“I didn’t hear it.” Fletcher gave Macy’s hand a quick squeeze.
“I should get back to the ER. See if Taylor knows anything else.”
“Go. I’ll be up with Seth and—”
She was gone before he could finish.
Fletcher remembered what Macy had said about Andi Carlyle. How she’d given up her wheelchair to help Seth. Probably one of hundreds of selfless acts she’d done without thinking. Maybe all her life. And then some guy deliberately mowed her down with his truck. Fletcher couldn’t forget the image of that doctor lying in the parking lot, broken and bloodied. Too much like his sister under the wheels of the drunk driver.
His jaw tightened. Where was the sense in any of it? His sister, his mother, Dr. Carlyle . . . that dead bank manager, the paralyzed guard? And now what—a dead baby too? All too often lately, it was getting harder to pray, to put things in God’s hands. Maybe there came a point when faith wasn’t enough, prayers went unanswered. He shifted his weight, felt the bulk of his holster on his belt. Maybe the only true mercy was justice.
He rested his bicycle against the tree, glanced toward the river. A new camp. Couldn’t risk going back to the other. Too many prying eyes. People who knew his face. Last night was a big mistake. If he hadn’t felt it in his gut when that Jeep took off after him, he would have been smacked upside the head for sure this morning by the Sacramento Bee headline: “Possible Lead in Freeway Sniper Investigation.”
Fuzzy photos, but they’d nailed it like a kill shot. Make and model of his father’s Buick, within a year. They probably had the plate too, one of those he’d lifted from abandoned cars. He glanced back toward the river. There were a thousand other old plates down there. Rusting, cluttering up the river bottom, maybe even poisoning the fish—who could trust it wasn’t true? He’d tossed the plate in the river before dawn, after stowing the car away; no one had seen him. He was sure of that. Still . . .
“Homeowners are being asked to identify the car in the photos . . .”
They’d started by going door-to-door in the neighborhood of that nurse. Not close enough to be risky. But with the information on TV and in the papers, it was possible someone might remember.
He examined the Hostess snack cake package, making certain of the manufacturer’s trademark and location: Missouri. Then he washed a mouthful of the cream-filled chocolate down with the bottled water he’d bought at the mini-mart. Lousy breakfast. If they caught him today, it would be a humiliating last meal. And his own fault.
He’d taken too much of a chance parking in her neighborhood. Gone off on some fool tangent, like his father always said he did, about that nurse with Asian eyes. Stupid. Same thing with the oil leak; how could he miss that? They were probably tracking all sales of motor oil now and—
Didn’t matter. He jabbed his finger into the side of the second cupcake. Hooked out a glob of cream the same way he’d learned to gut a bluegill. He sucked the filling from his finger as his gaze swept the river once again. The license plates were gone. The Buick out of sight. He didn’t need it anymore. What he was going to do next wouldn’t require a car. Just timing.
34
“DID THEY PAT YOU DOWN FOR CHILI CHEESE FRIES?”
“Nah.” Fletcher shook his head, sliding the visitor’s chair closer to Seth’s hospital bed. “Just sprayed me with that special luminol for chocolate fudge.”
The chaplain tossed him a sheepish look. “So much for medical privacy.”
“Well . . .” Fletcher’s gaze moved over the array of equipment: heart monitor, blood pressure and oxygen readings, an IV port taped to his friend’s arm. “At least you had the good sense to chow down in the company of an ER nurse.” He watched as Seth’s eyes did a quick scan of his digital heart tracing. It had to be rough lying there like that. Helpless. The worst feeling in the world. “Seriously, I’m glad it wasn’t worse. We all are. How’re you dealing with this?”
Seth’s eyes wrinkled with obvious amusement. “Are we switching roles here?” He chuckled at Fletcher’s grimace. “I’m okay. I don’t like hospitals; I admit that. The smells, the sounds, and these blasted fluorescent lights. But I have to think there’s some good reason I’m forced to deal with this, beyond the incentive to lose a couple of pounds, get a little more exercise and some decent sleep. Maybe I needed to get a feel for this side of the stethoscope, you know? To help me deal with crisis survivors. Maybe that’s the plan.”
