by Irene Hannon
“Yes.”
With a nod, he rose and moved to the front of the condo. Stepping to one side of the large window in the living room, he checked out the street through the slanted mini blinds. “Looks like he’s gone. I’ll head out too, the same way I came—in case he’s skulking around somewhere.”
He detoured to the front door and paused to examine the keypad beside it. “Do you use your security system?”
“Yes. I arm it whenever I leave and at night.”
“Good.”
She followed him as he crossed back to the patio door, and when he turned toward her, the faint parallel grooves etched on his brow told her more eloquently than words that he was worried about her. While that warmed her heart, it also increased her own anxiety level. Strong, capable professionals like Cal didn’t spook without reason. If he thought there was risk . . . there was.
“Do you have any other plans for today?”
“I was going to meet my friend for a walk, but I can cancel that.”
“I think that would be wise. Let’s not take any unnecessary chances for the next few days, until we sort this thing out.”
“Okay.” She did her best to smile. “I’ll keep Euripides’s advice in mind.”
His lips twitched, softening the taut planes of his face. “And what did the ancient sage have to say on this subject?”
“‘Chance fights ever on the side of the prudent.’”
“Courtesy of your philosopher father again, I presume?”
“Of course.” Her smile relaxed into the real thing. “I can’t believe how many of those philosophy quotes stuck with me. Along with a few from Shakespeare, since he’s also a great fan of the bard.”
“I’d like to meet your dad someday.”
“I’d like that too.”
As his gaze caught and held hers, her heart skipped a beat.
“We’re going to nail this, you know. Soon.”
“I hope so.”
He reached for the door. Hesitated. A muscle clenched in his jaw.
Then he turned back to her, lifted his hand, and touched her cheek.
Her lungs stopped working.
As every instinct in her body screamed at her to step forward—into his arms—she shoved her hands into her pockets. It was too soon. He’d admitted to her that he hadn’t yet managed to let go of his wife. She had to be patient.
Even if it killed her.
“I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Okay.” Her voice cracked.
Throwing her yet another curve, he leaned close and brushed his lips across her forehead. “Lock up after me.”
Before she could respond, he pulled the door open, moved outside, and closed it behind him. Prompting her with a twisting motion of his hand, he gestured to the lock.
Somehow she managed to flip the catch in spite of the tremble in her fingers.
With a final wave, he melted into the bushes at the side of the patio.
She remained where she was, staring at the spot where he’d disappeared, giving her pulse a chance to slow.
In all the months she’d dated Jack, despite the seriousness of their relationship—on her part, anyway—she’d never, ever felt this nerve-tingling excitement.
Giving her one more reason to be thankful for the discovery of his betrayal, which had been devastating at the time but a blessing in the long run.
After flipping the lock, she closed the vertical blinds, blocking out the sun—and any prying eyes that might be about. Gloom settled over the room, and another shudder replaced the warmth of moments ago. There were so many unanswered questions.
But one thing for sure.
Until she was certain no one was watching her—perhaps with evil intent—she had a feeling she was going to spend her nights waging a mighty battle with insomnia.
17
How are you feeling today, Verna?” Ken sat in the chair beside her bed and gave the elderly woman a quick assessment, the question no more than a polite formality. The nasal cannula feeding her oxygen was new since his last visit a week ago, yet her breathing remained labored. In addition, the bottom half of the bed was elevated, meaning her legs and ankles were swollen. Edema wasn’t unusual with congestive heart failure, but hers was getting worse.
Blinking, she turned her head slightly and squinted at him out of the sides of her eyes as she tried to focus. Not an easy thing to do with advanced macular degeneration. Especially in a dim room made dimmer because he’d closed the door most of the way when he’d entered.
“It’s Ken Blaine, Verna.”
Her brow smoothed. “Ah. Dr. Blaine. I didn’t hear you come in. I guess I dozed off. It’s nice of you to stop by.”
“I always enjoy our chats.”
“I’m afraid I’m not in a very talkative mood tonight. It’s been a rough day.” She sighed. “Maybe tomorrow will be better.”
He slipped his hand into the inside pocket of his jacket. Fingered the syringe.
“I’m sure it will be. Why don’t I just sit here for a while and keep you company? No need to talk.”
A smile touched her lips. “My Henry used to do that when I was sick. Come in and sit by me. Hold my hand. I miss him so much.”
He caught the glint of moisture in her eyes from the sliver of light spilling into the room through the crack in the door.
“But you’ll see him again.”
“I know. In a better place.”
“There’s a better place waiting for me.”
His father’s words from forty years ago echoed in his mind.
“To be honest, I’m looking forward to it.” Verna’s fingers worked the edge of the blanket that covered her. “This isn’t much of a life I’m leading, is it?”
Ken touched the syringe again.
“When all hope of recovery is gone, when there is nothing to look forward to except pain and deterioration and dependence, isn’t this another way to relieve suffering?”
“I agree that quality of life is important, Verna.”
Her eyelids drifted closed. “I wish I could still do all the things that used to give my life meaning. I was an excellent teacher in my day. Even after I retired, I tutored. And I always had a volunteer activity or two. I think people should contribute to society. Now I feel so useless.” Her voice broke. “It’s a hard thing to bear, Doctor.”
