Cheated By Death

by L. L. Bartlett

  “On TV. They showed you helping someone into Richard’s car. Did you know the woman who was killed?”

  “She was Brenda’s friend.”

  “Aw, too bad.” The words were right, but they sounded insincere.

  “Why are you calling?”

  “I was worried about you, of course.”

  “You didn’t sound worried last night when you gave me the brush off.”

  “I did no such thing. I—” She stopped in mid-denial and changed her tone. “I’m sorry you feel that way. You’re my brother and I care about you. I always will.”

  Yeah. And pigs fly.

  The silence dragged, only the cat’s happy purring broke the quiet. I pulled off my coat, cradled the phone on my shoulder as I hung it in the closet.

  “How is Richard taking all this?” Patty asked at last.

  The real reason for her call.

  “How do you think? His wife was nearly killed.”

  “Was someone really shooting at Brenda?”

  Her phony concern irked me.

  “She works at the clinic. It’s a possibility.”

  “Do they know who did it?” she asked, anxiety in her voice.

  “Not yet. Why?”

  “No reason. I just— It’s just terrible. There’re too many guns out there.” She launched into a spiel about gun control. I didn’t listen to the words, more the tone. Anxiety bordering on fear. But not for me.

  “Patty, what are you trying to say?”

  “Nothing. I—” She broke off. “Just be careful. Please. And . . . look out for Richard, okay? I gotta go.”

  The line went dead.

  I hung up the phone. Herschel looked up at me with pleading amber eyes then went to sit by the cabinet.

  “You could at least pretend you see me as more than just a feeding machine.”

  Herschel let out a piteous howl and pawed the cabinet door.

  I fed the cat and sat down with the phone, punching in Maggie’s number. She’d briefly spoken with Brenda and had been waiting for my call. The silences between sentences hung heavily. I didn’t want to talk any more. I rang off, promising to call her in the morning.

  I poured a tall bourbon and tried to read, but I couldn’t get interested in my book. Turning on the TV, I flipped channels for almost ten minutes until I came to the conclusion that I was too wired to concentrate. I kept reliving those terrible moments in front of the clinic. Jean Newcomb falling backwards as blood gushed across the front of her jacket. Brenda in the direct line of fire—me hauling her away just in time. Holding her in my arms . . . .

  I finished my drink and hit the rack early, losing myself in heavy, dreamless sleep.

  At first I wasn’t sure I was really awake until I recognized the sound of the garage door opener grinding beneath the floor under my bed. The scarlet numbers on my bedside clock read four thirty six.

  Adrenaline coursed through me and I was out of bed like a shot, heading for the window overlooking the drive. I pulled back the curtain to see Richard shuffling toward the house, his shoulders stooped. I grabbed the phone, punched in the numbers as he disappeared behind the door. It rang twice.

  “Hello?” Weary resignation.

  “Rich, what happened?”

  Richard exhaled a shaky breath. “Brenda lost the baby.”

  A terrible silence fell between us. Dear God—everything I feared.

  “Where is she?”

  “At the hospital. Her OB met us at the ER a few hours ago. They had to do a D and C.”

  Holy shit.

  “We asked for a post mortem, but it could be weeks before we know what happened. We—” His voice broke. “We got to hold him. He was tiny, but he looked . . . perfect.”

  “How's Brenda?” I somehow managed.

  He cleared his throat. “She’ll probably come home tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Oh, God, I’m sorry, Rich.”

  “Yeah, me, too. Listen, I’ll call you in the morning.”

  “If you need anything—”

  “Yeah—” he cut me off, and broke the connection.

  The hardwood floor was cold beneath my bare feet. I wandered back to the comforting warmth of my bed, pulled the covers over me and lay there in the dark.

  It was my fault. It had to be. When I’d saved Brenda from the assassin’s bullet — I’d killed her baby—her son.

  I pulled the covers tighter around me as shivers wracked me.

  I’d killed my own nephew.

