Patty seemed disappointed by my answer.
“Why are you so interested in Richard?”
“I’m just being friendly.” She sounded defensive.
“Yeah, well, he and Brenda are very happy. I wouldn’t want anything—or anybody—to try and come between them.”
Her eyes were defiant. “Hey, I don’t need to go after married men. I’ve got plenty of guys interested in me.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
She glared at me, and then turned to clear out another dresser drawer, shoving socks and underwear into a large plastic trash bag.
The silence lengthened.
The cat lurked in the hallway and I broke the quiet. “What’ll you do about Herschel?”
“Have him put to sleep.” Her voice was icy.
“The old man wouldn’t want that.”
“He’s a smelly fur-bag. Unless you want him, he’s going to the pound. Probably tomorrow.”
The cat rubbed against my ankles, looked at me hopefully with its golden eyes. “I guess I could try to find him a home. Is he current on his shots?”
“Who knows.”
“How old is he?”
“I don’t know—maybe three years old. Dad got him when I moved in with John. He’s been fixed and declawed. That’s all I know. You can take him tonight. I’ll get the cat carrier.”
She didn’t give me a chance to protest. She disappeared into the basement, banging around for a few minutes, before she brought up a cardboard carrier. The cat saw the box and instantly disappeared—probably anticipating a trip to the vet. Patty spent the next five minutes chasing him around the place, slamming doors, and cursing a blue streak. The cat had a sly, mischievous glint in his amber eyes. She finally cornered him, picked up the flailing body, and stuffed him into the carrier, snapping the lid shut.
Then, she methodically gathered up toys, bowls, food, litter—shoved it all into a large trash bag and set it by the front door and stood there—waiting for me to leave.
“I better get going,” I said, eyeing the box that held my new—albeit temporary—housemate. I picked up the carrier and she handed me the sack.
“Thanks for taking the cat,” she grumbled, and looked away. “I’m sorry we—”
She didn’t sound the least bit sorry.
“Yeah. I’m sorry, too,” I said.
Patty opened the door. Overloaded with stuff, I shuffled through. It banged shut behind me. I opened the car door, tossed the plastic bag in back and put the carrier on the front passenger seat. The cat let out a piercing howl.
“Hey, I’m not thrilled about this either, pal,” I said and started the engine.
My life was getting more complicated by the minute.
CHAPTER
16
Brenda seemed preoccupied during the drive to the clinic the next morning. She wasn’t particularly interested when I told her about Herschel and the adventure of our first night together. Maybe she didn’t like cats, or was she just sick of hearing me gripe about Patty?
Or was it something else entirely?
Brenda gazed out the passenger window, distracted. It was the last day of a job she didn’t want to quit. Her silence only increased my paranoia. Willie would not be hanging around, I kept telling myself. Not after what happened the day before. Still, I had a really bad feeling as I parked the car. We got out, and I kept looking over my shoulder, expecting Brenda’s ex to charge out from a neighboring doorway.
The protesters were louder than usual that morning, promising hellfire and damnation to anyone who entered the clinic’s den of death. Two security guards stood at the edge of the clinic’s property. With no weapons, they were an impotent deterrent. Brenda trotted past them, oblivious to the zealots’ taunts. I struggled to keep up with her.
Dr. Newcomb was ahead of us on the top stair in front of the clinic door. She juggled her purse, a grocery bag, and a couple of bakery boxes.
“Do you need a hand, Jean?” Brenda called.
“I sure do.”
Brenda started up the steps, with me a few paces behind. The doctor dropped her purse, which tumbled down the steps. Brenda stooped to pick it up.
The clinic’s plate glass door shattered.
Bakery boxes went flying.
A crimson stain blossomed across the front of the doctor’s white ski jacket. She staggered, and fell back.
I caught Brenda’s jacket collar, hauling her down the steps.
The crack of more gunfire split the air.
I lost my balance, dragging Brenda with me. We rolled onto dirt and dried leaves, into the cover of shrubbery.
