All or Nothing (30 page)

“He’s out of jail. There was no way Bulworth could keep him in there now. They don’t want it known, though. Not yet. Not until they catch up with Laurie Martin. He’s in a safe house, under guard. They’re afraid once she hears he’s free and no longer a suspect, she might go after him too.”

“
Kill
him, you mean?” Marla’s voice was subdued.

“Right. She can’t afford to have him around, telling what he knows about her, not now they’ve found Jimmy Victor. In fact, our Laurie should be getting a little nervous by now, since her letter bombs failed and Jimmy was found.”

“You never know what she might try to do,” Marla added as they got out of the car and walked up the familiar steps into the hospital.

Vickie thought it was so lonely, being lost like this. She had never felt so alone, as though nobody cared. . . . But now there was something different, something new. . . . She could feel it . . . no, she could
smell
it. The scent of a summer garden overlaying the everlasting clinical smell she had come to hate.

The air was heavy with perfume, it reminded her of her childhood holidays, of summer breezes and grass and dusky evenings filled with jasmine and nicotiana and roses. It was wonderful . . . it made her remember that she was a woman . . . that she was alive . . . somewhere inside her head, surely she was still alive. . . .

She tossed restlessly on the pillows, eyes shut tight, trying to visualize those summer vacations on the Eastern Seaboard with her uncles and aunts and cousins, and how they had all played together, running along the beach until they were exhausted, yelling and screaming and fighting and wrestling each other. . . .
Oh, my God, my babies, my little girls, who will take them on vacations like that now that I’m not there. . . .
But she
was
there, she was alive . . . she had to be, she could smell perfume couldn’t she   .   .   .   ?

A cool hand was on hers, smooth, soft. A woman’s hand. She was talking to her, saying things . . . Vickie struggled to organize those loose connections so she could listen, take it in . . . it wasn’t just another nurse, another doctor, this woman meant something to her, though she had no idea who she was. . . .

“Vickie, sweetheart.” Marla bent over and spoke softly into her ear, which is why Vickie could smell her perfume so distinctly. “It’s Marla. Remember me? I was with you that night and I know what you went through.

“Vickie, I just felt the need to be near you tonight, I thought perhaps you needed me. And you do need me to tell you again that Steve is innocent, Vickie, Steve is free now because they know who the guilty person is. They haven’t caught her yet, but they will. Oh,
they will,
Vickie, I promise you that. And when they do, Steve will be right here by your side, telling you all the things I am telling you now. Only he’ll also be telling you how much he loves you, Vickie, and your little girls. I know that for a fact.”

Al propped his sinewy frame against the hospital–green wall, arms folded over his chest, watching, listening. He didn’t understand why Marla had needed to come to the hospital right now, but he’d gone along with her woman’s intuition, and besides, whatever he could do for Vickie he would. He had an obligation to her.

Vickie thrashed her head from side to side on the pillows and Marla jumped back, alarmed. “It’s okay, Vickie,” she said, casting an anxious glance at the monitors ticking away Vickie’s life, every heartbeat, every throb of her pulse, every leap or fall in her blood pressure. Life reduced to machines was not a happy thing.

She sat quietly, holding Vickie’s hand for a long time, then with a sigh she looked up at Al. “I guess I was wrong,” she said wistfully. “It’s just that I had this thing . . . this gut feeling . . . that Vickie wanted me here . . . I can’t explain it.”

“You don’t have to.” He took her hand in his and pulled her to her feet. “Come on, honey, it’s late. Say good night to Vickie. You’ve done all you can, for now.”

Marla sighed as she looked down at the pitifully pale face that was so transparent it looked drained of all blood. “Good night, Vickie.” She stroked her fingers gently across Vickie’s brow.

As she did so, Vickie’s eyes opened. And this time Marla could swear they were looking directly into hers.

She grasped Vickie’s cold hand, urgently. “Vickie, sweetheart, if you hear me, if you understand me, squeeze my fingers.
Just squeeze my hand, honey, please. . . .
”

Vickie’s eyes stared expressionlessly into hers for the long moment, then the answering squeeze came, soft as a sable paintbrush, a mere flutter of pressure. But it was enough for Marla to know that she had been right to trust her gut instinct. She had broken through that invisible barrier that kept Vickie away from the land of the living.

Her tears fell onto Vickie’s clasped hand as Al hurried to summon the doctors.

