by Judy Clemens
“Yvonne,” Eric said. “Can you call off the dogs?”
Yvonne hugged her stomach, staring at Casey. Casey had no doubt her swollen lip and bloody shirt did not paint a pretty picture.
“She killed someone,” Yvonne said. “She’s dangerous.”
“She’s not dangerous,” Eric said. “Not to you.”
Yvonne shook her head, her mouth open.
“I won’t hurt you, Yvonne,” Casey said. “The only reason I…those men attacked me. I had to defend myself.”
Yvonne closed her mouth, but her lips continued working against her teeth.
“Yvonne,” Eric said. “Please. We just want to talk. Come on. You know me.”
Yvonne took a few more heavy breaths before holding out her hand. “Only if I can have my phone back.”
Eric placed his hand over his pocket. “You won’t call them?”
Yvonne lifted her hand higher. “I’ll listen to what you have to say.”
Eric looked at Casey and she nodded shortly. If Yvonne made the call, Casey would just have to fight her way through the dogs. Maybe she’d squirt them in the face with the anti-bacterial hand cleaner.
Eric reached into his pocket and pulled out the phone. He hesitated briefly before placing it in Yvonne’s open palm. She wrapped her fingers around it and pulled it against her stomach. “Roxie. Jabba. Down.”
The dogs dropped to their haunches, and their growling turned into happy panting, their tongues lolling from their mouths.
“Bed,” Yvonne said.
The dogs trotted to the next room, where Casey could see two large doggie pillows lying side by side. The dogs curled up on the cushions, but their eyes remained on Casey. She shivered, returning her attention to Yvonne.
“Yvonne,” Eric said. “We know about the boy.”
Her face went blank for only a moment before her eyes widened, filling with tears. “The boy…”
“Come on.” Eric led her gently to a chair.
They were in the kitchen, and the closest place was at the table. Yvonne dropped her phone in front of her before laying her face in her hands.
Eric sat next to her. “Yvonne, what happened? What has Karl done?”
She rolled her head back and forth in her hands before jerking it up, her face inches from Eric’s. Her eyes were red, and tears spilled over onto her cheeks. “I can’t tell. I can’t tell you.”
“But Yvonne—”
“I can’t!” She pushed herself away from the table, sending her chair crashing backward. Her face twisted and she grabbed the chair, lifting it off the floor.
Casey stepped forward and wrapped her hand around one of the rungs. “Don’t, Yvonne. Please.” Casey kept a hold on it, making eye contact, watching as Yvonne’s grip slackened, and then relaxed completely.
Yvonne let go of the chair and spun away, leaning against the wall.
“Yvonne,” Eric said.
Casey shook her head, and he quieted.
Yvonne’s shoulders began to shudder, and soon she was gasping for air, her body heaving. Her hand trailed down the wall as her knees buckled, and Eric jumped from his seat, grabbing her around the waist as she slipped to the floor. He went down, too, and ended up holding her on his lap, rocking her as he would a child. “Shh, Yvonne. It’s okay. It’s okay.”
Tucking her face into his neck, her sobs gradually diminished, until she was taking deep breaths and wiping her face on his shirt.
“Tell us,” Eric said gently. “Please.”
Yvonne gave one last snort, then climbed to her feet, stumbling into the other room. Casey poised for flight. Eric held out his hand. The sound of Yvonne blowing her nose came from the back hallway, and they heard water running. Yvonne returned to the kitchen, her face blotchy, water spots dotting her shirt.
“I didn’t know what to do,” she said. “Except keep my mouth shut. He told me…he told me if I didn’t, I would be arrested. Arrested. Me!” She shook her head with apparent disbelief. “Even with Jimmy being a cop, I could be… Anyway, I couldn’t say anything. It was in the contract.”
“Why didn’t the parents file a lawsuit?” Eric asked.
Yvonne gave a small laugh. “Why do you think? HomeMaker—well, Karl—made Mrs. Marlowe think it was her fault. That if she hadn’t neglected her son he would still be alive.”
