Cold Heart

by Karen Pullen

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m so sorry.” Sorry for your suffering. Sorry you came out into the parking lot with me. Sorry I visited today. Why did I bring Merle, anyway?

  They eased her onto a stretcher and slid her into the ambulance. Then my legs buckled and I sat down on the gravel. Merle nosed me, whimpering.

  Anselmo handed me an icepack. “You’re okay, Stella, it’s shock.” He twisted the cap off a bottle of water and offered it. “I called Richard. He’s going to take you off the case.”

  “Over my dead body.”

  “Well, yeah. Almost. Tell me what happened.”

  “We came out of her office. We were standing by the car, she was patting my dog. Three shots were fired. It sounded like a rifle.”

  “Yeah. We found the bullets—.25 caliber. Were the shots intended for you?”

  That had occurred to me. We had been standing close together, about a foot apart, Dr. Soto leaning down as she reached for Merle. “I don’t know. She’d told me she knew a secret, something to do with the Mercer murder. I want to look at her files.”

  “You’ll have to specify the files you want, to get a subpoena.”

  He was right. Dr. Soto’s patient records were privileged and confidential, unless I had names, dates, and a good reason. Well, I had a damn good reason—she had just been taken away in an ambulance. Names and dates would be in her appointment book. There were two ways to go. The legal way—get a search warrant in the morning, research the appointment book, get a subpoena for specific files, and wait until they were retrieved for me.

  Or another way.

  I would come back later, by myself, and browse. I wouldn’t be collecting evidence, not exactly—just information, a pointer to a person or an event. Hardly legal procedure but I didn’t care. Dr. Soto knew a secret, and someone had tried to kill her, or me. I didn’t want to wait another day to find out what it was. Whoever fired those rifle shots could easily pick off another target at any time. “Can you put a guard on her room?” I asked.

  “I’ll see to it. And you—avoid open spaces.”

  “Yup,” I said, though a sniper can work at any distance. “I’m going inside to clean up.” At the restroom sink I wiped my arms and face with dampened paper towels and studied my injury in the mirror. Right at the hairline, an ugly lump had formed, a groove in my skin. Minor. Another centimeter and I’d have a cracked skull, or worse.

  I went into Dr. Soto’s office and found keys that unlocked her desk and filing cabinets. Her appointment book was in her desk but I couldn’t very well walk out with it, so I put it back and shut the drawer. Finally, I went to the restroom again and opened the window an inch. I was still in there dabbing at my shirt when Anselmo came to find me. “I’m going to give you a ride to the ER.”

  “If we’ll drop my dog at home first.” Normally I would try to be stronger, able to handle this. But today’s events were so shocking, it felt right to let Anselmo take care of me for a little while.

  On the ride, he told me he’d been shot once himself.

  “On duty?”

  “Yep. I had to serve papers on this paranoid old guy, divorce case. His wife was afraid of him and asked us to help. He opened the window and blasted me with a shotgun when I rang the bell. I’ve got a couple of holes in my back still. Here, you can feel them.”

  He pointed to his shoulder blade, and I eased my fingers along his back. Two little depressions, flaws in the warm hard muscle of his back. My hand lingered no more than a second.

  “You were lucky,” I said.

  “Yeah. I dropped when I saw the gun. You were lucky too, Stella. I think you were the more likely target back there.”

  I wasn’t sure. What did Emilie know? I hoped she took good notes.

  CHAPTER 15

  Thursday midnight

  The paramedics got Emilie to the hospital fast and she was whisked into surgery to stop the bleeding and save her life. But she had nearly died, either because of a secret a patient had told her or because she had the bad luck to be standing next to me. I had to find out why. I was waiting until the wee hours to return to her office and search her files.

  My injury had been treated with antiseptic and stitches. The doctor predicted I’d always have a little scar at the hairline that could be repaired with minor plastic surgery. I said I’d think about it. I might keep it as a reminder. She gave me painkillers that I didn’t take because of the drowsiness warning. My head ached, a manageable pain as long as I didn’t move too fast. I spent an unpleasant hour on the phone convincing Richard I was fine, that it was ridiculous to take me off the case. He finally gave in.

