“I just put the marshmallows in. See, they’re hardly melted.”
I pulled off my jacket. “How’d you know I’d come by?”
She smiled. “It’s a gift.” She sat down and I took the seat opposite. “So. Talk,” she said.
I took a sip of cocoa—wishing it was bourbon. “What do you do when you know something bad will happen to someone you care about?”
She met my gaze, her smile fading. “You couldn’t ask an easy question?”
“I’m serious.”
Her gaze was grave. “What is it you know?”
I told her about my premonition of death for Brenda’s baby, and the bad feelings I had about the Williamsville Women’s Health Center.
“Losing a child is probably the worst thing a woman can experience,” she agreed.
I thought about my mother. Losing Richard had just about destroyed her. But he’d been a living child.
“You could tell your brother,” Sophie said, “but it won’t do any good.” She shook her head sadly. “People don’t like hearing bad news. They blame you, when you have no control of the future. I tried so many times to warn people—to help. They resent you. Some hate you for it.”
“I was hoping you’d tell me something positive.”
“You know what you know. All you can do is be there and be strong for her—and your brother. Because they will be devastated.”
I got up, paused at the doorway, and looked through the shop to the bakery’s empty parking lot beyond. “I don’t know how or when it’ll happen. She could trip over a stair, have a miscarriage—it could be stillborn for all I know. I just know there isn’t going to be a baby.”
“Then you must keep her safe, and be there for her when she needs you. You can give her hope.”
I let out a sigh. “There’s a danger at that health center. But I’m not sure what.”
“Then perhaps your brother is right. She should just stop working there.”
“She won’t.”
“She’d believe you if you told her what’s to come. She knows about these things.”
“Even if she knows, nothing she or I can do will change the outcome. There will be no baby.” I let out a breath. “Maybe that’s what I really came here to talk about—fate.” I turned back to face her. “There’s nothing I can do to stop what’s going to happen. It’s not my fault. Why do I have to suffer with it? Why do I even have to know?”
Sophie toyed with the paper napkin by her cup. “You must believe that you can make a difference. And sometimes you have to try to change the world, even when you know you will fail. Otherwise, the cost would be your soul.”
“I don’t understand.”
She pursed her lips. “I was safe, here in this country. I had my husband, my children. But I knew war would tear my homeland apart. My family sacrificed so that I could go back to Poland to bring my parents to America. I wanted to keep them safe, even though part of me knew it was hopeless. Once there, I couldn’t leave. I couldn’t save them from their destiny. My father died of dysentery in the camp. My mother . . . she died from the gas. They threw her naked body into the oven. This I saw—and more. Yet I was spared.” Her voice cracked as tears filled her eyes.
“It took six years for me to come home to my children, my husband, but my life was never the same, never as good. I tried to save my parents and lost a part of myself.”
Her voice broke—her anguish tearing at me. She stared at nothing, cleared her throat and continued.
“I always wondered . . . did I wait too long to go? Could I have made a difference some other way? Were their deaths easier because I was with them—or did I make it harder because they never knew I survived?”
“I’m so sorry,” I murmured.
“There was a purpose,” she said, nodding vigorously. “I survived. I helped others survive. My own mission failed, but a greater good came out of it. I have to believe that—and you must, too.” Her brown eyes pierced me. “Family is everything, Jeffrey. Do what you must to protect those you love. All those you love.”
Her words filled me with apprehension—and determination. “I will. I swear.”
I awoke the next morning feeling surly. I couldn’t decide if my migraine was the usual post-fractured-skull type or that tumbler of Mr. Jack I’d had after talking with Sophie.
Maggie knows I’m no fun under those conditions. After a make-shift breakfast of toast and tea, she left with a feeble excuse about a shopping date with her sister.
To make it to work later that day, I needed to get rid of the pain in my skull. I swallowed a couple of pills, heading back to the bedroom when the telephone shrieked.
“Jeffrey? It’s Patty.”
The last person I wanted to talk to. “Oh. Hi.”
“Are you okay? You sound funny.”
“Just another one of my headaches.”
“Do you think you’ll be better by tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow?”
“Yeah, Aunt Ruby’s having a party, remember? We all want you to come.”
Oh. That party. Richard’s warning about my father’s health had finally sunk in. I realized I had a lot of unanswered questions I wanted—needed—to ask before he died. Much as I didn’t want to go . . . .
“Okay. Where and when?” I jotted down the address and the time. “Can I bring my girlfriend?”
“Oh, sure. The more the merrier. Bring your brother Richard if you want.”
A flicker of annoyance coursed through me.
“I’m so glad you’ll be there,” Patty continued. “It means a lot to Dad. Now, don’t forget to bring your camera.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I hung up, stared at the note on the pad, trying to decide what kind of impressions I’d received.
None.
My head ached and I crawled back to bed to hide from it in sleep.
That evening, the bar was filled with men whose wives or girlfriends had spent the day shopping, leaving them to watch football games on the tube. Escaping from leftover turkey, they scarfed up happy hour wings and pizza.
