Last Whisper

by Carlene Thompson

  “Stacy Corrigan. She informed me three times while I was at the nurses’ station,” the doctor said dryly.

  “Well, you were needed in here and you were just standing around,” Stacy returned tartly.

  “I was not just standing around, Mrs. Corrigan,” the doctor said edgily. “I was filling out charts and I do not move with the speed of light.” He looked at Brooke. “I’d like to talk to you about what we know of your grandmother’s condition at this point. Would you prefer to do so privately?”

  “No. Stacy and Jay are good friends. There’s nothing they can’t hear.”

  The doctor looked disappointed. Brooke could tell he wanted to get away from Stacy, who obviously set his teeth on edge, but he nodded resolutely. “Let’s go into the hallway. We don’t want to disturb Mrs. Yeager.”

  He doesn’t want to say anything that might agitate her in case she’s only pretending to be asleep, Brooke thought, depressed. Maybe this doctor always looked solemn, but Brooke had a strong feeling he did not have good news to deliver.

  The hallway seemed unusually cold to Brooke and she wrapped her arms around herself before the doctor began in his toneless, professional voice. “As I’ve already said, we haven’t had time to run all the tests we need to on your grandmother, Miss Yeager, so I don’t have a lot of information to give you at this point.”

  “I understand,” Brooke said, feeling Stacy lightly place her own sweater over Brooke’s trembling shoulders.

  The doctor cleared his throat and looked at her expressionlessly. “The stroke appears to have taken place on the right side of her brain. Oddly enough, the part of the body that is affected by the stroke is the opposite side of the brain from which the stroke occurred. For instance, if the stroke happened on the left side of the brain, the right side of her body would be affected. In your grandmother’s case, the opposite has happened. I’m sure you noticed that the left side of her face is drawn down, and she speaks through the right side of her mouth.”

  “She held my hand with her right hand, too,” Brooke said.

  “Exactly. So far, she hasn’t experienced any seizures. That’s good. However, she suffers from reduced mobility, reduced reflexes, and incontinence.”

  She’s incontinent, Brooke thought inanely. How humiliating her immaculate grandmother would find this condition. “Is there any chance for a full recovery?” Brooke asked.

  The doctor looked at her sympathetically. “Your grandmother wasn’t in good health before this last stroke. Unless you believe in miracles, she will never be well again—not even as well-off as she was before the stroke.”

  “Is she in pain?” Stacy asked.

  Dr. Morris frowned. “I don’t think so. Of course, it’s always hard to tell, but she appears to be sleeping. Her blood pressure is up, so we’re raising her dosage of medicine to keep it from climbing farther. And we’ve noticed some bladder problems, which I think we can alter without too much trouble.”

  “Well, none of that seems too bad,” Jay said, trying to sound hearty.

  “No,” the doctor answered neutrally as it passed through Brooke’s mind that the three of them really had no idea how bad off Greta was. Doctor Morris was either telling the truth or merely trying to calm her.

  “Doctor, have you heard of an escaped convict named Zachary Tavell hanging around this area?” Brooke asked.

  The doctor paused. Then he nodded slowly. “Yes, I believe I have.”

  “He was in my grandmother’s room at the nursing home tonight. I think that’s what brought on this stroke.”

  Dr. Morris’s face froze and he suddenly looked as if he were dealing with a possible lunatic. He seemed to think that if he held perfectly still and adopted a wooden smile, he would be safe. “Really? What makes you think that, Ms. Yeager?” he asked tonelessly.

  “Zach Tavell is my stepfather. He killed my mother. He broke out of prison two nights ago and he’s come here to kill me. But Grossmutter, I mean Grandmother, said he’d been in her room.”

  “At White Willows?”

  “Yes.”

  “I see.” The doctor continued to look at her warily. “I don’t believe that’s possible, Ms. Yeager.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, the security, for one thing. White Willows has very good security. Besides, well . . .” The doctor looked at her helplessly. “If this escaped convict is after you, as you say, why would he risk getting caught by going to your grandmother’s room?”

  He had a good point, Brooke thought. Still . . . “My grandmother was adamant about his being in her room at White Willows.”