  Suffering survivor’s guilt, I treated it with a hot bath, the gift of doing nothing, trying to silence the self-blame I felt when I thought of Emilie Soto, alive, in critical condition after surgery, absolutely no visitors allowed. Emotionally I felt numb, like that instant when the air is knocked out of you and just before you have to breathe. Yes, oxygen was necessary for life and yes, my lungs weren’t working.

  I added lavender bubble bath to the tub. Might as well smell good when you’re planning to fracture the law.

  At one a.m., I dressed in all black and clipped a leash to Merle’s collar. Should anyone ask, I was obviously walking my dog. We walked through the quiet, dark streets of Verwood, a half-mile from my house to Emilie’s office. I didn’t see a living soul. A sniveling, cowardly part of me didn’t want to be anywhere near her office, across the street from that moonlit graveyard. I kept hearing the crack of a rifle and seeing her eyes as she struggled to breathe.

  I approached the back of the building, avoiding the well-lit street and parking area. In the moonlight, a slow-moving creek flashed silver, and white blooms of azaleas glowed, luminous. I looped Merle’s leash over a shrub branch, pushed up the bathroom window, and climbed through.

  Someone had been—or still was—in her office. A flashlight lying on the floor cast a beam to several open file drawers. The damp night air pressed into the room, and I realized the front door was ajar. I stood very still, feeling my heart thump, listening to the peeper frogs croak outside. A sound, or a sixth sense, warned of danger and I dropped to a crouch just as a gun fired, deafening me, starting an adrenaline flood that sent me scuttling into the bathroom. I wrenched my Sig from its holster, trying to sense the whereabouts of the shooter. I couldn’t see any outline or movement to give me a target. Outside, Merle barked angrily with notes of fear.

  “Police!” I yelled. “Give it up!”

  A second gunshot hit the mirror over the sink, shattering it into shrapnel. My survival instincts kicked in as slivers of glass cut into my face, neck, and chest—stinging, fiery—and I slammed the door shut and scrambled through the open bathroom window, landing in a crouch as my heart pounded nearly out of my chest.

  A car door slammed, an engine revved. I ran around the building in time to see a car squeal down the street, spitting gravel. It was a mid-size SUV, narrowing the suspect population down to several million residents of the Triangle. I took a few deep breaths to slow my heart and patted my face, felt a couple slivers of mirror glass. Ouch. I called Anselmo. He said he’d be there in fifteen minutes.

  Plenty of time for what I needed to do. I was on automatic, pushing down my visceral reactions, rubbing my arms as I scanned Emilie’s appointment book.

  I found several names I recognized—Wesley and Bryce Raintree, Nikki Truly—and also one more name associated with my case—Clementine Teller. I rifled through the files until I found the Raintree family. A quick scan of Emilie’s hand-written notes told me they corroborated Wesley’s description of events: Bryce lifting weights and goofing off; Wesley nursing his dying wife round the clock, under enormous stress, helped only by an occasional visit from a home-health aide. Bryce shut himself in his bedroom when he wasn’t out partying, unable to face his mother’s frailty and pain. One fact caught my eye—Wesley had administered meds to Sunny, morphine injections “whenever she seemed to need it,” the notes s
aid. Wesley had been in the hospital yesterday, for the board meeting. Had he slipped out? Wandered over to visit Lincoln in the ICU with a syringe and a few leftover vials?

  Clementine Teller had visited Dr. Soto four times, most recently two months ago. Her compulsive disorder, the tapping and nodding I’d observed in the radiology waiting room, was more extensive than I thought. She was a compulsive cleaner, arranger. It was getting worse, taking longer and longer before she could perform the most mundane act. Recent life events had triggered the disorder. Clementine’s father, a ne’er-do-well absent during her childhood, had recently surfaced asking for money. I felt like a snoop until I read that Clementine blamed Lincoln’s cash-flow problems on Kent Mercer. Might her obsessive nature find an outlet in violence?

  Nikki Truly’s file was missing. I rummaged—even looking under Schubert, her mother’s name—but didn’t see it. Nikki had visited Emilie only once, according to her aunt, but still, the doctor seemed to be so meticulously organized that even a one-time client should have a file. A missing file—did the intruder take it?