It was another early evening—only midnight—when I got home. I showered, sat in my robe in front of the tube with a beer, letting myself unwind with CNN. It must’ve been a slow news day. My eyes glazed over during an item on the state of the Japanese yen. I dozed off, but when I awoke with a start a couple hours later, the same financial clip was playing. Though groggy with sleep, I had a vague feeling something was wrong.
The clock on the wall read three twenty one. My back ached, either from standing for hours behind the bar or lying scrunched on the couch. I got up, stretched, and wandered into the kitchen, trying to pin down the feeling of unease. I put the empty beer bottle under the sink, went back into the living room and looked out the window toward Richard’s house where lights glowed. The place had been dark when I’d gotten in from work.
I grabbed the phone and dialed.
“What the hell do you want?” Richard demanded, before it even rang once.
“I saw all the lights on. What’s up?”
He exhaled loudly. “Sorry. Some prankster’s been calling and hanging up. Calling and breathing. I was about to unplug the damn phone.”
“Have you pissed off anyone lately?”
“No. At least I don’t think so.”
“It’s probably just a kid fooling around. Is Brenda all right?”
“Just frazzled—like me. Why would anyone do this?”
“Do you think maybe Brenda’s ex—?”
His voice grew cold. “I thought of that, too. Caller ID said it was a blocked call.”
The answer seemed simple. “Forward your calls to me.”
“What good will that do?”
“You’ll get some peace and maybe I’ll pick up something from the caller.”
“Did you ever get anything over the phone before?”
“No. But there’s always a first time. And if it’s an emergency with one of your patients, I’l
l come over and get you. Okay?”
“I’d appreciate it.”
“Don’t sweat it. Now hang up and do the magic with the phone.”
“Okay.” There was a sharp click. About a minute later, the phone rang. “It’s me,” Richard said.
“Okay, it should be set. Go back to bed and I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”
“Thanks again, Jeff.”
“Go to bed.” I hung up the phone.
Wide awake and restless, I wandered the apartment, wondering if the phone would ring. I grabbed a writing tablet, my box of contact prints, and settled on the couch to sort through the photos.
I studied the shots I’d taken a week before outside the Women’s Health Center, remembering that I still hadn’t gotten back to the darkroom to process the last roll. One shot in particular looked interesting. Though taken on an overcast day, I figured I could burn in the clouds and—
The phone’s jangle broke the silence. The clock read three forty six. The phone rang again before I grabbed it. The caller breathed loudly, in an exaggerated way. I shut my eyes, willing myself to connect with the person on the other end of the line.
Long seconds passed.
Was that muffled traffic in the background? Caller ID gave me a number, which I jotted down.
Heavy breathing isn’t an original idea. I did likewise and the sound abruptly stopped. The connection broke.
I hung up the receiver, grabbed the tablet and pen, wrote down the time and approximate length of the call. A good investigator writes down everything. That I was no longer an investigator hadn’t dulled my instincts or training.
I sat back, thinking. No insight, not that I’d really expected any. But it bothered me that someone was playing this prank on my brother.
Could it be Willie Morgan? After twelve years, was the man petty enough to aggravate the woman who’d left him? I thought back to our brief meeting. I’d gotten no impressions, intuition—whatever you want to call it—from him, either. Was that why the call had given me no insight, or was the telephone a poor conductor? One thing was certain, I could never work for a psychic hotline.
I puttered around the apartment for another hour, but the phone didn’t ring again.
It was nearly five when I finally hit the sack, hoping I wouldn’t be plagued with dreams of the dead, white-haired old man.
CHAPTER
6
“I don’t think those calls were a prank.”
Richard looked up at me from his seat at the kitchen table. The phone book was open before him. A pad with notes scribbled on it sat beside it.
“Here’s what I got last night.” I plucked a sheet of paper from the large Kraft envelope I held, and gave it to him. “Mind if I bum a cup of coffee? I’m out.”
“Help yourself. How many calls did you get?”
“Just one.” I got a mug from the cabinet and poured the coffee, took a sip and remembered they’d switched to decaf.
I explained what I’d heard in the background the night before. “I’d guess each was made from different public phones. The phone company should be able to verify that Monday. That could make it hard to pin down the bastard.”
Richard’s grim expression hardened as he stared at the paper.
“Take a look at this,” I said and tossed him the envelope.
He sifted through the stack of photographic prints—duplicates of those I’d given Sam Nielsen, only these had Post-It notes identifying each person. I told him what I was up to—and why.
“I appreciate you looking into this, Jeff.”
“No sweat.”
He cleared his throat. “Are you available Monday morning? I need another favor.”
“Sure, what?”
“Unless they can get someone to cover for me, I have to be at the clinic every day this week. But I’ve called a couple of companies for estimates on security systems for the house. We’re probably the last holdout on the street.”
He was right. Every other home in this expensive neighborhood boasted a sign for the firm protecting it from mayhem.
“Has this got anything to do with those calls last night?”
“Everything. That and the fact Brenda’s ex is in town. What do you think?” He looked like he expected an argument.
