Last Whisper

by Carlene Thompson

  Eunice was vaguely aware of arms being raised high in the air before her world exploded into a nightmare of brilliant colors and the sound of bone smashing. Something hot and blinding gushed over her face as she dropped to her knees, instinctively reaching for her head. For just a second, her hands registered that her head was not in one piece. There seemed to be two sections with sharp edges, and in the middle a pool of hot liquid.

  Eunice Dormer fell from her knees onto her face, the back of her head split wide-open, blood drenching the net and chiffon folds of her ugly green negligee.

  nineteen

  1

  Brooke sighed, rolled over, and reached out to touch Vincent. Instead, a wet nose pushed its way into her palm. Her eyes snapped open to face those of Elise.

  “Why is it I keep going to sleep with people and I end up in the morning with you?” she asked, rubbing the dog’s head. “Do I kick? Snore? Have horrendous breath?”

  As the dog cuddled closer to her, she saw a note left on the pillow:

  Dearest Cinnamon Girl,

  Embarrassing as it is to admit, I had to be home by three. Dad has a tendency to wander after dark, or take out the car—he always manages to find the keys—and the next-door neighbor won’t leave the presence of his precious wife.

  I’ll call you in a few hours.

  VL

  The first thing Brooke noticed was that Vincent hadn’t written: “Love.” But how would she have felt if he had written, “Love, Vincent”? Would she have believed he was sincere? Or would she have thought he’d merely jotted down “Love” out of habit?

  “I’m doing way too much thinking without my morning coffee,” she said aloud. “I need coffee and something deliciously sweet. If we had time, Elise, we’d walk down to the café for croissants, but I have to be at work in an hour. I barely have time to make it.”

  She was tossing off the sheet and quilt when the phone rang. Vincent, she thought, smiling. Then she looked at the caller ID readout. Charleston General Hospital. Her heart went cold as she picked up the handset, and after what seemed like an hour, but could only have been seconds, she learned that her grandmother had just suffered another massive stroke. She was still alive, but barely. Brooke had jumped out of bed and dressed in jeans and a blouse and was driving toward the hospital within fifteen minutes.

  She was on the verge of hyperventilating by the time she parked her car in the hospital lot, bypassed the elevators that were all on other floors, and reached her grandmother’s room. She had expected to see a gaggle of doctors and nurses gathered around Greta, the doctors shouting, the nurses scurrying like on television shows. Instead, only one nurse stood by Greta’s bed, frowning as she wrote on a chart. Brooke tiptoed to her and whispered, “How is she doing?”

  The nurse jumped. “My goodness, you scared me. Are you related to the patient?”

  “I’m her granddaughter.”

  “Oh. Well, I’m afraid the doctor will have to explain her condition to you. I’ll see if I can find and send him in as soon as possible. He just left the room about ten minutes ago.”

  The nurse left so silently Brooke couldn’t even hear her crepe-soled shoes on the floor. She crept closer to Greta’s bed, which at first appeared to be empty. Then she saw her grandmother lying on her back, her body looking as if it weighed ten pounds less than it had two days ago, her skin thin as parchment. The left side of her face was still pulled down, but less than the last time Brooke had seen her. Her eyelids were tightly closed. She seemed to be barely breathing.

  Brooke took her grandmother’s cold hand, feeling nothing except thin skin over bones. Greta used to complain about her big hands. “They look like a man’s hands next to your mother’s,” she would tell Brooke. “But they are strong.” Not anymore, Brooke thought, tears rising in her eyes. “Grossmutter,” she said softly. “It’s Brooke. Can you open your eyes?”

  The eyelids didn’t even flutter. Brooke squeezed her grandmother’s hand. “Grossmutter, I love you. Please give me a sign that you know I’m here.”

  Brooke saw her grandmother’s lips move slightly and she slurred out a word Brooke interpreted as “BAnI.” Bunny. Greta’s old name for her only grandchild.

  “Miss Yeager?” Brooke looked up to see the doctor standing near her. She hadn’t even heard him enter the room. “Would you mind stepping into the hall with me to discuss your grandmother’s case?”