Behind us the protesters screamed, scattering like frightened geese.
Another shot rang out.
Brick shards rained on our heads. The damp earth and sharp scent of broken yew branches stung my nose.
I shoved Brenda against the building, covering her body with my own, knowing bullets could tear through two sets of flesh and bone as easily as one.
“Jean!” Brenda screamed, struggling to pull free. “We’ve got to help her.”
“No one can help her,” I grated, holding her tight.
Footsteps thundered past us. The security guards flew up the steps, hauling the dying woman’s blood-soaked, limp body through the destroyed door.
“Let me go!” Brenda cried.
The gunfire had stopped. The air was suddenly eerily quiet, with only the muffled sound of traffic over on Main Street.
“Let me help her!” Brenda begged.
“Not ’til I’m sure it’s safe. I couldn’t face Rich if I let anything happen to you.”
Her lower lip trembled as her eyes filled with tears. She buried her face in my shoulder, and clung to me as great choking sobs shook her.
I rocked her, let her cry, trying to keep from shaking as adrenalin coursed through me. How close to dying had we been?
“Come on,” I said at last, “Let’s get you checked out.”
“I’m okay.”
“Then let’s make sure junior’s all right.”
She nodded, and let me help her stand. My own knees were rubbery. We ended up steadying each other. Then a white-shirted security guard was pulling at us, yanking us up the steps and into the Women’s Health Center.
Despite her years of medical experience, Brenda wasn’t a trauma nurse. I didn’t want her to see what I saw—her friend, torn apart, an exit wound the size of my fist in the center of her back. I turned her face away, wouldn’t let her see the lifeless, blood-soaked form on the lobby floor as we were scuttled down a hallway.
I’d been sitting there, numb, staring at the wall for what seemed like hours. I knew every stray mark, had memorized the location of each grimy handprint made by the patients’ children. Scuffmarks and dents marred the molding where a floor polisher had smacked into it countless times. Aged, wrinkled magazines with torn covers were haphazardly stacked on a chrome and glass table. Women’s magazines, filled with diet recipes and sex surveys. It was all so pointless.
Bonnie Wilder was suddenly at my side. Like the rest of the cops on the scene, she wore a Kevlar vest over street clothes. Her face was taut with concern. She’d already questioned Brenda and me when she’d first arrived, only minutes after the shooting.
“Well?” I asked.
“I thought you might like an update.” She took the seat opposite me. “We’ve got officers canvassing the neighborhood, looking for other witnesses.”
“What’re the odds of finding any?”
“Probably nil.”
It figured.
“We’ve got some shell casings off the roof of a boutique on Main Street. It’s a long shot, but we might lift a decent print.”
“Do you have any suspects?”
She pursed her lips momentarily. “I’ll find out if Willie Morgan has an alibi. We hauled a few of the protesters down to the station. They’ll be questioned, but I’m not counting on getting anything.”
“Was Reverend Linden out there today?”
“No.”
“He’s an expert marksman.”
“I know.” She pursed her lips. “Any minute now the FBI will descend and it’ll be their ball game. We’ll be out of the loop,” she said bitterly.
Not surprising. Any incident involving an abortion clinic meant the feds were called in. But was Dr. Newcomb the target, or was Brenda?
Despite their protests to the contrary, would anyone in Reverend Linden’s group be willing to help find a baby-killer’s murderer?
“As soon as the FBI okays it, they’ll remove the body. We’ll have autopsy results by tomorrow.”
“Why bother? She was shot. She’s dead.”
“We’ve gotta go by the book so we can nail the shooter.”
“If you ever find him.” God, I sounded cynical.
“It’s a damn shame,” she said, her eyes shadowed with compassion. “The victim was a single mom—three kids, all under twelve.”
I hadn’t known that. But I’d picked up a number of impressions from the somber-faced staff as they’d wandered through the lobby. Dr. Jean Newcomb was the one who’d checked me out the day before. I could see why she was so well-liked. She’d seemed to be the kind of person you could pour your heart out to. They mourned her, their faces radiating their shock, loss, and most of all their fear. They were reluctant to leave, afraid to return.