“It’s a good idea. Amherst may be one of the safest towns in America, but why take chances? I could handle the whole thing for you—it would be a piece of cake.”
“Thanks. I don’t care what it costs. I want Brenda to feel safe here at home. I’m also getting an unlisted number. Now all I have to do is get her to quit that job. She respects your opinion. Do you think you could talk to her about it?”
“Sure. But I doubt she’ll listen.” I studied his guarded expression. “She’s worried about you, you know—besides the crap that’s already hanging over your head.”
“Making sure she’s safe is more important than anything I’ve got going.”
I wondered if I should push him for a better explanation, but he looked like he didn’t need another problem right then.
While I drained his coffee pot, we discussed various security options. It stroked my ego to know he trusted my judgment.
“In the meantime, do you think Maggie would let us borrow her dog? Just until we get a system installed,” Richard said.
I thought about Maggie’s Golden Retriever. “Holly’s not what I’d call guard dog material. Guard your refrigerator maybe.”
“She’ll bark—that’s all we really need,” he said.
“It’s a good idea. Sometimes the best security system is a dog.” I considered the extra yard work that accompanied a large dog—which would be my responsibility.
He closed the phone book, and put it back on the counter as Brenda came in with a stack of mail. “Hey, Jeffy, what’s new?”
“Looks like I got suckered into going to that party tonight.”
“The one Patty told you about?” she asked, sorting through the envelopes and opening one.
“Yeah. I’d rather have a tooth pulled.”
Richard smiled. “You’ll survive.”
Brenda stared at the paper in her hand, suddenly radiating tension.
“Is something wrong?” I asked
She frowned. “Look at this.” She handed me a creased sheet. A chill ran through me as I studied the one-word message in large type: YOU.
Richard sidled closer, his expression darkening. “Who was it addressed to?”
“Me, I guess.” She handed him the envelope. It said: Brenda Alpert.
“But that’s not your name,” he said.
“Whoever sent it obviously didn’t know she kept her maiden name.”
“What do you think it means?” Brenda asked.
“I don’t know. But I don’t like it.”
“Me, either,” Richard agreed.
I studied the cheap business-sized envelope that could have been purchased in just about any store. A Buffalo postmark canceled the stamp. No return address, of course. The note looked like standard twenty pound copier paper. The font was common, from a computer laser printer, also standard in any office. Neither the note nor envelope gave me any kind of impressions. Damn.
“If you get another one of these, wear latex gloves to open it,” I warned her. “Just in case there’re any fingerprints.” Or Anthrax, or some other nasty substance manic pro-lifers have sent to pro-choice doctors and nurses in the past.
“Do you think this could be something serious?”
“I don’t mean to scare you, love, but yes, I do.”
She stared at the sheet of paper, chewed at her lower lip. “Why would somebody do this?”
“It’s that damn health center you work at. Those protesters are dangerous,” Richard said.
“We all know your opinion on that subject,” she said.
“Well, now will you take it seriously? These nuts have targeted clinic staff before.”
“Not in a long time.” She turned away from him. “Jeffy, should we call
the police?”
“Right now you haven’t got enough that’ll interest them. They’d rather wait until someone gets hurt before they waste valuable tax dollars on protection. But I’d definitely tell your supervisor at the clinic. You’re probably not the first to get a note like this.”
She nodded and I felt her tension ease. Apparently being a singular target was more frightening than sharing that privilege. But how did the protesters know her husband’s name? And if they did, would using it divert suspicion from them? Or was Willie Morgan playing games?
“Brenda, why don’t you call Maggie, ask her about the dog. Maybe she’d bring her over this afternoon,” Richard suggested.
“Okay,” Brenda said, forcing a smile. “I’ll call from the phone in the living room—this could be a marathon session and I may as well be comfortable.”
“I have to go out for a while,” Richard said. “Will you be okay for a couple of hours?”
“Sure.”
“Don’t open the door to anyone while I’m gone, okay?” She nodded, gave him a quick kiss, and headed down the hall.
I waited until she was out of earshot before speaking. “You’ve got a stand-up lady, there, Rich.”
“I know. Come on, let’s take a ride.”
“Where to?”
“First the Women’s Health Center. I don’t want to wait ‘til Monday to find out if other staff members have received one of these letters. Then I want to pay a visit to Mr. Willie Morgan.”
“It’s an awful big city. How do you plan to find him?”
“We can start at the Bison’s main office downtown.”
“On Saturday of a holiday weekend?”
“Why not? He’s new in town. What else has he got to do?”
“All right. But we’re only going to talk to him, right? We’re not going to accuse him of anything. We’re going to stay nice and calm.”
“Of course.”
I scrutinized his blue-eyed gaze, unsure I believed him.
The Williamsville Women’s Health Center was about to close for the day when we arrived. Their head of Security, Tim Davies, remembered me from our talk a few days earlier. He hadn’t heard of other employees receiving similar letters, but he took the implied threat seriously and copied the letter for their harassment file. Richard promised to keep him posted.
Cheated By Death Page 7