“‘The plan’? I suppose you’re talkin’ divine, not Blue Cross.”
Seth smiled. “Gotta trust it.”
Do I? Fletcher glanced toward the sound of voices outside the doorway; his mother and Taylor were still talking out there.
Seth reached for his water glass. “Word has it those photos of that suspicious car were yours.”
“For what they’re worth. The plate was stolen. Everyone’s grandmother owns that car.”
“Not with a barrel-size cutout through the trunk.”
Fletcher wasn’t surprised Seth knew that detail; his connection to law enforcement went way back. “Probably a new add. It’s doubtful anyone noticed.”
“You did.”
“Right place. Right time.” Fletcher caught Seth’s smile. “If it was divine, we’d have that crazy felon scheduled for arraignment.”
And Dr. Carlyle wouldn’t have been run down, his mother wouldn’t have to battle cancer a second time . . . Fletcher reminded himself to check on those blood test results. Being a donor was something he could handle all by himself.
“I also heard that you spotted the car near Macy Wynn’s place?” Seth’s brows rose.
“A few houses down. The detectives questioned her again, but I think she’s right that it’s a coincidence and—” Fletcher read the look on his friend’s face. “Okay. I’ve been seeing her.”
“I didn’t ask.”
“The same way you didn’t stuff your face with chili fries.” Fletcher shrugged, warmth crawling up his neck. “Macy’s . . . great. I don’t know. Real, I guess. Different from other women I’ve known.” He laughed. “Right down to the hiking boots and bear spray.”
Seth raised his hands. “Not asking. It’s good, though, to see you moving on.”
Jessica. He’d never returned her call. After cutting short her concerns about her new relationship, he’d been too eager to get to Macy’s house. “I guess I am,” Fletcher said finally. “Moving on.”
“If I didn’t need to sign anything, couldn’t we have done this over the phone?” Macy set the sheaf of paperwork down on Elliot’s cherrywood desk. Stopping by his home office hadn’t been in her plan. “You could have e-mailed me these contractors’ bids. Saved paper . . . and time.” She hated how that had come out, far too much like he’d wasted her time. But her sister was calling tonight.
“I’m not worried about the price of paper, Macy.” Elliot waved his arm, indicating she should sit in one of a matching pair of tastefully upholstered wing chairs, then waited until she complied. “Besides—” a smile tweaked his lips—“I’ve always found it impossible to attach the food. And I knew you’d be hungry. You’re always hungry.”
There was no point denying it. The first time Macy set foot in this office—formerly a mother-in-law quarters down a lush, camellia-lined brick path from the main residence—she’d been accompanied by Lang Wen’s San Francisco attorney. She’d been a few weeks past her nineteenth birthday and about as friendly as a dogcatcher’s nightmare. If there had been a larger window in the office bathroom, Macy would have hoisted herself through it. But in a rare motherly gesture, Ricki Rush had thought to order food. Blissful food. Macy’s first-ever margherita pizza: wood-fired with summer-sweet heirloom tomato slices and snipped basil. In mere minutes, it had softened her prickly edges like melting mozzarella. And set a precedent that had held for eight years now: distasteful business meetings made palatable by great food. Elliot knew Macy’s weakness. And her father’s money kept it all going.
“Thank you,” Macy told him as Elliot approached
with a small tray of appetizers. She noticed as he came close that he smelled of alcohol, no doubt from the small bar he kept for clients. The black-lacquered cabinet with pewter hardware held an array of bottles and crystal glasses that glittered in the recessed ceiling lights. She’d never bothered to inspect it and had said, “No thank you” enough times that Elliot finally stopped offering. It occurred to her, as she selected a cracker with fruit-topped Brie, that she’d probably saved him hundreds of dollars in alcohol over the years. She chuckled around the appetizer.
“What?” Elliot settled into the chair beside her. “What’s so amusing?”
“Nothing, really.” Macy shook her head, glanced around the redwood-paneled room hung with an array of Ricki’s ever-fickle art purchases. “Except the usual. Me . . . here.” She plucked at her scrub top. “Eating Brie cheese and talking about money.” She almost added, “When we both know where I come from.” She’d talked very little about her past with Elliot but suspected he’d heard plenty from the Wen attorney. “It’s . . . a funny fit. That’s all.”