I looked over my shoulder. A knot of local press had gathered outside. Now that a newsworthy tragedy had occurred, was I assured a photographic sale to The Buffalo News? This wasn’t the way I’d intended it to happen. I’d wanted to prevent this—draw attention to the danger . . . and nobody had wanted to listen. I’d warned Sam Nielsen, but this was one ‘I told you so’ I could keep to myself.
Detective Wilder craned her neck to see what I was looking at. “Vultures.”
“Think how they’ll tease this on the national news: ‘Clinic doctor blown away in front of abortion protesters.’”
A work crew had arrived to install plywood in the shattered door frame. They were measuring the aperture when a maintenance man in white work clothes, carrying a galvanized pail filled with hot, sudsy water shuffled across the lobby and pushed through plastic draped where the door had been. He’d already swept the steps of glass. He dumped the soapy water onto the concrete steps. The blood had seeped into the porous concrete. How much soap and bleach would it take to erase all evidence of carnage?
I turned my attention back to the lady cop. “Now what happens?”
“The feds will try to find out who killed Dr. Newcomb.”
“Jeff?”
Richard’s voice.
Turning, I saw a haggard version of my brother behind me.
“What the hell happened?” he demanded.
“Rich, this is Detective Wilder.”
“Detective,” he said, giving her a cursory nod.
“I wasn’t there for the security guys,” I babbled guiltily. “I called them. They’ll install the system tomorrow, but it’ll cost you—”
“Where is she?” he demanded, ignoring me.
She. Brenda. His wife. The woman whose life he’d entrusted to me.
“Down the hall.”
“Is she okay?”
“I think so. Just a little shook up.” Talk about a stupid remark. “Make that a lot shook up. If Dr. Newcomb hadn’t dropped her purse. If Brenda hadn’t—”
Richard looked at me critically. “Are you okay?”
I hadn’t given it any thought. “I guess I’m kind of shook up, too. It isn’t every day you see—”
I couldn’t finish. Richard wasn’t listening anyway. His attention was fixed on the corridor behind me. He brushed past us. I turned to see Brenda with another white-clad nurse. She broke into a jog when she saw Richard, flying into his arms.
Something in my chest twisted.
“I’ll keep you posted,” Detective Wilder said, patted my arm, and continued down the corridor.
I took my time catching up to Richard and Brenda.
The nurse put her hand on Brenda’s shoulder. “Talk to you later,” she said, turned and walked away.
“Are you okay?” Richard asked, pulling back to inspect his wife’s tear-streaked face.
“Aren’t you going to say ‘I told you so?’“
He exhaled, his eyes filling. “No.”
“Can we go home?” she asked.
“There’s a crowd of reporters out front,” Richard said.
“Out back, too,” I said.
“I don’t want to talk to anybody,” Brenda said.
“Bring the car around,” I told Richard. “I’ll get her through the mob. Then I’ll meet you guys at home. Okay?”
They both nodded, and Richard headed for the door.
“I have to sit down,” Brenda said. She sounded tired. Dead tired.
I steered her over to my former seat on the couch, and took the chair opposite her.
“What’ll happen now?” Brenda asked.
“I don’t know.”
She bit her lip. “Were they after me?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’m afraid, Jeffy.” Her eyes filled with tears. “My friend is dead and I’m afraid I’ll be killed, too.”
“Don’t think like that.”
“What if I was supposed to die, not her?”
“I’ll make sure nothing happens to you. Nothing,” I said and grasped her hand, yet as soon as I said it I knew it was a lie. I couldn’t protect her. I didn’t even own a gun anymore. But thanks to Richard’s financial resources, I’d make sure every precaution was taken to protect her.
I rested my other hand on her shoulder and touched her fear. She looked at me with such trust.
I felt like a fraud.