  Herschel jumped onto the mattress and warily made his way across the down comforter. He looked at me expectantly in the dim light. Did he want to be petted or did I just need to pet him right then? My hand cupped the back of his head, skritched his ear. He hunkered down, and a steady, contented purr vibrated through his whole body.

  I stared at the featureless ceiling.

  Good-bye, baby boy—a life that wasn’t meant to be. And another one of my premonitions come true. I’d tried to prepare myself—I hadn’t wanted to believe it. But I had believed it. Didn’t know I’d be the cause of it.

  Maybe I should’ve said something to Richard. Maybe . . . .

  But I also remembered what Sophie told me. Warning people about terrible events only made them resent—blame—you. Had she known I was responsible?

  Herschel’s deep, throaty purr filled that lonely room. I wished Maggie was with me, thought about and rejected the idea of calling her.

  It could wait.

  I kept scratching Herschel’s neck. He hadn’t judged me a murderer. Would Richard and Brenda?

  “Thanks for being here, pal.” The cat stretched his long black legs, rolled onto his back. In minutes he was asleep.

  It took me a lot longer.

  CHAPTER

  17

  Three blood-spattered corpses lay stretched out on the grass, their sightless gazes fixed on the relentless gray sky. Jean Newcomb, the dead man with the Roman features, and my ex-wife, Shelley, lay side-by-side like casualties in a war.

  I circled the bodies, unable to tear my eyes away, looking for the elusive common denominator besides the most obvious: they all died from gunshots. Revulsion made me shudder at the sight of their mortal wounds.

  I couldn’t look at Shelley’s face—at least not all at once. I zeroed in on the top of her head. It was gone, the surrounding tawny hair matted with dried blood. Her glassy, lifeless brown eyes haunted me. My gaze traveled down to her slightly parted lips, her mouth poised as though to tell me something, but no sound came forth. I tore my eyes away, and stared at her blood-stained, beige jacket with the silver snowflake pin on the lapel.

  Dead. All dead.

  Motion caught my attention. Brenda stood at the edge of a grassy field, waving to me. The lower portion of her long white gown was blood soaked, her eyes wild, haunted . . . but she lived.

  For the moment, because the threat still loomed.

  And was there any way I could save her?

  It was still dark when I awoke feeling achy and miserable. I staggered to the bathroom, drank a glass of water, and headed back for bed.

  Eyes closed, the images from the nightmare lingered in my mind. What did it all mean? What did Shelley have to do with these people? Why, after all this time, did she still haunt my dreams? Was my subconscious pulling in a thread from my past to make sense of the present? The dead man was a stranger to me. I hadn’t witnessed Shelley’s murder, but I had seen Jean Newcomb die. She was the link, but to what?

  Three people who’d been murdered. Three unconnected deaths.

  Shelley had been moldering in a grave in Jersey for over two years. I didn’t know when the dead man was killed. But Jean Newcomb had been alive less than twenty-four hours ago.

  It had to connect. Somehow it had to all make sense. But I couldn’t see it. And I wouldn’t figure it out by staring at a darkened ceiling.

  A cat’s empty stomach makes a fine alarm clock. Not that I needed one that Saturday morning. I got up, fed the cat, then dressed, not
knowing what to do with myself. But I needed to be doing something. I grabbed my coat, headed for the garage, and backed my car out.

  The changing of the guard had already occurred, and I introduced myself to the stranger now manning the Amherst Security car at the end of the drive. He showed me his photo ID and gave me a brief report. There’d been no sign of intruders. All was calm.

  Then why were my nerves stretched taut?

  I drove to the grocery store, bought a basket of sweets and desserts—sinful chocolate cake, double mocha brownies, and a two pound box of assorted chocolates—all the stuff Brenda liked. I picked up a bouquet of carnations, too; pretty white ones streaked with red, like frilly candy stripers. By the time I got home it was after eight thirty—late enough to wake Maggie with the bad news.

  I dialed her number, but voice mail caught it on the third ring. I hung up, frowned, and heard a car pull up the drive—Maggie’s Hyundai. I grabbed the bag of groceries and made it down the steps in seconds, meeting her as she got out of the car.