“That’s not true.” He leaned forward, an almost-disturbing intensity in his expression. She noticed, definitely now, that there was a slur in his voice. “You fit. You more than fit, Macy.” Elliot’s eyes squeezed closed like he’d had a stab of pain, but before she could ask, he met her gaze again. “You’re a breath of fresh air. You have been since the first night you stomped in here with that wild black hair . . . holes in your jeans and looking like you were willing to gnaw your arm off to get away. Or bite mine if I was fool enough to try to stop you.”
Macy shook her head. He’d nailed it.
“You weren’t going to take anything from anybody—charity money or bull,” Elliot continued. “But you listened; you sifted the facts. Sized it all up. And then you took those street smarts to college—on your own dime—and grabbed your future by the throat. You made it happen. I can’t tell you how much I admire that. How highly I think of you. Smart and honest and so very—”
“Elliot, please.” Macy squirmed in her chair, wondering if she’d really evolved that far beyond arm gnawing. He was simply saying he respected her. Paying a compliment. But still, this was far too uncomfortable. “There’s no need for this. I appreciate your confidence in me. And the great food. But I should go.”
His lips pinched.
“My sister’s calling in about an hour. I need to talk with her.” Macy stood. “I’ll review the bids for the mold cleanup. But I trust you with the decision. I always have.”
He stood and took a step toward her.
It was a hug moment if there ever was one. He’d known Macy since she was a wild orphan kid. Helped her, absolutely. But they’d never had a hug history. It wasn’t starting now. She took a step back. “Thanks for the Brie. I’ll get back to you.”
“Don’t make a mistake, Macy.”
“I’m not. I need this house. For my sister. It’s the only reason I’m tapping the trust.”
His eyes captured hers. “I mean Fletcher Holt. Don’t get involved with him.”
Macy’s lower lip sagged.
Elliot’s eyes narrowed. “He’s only here until his mother dies.”
Her stomach lurched. “Elliot . . .”
“He’ll go back to Texas. Back to some pliant woman who themes her nail color to every national holiday. Who owns a full set of her grandmother’s china and has the Holy Bible downloaded to her iPad.” He crossed his arms, swayed in place. “Don’t trust him, Macy. You don’t fit with that. And he’s not even close to being worthy of you.”
“This is way out of line, Elliot. And you’re drunk.” Macy was surprised by a sudden prickle of tears. Their history might not have included hugs, but it shouldn’t dissolve to this. “I’m cutting you some slack because of that. But my personal relationships are none of your business. I trust you with my money, but that’s as far as it goes. I’m not looking for a father. Please don’t try to be one.”
“Macy—”
“I’m going.”
In her adolescent world, she would have thrown a punch at Elliot Rush’s head. But in the end, Macy simply turned and strode back down that elegant camellia-lined path, climbed into her Audi, and left him behind.
“It’s eased up. No more cramping at all.” Andi’s small smile revealed a single dimple. She smoothed the cotton blanket across her abdomen. “They’ve scheduled daily ultrasounds. And I won’t be perfecting my crutch aerobics anytime soon.”
“No.” If Taylor could do it over again, she’d insist Andi stay in that wheelchair. Or better yet, go straight from PT to her room with no detour to the ER. But Andi was as stubborn as any member of the team. It was nearly impossible not to offer help in an urgent situation. “It must be hard to be in the middle like that. Itching to be up and making progress and knowing you need to do what’s best for . . .” Her heart tugged. “Elf.”
“It is.” Andi took a breath, exhaled softly. “But I’m determined not to worry. Or slip into heaping blame on Bob Harrell. That’s too easy to do. It doesn’t serve any good purpose.” Her fingers moved to her cross pendant. “His brother came to visit me last week. Not to try to explain away Bob’s actions or press for mercy—as if that could even be up to me. He wanted me to know his family is praying for me, that I’m on their church prayer list. The baby too.” She swallowed. “He said his brother’s finally getting the mental health help he’s needed for a long time. They’re relieved but sad it came this way. I felt good about that. It helps.”