Richard’s Lincoln pulled up outside. I helped Brenda to her feet and hustled her out of the building. Dodging the press, I gave them the old “no comment.” The Lincoln’s tires spun and Richard took off. I headed down the street to my own car, ignoring the shouted questions that followed me. I got in, started the engine and took off in the opposite direction, relieved to escape.
The lunch crowd was long gone at The Whole Nine Yards. Silent runners sprinted across the large-screen TV, in time to an old Judds tune playing on the jukebox, while the few stragglers finished their Friday fish fries.
“What’re you doing here?” my boss asked from behind the bar. “You’re not on the schedule ’til tomorrow, you know.”
I grabbed a stool. “Give me a beer, will you, Tom?”
He drew a Coors and set it in front of me.
“I’m gonna need some time off.”
Tom picked up a paring knife and resumed cutting fruit for the happy hour garnishes. “You want to tell me what’s wrong?”
“A woman got killed at the Women’s Health Center a couple hours ago.”
He paled. “Not Brenda.”
“No.” I took a sip. “But it happened right in front of us.”
“Christ,” he muttered.
“I want to hang around the house for a couple of days. Just ’til things settle down.”
“Sure. Take as much time as you need. Dave and I can handle it here.”
“Thanks.” I swallowed another mouthful of beer, and stared at the bar’s oak top. “She looked so surprised. I mean . . . she was alive, and then she wasn’t. It happened so damned fast.”
He nodded toward my glass. “You want a shot to go with that?”
I shook my head. “That makes two people who died right in front of me this week.” I looked up into Tom’s patient face and wondered if I adopted the same expression when people told me their troubles. I guess that’s why I’d ended up here.
“Why don’t you tell me all about it,” Tom said.
When I arrived home an hour later, a strange car was in the driveway. I parked my crate and headed over to Richard’s house.
Ken Tyler, the salesman from Amherst Security was seated at the kitchen table. “I heard about the shooting and came ri
ght over,” he said.
“We were just going over various options.” Richard looked back at Tyler. “How soon can the guard get here?”
“Within the hour.”
Richard nodded.
“Where’s Brenda?” I asked.
“Lying down. She said she didn’t feel well.”
“You’ll need to take additional precautions,” Tyler said. “First off, don’t advertise yourselves. That means no open drapes at night. Don’t go out alone. If you’ve got a set routine—change it. Anything to throw off whoever’s stalking you.”
“Standard protective measures,” I said.
“A you familiar with them?”
I nodded.
The lines in Richard’s face seemed deeper. “We’ll do whatever you suggest.”
Two grim-faced FBI agents from the Washington office showed up about the same time as the guard arrived, and as Tyler was leaving. Richard coaxed Brenda downstairs to be interviewed by the Washington hotshots. The case was apparently too big for the local boys to handle. They asked the same questions as the Amherst Police. Brenda’s letters, already at the State Crime Lab, would now get top priority, they said.
Rehashing the day’s events only upset Brenda more, and we were all relieved when the suits finally left.
I scrambled eggs and burned toast for a makeshift dinner. Conversation was at a minimum; none of us had an appetite and most of our dinner went down the garbage disposal. A vacant-eyed Brenda mumbled goodnight and shuffled off to bed early. I hoped her dreams wouldn’t be haunted by grisly images of her dead friend.
Richard thanked me for my efforts and I headed for my own place. The uniformed guard, stationed in a cruiser at the end of the drive, gave me a thumbs up as I crossed the driveway for my apartment. He was supposed to do a circuit around the yard every fifteen minutes. Even so, his presence didn’t make me feel much safer.
The phone was ringing when I let myself into my darkened apartment. Herschel assaulted me, winding around my legs like a boa constrictor. I turned on the lights and picked up the receiver.
“Jeff?”
Patty.
“Are you okay? I saw you on TV. How’s Brenda?”
“She’s fine.” Then what she said registered. I crossed the room to close the blinds, with Herschel hot on my heels. “You saw me where?”
Cheated By Death Page 18
