Blind-sided

by Monette Michaels

  Sally shivered. The menacing look in his flat black eyes and the ice in his voice belied the lover-like words and gestures.

  Praying hard, she struggled to find the words to somehow survive this altercation with Randolph. She half-closed her eyes and whispered, “I meant to… but I’ve been helping a sick friend. Besides I haven’t, umm, been well myself. I’m sorry.” She chanced a glance from under her lids. If anything, his eyes were darker, more sinister than before.

  Randolph shook his head. “Tsk, tsk, my deceitful love. You’ll have to lie better than that.” The formerly gentle fingers now gripped her chin and tilted her head up, forcing her to meet his cold, dark eyes. “You’ve been helping that nosey little bitch of a clinical coordinator find all our secrets. Naughty girl. You know what happens to naughty girls, don’t you?”

  “No, please don’t! Alex, if you’ve ever had any feelings for me…”

  Her words fell on deaf ears. His smile turned even more sinister. Stepping back, he released her chin. For the moment, he wasn’t touching her. It was now or never.

  She reached down deep and found the strength to break for freedom. Shoving Randolph aside, she pushed him into the desk chair. For the moment, she was free. She ran for the outer clinic door, screaming bloody murder, hoping that someone in the building would hear her.

  Randolph caught her at the door. “Nope,” he said. “It isn’t going to be that easy, sweetheart. Besides the door is locked.”

  Sally shrieked her outrage and once more dug for energy reserves, adrenalin, rage, or whatever primeval instinct to survive she could find.

  Breaking away once more, she ran to the side door, where she struggled with the knob. It was locked! This door was never locked from the inside. He must have done something to jam it.

  She dared a look over her shoulder. Randolph approached, stalking her like a predator assured of an easy kill. He wasn’t in a hurry. His taunting smile told her that he knew he had her.

  Frantic, she turned back to the door, trying the knob once more. It had to open. It had to — but it didn’t. She whimpered, then shouted, as she beat the door with her fists.

  After a few seconds, her energy spent, she placed her forehead against the door and sobbed silently.

  Randolph stood behind her, so close she could feel the angry heat coming off him in waves. Then, he closed in. A prick of a needle in her upper arm signaled the end.

  Grabbing her, he hefted her over his shoulder and walked toward the back of the clinic. Her vision grew fuzzy around the edges. She grew nauseated. Vaguely, she realized he was taking her to the doctor’s private entrance. At this time of the morning the lot would be empty. No one would see him carrying her off.

  At the door, he spoke, his voice filled with gloating. “That shot should keep you very relaxed for a while, until we get to my little weekend get-away. Then, well, then, you know the drill. Some women just never learn.”

  “Alex… please, don’t… hurt me.”

  She hated the weakness in her voice, but was helpless to suppress it. The drug had taken over her body, yet she could still recall in vivid detail past lessons at Randolph’s hands. She bore the scars, both physically and emotionally. He’d always stopped at the point of no return. This time she knew he’d cross the line.

  Damn. She should have just abandoned the items in her office. Now, it was too late.

  Randolph stroked her bare leg, high up between her relaxed legs. “Don’t worry, my love. It won’t hurt — long.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Monday, 9:00 a.m.

  Jeanette sat in Café Du Monde. The sticky sweet beignet and the chicory latte were just what she needed to get her biorhythms jump-started for the week ahead.

  For the tenth time in as many minutes, she scanned the café. Her neck itched and her skin had goose bumps. She could swear that someone was taking more than a casual interest in her. Yet she saw no one. Instinctively, she felt once more for the briefcase with its potentially explosive contents. It was still safely between her feet, right where it had been the last nine times she’d checked for it.

  She’d been almost manic the entire weekend, checking and double-checking the safety of the case and its content. Both Brigitte and Scott had noticed her behavior and commented on it. She’d even taken the case on the travel volleyball trip, using the excuse that she had work to do. But she never opened it, and Scott asked her what was wrong. She had just shaken her head, afraid if she opened her mouth, it would all come pouring out, thus involving another innocent person in… in what? She still wasn’t sure exactly what she’d gotten herself into. But whatever it was, it didn’t feel safe.

