By Your Side

by Candace Calvert

  “I saw a clip of Macy Wynn on the morning news.”

  “That photo from the gala.” Fletcher had seen it too. Macy with Elliot Rush. Probably the only photo they could get; she wasn’t posing for the media.

  “And a new video clip—short one. Some eager-beaver reporter caught her on a bike trail this morning and tried to get an eyewitness statement.” Seth smiled. “What he almost got was tire marks on his back.”

  “Can’t say I’m surprised.”

  “I’m glad to see she’s out there riding. Physical exercise, resuming normal routines, eating right . . . it’s all helpful after a traumatic incident.”

  “Sounds like you’re practicing your debriefing spiel.”

  “Maybe. And that goes for you too, pal. It wasn’t only Macy who’s been on scene at two of these shooting episodes. But then I’m sure Charly has offered you a full list of the signs of critical stress.”

  Fletcher smiled. “Enough to know that if I try the ‘It’s my job; I’m fine’ line, you’ll come over here and lay hands on me.”

  “Count on it. Too many folks need you healthy and happy.” Seth lifted a brow. “How’s that young woman in Houston?”

  “She’s . . .” Fletcher realized he hadn’t thought of Jessica since his dinner with Macy. Maybe there was an upside to critical stress. “Jessica’s fine. Busy. We both are, I guess.”

  Seth regarded him for a moment, then put the SUV in gear. “I’m outta here. Promised Taylor I’d do a follow-up on one of her chaplain visits. One she did with your mom, as a matter of fact. A no-contact situation with a death notification. He’d moved away. And then this same guy went AWOL from the ER a couple of days ago without his tetanus injection. Phone number didn’t work. Since we’re involved already, I said I’d try to get new contact information from the neighbor.”

  “Maybe this guy doesn’t like shots. I’m not exactly excited about a stranger coming at me with a needle.”

  “I hear you.” Seth stroked his chin, his tell that he was about to philosophize. “Hard to find somewhere to put your trust these days, with all that’s going on in the world, in the government, and right here in our community. Who are you gonna believe, some politician stumping for office? A 24-7 news channel trying to boost ratings? Or maybe that infomercial guy selling the stuff that cleans the pet stains off my carpet . . . and leaves me with six-pack abs.”

  Fletcher smiled, shaking his head. Seth on his soapbox.

  “Everybody’s looking for something they can trust,” the chaplain continued. “In all the wrong places. Sometimes I just tell them to pull a buck from their wallets. Turn it over and read the line that’s printed right there between the eyeball pyramid and the eagle.” He smiled at Fletcher. “You know what I mean.”

  “‘In God we trust.’”

  “Absolutely. ‘Knock and the door will be opened . . .’ I learned it the hard way.” Seth glanced at his watch. “And now I’d better go see if I can hook a man up with a tetanus booster.”

  “Catch you later.”

  Fletcher watched as the chaplain popped his antacids and drove away. Then he thought about what the man had said. And about what Macy told Fletcher at the bank when he offered to come by and check on her. “I’m comfortable being alone.”

  He’d bet it was because she’d never found someone she trusted. Including me.

  Macy glanced up as Taylor joined her at the table she’d chosen. Back of the Starbucks, away from the window. “I’m glad you could meet me.”

  “I almost didn’t recognize you. Sunglasses, hair tucked up in that ball cap—all your disguise needs is one of those fake mustaches.” Taylor slid onto her chair and regarded Macy over her latte. There was concern on her face. “Those reporters can be a pain.”

  Macy warmed her fingers on her mug of Calm brewed tea. “I’ll trade you one special agent for three reporters. The Feds kept me for three hours.”

  “To see if you could recall any details that might identify the shooter?”

  Macy’s short silence was filled with the steamy hiss of the cappuccino machine and baristas calling out orders. “Yes. That and making sure I have no connection to him. Three shootings and I’m lucky enough to be at two.”

  Taylor’s eyes widened. “They don’t really believe these incidents have something to do with you?”

  “I don’t think so. Even if the media vampires seem to.” Macy lifted her sunglasses, met Taylor’s gaze. She had to ask. It was one of the reasons she’d asked Taylor to meet her here. “Does the Sacramento Hope staff think that? Is that why they ‘strongly suggested’ I take a few days off? Afraid I’m making the hospital a target?”