  The doctor looked at her steadily, and Brooke could see him marshaling a calming tone and composed manner. “Ms. Yeager, I’m sure your grandmother did sound convincing, but one of the symptoms of a stroke is altered thought process.”

  “But she sounded so sure.”

  “I’m certain she did. But often a patient who’s suffered a CVA, or cerebral vascular accident, as your grandmother has, also shows signs of impaired thinking ability. She can be utterly sure she saw this man, but I really think it’s highly unlikely.”

  Yes, it did sound unlikely. Zach would have been taking a great risk to break into White Willows Nursing Home. And for what reason? To scare Greta? She’d never done anything to hurt him. She wasn’t the reason he’d come to Charleston. Brooke was his prey.

  “I suppose you’re right,” Brooke finally said, feeling foolish because she’d pushed an issue whose answer seemed obvious. “What comes next?”

  “More tests.” Dr. Morris gave her a small, professional smile, only slightly less unnatural than the last one. “We’ll know more by tomorrow afternoon. Right now, your grandmother appears to be getting some rest, and I recommend that you go home and do the same.”

  “I can’t just leave her!” Brooke exclaimed.

  The doctor said calmly, “I understand you feel as if you’re deserting her, but you’re not. You can do nothing medically for her, though. What you can do is preserve your own strength. She might need it tomorrow. Let’s hope she doesn’t, but just in case . . .”

  Brooke knew he was merely giving her a rehearsed speech, one he’d probably delivered a hundred times, but that didn’t make its contents false. Greta needed tests. Greta needed professional care. Brooke could do neither. Her continued presence at the hospital was just a drain on stamina she might need later, not to mention a burden on Stacy and Jay. “All right. I’ll go home for now,” she told the doctor. “Is there anything I need to do, first?”

  “Stop at the admitting desk in Emergency and make sure they have all of your grandmother’s insurance information, all paperwork pertaining to her case from the nursing home, and any phone numbers at which you can be reached, such as your friends’, if they don’t mind.”

  “Of course we don’t mind,” Stacy and Jay said simultaneously. Everyone let out tinny little false laughs and the doctor forced one last minuscule smile before heading quickly away to see another patient.

  “Let’s go to the desk,” Stacy said immediately. “They should already have the paperwork, but you know how these places are. Monuments of inefficiency.”

  “Now Stacy,” Jay said mildly. “You think no one can do anything right except you.”

  Stacy grinned at him. “You’re right. Me and my ego! But I am efficient; you have to admit it.”

  “Most efficient person I ever knew,” Jay said proudly. “Wish we had you working down at headquarters.”

  “Darling, you know how much my job at Chantal’s means to me,” Stacy teased with false sincerity. “I’d never dream of giving up selling overpriced clothes. It’s always been my desire.” She looked at Brooke, her smile fading. “We’d better get you home. You look tired enough to drop.”

  “I feel guilty leaving like this.”

  Stacy took her hand. “Sweetie, there’s nothing you can do. Like the doctor said, you need to get some rest so you’ll be strong for tomorrow.”

  In the backseat o
f the Corrigans’ car, Brooke could hear Stacy and Jay talking softly as they drove back to the apartment building, but she didn’t pay any attention to what they were saying. This is my fault, she thought dismally. What happened to Grossmutter is my fault. I didn’t warn anyone at White Willows about Zach.

  Jay glanced at her in the rearview mirror. “You’re feeling guilty, Brooke.”

  “I didn’t know you had ESP.”

  “I do. Stacy keeps trying to get me to leave the police force and open a carnival act.” He gave Brooke the feeble grin his weak attempt at humor deserved. “You’re mad at yourself for not telling the people at White Willows about Zach’s escape, aren’t you?”

  “Yes. You do have ESP.”

  “No. I’ve just been at this job long enough to know how people’s minds work. For some reason, all the good people want to take the blame for everything the bad people do. The bad people blame everyone else.”

  “I should have warned them, Jay.”

  “Why? Who in the hell would have thought Zach would go to White Willows? For that matter, who told him Greta was there?”

  Brooke stiffened. He was right. Who would have told Zach? Certainly not her. She had no other close relatives, and even distant ones wouldn’t have had any communication with Zach. “Could he have a source on the outside?” she asked.

