by Judy Alter
Chapter Seventeen
Somehow I expected Hollister to spring his trap on a weekend, but that wasn’t the way it happened. It happened about one in the morning on an overcast Thursday. Mike and I heard vague sounds, so vague we couldn’t identify them, but Gus was alarmed, and his barking from Maggie’s room echoed through the house. Mike jumped out of bed, saying, “Sheila!” and headed through the house in his shorts. I followed, not much better dressed. I thought to get the flashlight, which was good because we both stopped at the kitchen door. The apartment was totally dark…and Sheila always left a night light on.
Mike grabbed the flashlight, muttered, “Stay here,” and ran across the ground. No way was I following that order. I was close on his heels. In the short time we ran that little distance, we heard a car peel away, but it was too dark and too far away to see it.
The door to the apartment was open, and as he swung the flashlight toward the inside, we saw Lorna McDavid lying motionless by the table and chairs, clad in a nightgown. Mike rushed to her, felt for her pulse, and ordered, “Call 911. I’ll do CPR.”
“Is she breathing?”
“Barely. Go!”
In the house I fumbled for my phone, which should have been by the bedside table. I raced back to the kitchen and found it on the table there. With shaking hands, I called 911 and requested an ambulance, reporting an unconscious person in the garage apartment in the rear. No, I had no idea what had happened. They wanted me to stay on the line, so I excused myself long enough to order the girls to stay in the house under penalty of grounding for a month and then headed out to the apartment.
“My husband is doing CPR. He’s a police officer,” I said to the operator. “Mike Shandy. Central District.”
She told me to ask him how the patient was, and he said “No change.” I grabbed the flashlight from the floor where he’d thrown it and looked around the apartment. No sign of Sheila, but plenty of signs of a scuffle. A chair overturned, the lamp knocked off the table, a pillow thrown from the bed.
Uselessly I tried the light switch but nothing happened. Without electricity, the alarm system didn’t work. I knew the phone would be dead, so I didn’t check. What had happened was all too clear.
Sirens screamed and suddenly the dark apartment was full of people, some with lanterns much more effective than the feeble flashlight I held. I stepped outside, grimly aware I was wearing a T-shirt and panties and besides my lack of modesty, I was freezing. Good thing it was an extra long T-shirt that doubled as a nightshirt.
José ran up the driveway and stopped short in front of me. “What happened?”
“Somebody apparently kidnapped Sheila and knocked Ms. Lorna out. They’re working on her.”
Mike heard our voices, and, relieved of his CPR duties, stepped outside. “Call the station, José. We need a crime scene crew to dust for fingerprints, check tire tracks both in the driveway and out front. Sheila’s gone. They’ll need to look for her purse and phone. And bring floodlights or something—the EMTs will take theirs when they leave.
And indeed they were working to revive Ms. Lorna, though it didn’t look like they were having much success. A gurney had been pulled up, ready to take her to the hospital. I was absolutely convinced she would recover—the hospital would not let her die, not now. She held the secret to what had happened to Sheila, though I guess we really knew. Finally, they transferred her to the gurney and began to roll her away, I ran after them to grab her hand and tell her I’d be at the hospital as soon as I could. I can only hope my words and touch penetrated the deep unconsciousness. They say it happens.
As I came back to Mike, he held up crossed fingers. It wasn’t a good sign. Mike and I both went into the house for warmer clothes. Then he stayed with his crime scene crew, José went about his business, and I confronted two worried, scared girls. As gently as I could I told them what had happened, trying to keep my voice from shaking.
“Gus is a good watch dog,” I told Maggie.
She nodded. “I locked him in the room when I came out here. What now?”
I shook my head. “I’ll call Keisha to stay with you, so I can go to the hospital. Mike will be out back with his crime scene crew, but I don’t want you here alone.”
“What about Sheila?” Em asked in a quavering voice.
“Mike will find her,” I assured my sentimental child. When I put my arms around her, she burst out crying. “I don’t want Ms. Lorna to die. She’s not nearly as scary as I thought she was.”
“She won’t die,” I said fervently.
