You can’t lay here all night.
She forced her body to rise, forced her legs to walk across the room, then out the door. Her stomach churned all the way to Jonathan’s office. She closed the door, then flicked on the light and went to the desk. She picked up the phone and punched in Bernie’s number, all the while listening for any sounds in the hall.
“Bernie . . . .”
“Where in blue blazes are you! I’ve been calling your apartment for hours. The doctor told you to rest.”
“I’m at the mission . . . and how did you find out about . . . .”
“Steve Bradley. He called to chew me out. Said I had a cash register for a head and all I thought about was selling papers. How are you?”
“Glad to be alive.” Cynthia picked up the paperweight on the desk and read the inscription. This is the day the Lord has made; we will rejoice and be glad in it.
“Mind telling me why you haven’t bothered to call? Why you didn’t let me know what happened?”
“I didn’t want you to pull me off the story.” Cynthia hoped her croaking voice didn’t remind Bernie how close she had come to never speaking to him again. “Not until I did some more checking.”
“You sound awful. Should you be using your voice like this?”
“No.”
“Then you’d better hang up . . . but first tell me, did you? Did you do your checking?”
Cynthia put down the paperweight. “Yes. And now I’m not sure I want to stay on the story.”
“I’ve never known you to quit something once you started. So either you found nothing or you’re scared. Which is it?”
“A little of both. Other people could get hurt. It’s not just my neck I’m thinking about.”
“Okay, Wells. You’ve got something, and sore throat or not, I want to hear it.”
“Drugs are being distributed from the Angus Avenue Men’s Shelter and they’re using homeless men to do it.”
“Well, dip me in printer’s ink! If your nose still isn’t one of the best in the business! Okay, you’ve got a story; now explain why you don’t want to go with it.”
“I don’t have any proof.”
“I’d say the attempt on your life means you’re getting close. I could put Jones and Bodkins on it. They’re both gorillas and a lot harder to hassle. They could do the rest of the legwork. It would still be your story, with a sidebar for each of them. It’s the best of both worlds. We could keep you out of harms way and still get the scoop.”
“That’ll only solve part of the problem. What about my source? What happens to Stubby? They’ll kill him, Bernie. They already killed his two friends for stealing from them. And unless there’s some way we can protect Stubby, I’m not sure I want to go ahead with this.”
“This isn’t the iron maiden I’ve come to know and love. Since when do we provide protection for our sources?”
“I was planning to talk to Steve. If he can’t help, I thought we could work something out. Have Bodkins go undercover, be Stubby’s bodyguard. And while he’s doing it, he could dig around for more information.”
“There’s no way Bodkins would ever convince anyone he’s down and out. He’s got too much ego, and he’s too healthy looking. But Jones might pull it off. I could send him tomorrow, do an even exchange. You come out, and he’ll go in.”
Cynthia felt her stomach knot. Leave tomorrow? She hadn’t counted on that. Neither had she counted on feeling sad at the prospect.
“Earth to Wells. Where are you?”
“Okay . . . send Jones. I’ll see you in the office tomorrow morning, and then I’ll give you everything I have. I’m trusting you, Bernie, to make it clear to Jones that his first priority is to protect Stubby.”
“Get serious, Wells. I can’t tell a reporter his main job is babysitting. You let me handle him. You just be here, tomorrow. Early.”
“Good night, Bernie.”
“Right. Take care of that throat. And Wells . . . I’m glad you’re okay. Really glad.”
“Yeah . . . I love you, too. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to date your wife’s cousin.”
When Cynthia hung up, there was a smile on her face but it faded when she heard a scratching sound outside the door. She picked up the paperweight and watched in horror as the door opened.
“I hope you’re not planning to use that on me?”
Cynthia lowered her arm. “I’m still a little jumpy.”
“Small wonder with what you went through last night.” Miss Emily walked over to Cynthia and hugged her. “I heard you were back and came by earlier but you must have been sleeping because you didn’t answer my knock.”