  Ten minutes later, Brooke returned to her grandmother’s side. The doctor had spewed a mass of medical terminology at Brooke, keeping his voice calm, his face expressionless, and his language nearly incomprehensible. But she understood. Her grandmother was dying. She might have a day. She might have an hour. But the end had finally come.

  Brooke drew a chair up beside the bed and once again reached for Greta’s hand. She began talking about all the fun they’d had together when Grossmutter, Daddy, Mommy, and she were young.

  At the end of her story, Brooke laughed as if she hadn’t a care in the world. She saw Greta’s mouth move in a semblance of a twisted smile, and she lightly squeezed Brooke’s hand. Encouraged, Brooke told another story of her childhood, then another, then another. She recounted all the holiday festivities of the past, the birthday parties, her learning to ride a bike, her starting first grade. After three hours, she noticed that Greta seemed to be responding less and less. Every half hour a nurse checked in on them, took Greta’s pulse, then smiled encouragingly at Brooke. “Won’t you let me bring you a cup of coffee or a soft drink? We’ve all been catching bits and pieces of your stories in the nurses’ station and they’re charming, but you must be bone-dry by now.”

  Brooke hadn’t thought about it, but she hadn’t had so much as her morning coffee. She handed the nurse some money, which the woman tried to refuse, but Brooke wouldn’t let her and asked for a can of Coke and a Snickers bar from the vending machines. Now there’s a healthy meal, she thought. But her throat was parched and she badly needed a sugar boost.

  After downing the Coke and candy bar, Brooke finally left for the bathroom. Under the less-than-flattering light she looked pale and haggard, mauve shadows under her eyes and dry, nearly flesh-toned lips. She applied some lipstick, then rubbed a little on each cheek for color. She’d called Aaron on her cell on her way to the hospital to tell him she wouldn’t be at work today, and she had to admit that he sounded relieved after yesterday’s drama. Now she dialed Vincent.

  He answered on the second ring. “Brooke!” he exclaimed as she said his name. “I called you at work, but they told me your grandmother was worse and you were at the hospital. I didn’t want to bother you. I thought you’d call me as soon as you got a chance.”

  “I could have called earlier, but frankly I didn’t even think of it. She’s had another stroke, Vincent, and she’s not going to make it. I don’t think she’ll see the day through.”

  “I’m so sorry, honey,” he said, startling her with the endearment. “I’d come and be with you, but Dad has a doctor’s appointment this afternoon. They’re going to do some tests and I need to take him—”

  “I’ve been driving since I was sixteen!” Brooke heard Sam yell in the background. “I think I can get myself ten miles to the doctor’s office! You act like I’m a kid, Vincent, and I won’t stand for it, do you hear me?”

  “He’s having a bad morning,” Vincent muttered into the phone. “Otherwise, I would have come ahead to the hospital.”

  “You’re talking about me! I know it!” Sam boomed.

  “That’s all right, Vincent,” Brooke said calmly. “There’s nothing you can do. There’s nothing anyone can do besides wait. I just wanted to let you know where I am and that I’m fine and . . . well . . . to thank you for last night.”

  “Thank me! Good heavens, that was one of the greatest evenings of my life.”

  “What was one of the greatest evenings of your life?” Sam asked loudly and querulously, obviously standing right next to Vincent. “Put that phone down. I need to check in at headquart
ers, make sure it’s all right for me to take off to see this doctor. They might need me.”

  “You have your hands full,” Brooke said sympathetically. “We both do. Take your dad to the doctor and I’ll sit with Grossmutter. We’ll talk later this evening.”

  Brooke clicked off the phone, stuck it back in her purse, leaned across the counter to look in the mirror again. “How am I going to get through this day?” she asked herself miserably. Then she took her hands off the counter and stood up straight. “The same way I did when Mommy died. One minute at a time.”

  Those minutes dragged throughout the afternoon as Brooke sat beside her grandmother. Finally, around five o’clock, Greta once again said something that sounded like “BAnI,” sighed, and grew still. Frantically Brooke called for the doctor, but even before he told her, she knew.

  Greta Yeager was dead.