  Jay nodded. “Lots of prisoners do. Some wackos even keep up a correspondence with these guys. It gives them a feeling of power. But like the doctor said, even if someone had let Zach know Greta was in White Willows, why would he have taken the chance of going there? Certainly not to find you around midnight. Remember what the doctor told you. People who have a stroke can suffer from . . .”

  “Impaired thinking process,” Stacy filled in for him, then turned in her seat and smiled reassuringly at Brooke. “She must have dreamed it, Brooke. Or gotten today’s events jumbled up with events from a long time ago.”

  “Yes, I guess so,” Brooke said without conviction.

  When they reached the apartment building, Harry Dormer lingered in the lobby, another garish T-shirt stretched over his growing belly, a baseball cap on his badly cut salt-and-pepper hair. “You folks are out late tonight. Anything special going on?” he asked curiously.

  “Brooke’s grandmother had a stroke,” Jay said.

  “Is that right? Well, what a shame. Is she alive or did this one do her in?”

  Stacy glared at him. “She’s alive, thank goodness, and will you please work on your tact?”

  “I don’t have good tact?”

  “You have no tact,” Stacy snapped.

  “Oh, no tact. Gosh, I feel awful,” Harry drawled. “I might not have tact, but I got something else.”

  “A social disease?” Stacy asked as they headed for the elevator.

  “Information.”

  The three of them stopped dead and looked at him. He looked back, smirking. Then Jay said sternly, “Okay. Out with it.” Harry seemed to waver. “I mean it, Harry.”

  “All right. I was gonna tell you.” He looked at Brooke. “Miss Yeager, your ex-boyfriend, that Eads guy, was here about an hour ago lookin’ for you. My wife says he’s handsome, but I don’t see it myself. Too much of a pretty boy. Anyway, he didn’t look pretty tonight. He looked scared and tired and . . . well, sort of like a truck hit him. The guy wasn’t in good shape at all.”

  “And that was an hour ago?” Jay asked.

  “Give or take a few minutes.”

  “Did he say what he wanted?” Stacy demanded.

  “Nope. He just went flyin’ up to Brooke’s apartment, pounded on her door, then went dashin’ out the front door again. I said hello to him, but I don’t think he ever even saw me.” Harry shook his head. “Something had that guy worked up. Real worked up. Something to do with you, Brooke.”

  The elevator doors opened and Stacy nearly shoved her inside. As soon as the doors closed, Stacy put her arm around Brooke. “Don’t pay any attention to Harry. Robert probably wasn’t acting any different than usual. Harry simply likes to get attention.”

  “Maybe Robert knew something about Grandmother. . . .”

  “How could he?” Jay asked. “I doubt if White Willows called your old boyfriend to tell him your grandmother had a stroke. You never even took Robert to see her, did you?”

  “No.”

  “Then Harry’s just being dramatic,” Stacy said in disgust. “He’s such a toad. I absolutely can’t stand him. I don’t think anyone in the building likes him.”

  “Except his wife,” Brooke said.

  Stacy waved away the idea of Eunice’s love for her husband as if she were brushing away a gnat. “She’s just too homely to get anyone else. And she depends on him. She can’t hold on to a job, so he provides a paycheck. She’s even too much of a coward to give herself her own insulin shots. Harry has to do that for her. I can’t stand cowards.”

  “Third floor, ladies,” Jay said as the elevator doors opened again.

  “You go on home, honey,” Stacy said to Jay. “I’m going to get Brooke settled for the night.”

  “Sure you don’t need anything I can provide, Brooke?” Jay asked. Stacy raised an eyebrow at him and his face turned red. “Well, I didn’t mean that! God, Stacy, you’re acting as possessive as Harry’s wife.”

  “Compare me to Eunice Dormer again and you’ll be sleeping by yourself for a week,” Stacy said, but her eyes twinkled at Jay.

  When they walked into the apartment, Elise nearly hurled herself into Brooke’s arms. The jolt sent Brooke back a couple of steps, but she laughed. “That kind of stuff was cute when you weighed five pounds, but you’ll have to cut it out now that you’re up to forty.”