“You’re doing the compassionate thing by saving me the agony of enduring a life that’s no longer productive or worth living.”
“I’m sure it is. We all like to feel we’re making a difference.”
“The only thing I do these days is take up space. And I’m tired all the time.”
“Why don’t you let yourself drift off? I’ll just sit here with you for a few minutes until you’re asleep.”
“You must have better things to do with a Sunday evening than waste it on an old lady.” Her words were faint, already slurring as sleep overtook her. “What time is it?”
“Close to 9:00. And I don’t consider spending a few minutes with a friend a waste of time.”
Especially when that friend also happened to be a Let the Children Come benefactor.
“You’re a good man, Doctor.”
Silence fell, broken only by the sound of Verna’s breathing.
Keeping one eye on the door to the private room, Ken withdrew the syringe from his pocket, lowered it to his lap, and removed the plastic cap from the needle.
“Accept that sometimes death is a blessing.”
In Verna’s case, death was, indeed, a blessing. She had nothing to look forward to. No family living. No hope of improved health. No opportunity to lead a meaningful life. This was an act of compassion and charity, as it had been with his father forty years ago—and every time since. Plus, in death Verna would get her wish. Her life would matter again, thanks to the legacy she was leaving to Let the Children Come.
It was a no-brainer.
When her respiration evened out, he edged closer to the bed and folded back
the covers. Her body was wasted beneath the shapeless, institutional hospital gown with the open back that was convenient for medical personnel but demeaning to patients, robbing them of their individuality. Here, Verna was simply Room 2610—an old lady whose history was irrelevant because she had no future. Because she was playing a waiting game.
A game that was about to end.
Ken eased the edge of the hospital gown out from beneath her until he had a view of her upper leg. After positioning the needle, he slowly pushed it in.
She moaned and her eyelids flickered open.
Holding her leg in place with one hand, Ken leaned close as he kept a steady pressure on the plunger with the other.
“I’m still here, Verna. Dr. Blaine.”
She blinked and grimaced at him in the dim light.
“My leg hurts.”
“Let me have a look for you.”
He withdrew the syringe, recapped it, and slipped it back in his pocket as he stood. “Where does it hurt?”
“On my thigh.” She gestured to her leg.
He pretended to examine it. “I don’t see anything. Would you like me to turn on the light so I can get a better look?”
“No.” She let out a soft breath. “It’s not as bad now.”
“Good.” He tucked her gown back under her, resettled the covers. “Just relax. I’ll stay until you fall back asleep.” He retook his seat.
The minutes ticked by in the silent room. One. Two. Three. As her breathing slowed, Ken bowed his head.
Please welcome her home, Lord. Reunite her with her husband. Let her know that in death her life once more had meaning.
Reaching over, he touched her hand.
“Good-bye, Verna. Safe journey. And for all the children who need the clinic, thank you.”
He rose and moved around the bed toward the door, checking his watch in the crack of light. 9:15. Perfect timing. The aide assigned to this room would be on break. He’d visited Verna often enough to learn staff patterns.
Still, he scoped out the corridor. He wanted no witnesses to his time of departure. That’s what had gotten him in trouble with Olivia. Had he known she sometimes spent her breaks visiting with residents who had no friends or family, he’d have picked a different shift to end Edward Mason’s suffering.
Instead, when he’d exited Ed’s room that night she’d been headed his way. Panic had gripped him; it was dangerous to link the man’s death too closely to his visit.
Thanks to the quick, clear-thinking genes he’d inherited from his father, however, he’d handled the crisis masterfully.
Blocking the door, he’d engaged her in conversation. Asked about the bruise on her cheek that she’d tried to cover up with makeup, one of many he’d noticed during the months he’d been visiting the facility. Subtly reminded her he’d once found her sitting in a patient’s room, half-asleep, when she was supposed to be on duty.
That had drained the color from her face.
But he’d oozed sympathy, pretended to care, as he assured her he understood how stress at home could lead to sleepless nights and fatigue on the job, and wasn’t it lucky he’d been the one to find her rather than one of her supervisors? Because they wouldn’t take kindly to such a thing, would they? It might even be grounds for dismissal. He was on her side, though, and if she had any issues at home she’d like to talk about, he’d be happy to chat with her on his next visit. In fact, he’d build in some time for that, just in case. Would she like that?
A smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, Ken slipped out the door of Verna’s room without a backward glance and strode down the hall toward the exit.
Olivia had fallen for his I-care-about-you-and-want-to-help spiel hook, line, and sinker. They’d chatted often during his visits after that, and he’d assumed the role of counselor, advising her to leave her abusive boyfriend. With his encouragement, she’d taken that positive step. All had been well, the incident in Edward’s room forgotten.
Until it happened a second time.
Ken’s smile faded as he once more consulted his watch, then recorded an earlier departure time in the visitor registry at the front desk. Since he was such a fixture at the place, no one paid much attention to his comings and goings, especially at this hour on a Sunday night. All part of his well-thought-out plan.