“I didn’t wake up until it was dark.”
“You can move back to your room. The police pulled off their tape late this afternoon and Stubby fixed the door.” Miss Emily draped her arm around Cynthia’s shoulder. “I’m glad to see you’re alright. I’ve been praying, asking God for healing, and for Him to keep His ministering angels as a hedge of protection around you. It wouldn’t do to have something happen to you before you got to meet my beautiful Jesus.”
“I could use your prayers. Thank you.”
“If there’s something special you want me to pray about, I’d do that, too.”
Cynthia remained silent.
“I see you’ve been making more of your calls. Is your business almost done?”
Cynthia tried to read Miss Emily’s face, but couldn’t. “I’m . . . not sure.”
Miss Emily slipped her arm through Cynthia’s. “You must be starving. Come in the kitchen and I’ll heat up some soup. It’ll do your throat good. Besides, I think it’s time you and I had a little talk.”
Cynthia watched Miss Emily buzz around the kitchen and envied how much at home she seemed. Or was it that Miss Emily made everyplace seem like home? Cynthia took a deep breath.
What was she going to tell her?
The truth, for starters. There was no way she could dodge that bullet any longer. But she didn’t have the same sinking feeling, that feeling she had had just before telling Stubby. Cynthia suspected it was because Miss Emily probably knew her secret. At least some of it.
“You know, by the time I was your age I already had three miscarriages. Then two more after that. That’s when I started drinking.” Miss Emily poured the steaming soup into a mug and brought it to Cynthia. “The drugging came later, after my husband left me. It wasn’t his fault. My loneliness was like a giant vacuum that had already sucked everything out of him. He had tried for years to give me what I needed. But that was like expecting a glass of water to fill up a ditch. It can’t be done.”
Cynthia blew on the soup trying to cool it off, then gave up and placed it on the counter. “You want to know about my past, is that it? All the sordid details?”
“I already know about your past. It’s the future I’m concerned about.”
“I must confess that’s the thing I find irritating about you. Your insinuation, your supposing that you know me.”
Miss Emily smiled. “But I do. The truth is, all I have to do is look in the mirror and I see you. Because . . . I was you. You’ve got a hole as big as mine was, right smack dab in your center, and nothing you do will fill it. You can find a good man to be your husband, you can have lots of pretty, pink babies, but your hunger will eat them alive. Only Jesus can fix what ails you.”
Cynthia fingered her mug. “Is this what you wanted to discuss?”
“Nothing’s ever going to change the past. You can’t go back. But Daddy God has a lap for you, child. And He’s just waiting for you to crawl up on it. If you try crawling on other laps, like I did, you’re going to be miserable all your life.”
Cynthia took a chance and sipped her soup. It soothed her throat going down. When she looked up, Miss Emily was standing by the sink, just staring at her. “I’ve hurt people . . . ruined their lives. There’s no lap big enough to cure that.”
“Life’s hard, child. No getting around it. But you ha
ve a choice here. Either you continue down the path you’re going or change directions.”
Cynthia took another sip. “This is delicious, Miss Emily. One of the things I’m going to miss when I leave is your good cooking.”
“You’ll be leaving soon, I expect.”
“Tomorrow.”
“Then you have all you need for that article you’re writing?”
“How did . . . ?”
“That was your first mistake. You assumed street people don’t read; that they’re not aware of what’s going on in the world. And I guess that’s partly true. But I’ve been reading your articles for years. I liked them, too.”
Cynthia frowned and shook her head. “There’s no picture next to my column.”
“I saw your interview on Channel 11’s local news just after your Nanny Scam story. Then when you got here and cleaned yourself up, I recognized you right away. Except I think you’re prettier in person.”
“Does Jonathan know?”
“Would it matter?”
Cynthia thought of Jonathan’s offer to help. Had he known all along? “Yes . . . I think it would.”