  Hopefully, Charles would have some information for her soon. If it was just simple fraud, medical malpractice — if Stu Thomas was indeed a victim of a mere hit-and-run and not some plot — then she had nothing to worry about.

  But it doesn’t feel like that, does it, Bootsie? The last time your gut felt this-a-ways was right before you heard about Paul’s death. Trust yo’ gut, gal.

  Jeanette trembled in the cool dampness of the early morning; her all-knowing gut cramped with anxiety, sugar and caffeine.

  After licking the sticky sugar off her fingers, she pushed away from the table. She couldn’t put it off any longer. She needed to go to work. If anyone commented on her lateness, she’d make up a story. All she knew was that she’d needed this time alone to compose herself. It was harder and harder to act normally in the clinic. She’d been avoiding all the doctors and Walter ever since she’d spoken to Maggie. She was sure her open face would give her away. If not that, the fact she jumped every time someone approached her would cause comment and uncomfortable questions. Questions she couldn’t, or wouldn’t, answer.

  The only clinic employee in her complete confidence was Sally — and she, too, was on edge. Jeanette wouldn’t be surprised if Sally quit. The secretary had mentioned it a couple of times; the last time was Friday afternoon, after she’d given Jeanette several files of patients with failed grafts — files she admitted she normally would have destroyed per Drs. Randolph’s and Rutherford’s instructions.

  “Jeanette,” Sally hesitated, checking around to make sure no one was listening. “I need to quit. I can’t take this any longer. The sneaking around.”

  Shocked by the number of files indicating failed grafts, Jeanette forced herself to turn her complete attention to her secretary whose voice trumpeted her fear with every word. Sally’s usual good grooming was history. Her hair looked as if she hadn’t washed it for days. Her normally perfect make-up was smeared. Her nails broken and the cuticles bitten. Her clothes wrinkled. This was more than discomfort in being found out; this was the result of sheer terror. “Honey, what’s wrong? You look like you slept in your clothes.”

  “I did — at a motel. I was afraid to go home.” Sally gulped, then started to sob quietly, her mascara running down her face in rivulets. “There’s… there’s been messages on my machine.”

  “What kind of messages?” Jeanette placed the files on her desk, then came around to pull the distraught woman to the sofa in her office. Keeping her arm around the overwrought woman’s shoulders, she asked, “Who left them?”

  “I… uh, I…” Sally blew her nose on the tissue Jeanette handed her. Taking a deep breath, she started again. “I don’t know. At first the messages were just someone breathing. The next ones had a weird voice, distorted, threatening me, telling me to stop helping you — they know. Somehow they know.”

  There was no question that both women knew who “they” were. Jeanette’s stomach clenched. “How? How could they? We’ve been so careful.”

  Yeah, she thought, but what about the bottles that were removed from her locked desk drawer? She had the impression several times in the past week that someone had been in her office, searching her computer, which was why the hard copies and a CD-ROM backup always went home with her. Could they have gotten into her password protected files? She shivered. Anything was possible.
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  “I don’t know; they just do.” Sally hesitated, then said, “Some of the other gals in the office have noticed us going through files and such. They may have mentioned it to one of the doctors, just in passing. I’ve told anyone who asked that because of the previous coordinators’ sloppiness, you and I were redoing the filing system. I thought they’d bought it, but…”

  Jeanette patted Sally’s knee. “It’s not your fault, sweetie. If you feel the need to leave, well, I’m not gonna stop you. You’ve got that precious little life to protect. Just you watch your back. Do you want to stay at my place? Brigitte and I have lots of room.”

  “No, no. It wouldn’t be safe. Not to say that he would start to harass you, but…”

  “He? You do think it’s Dr. Randolph, don’t you?” Jeanette nudged. “You want me to talk to that bastard?”