  2

  The hour after Greta’s death later seemed like a blur to Brooke. She kissed her grandmother’s still face and, just like her mother had done to her so many years ago, whispered, “Good night, my angel,” one last time. Later she talked to the doctor, who assured her everything that could be done for Greta had been done and told her with complete lack of emotion he was sorry for Brooke’s loss. She filled out forms and notified the undertaker. By six thirty in the evening she was headed for home, glad that she’d missed rush-hour traffic. So far she hadn’t shed one tear, but she felt like the least little annoyance might send her into a torrent of sobs. But she couldn’t do that in the car, she told herself. She must concentrate on her driving and keep herself safe, because that was what Greta would want.

  Brooke pulled into the apartment house parking lot and heard the reassuring sound of one of the surveillance cars’ engine beside her. A window whirred down and one of the policemen asked, “Want me to walk you to the door?”

  Brooke shook her head. “It’s only a few feet away and we’re right under a dusk-to-dawn light. I’ll be fine, but thanks anyway.”

  She’d called Stacy from the hospital and told her of Greta’s death. Stacy had wanted to come to the hospital to help in any way she could, but Brooke had told her the best way she could help would be to take Elise for the walk she hadn’t had all day, and perhaps have some cold wine on hand.

  When she walked in the lobby door, Brooke found Stacy waiting for her. Stacy wrapped her arms around her and hugged her tightly. “Honey, I’m so sorry about your grandmother.”

  “We all knew it was coming,” Brooke said, trying to sound strong, trying not to cry.

  “Knowing death is coming and having it actually happen are very different things, Brooke.” Stacy drew away and scrutinized her. “You look absolutely exhausted. I took Elise for a walk and fed her. She’s in our apartment waiting for you. We have wine and I made sandwiches. You look absolutely wiped out. Come upstairs with me.”

  Brooke looked around the lobby. Mrs. Kelso stood at a distance, staring at her. Brooke saw no sympathy in her face—merely curiosity. A couple of other tenants also milled around, one elderly man asking querulously for Harry. Brooke, for one, was relieved to see that Harry was nowhere around.

  “Did you call Vincent and tell him about Grossmutter?” she asked Stacy.

  “I’m sorry. I forgot. You can call him from our place.”

  “I called from the hospital, but I got no answer on his home or cell phone.”

  Stacy shrugged. “Hard to tell where he is. Come on, Brooke. You need something to eat before you faint.”

  “One minute,” Brooke said. “I want to check my mail.”

  She dug her key ring out of her purse, walked to the row of mailboxes on the lobby wall, and inserted a tiny key into hers. She had only four pieces of mail. The phone bill, a credit card bill, a magazine subscription offer, and a small white envelope bearing her name and address but no return address. Absently, she opened it and withdrew a card bearing a drawing of a small girl with long blond hair playing with a small, golden dog. She opened the card and read the short message:

  Brooke,

  But the day of the Lord will come as a thief in the night . . .

  You are next.

  Zach

  “He always had such pretty handwriting for a man,” Brooke said faintly as the world seemed to spin around her. “Mom always said so.”

  Stacy peered over Brooke’s shoulder at the note she held in her shaking hand and gasped. “My God! I can’t believe it!”

  “He didn’t print this one like the others. And he actually signed his name. He’s ready to come out of hiding, Stacy. He’s ready to come for me, whatever the cost. But not without a warning to scare the hell out of me, first.”

  “Yes. A . . . warning.” Stacy drew a deep breath. “Come up to my apartment.” Brooke stood stiffly, chills running through her body like an electric current. “Jay is upstairs. We have to show this to him. Brooke, come on.” Stacy pushed her toward the elevator. “Don’t freeze up on me.”

  Brooke felt dazed as they rode to the third floor and Stacy led her down the hall to her apartment. As soon as she opened the door, Elise rushed toward Brooke, her tail flying, and Brooke knelt to hug her so tightly the dog let out a little squeak of surprise. Brooke felt tears pushing behind her eyes, but they refused to run down her face, releasing some of the pressure. She didn’t think she’d ever felt so tired or so alone in her whole life.