Miss Emily gave her a queer look and shook her head. “I never told anyone, though I was tempted to tell Stubby. He’s vulnerable and trying hard to trust again. But when I prayed about it, I got a distinct command to keep my mouth shut. I guess God wanted you and Stubby to work things out for yourselves.”
“Thank you for that.” Cynthia placed her mug on the counter and walked over to Miss Emily. “We managed to get everything straightened out. Well, not everything. I guess some things can never be reconciled. But I hope you and I . . . that we can keep in touch. I’d hate to lose your frien . . . .”
Miss Emily’s arms encircled her. “I know, child. Me, too.”
Cynthia awoke to shouts and the noise of feet running down the hall. She jumped out of bed and grabbed her robe, then sprinted out the door. The first person she saw was Jonathan Holmes. He flew past her, heading for his office, his face ashen.
“What’s the matter?” she said, running after him.
“Stubby!” His fingers frantically punched numbers.
“What happened?”
Jonathan ignored her, and spoke rapidly into the phone. When Cynthia got the gist of what was going on, she headed for the men’s bathroom. Miss Emily and Effie were standing by the entrance, clutching each other. Cynthia streaked passed them and through the doorway. She stopped when she saw Stubby lying face up on the floor. His eyes were rolled back, and next to him was a tourniquet and empty syringe.
She knelt down and felt for a pulse, then put her hand in front of his nostrils to check his breath. Nothing. Already his nails and lips were blue. She pinched his nose and began CPR. She worked at a frantic pace until she felt a hand on her shoulder.
“I’ll take over.”
Cynthia looked up at Jonathan’s drawn face, then moved so he could take her place. Her mind was racing. What happened? The needle . . . the tourniquet . . . . Stubby wouldn’t go back on drugs. He just wouldn’t. But a voice in her head nagged, drug addicts do it all the time. They get cleaned up, then fall back down.
She watched Jonathan work feverishly. It couldn’t end like this. Stubby couldn’t die, not like this, not on a cold bathroom floor. And what about Divine Appointment? Hadn’t Stubby said God had healed him? And he believed it with all his being. No, it just wasn’t possible that Stubby went back to drugging. So what happened? Only one answer came to mind. If Stubby didn’t inject himself then someone else did.
That meant someone had tried to kill him.
Cynthia watched Detective Steve Bradley and his men mull around the hall. She had thrown on a pair of jeans and T-shirt and stood in a spot where she could see all the action. She was determined to stay at her post, to see this thing through, at least until they stabilized Stubby and moved him to the waiting ambulance. It made her angry the way Miss Emily and Effie had left—Miss Emily to her kitchen and Effie to Daisy. She was sure Jonathan would leave too, as soon as he had answered all of Steve’s questions.
Maybe they don’t have your guilty conscience.
Cynthia jerked her head and tried pushing that thought aside, tried pretending it didn’t keep popping up like a Jack-in-the-Box she couldn’t restrain. Was Stubby dying because of her? She had ruined his life once. Was she doing it again? Did this happen because he had told her about Jake and the drugs?
She leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. How was she ever going to deal with all this?
“Enough excitement for you?”
Cynthia opened her eyes and looked into the tired, angry face of Detective Steve Bradley. Just beyond him stood Jonathan, a concerned look on his face, and hanging back a bit as though waiting to see if she needed him.
“He didn’t overdose, Steve.”
“Why don’t you let the SOPD determine that?”
“I’m telling you—look for signs of a struggle, bruises, lacerations. Someone wanted him dead.”
“If you have pertinent information, you better not hold out. Otherwise, back off.”
“I only have what Stubby told me, that drugs are being run out of the Angus Avenue Men’s Shelter. And that a man, Jake Stone, runs both the shelter and the drug operation.”
“That’s hearsay. Do you have anything concrete?”
Cynthia shook her head. “You know I’m not a bleeding heart. And you know my instincts are good.”
Steve leaned close to Cynthia and twirled a strand of her hair around his finger. “Your instincts are good in certain areas. In others, they stink; otherwise you’d still be going out with me.”