Keisha came immediately, wearing a nightgown as gaudy as her muumuus, her hair askew, her feet shoved into worn bedroom slippers. She was upset about Sheila but devastated about Ms. Lorna. Keisha had really become close to that old lady and, through her, so had I. I promised to call and made yet one more trip to JPS.
As I got into my car, Mike came running over. “Where are you going?”
“JPS. Someone’s got to be there for Ms. Lorna.”
“She won’t know. And I can’t watch the girls. I’m working out here. This happened on my watch.”
“Keisha’s with the girls. And yes, Ms. Lorna will know.” I remembered Keisha’s insistence that Sheila knew we were there. I just hoped I wouldn’t encounter Elisabeth Smedley this time.
“Wait here,” Mike commanded. He was back in second with a police hangtag allowing me to park where Smedley had parked illegally. “I don’t want you in that garage alone at night. Got your gun?”
I dug in my purse and held it up triumphantly.
“You might keep it where it’s a little easier to get to,” he said wryly. “Call me when you get there and find out what’s going on. And call me when you head home.”
****
I parked as he told me, went inside and identified myself to a tired-looking receptionist.
“You next of kin?” she asked.
“No, her daughter is her only relative. But she can’t be here.” I wasn’t going to explain that the daughter had been kidnapped and was probably being forcibly held somewhere.
The woman yawned. “Do you have power of attorney? Did she sign a DNR order?”
I shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know, but I can call her lawyer.”
“We’ll need written documents,” the woman said. I’m sure this was routine to her, but I was frantic. I didn’t want to talk about paperwork and DNR orders—surely not necessary.
“How is she?” I demanded, my tone growing harsh.
“I’ll tell the doctors you’re here. Call that lawyer.”
I looked at the clock—nearly three-thirty in the morning. Terrell Johnson would not be happy to hear from me. He wasn’t, but characteristically, he was interested, and when I told him about Ms. Lorna, he was quick to respond. “Yes, she did sign a DNR. And Sheila holds power of attorney, but I’m backup in case she’s not available. I think she foresaw something like this. Let me throw on some jeans and run by the office to get the paper work. Then I’ll be there.”
It was four thirty before he got there. I had finally been allowed into the cubicle where Ms. Lorna was hooked up to all kinds of beepers and monitors and IV equipment. A kind nurse explained they had done everything they could, and now it was a matter of waiting to see if Ms. Lorna could summon the strength to fight the blow to her head. The nurse didn’t exactly hold out hope but said it was a good sign she was still with us, a phrase that sounded eerie to me.
The nurse gave me a call button, told me to hit it if the beeping changed, and left. ER was, as always, busy. I held Ms. Lorna’s hand and talked to her, told her I’d misjudged her, told her she was important to me and I didn’t want her to leave us. Most of all I talked about Sheila and her baby, and how Mike would get them back and they’d all be one happy family. I swear once or twice she gave my hand the slightest of squeezes—or was it just because I wanted so badly to feel that pressure, however slight?
A little after four, one of the monitors beeped loudly, and even I kne
w the EKG line had suddenly become very irregular. I hit the button but there was no need—several doctors and nurses rushed into the cubicle, and I was shoved out. A crash cart was rolled into the room, but I heard no panic, no loud voices. They were used to this, and they knew what they were doing.
And that was when Terrell arrived. He apparently showed the paperwork to the receptionist who accepted it, allowed him back to the hallway where I waited, slumped against the wall.
He leaned against the wall next to me and gave me a big, tight hug. “You know, Kelly O’Connell, you are one amazing person, and you get into the damnedest situations. But I don’t know many women who would come down here alone at night for one crotchety old woman.”
“She wasn’t….isn’t crotchety. She…she just has her own ideas.”
“I’ll say.”
“Terrell, can you stay here? I need to step outside and call Mike.” I did, and Mike was relieved Terrell was there but disappointed to hear the news Ms. Lorna had apparently gone into crisis mode. “Have Terrell follow you home whenever, and keep me posted.”
“I will. And, Mike, I love you.”