  Jay had been draped over the couch, watching television, but he immediately jumped up, as if sensing something was wrong besides Greta’s death. “What is it?”

  “Another communication from Zach,” Stacy said tensely, “only this one was mailed, handwritten, and even signed. Look at it.”

  Brooke shakily held out the card. “I’m afraid my fingerprints are on the outside, but I didn’t touch the inside. As soon as I saw that picture on the front of a blond girl with her blond dog, I knew who’d sent it.”

  Jay first picked up a tissue from a table next to the couch, then took the card from Brooke. He read it without expression and slipped it back in the envelope, which he wrapped in the tissue. “I have to take this in and log it as evidence. I’ll call Hal, too.”

  “Jay, do you think Zach is holed up at the Holt Street house where he shot my mother?” Brooke asked. “After Mom’s murder, no one stayed in that house for long. One or two years and 542 Holt Street was back on the market. I kept track. But this time, it’s been empty for over two years.”

  Jay sat on a dainty armchair slipping shoes over his dark socks. “That neighborhood has really run down since you lived there. It’s now a high-crime area. Maybe that’s the reason for the quick turnover and recent desertion. Anyway, we searched the house after Tavell broke out of prison and again a couple of days later. There was no sign of him.”

  Jay stood up. “We might have located the car Tavell has been using, though. According to the airport, a silver Taurus with the license plate number 3R-1615 was put in long-term parking last week. The family is in Paris and will be for five more days, but the car is missing.”

  “Just like Vincent suggested,” Brooke said. “Just like the scenario he used in his book. I wonder if Zach read that book?”

  Jay opened the front door. “We’re only certain the car is missing, not that Zach took it.”

  “Oh, he did,” Brooke said with certainty, remembering the day at the café when she’d felt someone watching her and she’d seen an apparently empty silver Taurus parked across the street. “I’m absolutely sure that’s the car he’s been using.”

  3

  After Jay left, Stacy gave Brooke a glass of wine and a chicken salad sandwich. The wine she wanted; the sandwich she did not, but Stacy insisted and because her stomach was rumbling, Brooke obeyed and ate it. The food tasted like cardboard, though. She couldn’t really taste the wine, either, but she could feel the effects. As she emptied her glass, she felt as if the tight muscles in her neck had begun to relax.

  “I’m pouring you another glass of that,” Stacy said.

  �
��I really shouldn’t have two.”

  “Why not? Will it throw you into a fit? Make you explode?” Brooke managed a faint smile. “Just one more glass and you’ll be able to unwind enough to sleep tonight.”

  To sleep, Brooke thought as Stacy moved around in the kitchen. Greta was finally sleeping. Brooke hoped it was a peaceful sleep. Greta’s life had not been easy.

  And neither has mine, Brooke thought. She’d never been one to wallow in self-pity, but so many people she knew had led happier childhoods, more peaceful young adult years.

  “Drink this slowly,” Stacy said, handing her a glass. “Do you want some music?”

  “For once, no.”

  “That’s out of the ordinary for you.” Stacy smiled. “Conversation?”

  “If you don’t mind—”

  “I will gladly keep my mouth shut. In fact, I will even bury my face in this new magazine I got today called InStyle full of things too expensive for me to buy. If you feel like talking, though, don’t hesitate to drag me away from the splendor on these pages.”

  The apartment was almost unnervingly quiet without the music or television Brooke usually kept on for company. Elise lay beside her chair, breathing rhythmically and thumping her tail on the floor when Brooke reached down to touch her. The glass-domed clock Brooke had always admired ticked softly on an end table, and once in a while Stacy turned a page and sighed.

  At last, Brooke said, “I’m going to leave tomorrow.” Stacy looked up. “I’m leaving Charleston tomorrow. Grossmutter wanted to be cremated, have no ceremony and be placed in the mausoleum next to her husband. She’s gone. All of her arrangements have been made. Meanwhile someone wants to kill me. In fact, he even warned me tonight that I haven’t much time. I finally have no choice—no reason—to stay in this city.”

  Stacy gave her a long, measuring look. At last she said, “Thank God you’re finally doing what you should have done a week ago.”