  “No.” Taylor sighed. “At least no one said it openly. And several people expressed concern for you, Macy. They love you. We’re like a family. You know that.”

  Macy’s throat tightened. She raised her tea to her lips.

  “Everyone’s edgy. Anxious. It’s understandable. After what happened to Andi and now this. All of the shootings happened within a five-mile radius. The hospital’s in there too.” Taylor nodded. “Seth and I had that debriefing with the staff. I was hoping you’d come.”

  “I’m banished, and I’m not big on those kinds of things. I do better dealing with stuff on my own. It’s nothing personal against you. Really. How’d it go?”

  Taylor frowned. “It turned into a major gripe session about hospital security or the chronic lack of it. Nobody feels safe. Seth and I tried to offer coping tips for stress but finally walked away thinking what would help most right now is a thick perimeter of cops.” She raised her brows. “Charly mentioned you had dinner with Fletcher.”

  Heat crept up Macy’s neck—she blamed it on the hot tea. “You know I never turn down a free meal. I promise it’s not my personal attempt at a law enforcement perimeter.” She smirked. “I’d be smarter than to choose a cop who’s also been at two of those shootings.”

  “True.” Taylor’s expression said she hadn’t bought the whole story. “I won’t say another thing—except I like him. What are you going to do with three days off?”

  “I’m getting some paperwork together.” Macy’s stomach did a flip-flop. “To buy a house.” She’d expected Taylor’s surprise. “That’s why I was at the bank. I know it doesn’t sound like me. The girl who can’t even commit to a cell phone plan. I’m not doing it for myself—you know I’m not choosy about where I live. I’m doing it for Leah. So she’ll finally have some stability in her life. I want that for her.”

  Taylor pressed her fingers to her chest. “That’s so wonderful.”

  “We haven’t worked out the details yet.” Hard to do when Leah didn’t answer her messages. “But Elliot works with a Realtor, and they’re getting the ball rolling. We should have an offer in by Tuesday. It’s . . . it’s a great little place. I haven’t even seen the inside yet, but I can tell that it’s right.”

  Taylor smiled. “I know the feeling.”

  “So anyway . . .” Macy slid her sunglasses back into place and glanced toward the door. “I thought I’d do another drive-by. Want to see it?”

  Taylor reached for her coffee cup. “Let’s go.”

  He crumpled more pages of the newspaper and fed them into the campfire, making certain the front pages had been totally consumed. People might come snooping, find the ashes, and wonder if this homeless person had more than an ordinary interest in the freeway sniper. He frowned; he wasn’t sure if he was okay with that name. But maybe it was better than dog murderer or . . . woman killer. His gut roiled. Partly from those frozen burritos he’d tried to cook over the fire and also because this was about so much more than killing a dog or some woman with two kids. No one got that.

  He poked at the fire with a piece of river driftwood, remembering what he’d read in the newspaper articles. Those government agents were trying to put it together. But it wouldn’t happen. He’d be safe as long as he kept a low profile and didn’t do anything dumb again. Like dropping that bullet casing at the freeway
.

  He lifted a newspaper sheet, saw the photo of that nurse again. It was hard to tell for sure, but she looked Asian . . . or partly. Wynn wasn’t a Chinese name. But it didn’t mean she didn’t have connections overseas. Everybody had connections these days. Everybody was watching. He’d be a fool to trust anyone.

  He’d seen the nurse at the bank—through his rifle scope. They said she was at the freeway, too. Speculated that he was stalking her. Only maybe . . . maybe Macy Wynn was following him. Knew what he was doing. She worked at Sacramento Hope.

  Idiot! This isn’t about hospitals . . .

  He dropped the stick, cursed. Then pressed his fingers hard against his temples to stop the hissing whispers. And those electric hums that sliced through his brain . . . like his bullet hitting that bank woman. A kill shot. The same as deer hunting. “Hit him just below the ear, Son; you’ll drop him in one shot.” He’d missed with the guard because that Chinese nurse distracted him.

  He pressed harder to try to stop the whispers, in a foreign language now. Cursing him? Yes. Branding him a failure. He deserved it.

  “I’m sorry, Dad,” he whispered into the smoky darkness. “I’ll do better next time.”