Casey made a sound in her throat, and Yvonne glanced at her. “I know. It’s awful.” She glanced toward the back of the house, back toward the bedrooms. “For any mother to be told that…”
“But why did HomeMaker want that in the first place?” Eric asked. “To avoid publicity?”
“Oh, sure. They didn’t want the world thinking they killed somebody. They just wanted it to go away quietly. To pay the Marlowes from the insurance money, sign the confidentiality contract, and have it be over with.”
“But something happened,” Casey said.
“Yes.” Her eyes flicked to Eric. “The Marlowes found out about Karl.”
Eric clenched his jaw. “Found out what?”
“That he knew about the door latches.”
His eyes met Casey’s. So they were right.
“There had been several complaints,” Yvonne said. “Nothing big. Just that the latches had jammed. No one had been hurt. But a consumer would put something heavy in, or too large of a load, and the next thing they knew they couldn’t open the dryer door. Karl said it was their own fault for filling the dryer too full, and ignored them.” She closed her eyes, and swayed on her feet. Eric grabbed her elbow and led her back to a chair.
“Why did Karl trust you to type up the contracts?” Casey asked. “Why put you in that position at all, instead of doing it himself?”
Yvonne looked up at her, and swiped the tears from her cheeks. “Because I knew, too, don’t you see? I knew about the earlier complaints. I was already in the position of knowing too much.”
“Kathy didn’t know?” Eric asked. “She works right next to you. Or…or Ellen?”
Yvonne shook her head. “There were lots of things Kathy and Ellen didn’t know. There was no reason to tell them. It wasn’t anything exciting. Just…door latches. I mean, we get complaints all the time that never amount to anything, about a lot more serious things.”
“But somehow Ellen found out,” Eric said. “That’s how we knew to even look. She videotaped your computer when you were working on the contract, just a few weeks ago.”
“I don’t know how she would’ve…” Yvonne’s forehead creased as she thought. “I don’t think anybody else knew. The board, I guess, but they don’t live around here, and even if they did, it’s not like they’re going to be telling the employees about legal problems. I certainly didn’t tell her.”
“Lawyers?” Eric said.
Casey shook her head. “Wouldn’t tell.”
“How about…bankers?” Eric looked at Casey.
Could it be? Todd has sworn his meeting with Karl had nothing to do with the company, that it was personal. But it wouldn’t be the first time someone had lied about this whole mess.
Yvonne shook her head. “He wouldn’t tell the bank.”
“But Todd came to his office—”
“It wasn’t about this.”
“You’re sure?”
Yvonne looked at Casey. “Karl was falling behind on some payments. He’d paid so much money to the boy’s family… The bank wanted to repossess some things, but they were in other people’s names. Todd was the one who’d approved the loans, and was having trouble explaining to his superiors how he’d made such bad decisions.”
Casey almost smiled. The Pegasus Orion. So it was in Lillian’s name, after all. Just another way for Karl to save his assets. “Who would Karl tell about the money?”
Eric frowned. “He certainly didn’t tell me.”
Yvonne’s face paled, as if there were a connection she feared Casey would make. Casey’s breath hitched. “Yvonne, does Chief Reardon know? Is he protecting Karl?”
Yvonne’s b
row furrowed. “The chief? No, he doesn’t know anything.”
“Denny?” Eric said. “Why would you think—”
“He’s been suspicious of me since I arrived. Like I’m here to cause trouble.”
Yvonne gave a short laugh. “That’s just the chief. He thinks anybody new is here to cause trouble. He knows nothing about this. I swear.”
Yvonne’s phone rang, and Eric jumped, squinting at its glowing window. “It’s Jimmy.”
Yvonne bit her lip, then reached for the phone. “Hi, honey. Yes. I’m okay. They’re asleep.” She listened for a bit as she breathed with her mouth open, her eyes on Eric’s face. “It’s just…they’re here, Jimmy. Right now.”
Casey grabbed Eric’s sleeve and yanked him toward the door. He stopped, looking at Yvonne, his face filled with betrayal.