  Outside, a car door slammed. I quickly stuffed folders back into place. I had no business looking through them without a subpoena. Anselmo would disapprove, the last thing I wanted.

  He came in, a welcome sight in t-shirt and jeans, his hair mussed. He scanned the room, taking in the open drawers, the flashlight, me. “What the hell?” He cupped my chin, tilted my face to his. “You’re cut up. Hold still.” As he studied the nicks and gently tweaked out a sliver of glass, then another, his breath was soft on my face, his body so close I could sense his heat. I stood still, captured by his black eyes and warm hands, not wanting the moment to end, ever.

  “Your poor face,” he said.

  “Thanks, I’ll be okay,” I said. “You’re very kind.”

  “What brought you back here?”

  “I was out for a walk with my dog, saw the flashlight beam.”

  “You didn’t get enough of this place this afternoon.”

  “Right. Drawn to the scene. The door was open so I searched around. When the intruder started shooting, I ran into the bathroom and a shot hit the mirror.” This story was ninety-five percent accurate. Okay, eighty-five.

  “Seems like you get shot at every time you come to this place. Maybe we should stake you to the front door as bait, catch the crook that way.” He smiled to show it was a joke.

  I smiled back, ever the good sport, but it wasn’t funny. I already felt like a goat in a Komodo dragon trap, not knowing what would happen next but suspecting I wouldn’t like it much.

  “Techs and a locksmith are on the way,” he said. “I’m going to give you a ride home. Do you have to walk your dog at midnight?”

  It was only a few minutes’ ride to my house. Anselmo looked around outside, then came in with me for a brief walk-through. Shaky as I felt, I had enough mental energy to feel distressed for the state of my house. Except for Fern’s colorful paintings, my abode was a sorry sight. Bed sheets covered the windows, a jumble of boxes crowded the dining area, and a collection of plants on the kitchen table had dried and gone to heaven. A fine layer of dust covered every surface, and Fern could have knitted mittens from the dog hair. I knew this atmosphere was sad and depressing but Anselmo tactfully said nothing. As we reached the door to say good night, he paused. “Put some antibiotic on those nicks. And quit pushing your luck at midnight.”

  “Will do.” I thanked him again. “Go home. Go back to bed.” Back to sleep with your wife. Hope she knows how lucky she is.

  After he left, I checked my locked doors twice. I’m not normally paranoid but nothing seemed normal. “Just this once,” I told Merle, as he jumped onto my bed. My face ached, but not as much as my pride, or my heart, and it took a long time to fall asleep, to erase gunshots, choking sounds, and bloody shell necklaces from my mind.

  CHAPTER 16

  Friday morning

  I took my coffee outside, hoping the soft morning air and bird-song would pull me out of an exhausted funk. A familiar wave of helplessness washed over me, this time a fear that I couldn’t find the killer/kidnapper/brake-line cutter/shooter, even with my shiny gun and fancy lab and official ID. Running sometimes improves my mood so I put on shorts and sneakers. The jingle of Merle’s leash woke him from a twitching sleep in a nanosecond and propelled him nose-first to the door, dancing, his nails clacking on the floor like castanets. Sometimes I think the purpose of Merle’s life is To Go Out; everything else is just waiting.

  I added a couple of miles to our run but halfway into it, I had to sit down behind a tree to quash sobs threatening to break through. There was no need to analyze my feelings. I knew very clearly where all the sadness came from, and it wasn’t the stinging glass punctures. I’d almost lost Emilie, like I’d lost my mom. I leaned against the tree, closed my eyes, and listened for Emilie’s wisdom. I heard nothing, no warm, accented voice telling me what to do. Merle sat patiently. After a while, however, he stood and whined at me, softly, conversationally. He couldn’t be more clear. Get up, let’s go, there’s treats to be eaten and socks to be found and the day is going to be fabulous.

  Merle was right. The day, and my mood, improved.

  Fern called to tell me Temple had given birth to a baby boy, John Franklin Mercer, eight pounds, four ounces. Mother and baby doing well.

  Before anyone else frightened her with an exaggerated report, I gave her a brief version of yesterday’s parking-lot shooting. “Emilie Soto was badly injured but I’m okay.”