  23

  “IT NEEDS WORK,” Elliot told Macy, frowning at the bare wires hanging from the ceiling in the small foyer. A missing chandelier. He stooped, picked up a single cut-crystal pendant left behind on the scratched hardwood floor. “Have to expect that with a foreclosure. Emotions run high in the months following a loan default—even worse when the sheriff’s department finally delivers an eviction notice. Some owners haul off whatever they think they can sell. Sinks, stoves, bathroom vanities . . . doors, fixtures.” He pointed at the enameled red door. “Like right there: You can tell the original hardware is gone. The bank just slapped on a cheap door handle and a good dead bolt.”

  “Hmm . . .” Macy tried to swallow down the ache that had risen the moment the door swung inward. Emotions running high? Elliot didn’t know the half of it.

  “Hopefully we won’t see out-and-out vandalism. It happens too often.” He shook his head. “Graffiti on walls, ‘surprises’ in toilets. I don’t get it. That’s animal behavior. I suppose they feel they have the right to take things out of the home and don’t consider it stealing per se.”

  Stealing. Macy tasted the metal of that flashlight between her teeth, heard the grating as she unscrewed the brass lock set from Nonni’s door. Felt that bittersweet mix of victory and loss as it slid free at last, heavy in her hands. And heart.

  “It’s not as if the banks can hire security guards on what amounts to thousands of foreclosures. Or rent guard dogs to—”

  “I’m going to walk around,” Macy said, cutting him off. “See the rest of the house.”

  “Of course. Let’s—”

  “By myself.” Macy met his gaze. “I want to walk through it alone.”

  “Sure.” Elliot cleared his throat. “Go on ahead. I have a couple of calls to make. Let me know if you have questions.”

  “I will.”

  She walked the short hallway to the kitchen, holding her breath. Peered in and then entered. The stove was missing; she could see greasy scrape marks where it had been dragged across the aged tile floor. And the faucets were gone from the stainless-steel sink. But there was a small brick fireplace in the kitchen that hinted at a pizza oven. Someone had lacquered the cabinets in sage green and installed manufactured stone countertops. They were a sort of speckled oatmeal color, plain but clean-looking. And somehow, probably in order of rushed priority, a couple of tall stools had been left at the breakfast bar. With straw seats and painted green to match the cabinets.

  Macy closed her eyes, imagining it: Leah laughing around a mouthful of homemade pizza. Macy quizzing her for an upcoming physiology exam. A dog maybe and—oh, that yard!

  She struggled with the door for a moment, pulled hard, and then stepped outside at last. Her breath caught. Neglected but so beautiful. Morning glory vines climbing the weathered redwood fence. Roses in lush, branch-bending bloom. Trees—an evergreen and several others that cast leafy shadows on the sparse lawn. Macy explored the yard further, spotting empty hummingbird feeders, a wooden frame for a raised garden, a dog run. And there, against the fence: a rusted red wagon, a turtle-shaped sandbox, a pink scooter thick with peeling Barbie stickers . . . In an instant, she felt the brass door latch under her fingers. Smelled those cookies, heard the soft strains of gospel music. “You’re home, Macy girl.”

  There was no need to see any more.

  She found Elliot back in the living room. Down on his hands and knees, sniffing at a piece of carpet.

  “Ah, that was fast,” he said, rising quickly. He searched her face. “You seem a little overwhelmed. That’s understandable. But try to overlook the flaws, Macy. I know some great, cheap contractors. A few gallons of generic beige paint, definitely some new carpet. I think I smell dog. Replace those missing fixtures, weed-whack the yard, and you’ll be surprised at how—”

  “Can I put in an offer?”

  “Well . . . sure. You’ve been preapproved. We’ll have to get inspections. But I think you’re right that it’s best to move quickly. This is a desirable neighborhood and the schools—”

  “Make the offer today,” Macy insisted. “I don’t want to lose it.”

  Elliot smiled, stepped forward, and gave her arm a squeeze. “There’s my budding entrepreneur. This will be a good first real estate investment. I’ll run the figures, but I’m thinking you might even get a positive cash flow from the rental.”

  “No.” Macy glanced toward the front door, seeing the warm gleam of polished brass. “This won’t be a rental. I’m living here. With my sister.”