“I’m not sure if I could do that. Put aside the blame, not obsess over why it had to happen at all.”
It wasn’t true; Taylor knew for a fact she couldn’t put it aside. Two years after Greg’s death, the unanswered questions still ate at her.
“We can’t live in this world very long, certainly not in these careers of ours, without running up against a boatload of things that are painful and feel just plain wrong,” Andi told her. “Far beyond our ability to understand—I don’t have to tell you that.” Her eyes filled with compassion. “We can only wait. And place our trust right where it belongs.”
“Absolutely.” Taylor nodded in agreement, putting on what she’d come to think of as her “chaplain face.” Nonjudgmental, caring, faith-driven. While deep down—maybe not as deep as she’d like—she wasn’t at all sure that waiting and trusting were helping. She needed to put Greg’s death behind her. She had to regain control of her life.
“But we’ll get it fixed, no problem,” Macy promised, watching Leah’s face on the phone screen. “Elliot has bids from like six contractors.” She pushed aside a memory of his intrusive and controlling diatribe. She’d made herself clear; he’d back off. They’d pretend it never happened. “The mold will be gone, and it’s a good excuse to change the paint colors anyway. Neither of us are the basic beige type. What do you think about—?”
“I can’t. I can’t think about that. Not now.”
Pink. I was hoping you’d say pink and giggle like a little girl whose dream is coming true. It’s finally happening, sis. Happily ever after . . .
“It’s okay,” Macy assured her. “You need more time. I get that. We’ll have fun with those details later; no rush. The contractors will be busy for a few weeks. You just need to finish up there. Get healthy.” Her eyes swept the phone screen. “You do look better, sweetie. More rested. The withdrawal symptoms have eased up?”
“I guess so. Yes. And I’m trying to eat better now. Take good care of myself.” Leah twisted a hank of her curly hair, tipped a little closer to the screen. Her wide eyes looked painfully vulnerable like those puppies peering from cages on the SPCA commercials. “Sean thinks he might get his time reduced to sixty days. And he talked the landlord into holding the apartment for a while. He had to sell his truck for the money. But he did it.”
Great. What was Macy supposed to do, hang a banner? This was ridiculous. Sean the Forger figured nowhere in the equation. He was the regrettable past. The Tahoe Park house, mold-free
and freshly painted, was the future. Leah’s bright future. Then nursing school and—
Her sister cleared her throat. “Macy?”
“Yes?”
“I’m pregnant.”
35
“YOU COULD HAVE SLEPT IN. Should I feel guilty?”
“Absolutely—mmph—not. ’Scuse me,” Macy mumbled around her last mouthful of an Adalberto’s Mexican Food breakfast burrito. Fletcher must have been at their window before dawn. She grabbed for her paper napkin, noticing how the pale sunlight from the window played over his sleep-mussed hair. Her pulse ticked upward at his smile. “I’m always hungry.” She hated that saying it made her think of Elliot. At least they’d smoothed things over when he called late last night.
“And I thought you’d be getting ready for work.”
“Last-minute change.” She’d asked for the day off, claiming a family emergency. It was the truth. Leah’s news had hit her like an undefended gut kick.
“So you can go to Tucson.”
“My flight leaves at ten thirty.” Macy hadn’t mentioned the pregnancy. Or that awkward meeting with Elliot. Fletcher was a fixer, and these were Macy’s thorns. “My sister’s only a few days from finishing up with rehab. We need some real face time.”
“I get that.”
They were speaking in stage whispers to keep from waking Sally. The Dood had already mooched a good portion of Fletcher’s second taco.
Macy pushed up the sleeves of the baggy sweatshirt she’d yanked on over her pajamas. “And while I’m gone, you’ll be working overtime.”
“Looks like it.” Fletcher stuffed their paper trash into the take-out sack. “If that new information pans out—the old Buick seen parked at the Stockton nursing home over the past few months—it won’t take long to put together a list of possible suspects.”
“Good.” Macy fought an involuntary chill. “I’m so done with all of this.”
By Your Side Page 22