“I love you too, Kelly. Please be careful.”
When I went back into the secret area of cubicles, I had to prove all over again who I was and why I was there. And then I saw Terrell, head in his hands. I walked over and touched him gently.
He looked up at me, and I swear he had tears in his eyes. “She died, Kelly. In spite of all they could do.”
“Did we sign her death warrant with the DNR form?”
He shook his head. “If they’d brought her back two or three times, she’d have been a vegetable…and she hated that thought. That’s why she signed the order.”
They let me sit beside Ms. Lorna for a bit, and once again I found myself holding a hand, now clammy and cold, and talking to her about how she could watch over Sheila and her grandchild and know they—and all of us—loved her. I had no idea what her beliefs were about the afterlife, but I suspect they were pretty cynical. Suddenly, that old lady who had once been such a thorn in my side had become someone dear to me, and I grieved with an intensity that surprised me.
Terrell followed me home and came in, and when we got there, Mike was in the kitchen pouring cold cereal. I told him what happened, and he wrapped me in his arms. “Kelly, she got to know her daughter, and she died protecting her. Ms. Lorna really didn’t care about herself any more. Yes, she’s sorry to miss the baby and more time with Sheila, but I suspect she may even be grinning at us from the other side. And maybe she found some pot to smoke.
That thought brought the slightest smile to my face. “What about Sheila?”
“She took nothing. Her purse, her phone, all her clothes are still there. What you and I didn’t see in our concern about Ms. Lorna was that the door is kicked in. The phone and alarm wires are cut. Can you get Anthony out here today to fix things?”
“Of course.”
We were a solemn group at breakfast and said a quiet prayer for Ms. Lorna and for Sheila’s safety. Em cried for Ms. Lorna, and Maggie looked as though she didn’t know how she was supposed to feel—typical teenager. They both tried to beg off school because of a death in the family. Terrell played with his cereal, drank too many cups of coffee, and looked to be thinking in another universe.
The girls’ plea didn’t work. I took them to school and went to tell Keisha what happened. Keisha put a hand to her mouth, her eyes wide with horror, and then she wrapped me a big hug, saying what I could have predicted,
“That poor baby.”
“Who? Sheila or Ms. Lorna?”
She chuckled. “I’m as mad as I can be at whoever did this to Ms. Lorna, and if I ever lay hands on that snake, he’ll regret it. But Ms. Lorna can take care of herself, no matter where she is. It’s Miss Sheila who’s a poor baby. I’m worried to death about that girl, and I want to strangle one Bruce Hollister. You tell Mike to let me know how I can help.”
“Help strangle Hollister?” I asked. Keisha was restoring some sense of balance in me, but I was so tired I couldn’t think straight. I headed home, but the sleep I needed wouldn’t come. Anthony came, looking more solemn than I’d seen him since he found a skeleton in a kitchen cabinet. “I wish that old lady had let me work on that house,” he said. “I’d have shown her how wonderful it could be. And maybe I could have made her laugh a time or two.”
Strange. Now that she was gone, we were all thinking of what we could have done for Ms. Lorna. Except I thought we did the one big thing she needed: we reunited her with her daughter. Maybe Mike as right, and she died happy. But I bet she was mad too.
About the apartment, Anthony assured me he would measure, get a door, and call his favorite electrician. I left him to his work and wandered nervously about the house until I finally went back to the office. I called Claire and told her so the bank could freeze Ms. Lorna’s account. I wished I knew where Sheila banked. I’d search her purse if it was still in the apartment, but I bet the crime scene crew had taken it.
I called Mike. He had put an APB out on a black SUV headed toward San Antonio, two passengers, but held slim hope. The roads were full of SUVs, we didn’t know make or license number, and the driver—Nick, no doubt—might well take a circuitous route. And as we’d all said, it was likely Nick had another car by now.
“Should we call Hollister? Pretend to be calling to inform him but see what he says?”
“We should do nothing. I have already called. He reacted as I expected, expressed shock and concern, asked if he should come up here. I’m betting that’s the last thing he wanted to do. I almost said yes, just to see what he’d say.”