Casey jerked him toward her. “Come on, Eric!”
With a last look back, Eric ran after Casey into the back yard. She could hear the dogs, barking and whining at the door, their toenails scraping the metal.
“I’m sorry!” Yvonne called as they ran away. “Eric! I’m sorry!”
Gritting her teeth, Casey ran even harder, praying Yvonne’s door was strong enough to keep those dogs in the house.
Chapter Forty-four
Casey careened down the alley, sprinting through yards and across dark intersections. Eric kept up as well as he could, but his breathing was growing heavy and labored. Casey jumped over a fallen stick, but Eric nailed it, stumbling and skidding along the gravel alley on his hands and knees. Casey ran back and reached to pull him up. He staggered to his feet, spreading his hands to show several imbedded stones.
Casey grabbed his wrist. “Later. We need a place to go, Eric. Not your house. Where?”
He swallowed and scratched his forehead feverishly, as if it would help him think. “Ellen’s? No. Mom’s…Home Sweet Home…” He brought his head up. “The theater!”
Casey didn’t like it. Didn’t like it, but didn’t know where else to go, other than the parking lot of The Burger Palace, where they could hop on a semi and hightail it out of town.
But the cops had probably already thought of that.
She nodded. “Okay. We can take stock and patch ourselves up there.” She looked around. “Where are we?”
“About as far away as we can be.”
Of course. “Take us there.”
Eric led her back toward the center of town, sticking to dark side streets and yards. Sirens were audible, and two cop cars hurtled past a street over, but Casey and Eric hunkered down in the shadows until they could no longer see the flashing lights. Soon the theater came into view.
Casey grabbed Eric’s shirt to keep him in the dark as she scanned the area. No cars in the back, and no lights visible from the few windows. She gestured for him to wait, then snuck toward the front of the theater, staying in the neighboring yard. No cars in the front.
She returned to Eric. “You have a key?”
“Same key ring as HomeMaker. Right here.” He patted his pocket.
“Get it out and ready. Is there an alarm system?”
He gave a quiet snort. “Hardly. We’re lucky the lock even holds.”
“Let’s go.”
They skirted the parking area and approached the door from the side, sliding along the building. Eric unlocked the door with one twist of the key, and they were inside, closing and locking the door behind them. Casey put a finger to her lips, and they stood listening for several minutes. When all that greeted them was silence, they stepped further into the dark hallway.
“No lights,” Casey whispered, gesturing to the windows in the outside wall. They found their way to the stage door, and entered. The blue work light spread its eerie glow across the stage and through the curtain legs toward the back, where they’d entered.
Casey stepped forward and stumbled over a cable. Eric grabbed her arm and she gasped, reaching up to hold her shoulder.
“Sorry,” Eric said.
She swallowed. “Where’s that first aid kit Becca used?”
“Back here.” He led her slowly toward the backstage bathroom, where the kit hung on the wall. He took it down and opened it on the toilet tank.
“Painkiller,” Casey said.
Eric popped open a bottle of ibuprofen and offered her a couple. She washed them down with rusty water from the sink.
She grabbed one of Eric’s wrists and turned it over to look at his hands. “You need to get those stones out.”
“Not until we work on your shoulder.”
She sagged onto the toilet seat, feeling suddenly weak.
Eric pulled his dark turtleneck over his head and tossed it aside, a sheen of sweat already forming on his forehead in the tiny, airless bathroom. He squatted in front of Casey, his back pressed against the sink, and helped her pull off her sweater. Once it was off he started unbuttoning her shirt.
“Eric!” She swatted his hand away.
He reached back up. “No time for modesty, Casey. I need to work on your arm.”
He was right, of course, and she closed her eyes, gritting her teeth when he slid her shirt off and peeled away the bloodied ace bandage. Without a word he wet a wad of paper towels and swabbed the mess, the towels coming away red. He kept at it until he’d cleaned it all.
“You need stitches,” he said.
“Yeah, like I need a hole in the head. You know what will happen if I go anywhere for that.”