  “Yes, I think it’s him. He would love to use something like this to scare me. I think Missy, one of the surgical techs, is sleeping with him now, and she probably mentioned the activity in the files. He thinks he has me cowed so I won’t say anything, probably wants to keep me running scared. Well, it’s too late. You have enough to get him and Rutherford on something.”

  Jeanette was glad to see anger chase away the scared look in Sally’s eyes.

  Sally hastened to add, “Don’t say anything to him. Keep him in the dark. They can’t really know anything, can they?”

  The last words had sounded so plaintive. Sally’s anger had been short-lived, once again replaced by fear.

  Jeanette hadn’t answered Sally’s question last Friday — still had no answer this morning. Her own ever-increasing paranoia underlined Sally’s very real fear. No matter how careful they were, eventually someone would figure out what they were doing. The sooner she and Charles had something concrete, rather than all this circumstantial evidence, she’d take it to whomever she had to. Then, she’d deal with the consequences.

  Jeanette picked up her briefcase, left a generous tip for the over-worked waitress, then left the café.

  The tourists were out in force this foggy morning. The sun struggled to burn through the heavy mist shrouding the awakening Quarter. Walking down the narrow side streets back to her apartment to get her car, she kept checking all around her, using the windows across the street to reflect the street behind her. She wasn’t normally a secretive person, preferring to treat everyone openly and honestly, but this situation called for cloak-and-dagger mentality, something that was way outside her normal milieu. She couldn’t wait for it to be finished.

  ———

  Jeanette saw the man, his presence first reflected in the store windows. He was following her and had been now for three blocks. Instinct told her to lead him away from her apartment and seek help.

  She turned on Chartres and set a course for the fire station only six or so blocks away. Firemen were big and strong — and helpful. A woman alone in the Quarter, fearing a mugging, wouldn’t seem foolish in asking for help.

  Keeping to her normal quick pace, she jaywalked across Chartres and headed toward the cross street. She monitored the windows of the buildings across the narrow street. The man still followed her, crossing the street after her, then making up half of a block. She increased her pace accordingly.

  She continued to glance around like women do when they are trying to stay aware of their surroundings. Maybe he would realize she was on to him. Maybe he’d leave.

  In the quick glances she took, she tried to garner his features. Above average height. Medium build. Long dark hair. Dark-skinned, so dark that the prominent scar on his face looked white. Yeah, she’d recognize the bastard again. She even recalled seeing him at the café as he paid for a coffee to-go. She would definitely report this man to the police.

  Adrenalin, sugar and caffeine kept her heart pumping so hard she felt it pulse in her neck. Her breathing increased. If she didn’t get to safety soon, she’d probably hyperventilate.

  She was made of sterner stuff than that. Recalling the self-defense class Paul and Scott had insisted she take, she manipulated her keys to a position in her hand, then made a fist with one of the keys pointing out from her knuckles like a small knife. If she had to, she’d use it to gouge the man’s eyes. Her briefcase weighed a lot. And there was always her knee. Any one or all of those defensive weapons could give her the time to run to the fire house — and safety.

  Checking her location, she almost shouted with relief. The firehouse was less than a football field away. Then icy fear gripped her. If he was going to attack, he would do it soon. He had to realize by now she was heading for safety — safety in numbers as her self-defense instructor had taught her.

  Jeanette stepped up her pace, hoping against hope he hadn’t figured her game plan. She was so close to her goal.

  Too late. Running feet approached her. She wasn’t going to make it. Screaming for help, she whipped around to face the mugger. She almost laughed at his look of shock when she dashed forward, keys at ready. He didn’t even try to stop her. Just yelled, “You fucking bitch,” and grabbed for the briefcase. He missed. She attacked his eyes, then swung the case along a wide arc to his head.

  The trick with the keys worked. He forgot the case, forgot her, and covered his eyes. He screamed profanities.

  The briefcase hit the side of his head with a thunk she felt all the way to her shoulders. For good measure, her knee found its target soon thereafter. Then, she turned and ran like hell the last few yards to the fire station.