  “What on earth! Are you sure?”

  “Just worried about Emilie.” I promised to keep her posted.

  Then Sam called with his bid. It was lower than I’d expected, for the whole job. I told him to get started. What a nice guy.

  I drove to the hospital to see Emilie, and on my way through the maze of corridors, I poked my head into Temple’s room. Wesley was there, beaming widely at the baby in Temple’s arms. “A perfect ten on his Apgar,” he said. “The first of many perfect scores.”

  Temple looked remarkably fresh. Someone had un-poufed her hair, and it streamed onto her shoulders. “Want to hold him?” she asked me. “Just support his head.”

  I took the tiny bundle and sat down. I couldn’t remember ever holding a newborn. He was warm, solid, and wriggly, even swaddled tight as a cigar. He fastened his deep-blue eyes on my face, seeming to be interested in the scratches.

  Temple noticed. “Are you all right? You look pale. I heard about the shooting yesterday. How terrifying.”

  “Yup. It’s nothing, I’m fine,” I lied, though a couple of ibuprofen every three hours kept me functioning. I had picked a dozen glass slivers out of my face, neck, and shoulders last night, and each tiny puncture was now a puffy oozing bump that itched like a mosquito bite. I had camouflaged the bandaged lump on my head by gathering my hair into a tousled updo. It worked well—I have enough hair to hide a basketball.

  “I was shocked to hear about Dr. Soto,” Wesley said. “Sure hope she’ll be all right.”

  “Dr. Soto is the best,” Temple said. “You know how when you’re a kid you think everything is your fault, except for the things that really are? I was sure my dad would have stayed if I’d done a better job of covering up my mom’s illness. Dr. Soto showed me how ridiculous that was.”

  “I went to her too, in high school. She put up with a lot of whining from me,” I said, recalling the hours I spent complaining about Fern as Dr. Soto nodded. Gradually she led me around to the real issue—my life was too precious to damage by partying with bikers. Such words from any other adult would have been rejected as just another lecture. From Emilie Soto, they felt like high praise.

  “She helped us end a war, literally. I didn’t think it was possible,” said Wesley. “My wife was very ill, and Bryce was being a punk. I wanted to kick him out.”

  “Sunny wouldn’t let you,” said Temple.

  “Right. Dr. Soto helped us find a middle ground. She was tough too, told me how it w
as going to be. Sure hope she’s going to be okay.”

  Suddenly I yearned to be there in Emilie’s office, curled up in the overstuffed chair, sipping Lemon Zinger, listening to her bubbly chuckle. “Here, your turn,” I said, and handed Wesley the warm bundle.

  I left the obstetrics ward and wandered through the labyrinth of corridors until I reached the closed door to Emilie Soto’s room. A bulky guard blocked my entry. Thank God someone was keeping Emilie safe. Too safe—he wouldn’t let me in. “No visitors. Only medical personnel,” he said.

  “How’s she doing?” I asked.

  “You’ll have to ask her doctor.”

  A nurse pointed Emilie’s doc out to me—Dr. Beckert of the chin patch, who’d so annoyed Clementine Teller. He was even less forthcoming than the patrolman until I explained I’d been standing with Emilie when she was shot and showed him my ID.

  “She was very lucky,” he said. “The bullet missed her arteries and spine. EMS created an airway, they were fantastic.” His gray eyes roamed over my face, studying the tiny nicks, lingering on my hairline bandage. “You have lots of ouchies.”

  “When can I see her?”

  “Check back tomorrow. Say, you want to have a drink sometime? Can I call you?”

  Maybe Fern’s man-magnet DNA was finally kicking in. “Uh, sure,” I said. Our schedules would never mesh.

  Later on I stopped at the grocery store for dog food and coffee, loading up my cart with about eighty dollars’ worth of stuff I couldn’t live without. I got into a checkout line right behind Ursula Budd, Linc Teller’s bookkeeper, catching up on the latest celebrity weddings in People. Next to her, a striking young woman loaded groceries onto the conveyer belt. They had to be related—the girl had Ursula’s above-average height, tilted eyes over wide cheekbones, and frizzy hair, a darker red than Ursula’s.