“You think he took her?”
“I think he paid someone to take her.”
“What do we do?
“Let me repeat: We do not do anything. The police will follow any leads. We just haven’t gotten any yet.”
I have never felt so frustrated in my life. The day dragged on forever, and I’m sure I wasn’t as patient as the girls deserved after school. They too were scared and worried.
At supper, Mike reported that a call had come from a gas station in Kerrville about a man in a black SUV who said his wife was sleeping in the middle seat because she did not feel well.
“Kerrville!” I exploded. “He sure is going out of his way to get to San Antonio.”
“Maybe that’s not where he’s going. The gas station guy got a license number. We ran it—Bruce Hollister. For someone doing the evil things he is, he’s not too smart.”
“Was he driving it?”
Mike shook his head. “We got the best description the guy could give us—dark hair, shades, casually dressed was all he remembered.”
“Airplane sunglasses?”
“Yeah, matter of fact, he did say that. Said the dude never took them off.”
“Nick. Of course it was Nick. Who else?”
“You’re probably right, but I wish we knew more about Nick.”
“Me too. Can you get a search warrant for Hollister’s house?”
“I can’t but I found out he doesn’t live in San Antonio proper. He lives in Alamo Heights, a separate city with its own police force. I talked to them, gave them all their evidence. I’ll fax
a report tomorrow documenting reasonable cause, and they’ll go before a judge to get a warrant. Hope they can do it before they weekend.”
If they can’t, Mike will have to commit me. I can’t stand this tension.
The night was as long as the day had been.
****
Friday didn’t hurry by either, and I nearly wept when Mike called about four to say that the Alamo Heights police had gone to Hollister’s house.
“They were politely received, searched the house. Alamo Heights is an older city, with houses close together, but some people buy two houses, tear them down, and build on that large lot. That’s what Hollister apparently did—a faux Spanish style house, hidden behind a large privacy wall, two stories and a ba
sement. The Alamo people found no trace of Sheila and said Hollister kept repeating his indignation and his concern for his wife. Thinks whatever happened, she’s still in Fort Worth. Tried to point the finger at ‘those people she’s staying with or her mother’—direct quote from the Alamo chief. Said he seemed sincere.”
“I guess he’s not a good judge of sincerity,” was all I could think of to say.
“The Alamo chief is now undecided. I had to tell him my wife and I were ‘those people’ and that changed his approach a bit, but not enough that he’s hot about this problem.”
I punched the “end call” button and sat staring into space. I had even canceled Jenny’s planned sleepover. On an impulse I went to the computer and opened Explorer, punched in Bruce Hollister. Nothing new. Just the websites calling him a truly inspiring minister and begging for support for his ministry. I pulled up Facebook and clicked on his page…and there it was.
“I am happy to report that my wife, Diane Hollister, is back at home where she belongs. Her condition is frail, and she will not be making public appearances in the near future but praise God for her return. Please join me in showing your appreciation for God’s goodness.” And there was a picture of Diane looking as she had that first day in my office. But it wasn’t the Sheila I knew. The attitude, the eyes, all were different. Mike was right—Bruce Hollister was not very smart.
I called Mike and told him what I’d found.
“Shit!” he exploded, so loudly I was glad the girls were out of the house. Mike never talked like that. “What do we do now? I don’t know that we can get the judge to issue another warrant.”
“Hollister wouldn’t be expecting it this time,” I said.
For once, Mike didn’t tell me to stay out of police business. Instead he said, “Good point. Let me think about it. I’ll be home on time for supper.”
I wanted to tell him not to think too long and remind him that it was Friday night. Courts and judges’ chambers were empty. But I held my tongue.
After we disconnected, I idly started to check my email. I almost didn’t open the one from someone I’d never heard of, but I glanced at it in the reading pane. “Check the safe room upstairs.” No signature. Nothing else. The email address was [email protected]. The SA could be San Antonio, but I knew no Edward, and why would he email me? But the message intrigued me. I sent it to Mike with a question: “What do you think about this?”
