by Jodi Thomas
“Back to Vietnam?” No one would know Miller, she thought. Maybe he could deliver a message to Mark without Winslow or anyone else noticing.
Blaine tried to plan and talk to Mrs. Bailey at the same time.
“Yeah.” Mrs. B was off on a monologue. “Miller was Special Forces, you know. The kind of soldier who goes deep behind the lines. Doc said once that Miller’s specialty was going in and bringing downed pilots out alive. Said if they were wounded, Miller brought them out on his back.” Mrs. Bailey continued cleaning as she talked. “Doc told me Miller served two tours over there, living off the land most of the time. Then one night he went in after the men in a downed helicopter. They must have all been shot to bits when he found them, but he started hauling their bodies out one at a time, crossing under fire both directions. His captain ordered Miller to stop, but Miller just turned around and went back for the last man.”
Mrs. Bailey didn’t seem to notice that Blaine was lost in her own problems and only half listening.
She wiped her eyes on her dust towel, then sneezed. “Doc said Miller had four bullet holes in him when he made it back that last time and the man he carried was covered in blood, but somehow the guy was still breathing. The doc went to work right there in the field trying to save them both. Miller wouldn’t let the doc touch him until the pilot was seen to.”
Blaine waited while Mrs. Bailey sipped from a forty-four-ounce plastic cup she carried with her throughout the house as if her journey might take her too far away from a water source. She wiggled into one of the wingback chairs across from Blaine and continued, “They shipped both men back that night as soon as they were stable. Within a matter of hours they were in the military hospital in San Antonio. Miller passed out half a world away and woke up an hour from home.”
Mrs. B. smiled knowing she had Blaine’s full attention, then continued, “The pilot lived, thanks to Miller and the doc. Miller had a hard time of it for a few months. He wouldn’t even let them notify his wife for fear he wouldn’t make it, even with her being right here close in Austin.
“Finally, he was getting out of the hospital about the time the doc got released from duty. Both men had spent many a night talking about when they got back to Austin, how they’d meet up and have a drink.” Mrs. B. took another draw on her water.
“After several months, Doc went over to see him after Miller didn’t return his calls. He found Miller sitting in his living room with a loaded .45 across his lap. Appears his wife got tired of waiting and left him. She even sold a little business that had been in his family for three generations. There he was, thirty-five with no wife, and thanks to getting shot up, no career.”
Miller’s life changed suddenly, like hers. Blaine understood why he felt so lost.
“Apparently, Miller had never been too friendly a guy, even before he went to Nam. When he got back he was mostly bitter and mean. Only person he would have listened to that day was the doc.” Mrs. Bailey took a bite of a poppy-seed muffin she’d left on the desk for the doctor in case he came down before lunch. “Doc talked him into living, if you can call working heavy construction for twenty years living. Miller didn’t spend a dime he didn’t have to. He saved every penny until he bought his family’s business back. It was just a little café but it wasn’t cheap because it’s on a prime downtown corner.”
“Did he reopen?”
Mrs. Bailey shook her head. “No. He lives above it in a little apartment his grandparents once called home. He still doesn’t spend a dime more than he has to. Eats at the free places when he can. He told the doc that those folks leave him alone and he doesn’t have to put up with some waiter dropping by every few minutes asking him if he wants something.”
Mrs. Bailey finished off the muffin and wandered off, mumbling about how she’d better call and wake Tuesday up or the girl would sleep all day.
Blaine paced, waiting for Miller, planning what she would say. The doc came down for dinner but seemed too tired to read. Blaine helped him upstairs and sat by his bed as he relaxed. Wordlessly, he reached for her hand.
She held his wrinkled fingers in hers until his breathing slowed in sleep, then she tucked a blanket around him and slipped from the room.
It was dark when Blaine walked out on the long front porch to watch the traffic from the college half a block away. She was surprised to find Miller sitting in the shadows, his big frame so still he could have been part of the mortar.