Planning was everything.
But he hadn’t planned on Olivia.
He should have stayed in touch with her after he stopped visiting the nursing home where she worked. If he had, he’d have known she’d taken a new job at Maryville. But he hadn’t seen any reason to continue their relationship. The incident with Edward had been history at that point.
And then she’d shown up at the door of Clara Volk’s room just as he was slipping the syringe back into his pocket.
Talk about bad luck.
Ken stepped outside and drew in a lungful of the fresh air. Willed the knot in his stomach to loosen. That had been a terrible night. He’d done as much damage control as possible on site, certain she’d seen nothing specific in the dim room—but also certain she’d be suspicious when Clara turned up dead. That’s why he’d invited her to meet him for a chat on Friday evening, ostensibly to catch up. But in the two days between their encounter in Clara’s room and their get-together, as he’d wrestled with his dilemma, he’d decided on the only plan that would guarantee him the freedom to continue helping children here and in Guatemala.
A fine mist began to fall, prompting him to retrieve his keys from his pocket and continue toward his car.
Too bad he now had a reporter to worry about. Still, he’d covered his tracks. And how much could she know? He’d been careful. He was always careful.
Lives depended on it.
The mist intensified, and he picked up his pace. Just one more task to take care of tonight before he headed home.
Once behind the wheel, he pulled the syringe out of his pocket, cleaned it with a wet wipe, and dried it with a tissue. Probably overkill, in light of where he planned to dispose of it, but better safe than sorry. It was important to take care of all the details. Leave nothing to chance. His father had taught him that, and he’d taken it to heart. In fact, if his dad were here right now, he knew exactly what the man would say.
Again, a smile touched his lips.
“I’m proud of you, son.”
“Can you see what he’s doing?” Moira leaned toward the dash in the Taurus.
Cal aimed the binoculars through the tinted windshield at Ken Blaine, who was sitting behind the wheel of his Lexus across the nursing home parking lot.
“No. It’s too dark. He might be checking phone messages.”
Moira sank back, sighed, and extracted another celery stick from the plastic bag on the seat beside them. “You know, after spending the past ten hours with you doing surveillance that hasn’t produced a thing, I can see that the glamour bestowed on the PI profession by Hollywood and novelists is highly overstated.” She dipped the celery in a jar of peanut butter and chomped on it.
“We do have exciting moments now and then.”
“Yeah?”
He kept the binoculars fixed to his eyes, lips bowing at her skeptical tone. “There’s another bottle of water in the cooler behind you.”
“No, thanks. After that last high-speed emergency trip to the ladies room, I’ll hold off.”
Cal’s smile broadened as he thought about her fidgeting on the seat beside him, then muttering “Finally!” and racing for a fast-food restroom while he circled the building and Blaine filled his tank at the gas station across the street.
As the doctor’s car began to move, Cal set the binoculars beside him, recorded the time in his surveillance log, and started his own engine. “For the record, this has been one of my more enjoyable surveillance jobs. I don’t usually have company. And you’ve been a great sport, considering the less-than-gourmet food I supplied and the Chinese fire drill bathroom stop.”
“It’s been an experience, that’s for sur
e. But truthfully? I enjoyed it too. Almost as much as sorting through trash in your garage.”
He chuckled and began to follow Blaine, keeping two cars between them. “I’ll try to do better once this is over.”
A beat of silence passed.
“Is that a promise?”
Her tone was still lighthearted, but he also heard the hopeful note in her voice.
Was he making a promise? Implying he intended to ask Moira on a real date down the road?
Yeah. He was. Finally. After a lot of soul searching . . . and saying good-bye . . . he was ready to see where this chemistry between them might lead.
“That’s a promise.”
She didn’t respond, but when he flicked a quick glance her direction, he could see the hint of a smile on her face despite the shadows in the car.
They drove in comfortable silence for a few minutes until Blaine’s route became clear.
“I think he’s going home.” Cal groped for a celery stick. If it wasn’t so late, he’d suggest stopping for some real food once this was over. It was a shame they hadn’t gotten more out of the day than some pleasant conversation and . . .
“I wouldn’t have pegged Blaine for a Taco Bell man.”
At Moira’s comment, Cal jerked his attention from the bag of veggies back to the road. The doctor was turning into the parking lot of the fast-food eatery.
He wasn’t a Taco Bell man himself, but even refried beans sounded appealing about now.
Slowing, he approached the entrance at a crawl. Blaine passed up the parking spots near the door and continued toward the back, where he stopped.
“Grab the binoculars. Let’s see what he’s up to.” Cal killed his headlights and swung into the lot.
Moira fitted them against her eyes and aimed them at Blaine.
Cal stopped halfway down the lot and pulled into a parking spot that gave Moira a view out her side window to the back of the building.
Blaine got out of his car, looked around as if to verify no one was watching, then strode toward a dumpster.
“Can you see what he’s holding?” Cal leaned in closer to Moira’s shoulder.
“I think it’s his Panera bag from when he stopped there this afternoon. But why would he pitch it here? Why not wait till he got home?”