  “Maybe you should send her to obedience school,” Stacy suggested.

  “For being glad to see me? I don’t think so.”

  Stacy offered to fix Brooke tea or hot milk, both of which sounded revolting, then literally tucked her into bed. Brooke felt ridiculous, but she knew Stacy meant well. “Sleep well, although I think you’d sleep better without the dog in the bed with you.”

  “No, I wouldn’t. Thanks for everything tonight, Stacy. And thank Jay, too. I couldn’t have made it without you.”

  “Sure you could, but at times like these, friends can make things easier. See you in the morning.”

  After she’d gone, Brooke turned on the bedside light, her childhood fear of the dark returning. The apartment seemed twice as large as it really was and full of shadows. Elise lay down and pressed against her chest. Brooke wrapped her arms around the dog’s warmth, thinking.

  The doctor had said people who’d suffered strokes often experienced confused mental processes. In other words, Greta might have merely imagined that Zach was in her room at White Willows. But Brooke knew her grandmother better than anyone else did, and she’d seen the fierceness in the woman’s clear blue eye.

  Zachary Tavell had gotten into Greta’s room tonight, Brooke thought. He’d gotten in and told her he was coming after Brooke.

  2

  Vincent Lockhart marched back out to the curb, looked up at Brooke’s lit window, and climbed into his silver Mercedes roadster, the car his father never stopped calling inconvenient, overpriced, and pretentious. He took one last look at the window, then spun away from the curb.

  Vincent wasn’t sure if he was angry or worried, so he decided to be both. True, the Lockhart house hadn’t proved to be the sanctuary for Brooke that he’d hoped, but she was safer there than in her apartment house. She didn’t care that her murder would devastate his father. It would even bother him. But she wouldn’t listen to reason. That’s what made him mad. She hadn’t even given him time to present half of his arguments against such a move. Actually, she hadn’t given him time to think of all his arguments against the move.

  He put in a CD, turned it up loud, and tried to put her out of his mind, but he couldn’t. Brooke Yeager was obstinate, headstrong, and intractable. Vincent realized he’d used three words that meant the same thi
ng. He’d try again. “Obstinate” was good—she wouldn’t listen to reason. She was also foolhardy, leaving even though she knew better security could be provided for her at the Lockhart home than at the apartment house. Finally, she was naïve, thinking she could escape someone like Zach Tavell. What had her exact words been? “I’ve known this time would come. . . . I’ve prepared to fight it on my turf!” Something like that. God! Had she been watching too many shows like Xena: Warrior Princess? Was she spouting dialogue she’d heard on Buffy the Vampire Slayer? She sounded childish and ridiculous.

  He took a deep breath and told himself to calm down. Why was he getting so worked up over this woman anyway? Was it because his parents had been so fond of her they’d thought of adopting her? Maybe they’d been fond of her, but he’d never even seen her except for the old photograph his mother had taken and a couple of grainy newspaper photos of the little girl involved in “The Rose Murder.” Was his overconcern for her because she was so pretty? Hell, California was full of pretty girls. He’d certainly dated his share. Beautiful women. Sexy women. He’d come close to marrying twice. He was now glad neither of those engagements had ended in an actual ceremony, but the ex-fiancées had been glamorous, sophisticated women. Women who were savvy and worldly-wise, not ingenuous, inexperienced young ladies like Brooke Yeager, who obviously thought she was a superhero or something equally absurd.

  That kind of thinking was going to get her killed, Vincent thought with conviction. And for some reason he couldn’t fathom right now, he knew if that happened, he wouldn’t be able to forgive himself for letting her go back to that apartment house.

  Even if she was a reckless fool.

  nine

  1

  The alarm clock went off like an air-raid siren. Elise burst into a volley of startled barking and Brooke, hanging on the edge of the bed, rolled facedown on the floor.

  “Good grief,” she moaned, touching her nose to make sure it wasn’t broken. Luckily, it wasn’t, but she knew she’d hit hard enough to cause some darkening around her eyes. “People will think you beat me up in the night,” she told Elise, who’d jumped down to lick her cheek. “I’m okay, baby,” she told the dog, then looked up at the clock. Six A.M. Why was she up so early?