“’Evening,” she said as if she saw him there every night.
“’Evening,” he answered. “You feeling better, pest?”
“Yes, thank you.” The thanks was for more than him asking about her health and they both knew it.
“How’s the doc tonight?”
“Weaker,” she answered.
Miller let out a long breath but didn’t say anything.
Blaine leaned against one of the porch supports and waited for more questions. When he didn’t ask, she said, “I guess you’ve got a right to know about me, but the stabbing that night was just an accident. The kid was trying to scare Anna. He looked as surprised as I felt when the knife sliced me.”
“No questions,” Miller answered.
She wasn’t sure if he simply wasn’t interested, or just hated talking. Blaine still didn’t know why he’d helped her, or if he would again.
He was silent. They sat down on the porch in the metal chairs that creaked as they rocked…and thought.
Finally, he said in little more than a whisper, “The Annas told me a cop picked up the bag you left at the stop.”
“Did you tell them where I am?”
He looked at her with a frown. “I’m not in the habit of telling anyone anything, pest.”
“I figured that. I just didn’t want the Annas to worry.”
Miller huffed. “Vanilla Anna thinks you’re at practice. I heard her tell someone the other morning that her Mary may give up the band and be a professional piano player and tour the world, maybe even go as far as Oklahoma City one day.”
They were silent except for the sounds of the streets.
“My name is not Mary,” Blaine had to tell the truth to this man who’d saved her life. “It’s Blaine, Blaine Anderson.”
“I figured that.” He stared at her. “Anything else, Miss Mary Blaine, that you need to get off your chest?”
“I’m pregnant.”
“I figured that too. You eat more than any skinny woman I’ve ever seen. Anything else?”
“I’m in big trouble.” A tear rolled down her cheek. “I need your help.”
When he didn’t say no immediately, she rushed to tell him the whole story of the bombing, the morning after, when she’d overhead Winslow, the phone calls, everything. When she told of seeing the bomber, she whispered as if her voice might carry on the wind.
“I looked him in the eyes, Miller. I’ll never forget his face and if he gets a good look at me, he might remember me.”
Miller didn’t say a word. She wasn’t even sure he listened.
Blaine closed her eyes, remembering every detail. “That morning by Mark’s office he was only a shadow, but I knew the other man, Harry Winslow. He said that as long as the wife was taken care of there was no reason to go after Anderson. I think he meant kill.”
When she ended by saying that her husband first thought she was dead, Miller just rocked back in his chair, his face more in shadow than light. “Is your husband a tall guy with a beard?”
“No,” Blaine answered, knowing Mark would never wear a beard. He usually had his hair cut every other week so it was never a fraction too long. “Why?” Miller had asked her once before about a man with a beard.
“Does your husband know there’s a baby on the way?”
“No,” she admitted. “Tell me why you asked about the beard.”
“There’s a man asking questions. He’s not a weasel of a guy like the one you were running from that morning after breakfast and I’d guess he’s not a cop. Shakespeare says he walks t
he streets at night, but if he’s homeless he’s not staying at any of the shelters.”
Blaine didn’t want to think of anyone else looking for her. The bomber, Detective Randell, probably Winslow and his friend were enough. Now a man with a beard was asking questions and drawing enough attention for Miller to get word of it.
“Do you want to go in…go home?” Miller broke into her thoughts.
“More than anything, but I don’t want to endanger Mark. If the bomber found me, he might kill us both. The pizza shooting had to be meant for me.”
“It might be a coincidence.”
Blaine shook her head. “Not this morning. Not dawn. I left the message on Mark’s cell. Winslow must have overheard it. Or intercepted it.”
Miller stood. “Or…” He waited for her to finish.
Blaine stared up at him. “Or what?”
“If you want my help, you’ve got to consider one more possibility.”
“All right,” Blaine agreed.
“Or Mark knew.”