He shook his head. “Then sit still.”
“You are not going to sew me up with costume thread.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” He rummaged around in the kit and came up with a tube of antibiotic cream, which he spread liberally on the cut. The bandage box held several butterfly strips, which he used to close the wound, and he covered them with sterile gauze pads. There were no ace bandages this time, but he found several extra large Band-Aids, which he placed side by side over the gauze.
He sat back. “That’s the best I can do.”
“Thank you.” She shrugged the shirt back on and buttoned it up, her right hand working slowly, the injury to her forearm swelling her wrist, causing her fingers to stiffen. “Now you.”
With the tweezers in the kit she was able to pick out most of the stones from his palms—only a couple were too deeply embedded to reach. When she’d finished, he washed his hands with soap before Casey poured peroxide over the wounds.
He grimaced, but kept his hands under the stream of antiseptic. “What now?”
“Now?” Casey screwed the top back onto the bottle and tossed it into the box of supplies. Her head swam and she leaned forward onto the sink.
“You need to rest,” Eric said.
“I can’t rest. They’ll be coming here eventually.”
“The Nesting Place. Mom and Rosie will hide you.”
“No. I won’t do that to them.” Besides, the Pegasus folks had compromised their home.
“There’s got to be someone we can call…”
“But who, Eric? Who do you trust?”
He clasped his hands together and pushed their sides against his forehead. “I don’t know.”
“There’s no one, Eric. We have to keep moving.” She stood, but the movement sent her spinning, and she fell against the wall.
Eric grabbed her waist and held her upright. “Come on.”
She lurched out of the bathroom, his arm around her. “Where are we going?”
“You know those Equity cots the union requires theaters to put backstage for weary actors?”
“Well, sure, but—”
“This theater may not be Equity, but I insisted on the bed.”
“I can’t—”
“Yes, you can.” He guided her to another room, where he unlocked the door and pulled the string on a light bulb hanging from the ceiling. “Props, costumes, and a cot. What more could you want?”
She could think of a few things, but had to admit the mattress looked inviting. “Just for a few minutes,” sh
e said. “We can’t stay long.”
He closed the door and pushed the lock on the knob. “You have to rest.”
She sat on the cot. Not a very comfortable one, but better than the floor. She studied the room—shelves of old props, a treasure chest at the foot of the bed, a rack of varied costumes. She lay down, struggling to find a comfortable way to lie. Nothing worked. And she was starting to shiver. “Eric, is there a blanket or anything?”
He grabbed an old army blanket from a shelf—probably from a production of South Pacific—and spread it over her. She continued to shiver. He stood looking down at her, then reached up to turn off the light. Without a word, he scooted onto the cot and under the blanket, wrapping his arms gently around her, her arms up between them, trying to conserve what body heat she had.
“Eric…”
“Shh. Just rest.” He placed his hand over her mouth, then slid her hat off of her head, pulled her hair out of its knot, and ran his hand over her scalp, rubbing from her temples to the back of her neck. Casey let her head drop back, her nerves tingling as he kneaded her sore muscles. She groaned, twisting her head into his hand, her body arching toward him as his hands brought her closer.
“Casey,” he said.
Casey’s breath caught in her throat. Oh. Oh, yes.
Casey pulled her hands out from where they were trapped between her body and Eric’s, and turned them around, fumbling with the buttons on his shirt, desperate suddenly to feel his skin, to feel his heat against her. When the buttons wouldn’t cooperate, she yanked his shirt from his jeans, skimming her hand up along his stomach and chest. He rose up just enough she could pull the shirt over his head. The buttons caught at the ends of the sleeves and she jerked the shirt, ripping the buttons from the fabric and forcing the shirt over his wrists. His back was warm, and she flattened her hands against it, pulling him against her.
His hand slid up the back of her shirt, and she shivered, a moan coming from deep in her throat. Eric unclasped her bra one-handed and forced her shirt up, his hand closing over her breast. She reached down to his jeans, unbuttoning the fly and wrenching down the zipper.
