was mugged; had my arm broken and my skull fractured. That’s when things changed. The way I see things changed. Feelings come to me, and sometimes fragments of information. Stuff that makes me interested in other stuff.

  Stuff that gets me into trouble.

  And then there are times when I’m still blindsided by life.

  On that balmy November afternoon two weeks before Thanksgiving, I was playing one-on-one basketball with my half brother, Dr. Richard Alpert. He’s twelve years older than me, and rich as sin, but he still cheats at one-on-one. He’d just tripped me—definitely against the Marquis of Queensbury rules, should they ever be applied to basketball—and I ended up face down on the dusty driveway, panting for breath. He helped me up.

  “That’s enough for me,” I said.

  “Come on, Jeff. You’re not hurt.”

  I brushed off my sweatpants. “Maybe I should go to a decent quack and find out.”

  “Sticks and stones,” he countered, dribbling the ball.

  “You’ve got a height advantage.”

  Richard looked down at me. “What’s six inches?”

  “And forty pounds on me.”

  “So eat more,” he said, making a sweet lay-up shot.

  I captured the ball and dodged him. “But I’m an orphan.”

  He skirted round me. “I’m the orphan. Your father’s still alive.”

  I stopped dead, thinking I’d heard wrong. He snatched the ball, sent it arcing for another two points—and missed.

  My fatigue vanished as adrenalin coursed through me. “What did you say?”

  The amusement left his face. “Your father’s alive.”

  My eyes narrowed. “He’s dead. He died when I was a kid.”

  “Who told you that?”

  I didn’t know. All I knew was that the bastard left us and never looked back, and that he was dead.

  That I believed he was dead.

  Richard bounced the ball, caught it, and hitched it under his arm. “I saw him at the clinic yesterday. He’s a patient.” Richard doesn’t need to work, but he volunteers his time a couple days a week at the low-income clinic associated with the University at Buffalo’s School of Medicine located at one of the local hospitals.

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  “Emphysema. He’s in pretty bad shape. On oxygen twenty-four hours a day.”

  The ground rolled beneath me. I got a flash of something—too quick to register—more an impression. Of death.

  And hadn’t Richard broken some kind of privacy laws by mentioning it?

  “Why tell me now? I don’t care about him.”

  “That’s what I figured you’d say.”

  “I don’t!” I said, the statement negated by the emotion behind it.

  “Then why are you so upset?”

  “For thirty-two years I thought the guy was dead. Finding out he isn’t threw me, that’s all. Come on, let’s go for another game.”

  He shrugged, bounced the ball, faked a throw, Nikes squeaking on the drive as he pivoted then threw for real. Rim shot.

  I grabbed it. “Is he dying?”

  “I thought you didn’t care?”

  “I don’t.” The ball hit the backboard, missed the hoop.

  “Yeah, he’s dying.” His back to me, Richard dribbled, turned, went for a long shot. Two points.

  I captured the ball. “Did he know who you were?”

  “I said my name a couple of times, but I don’t think it registered.”

  I bounced the ball, threw it. It danced around the rim. Missed.

  Richard seized it.

  “Are you sure it was him?” I asked.

  “Chester Resnick. Do you want me to get his address?”

  “What for?”

  “I know you’ll want to send flowers after he’s gone.” He tossed the ball at me, and hit me in the chest.

  “Screw you. I wouldn’t waste my time—let alone money.”

  I bounced the ball a few times, went to throw and he blocked
me, and took back the ball. I wiped the sweat from my eyes. “When will you see him again?”

  “I’ll find out his next appointment and make sure I see him instead of one of the other doctors.”

  “Don’t bother. He left us. Never got in touch with me. Why the hell would I want to see him?” I took a deep breath. “Look, I’m sorry. I guess this got to me more than I’d like.”

  Richard dribbled, dribbled, dribbled. For such an old guy, he kept maneuvering out of my reach. I made a grab for the ball, but he was too quick.

  “Gimme the damn ball,” I growled.

  Dribble, dribble. “If you decide you do want to meet him, don’t wait too long.” He took a shot. It soared through the hoop and net. Perfect.

  I snatched the ball, and started getting one of those feelings—the ones I know better than to ignore—about my father. Richard ducked quick, took it from me again. I hadn’t even known the old man was alive, and now I knew with certainty he’d soon be dead. One of my skull-pounding headaches, a remnant of the mugging that had nearly killed me, stirred.

  “Don’t worry, Jeff. Nothing says you have to see him or talk to him, let alone make your peace with him.”

  Slam dunk.

  I picked up the ball and started for my apartment over the garage. “I’ve got to get ready for work.”

  “Think about it,” he called after me.

  “Sure,” I grumbled. “Later.”

  Much later.

  That night I tended bar at a local tavern where I work part-time. The Whole Nine Yards was nothing fancy, just a neighborhood sports bar with one large-screen TV and a middle-class clientele. I was grateful for a slow night, because thoughts of my father kept me preoccupied. After screwing up my fourth drink order, my boss, Tom Link, asked if I was trying to drive him into bankruptcy. I apologized, but he laughed, gave me a thumbs-up, and headed down the bar to talk to one of his cronies.

  I was drawing beers for two guys watching the Sabres pregame show on the tube when Maggie Brennan, my lady of five months, walked in. The bar wasn’t on her usual route home from work. She looked professional in her business suit, her shoulder-length auburn hair wind-tossed and sexy.