Twenty-Five
Blaine cried herself to sleep. She didn’t want to consider Miller’s suggestion. Mark could not be a part of this. He could not. He might have been distant, preoccupied, but he’d never think of killing her. Despite the fact that he was her husband and he loved her, Mark would never do anything illegal. He fought for the truth with every breath he took.
She didn’t care what the evidence indicated; Blaine would never believe Mark had anything to do with the bombing of the clinic or the drive-by shooting at the pizza place. He might be in deep with Winslow, but not deep enough to plan the death of anyone, much less her.
At least Miller hadn’t stayed around to point out the facts last night. The big man just got up and walked into the night, leaving her to think. If Mark wasn’t part of this, why couldn’t she reach him? Winslow could have gotten to Mark’s phone at the office, but surely not his cell phone. Winslow would have had to have been in their house to turn off the answering machine and Mark had never invited him. If Mark had turned off the machine, then why? The chances of one of Winslow’s men breaking in seemed slim what with the security around the complex.
Blaine knew the argument Miller could have named. Why was Mark never answering the phone? Surely he went home at night. Where else would he go if he wasn’t in his office? Why would he give his cell to someone else? Or tell someone about the call? None of it made sense.
Why would Mark want her dead? He loved her.
Why would Winslow? He barely knew her name.
And the worst thing Miller hinted at already whispered in her mind. If it was Mark walking the streets, what did he plan to do when he found her?
“It’s not Mark,” she reminded herself a hundred times. “He doesn’t know I’m trying to reach him, or he would come. I know he would.”
Blaine fell asleep late into the night with shadows of angels dancing with devils amid the headstones.
She was still in bed when Mrs. Bailey’s daughter made an appearance the next morning.
“There she is!” a woman shouted as she bumped her way into the house.
“Quiet, Tuesday!” Mrs. Bailey yelled just as loudly. “She’s got a right to sleep, she’s pregnant.”
Blaine sat up in bed and watched the two Bailey women.
“Sorry,” Tuesday said as she stared down at Blaine with open curiosity. “I just dropped by to pick up Mom. We’re going to a movie and out to eat. Oh,” she laughed and offered her hand. “I’m Tuesday Bailey and you’ve got to be the Mary who Mom talks about.”
Blaine nodded, but wasn’t sure if the girl offered friendship, or had simply grown tired of hearing about the pregnant woman living with the old doctor and decided to drop by for a look.
“Nice to meet you,” Blaine whispered as she stood, but neither woman paid any attention to her.
Everything about Tuesday Bailey appeared to be supersized, from her clothes to her makeup. The only small thing about her colorful ensemble dangled from her wrist. A poodle-shaped purse. She carried an umbrella that banged against everything within three feet of her.
Tuesday Bailey spoke in a voice that could have easily distanced the block. “I just dropped by to make sure Mom leaves by noon today,” she said to no one in particular. “We’ve got plans.”
“Great.” Mrs. Bailey clapped her hands. “Let me get my purse.”
Tuesday lifted her nose. “I almost got a job today, but they’d just hired someone.”
“You’re getting close, sweetheart, just keep trying.”
Tuesday pulled off a pair of white cat’s-eye glasses and smiled at Blaine. “Would you like to come along with us?” Her smile appeared more genuine than the offer.
“No, thank you,” Blaine answered, but Tuesday had already turned toward her mother.
“Maybe next time. Mom said you don’t have any friends to run around with.”
Blaine wasn’t sure she liked the idea of the Baileys talking about her, but she remembered that Mrs. B.’s favorite activity seemed to be planning other people’s lives, so why should she be surprised that the trait was inherited.
Mrs. B. shook her head. “She’s like the doc, honey, keeps to herself all the time.”
Before Blaine could join the conversation, Dr. Early started down the stairs.
All three women turned to watch his progress. He moved down slowly, crossed to the recliner in the corner and almost collapsed in exhaustion.
Blaine covered him with a blanket as Tuesday greeted him with honest warmth.