  “I’m glad Aunt Thena’s coming.” Fletcher watched from the table as his mother waved a Swiffer duster over the kitchen hutch. Her sister was attending a writers’ conference in San Diego and planned to spend a couple of days here before heading back to Texas. Charly insisted that a pesky nosebleed wasn’t going to keep her from enjoying the company of the most interesting person in their family.

  Fletcher smiled. Thena was a published poet. He hadn’t had a birthday he could remember—to date—when he didn’t receive a targeted verse or two. Or a single visit when she didn’t proudly proclaim, “I speak in rhyme . . . but not all the time.” Jessica had a giggle fit the first time she heard it.

  “Thena did ask if I thought it was safe.” His mother paused, duster in midair. “She heard some theory that since the first two shootings were on Thursdays and the bank incident was on a Saturday, maybe the sniper would ‘go dormant’ until the weekend. Because it’s a pattern.”

  Fletcher groaned.

  “I thought you’d react like that.”

  “Look, I wish it were true. I hope he, or she, is finished with this shooting spree altogether. But we can’t go under either assumption. A woman is dead. That guard is paralyzed. We have to find this guy. Trust me: there’s a lot of manpower dedicated to doing exactly that. But . . .”

  “But what?”

  “What do you and Aunt Thena have planned for while she’s here?”

  “Nothing definite yet. She’s going to help me go through some family photos and work up ideas for a scrapbook.” Charly smiled. “I know. I’ve been saying that for years. But this time I mean it. Beyond that, I’m not sure yet what we’ll want to do.”

  Fletcher tried to make his tone casual. “I’d feel better if you didn’t play tourist. Maybe stick closer to home.”

  His mother pulled up a chair at the table beside him. She reached for her iPad. Her wallpaper image was the photo of Jessica and him—the same one Macy had seen on her phone.

  “Do you think it’s true,” she asked, “that the shooter is staying within a certain target area?”

  “The freeway, the school where the dog was shot, and the bank are all within a five- to six-mile radius. Sacramento Hope is in there too.”

  Charly’s eyes met his. “I’ve been
thinking about Macy. Two encounters. She ran to aid victims both times. Such a strong and selfless young woman. But I wish she’d shown up for the staff debriefing with Seth and Taylor.”

  “She said she does fine alone,” Fletcher recalled, knowing as soon as the words left his lips that he was sounding a crisis team alert.

  “Macy held that bank manager’s bleeding head in her hands. And saw the guard fall.” His mother winced. “She had to hide in the bushes to protect herself. Even a strong person feels that. She’d benefit from a listening ear, whether she thinks she needs it or not.”

  Twenty minutes later, Fletcher told his mother good-bye. Promised he’d stop by in the next day or two for a dose of family poetry. Promised, too, that he’d keep Charly apprised of any major changes in the investigation of the shooter. She was champing at the bit to be out there helping the families of the victims and offering relief to a community becoming increasingly stressed. Even with a flak jacket and a Glock, Fletcher felt the anxiety this situation provoked. There was no way Macy could be immune to it.

  Halfway down the street, he pulled over to the curb, picked up his cell, and tapped the contact number.

  “Fletcher?” Macy’s voice was a little breathless.

  “Hey.” He reminded himself that this was simply what a friend would do. “Whether she thinks she needs it or not.”

  “What’s up?”

  “I’m on my way to Starbucks,” he told her, keeping his voice as casual as it should be. “Needed some coffee. Maybe some company. I’ll buy. What do you think?”

  Fletcher was sure he heard her brain ticking.

  “I’d need you to bring it here. I’m sort of involved in something—can’t stop.”

  “Sure,” he told her, surprised she hadn’t turned him down. “Tea?”

  “Green.”

  “Roommates,” Macy said by way of apology for the usual state of the rental house. In truth, she’d done a quick tidying. This would teach her to say yes without thinking. “Three nurses with crazy schedules,” she continued, leading Fletcher down the hall toward a small combination family room/kitchen. “So there’s always scrub jackets tossed on chairs, a box of Grape-Nuts on an end table, magazines everywhere. I almost sat on a pair of bandage scissors on the couch once, so be careful if you—oh, dear, heads up. Here he comes!”