  “Richard called,” she said in greeting, but there was none of the usual warmth in her voice. Her blue eyes were haunted. I saw an overnight bag on her passenger seat. “Brenda’s sisters won’t come,” she said in explanation. “I’m going to stay with them for a few days.”

  I nodded, and put an arm around her shoulder as I walked her into the house.

  Richard was waiting in the kitchen. Maggie went to him; embraced him. “I’m so sorry.”

  He nodded, but said nothing. He pulled away, leaned against the counter and cleared his throat, folding his arms across his chest. “Would you mind packing a case for her? Clean clothes—underwear. You know the kind of stuff she’ll need.”

  Maggie nodded.

  “There’s an overnight bag in our closet, and—”

  “I’ll find it,” she assured him, and headed out of the kitchen and toward the stairs and the master bedroom.

  “How is Brenda?” I asked.

  “She called. Thank goodness for cell phones, eh? She’s pretty good. Considering.” His gaze remained fixed on the floor, and his expression hardened. “I talked to both her sisters.”

  “Maggie said they wouldn’t come.”

  “Brenda called Evelyn last night—before this happened—and asked her if she could stay with us for a few days. Evelyn's retired, but she said she couldn’t come. Some flimsy excuse about it being too near the holidays. I called her this morning. She said she was sorry about the baby, but said it was probably for the best. Can you believe that?”

  No, I couldn’t.

  He let out a shaky breath. “I called my supervisor at the clinic. I’m not going back. At least not until this situation is settled. Maybe not even then.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He took a ragged breath, his brow puckering—and for one terrible moment I thought he might actually cry. “I can’t do this anymore. I should’ve known. I couldn’t hack it after my residency. Why do you think I took that job in California?”

  “What are you talking about?” I asked, trying to keep my own panic in check.

  Richard turned his tormented gaze away. “Patient care. I can’t divorce myself from what they go through. I can’t stay detached.”

  “It proves you care.”

  “Yeah. I care so much I can’t keep my objectivity.”

  So that’s what was eating him. But I sensed there was more going on. Helping a dying man had exposed my brother to HIV. So far the tests hadn't shown the deadly antibodies in his blood. The stress of waiting for them to show up had to be pressing on his mind. I know the stress had gotten to me. But I had to be encouraging. We’d come this far. I’d wished and even prayed to a God I wasn’t sure I believed in to ensure Richard's good health. Maybe I should've prayed for his child, too.

  “Look, now’s not the time to make life-altering decisions,” I said.

  Richard’s fists clenched. I’d never seen him so demoralized.

  Not knowing how to deal with it, I turned my back on him, and started unloading the grocery bag.

  “Did you know Brenda would lose this baby?” he demanded.

  I couldn’t look him in the eye. “Oh, come on. How—?”

  He grabbed my shoulder and yanked me around to face him. “Because you know these things. You’re psychic, remember!”

  Holy Mary, mother of God.

  “Yeah,” I managed, my voice a whisper. “I knew.”

  He took a step closer and I tensed, expecting him to hit me. “Then why didn’t you say something? Why didn’t you warn us? We could’ve taken precautions. We could’ve—”

  I stepped aside, needing to get out of his way. “What kind of precautions? It was me who shoved her to the ground. It was my fault. I didn’t know that. I would’ve never done anything to hurt—”

  He shook his head, wearily. “Don’t do that to yourself. If you hadn’t pulled Brenda out of the way, she would’ve been murdered—just like Jean Newcomb. Losing this baby is hard enough—I couldn’t bear losing both of them.”

  Was he just being kind? Somehow I managed to meet his gaze. His eyes were bloodshot, but there was no anger in them. “I’m sorry.” I couldn’t say any more. Especially not what I feared—that Brenda would never have a child.

  Not knowing what else to do, I unloaded the rest of the groceries, folded the heavy brown paper bag, and stowed it in the cabinet under the sink.