  Her screams had already drawn attention. A fireman caught her in his burly arms, then swung her up close to his chest. “I’ve got you, ma’am,” he said.

  Then, and only then, did Jeanette relax, still clutching the briefcase and her now-bloody keys.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Monday, 10:00 a.m.

  “Talk to me. It’s safe,” Rutherford barked into the phone. He double-checked the phone system to make sure the do-not-disturb button was lit so that no one could accidentally break into his call. His door was shut and locked. No one would dare disturb him.

  “It’s done,” Alex said.

  Rutherford felt nary a twinge at the satisfaction he heard in Alex’s voice. Both he and Alex understood one another. They were cut from the same cloth. Both men knew what needed to be done to protect themselves. Besides, Alex had personal reasons for getting rid of little Sally. He’d make a terrible daddy and hadn’t relished the thought of a long, drawn-out paternity suit.

  “Are you sure it can’t be traced back to us?”

  “Positive.” Alex chuckled. “She’s gator food. Even if they found her bones, there wouldn’t be enough forensic evidence left to point the finger at anyone, let alone me — or you.”

  “Good.”

  “What about the other problem?”

  “She isn’t here yet.” Rutherford compartmented the part of him that regretted he hadn’t gotten a taste of little Jeanette. Lucky for Alex and him, the waiter at the local watering hole had overheard her and some lawyer talking about his business.

  “By the way, Sally thoughtfully left us a letter of resignation.” Rutherford chuckled. “So, we can honestly say we were left in the lurch and haven’t the slightest idea where she is.”

  “Byron, you didn’t really answer my question. Once we heard little Flower was consulting a lawyer to check into your business activities, we agreed to eliminate both problems. Today. So, how did you handle it? No, excuse me. You wouldn’t dirty your hands, not the great and eminent Dr. Rutherford. Who did you get to handle her?”

  “You shitty little bastard. I said I would handle it, and I did. Just because I draw the line at killing a woman with my own hands doesn’t mean I couldn’t kill if I had to. And, unlike you, I don’t enjoy torturing women.”

  “Listen, you sanctimonious son of a bitch. You keep dancing around my question.” Alex blew out an angry breath. “Is she dead or isn’t she?”

  “She should be. The guy I had Monnier hire has a rep of mugging women an
d not leaving any witnesses. The cops have been after him for years, and he’s still free. Satisfied?”

  “Sure. Let’s just hope he’s as good as his rep.”

  “He is.”

  “I’ll be in after I get cleaned up.” Alex hung up.

  Rutherford stood up slowly, then walked over to the bar built into the entertainment unit in his office. Opening a bottle of Jack Daniels, he poured himself a shot, neat, then drank it in one gulp. After pouring himself another, he went back to his desk and sat down.

  Leaning back in his chair, he thought about loose ends, profit-sharing, and ways to reconcile the two. Smiling, he set down the drink and hit the intercom to the lab.

  “Walter?”

  “Yes, doctor?”

  Someone was in the lab with Walter. He always called him boss, not doctor, when he was alone. Good man, Walter.

  “Please come to my office. We need to go over the schedule for tomorrow.”

  “Right away, doctor.”

  Rutherford shut off the intercom, then sipped his drink, this time savoring the smooth bite of the whiskey as it warmed his throat. Soon, all his loose ends would be tied up.

  ———

  Monday, 10:00 a.m., Vieux Carre police station on Royal Street.

  Scott ran into the police station. His heart raced. It had been racing since he got the call from Jeanette to come get her.

  After hanging up, he’d torn out of bed and thrown on the scrubs he’d just tossed on the floor not twenty minutes ago. He’d been exhausted and looked forward to a good eight hours of sleep.

  Well, he was wide awake now. Adrenalin would do that to a person. He’d been running on it since he heard her teary voice.

  Now to find her in this mess called a police station.

  Walking up to the first man in uniform he saw, he asked, “Could you tell me where to find Jeanette LaFleur?”