When he caught his breath, he told Tuesday she looked downright parade today.
“I came by to see if Mom, and Mary, will go out with me.”
“Thanks, again,” Blaine answered. “But I’ll stay here with the doc. We’re both a little under the weather.”
The old man coughed in time to her comment.
Everyone in the room knew he was dying but Blaine didn’t want to admit it. They’d become friends in an accepting way few people do. He’d opened his home to her, without asking any questions, almost as though he’d recognized one of his own kind. They shared far more than a love for reading. They were both the quiet watchers of life who fill in the background while the actors performed.
He’d given her hope in the statement of his life. A kind, quiet man who hadn’t set out to change the world but who seemed content just to be alive in it and enjoy his time. She knew she could never pay him back for these days of peace, but she could make his time a little happier by sharing his books.
Blaine brushed the doctor’s wrinkled hand as she looked up at Tuesday. “The doc is going to read me O. Henry tonight and I found a book of old nursery rhymes on the top shelf of his study. I thought I could read them after lunch. They’ll probably put us both to sleep for a nap, then we’ll have an early dinner. So we’ve got a great time planned.”
Blaine swore she saw both Tuesday’s and her mother’s eyes roll back at the thought of their boring day.
“Fun evening,” the girl mumbled. She motioned with tiny jerks of her head toward the door. “Well, we better be going. Wish we could stay.”
Blaine and the doctor, fighting to hold back laughter, watched them hurry down the steps. Tuesday tried to be polite, but her moods were wrapped in see-through plastic.
Hours later, she watched the old man move slowly up the steps to his room. They’d read longer than usual, but he didn’t seem to want to stop. When she finally closed the book, he patted her hand and thanked her as though she’d given him a gift.
Blaine poured herself a glass of milk and moved to the porch. She wasn’t surprised to find Miller waiting for her. The open window told her he’d probably heard everything they’d read, even though he’d never admit to have been listening.
They sat for a long while beside one another in the cool metal chairs. Finally, Miller whispered, “You’ve been thinking?”
“I’ve been worrying,” she answered without acting as if she didn’t know what he was thinking
about. Their conversation from the night before had weighed on her mind all day.
“I have to do something.” Blaine’s voice floated across the night air, hanging between them in the darkness. “No matter how dangerous. Saying nothing may end up getting more people killed. When the bombing happened at the clinic, I thought it was something that happened that had nothing to do with me personally. Then I heard Winslow and the thin man talking and wondered, but I still had no proof. If I’d have gone to the police with what I thought I heard they might not have even listened, but I would have ended Mark’s career by pointing a finger at Winslow. Now the shooting.”
“You can’t afford to risk your life. Not on one conversation you overheard in the dark the morning after you’d been hurt,” Miller mumbled as if talking to himself. His big fists thumped the armrest, making the hollow metal sound like someone learning to blow a trumpet.
“I can’t afford not to.”
Miller grunted.
“I thought when Frank Parker gave the police a description, they’d catch the culprit. But Frank’s no longer around to make a positive ID. And the bomber is still out there, walking the streets, looking for me. I can almost feel him growing closer.” Tears bubbled from her eyes. “If I step forward and talk to the police, he might go after Mark. What if he kills Mark before they catch him?”
She lowered her voice. “I think, from what I overheard that first morning, that if he hadn’t killed me he planned to kill Mark. It makes no sense.”
“What were the words you heard?”
“Winslow asked the guy if he got the wife. I think he called the man Jimmy. When the guy nodded, Winslow added, ‘Thank God we don’t have to take out Anderson.’”
Suddenly the walk in front of the house was filled with students. A class at Austin College must have been released. Blaine and Miller watched them hurry to their cars and bikes, yelling goodbyes as they moved about all hunchbacked with their packs.
They seemed so carefree.
Blaine leaned closer. “I must have heard something wrong. Why would anyone want to kill me? At the clinic, I could have been at the wrong place at the wrong time. But not the pizza place.”