  “I didn’t get much sleep after I talked to you last night.”

  He turned an icy glare at me. My sleeping habits were the farthest thing from his mind.

  “I had a lot of time to think about this whole situation.”

  His gaze shifted, betraying his interest.

  “Until yesterday, and except for those letters, we didn’t have any tangible evidence to link Brenda to whoever is behind all this. Now we do—the bullets that killed Jean Newcomb. And the casings they found across the street from the Women’s Health Center.”

  His eyes flashed. “Do you think you could get something from them?”

  “I’d sure as hell like to try. But it’s likely the Feds took them.” I thought about it for a moment. “Maybe Bonnie Wilder could pull some strings and get me in to see them.”

  He nodded, the barest hint of a smile quirking the corners of his mouth.

  “I’ll get right on it,” I said, and turned for the phone. He said he held no grudge against me—for what I’d done. And I was determined to do all I could to keep Brenda safe.

  Maybe then I’d be able to forgive myself.

  Richard used his cell phone to call the hospital to check on Brenda while I commandeered the landline to call the Amherst police station. As I’d hoped, Detective Wilder was already at her desk. I warned her that Richard and I were on our way. Maggie decided to head out for the hospital to be with Brenda until they released her—which wouldn’t happen until at least eleven.

  Three guys from Amherst Security showed up just as we were leaving, promising most of the system would be wired up before the end of the day.

  At the station, a uniformed officer led us to a conference room.

  “As you probably guessed,” Wilder started, “the situation is now a federal case—and out of our jurisdiction. Despite what happened yesterday, we have no evidence to connect Dr. Newcomb’s murder with the harassment your wife received.”

  “I realize that,” Richard said. “But in case there’s a chance—”

  Wilder straightened the file folders in front of her. “I tracked down Willie Morgan at his office yesterday afternoon. At the time of the shooting, he was in a meeting with five co-workers.”

  “What about Lou Holtzinger?” I asked.

  “He wasn’t on the protest line yesterday morning.”

  “Was he questioned?” I pressed.

  “As far as I know, they haven’t found him to talk to him yet. He’s the most likely suspect. Witnesses say he’s been one of the most vocal protesters.”

  “I can attest to that. And
his truck has a gun rack,” I reminded her.

  She looked uncomfortable, but said nothing.

  “What about Reverend Linden?” I asked.

  “He’s also wanted for questioning. According to his wife, he didn’t return home last night. She doesn’t know where he is.”

  “Interesting,” I said.

  “We have an unusual request,” Richard said. “We’d like to see whatever evidence was collected at the scene.”

  “The bullets, if they're available, and the casings in particular,” I added.

  “What for?” Wilder asked.

  I swallowed my pride. “I’m kind of . . . . ”

  “Psychic? Yeah, I heard,” Wilder said, her voice, and her gaze, level. “I got a call from a Detective Hayden over at Orchard Park PD. He said if you touched them you might get some kind of intuition from them.”

  Carl Hayden had been the chief investigator on a murder that had occurred some seven months before. A murder I’d found myself connected to.

  “H-how did he—?” I stammered.

  “He saw you in the background on some news footage.”

  “I’m beginning to feel like a TV star. Well, what’re the chances I can see this evidence?”

  “I’ll try calling a friend at the Bureau, but I can’t make any promises.”

  Despite her pessimism, half an hour later we were on our way downtown.

  Agent Dominic Segovia looked typically FBI. Short hair, wiry build, and completely humorless. Wilder hadn’t told us what her connection to the agent was, but he treated the small-town cop with respect. However, he looked at me skeptically. That skepticism would turn to scorn if I came up with nothing. Segovia ushered us to an unused interrogation room and left us while he retrieved the evidence. Long, silent minutes later, he returned with a number of evidence bags. Using tweezers, he carefully emptied each of them, setting each item on the table before me.

  I studied the spent casings. “Center fire, thirty ought six?”

  Segovia looked impressed. “You got it. Semi-jacketed hollow points.”

  Richard looked at me in confusion.