“Will you at least check out Stone?”
Steve shrugged and released her hair. “Okay, for old-time’s sake.”
“And I get the story—an exclusive,” she said, lowering her voice.
“You know I can’t give you that,” he whispered in her ear. “But I’ll see you get our press releases a full half hour before anyone else. And . . . if you’re really nice, I’ll give you tons of off-the-record stuff.”
Cynthia laughed and pushed Steve away. When she did, she caught sight of Jonathan’s face, and watched it change as understanding washed over him.
Then he walked away.
Cynthia’s ear was numb from pressing the phone against it. She had asked Jonathan if she could use his office phone and he had consented without waiting for the explanation she was so anxious to give. That was twenty minutes ago and she was still on the phone with Bernie discussing the morning events, and running out of arguments.
“Bernie, you’ve got to let me stay.”
“Not on your life! Let Steve handle it from here. You can still do your story. Maybe make it a series, break it into two or three parts. And we’ll scoop the other papers. But that’s where it ends. Forget Jones and Bodkins. And most of all, forget you. Go home, and I mean back to your apartment in North Oberon. I’m giving you a vacation day, then tomorrow I want you at your terminal pounding out a Pulitzer. I want the first part to be an exposé on the homeless, give the usual stats, detail the trends, what’s new, what’s old. In Part Two, you’ll put a face on it. Here’s where you talk about the guy who someone tried to kill this morning, and his two friends. Then if Steve gets lucky and finds anything on this Stone character, we’ll do a Part Three.”
“Bernie, for your information the man who nearly died has a name. And he was my friend.”
“Sorry. I know this assignment bit you in ways you hadn’t expected. All the more to pull back and let Steve handle it. The best thing you can do for your friend now is to come in tomorrow and write a masterpiece.”
“I just wish I could shake the thought that someone tried to kill Stubby because of me.” Cynthia sank lower in the desk chair. “Because of this story.”
“You didn’t mess up this guy’s life and you didn’t make him live on the street, so don’t go beating yourself up. Just try to bring some good out of it. Am I getting through to you,
Wells?”
What would Bernie think if he knew the truth?
“You know what street people say? ‘You can’t spell bum without u in it.’”
Cynthia looked around her room for the last time. She didn’t know why she had that feeling she always got when she left a hotel and was certain she’d forgotten something, because this time she was leaving everything behind. After the paramedics wheeled Stubby out, she had showered and put on clean jeans and a T-shirt. Then she had taken Stubby’s poem from her night stand and shoved it in her pocket. All the rest—the robe and nightgown Miss Emily had loaned her, the assorted clothes she had taken from the stockroom, the four layers of clothes she had come to the mission in, and her sheets and towels—she had hauled to the basement and run through the washers and dryers. Now, they sat folded in piles on her bed.
Sadness pierced her. Why had she let everyone get so close? She took a deep breath.
She’d get over it.
She’d go back to her apartment, tuck herself into a familiar routine, get involved in another story. In a few weeks, life would return to normal and she’d forget . . . and so would they.
But did she really want to go back to normal?
She walked to the entrance of her room, turned and looked one last time, then closed the door behind her. She had said her “goodbyes” to Miss Emily, but she still needed to say them to Effie and . . . Jonathan.
Especially Jonathan.
He must feel like she had played him for a sap. She certainly reinforced the image of the hardboiled reporter.
Nice going, Wells.
When Cynthia opened the door to Effie’s Day Care, she could see Effie was up to her eyeballs. One of the kids was crying, another was throwing up. And Daisy was hanging onto Effie for dear life.
“These kids are sick. I think they got fevers,” Effie said, looking desperate.
“Anything I can do?” Cynthia watched Effie spread blankets on the floor and herd her little patients onto them. When Effie shook her head Cynthia decided to say her ‘good-bye’ in a note. Then she headed for Jonathan’s office.
Mercy at Midnight Page 20