“It’ll be alright now, Vickie,” she promised. “Everything will be alright now.”

Steve Mallard was pacing his nondescript room in a small nondescript hostelry optimistically named the Country Cabin Hotel, located between the noisy 101 freeway and the everlasting traffic on Ventura Boulevard in the San Fernando Valley, wondering how soon he could get out of here.

He’d been in this “safe house” for a week now and already it seemed like a year. The drab hotel–style rectangle was filled with brown slightly worn furniture and a multicolor bedspread that was, he guessed, meant to bring a welcoming touch of color to the room, but it only served to make the room look drabber.

His “minder,” a plainclothes detective by the name of Chavez, was lying on the bed in the adjoining room watching
Dateline
on TV. The door was propped open between them, as it always was, though both outer bedroom doors were locked and bolted, and only Chavez or the current cop on duty––they rotated every eight hours––had the keys.

There was a knock at the door and Chavez leapt to his feet, sliding his Glock from the holster in a single smooth movement. Chavez was Mexican, with the face of a prizefighter and the tight physique of his namesake, the middleweight Cesar Chavez.

Now Chavez peered through the peephole, checking that it really was the Domino’s Pizza delivery he had ordered fifteen minutes ago.

“What ya got there, bro?” he demanded through the closed door.

“One pepperoni and onions, one double cheese, jalapeño and sausage.”

Chavez waved Steve back into his own room and motioned for him to close the door. He slid the gun back into the holster under his jacket and opened the door cautiously.

“Took you long enough,” the high school kid who was the delivery boy grumbled. “What did you think I’d got? A time bomb or sump’n?”

“Here kid.” Chavez thrust the correct amount of money at him and added a tip. “Next time watch your lip, though. It could get ya into trouble.”

“Yeah, sure . . . and who says?” The kid was still grumbling as Chavez locked and bolted the door behind him.

“Come and get it, bro,” he called to Steve. “Enjoy it while it’s still hot.”

Steve couldn’t have cared less whether the pizza was hot or not. He didn’t even want the cold beer Chavez offered him, though Chavez being on duty drank only a Diet Coke.

“Gotta watch the calories, my wife says,” he said, tucking into a dripping slice of sausage pizza lavished with tiny green nuggets of jalapeño chilis. “So now I drink Diet Coke instead of regular.”

“You might try cutting out the pizza as well,” Steve said with a tired sigh. Every night it was the same. Chavez showed up for his shift at six. At seven the pizza was delivered. Always the double cheese, jalapeño and sausage that Chavez devoured like a ravenous lion and never gained an ounce. The routine was beginning to get him crazy. He couldn’t even watch TV anymore, couldn’t concentrate on the movies the minders brought in to break up the routine, couldn’t even read a newspaper or
Time
magazine.

All Steve wanted was to go see Vickie. To have her know the truth. To have life get back to normal again. He didn’t give a damn about Laurie Martin and possible threats on his life. He wanted his wife and kids back. He wanted to live in his own home, sleep in his own bed with Vickie by his side, the way she had for ten years now.

But Vickie was still in the hospital and not responding to anyone. His girls were with her sister and though he heard about them regularly via Lister, they didn’t even know he was out of jail and that their daddy was innocent of the terrible charges leveled at him. And his home was locked and shuttered and still the location of an investigation in progress, complete with yellow police tape and a cop outside.

The phone rang and Chavez put down the pizza and answered it. “Yeah? Right, sir. Yes, everything is okay here, Steve is doin’ just fine, eatin’ his pizza like a good boy.” He threw Steve a grin that was not reciprocated. “Yes, sir, Detective Bulworth. I’ll be expecting you then, sir. In about ten minutes. You got it, sir. Better remember the password, though. You don’t?” Chavez was laughing as he said, “It’s
de la Hoya.
See you later, Detective.”

“What’s Bulworth want?” Steve moved away from the window, where he’d been watching the traffic inching its way along a clogged Ventura Boulevard. He ignored the pizza waiting on the table and instead slumped into a chair in front of the TV.
Dateline
jumped before his eyes in bands of color and sound. He had no idea what it was.

“Wants to see you. He and another guy, Al Giraud, the P.I. They’ll be here in ten minutes.”

Feeling like a condemned man, Steve wondered what was going to happen to him now. Whether they were going to rearrest him and stick him in jail again, or––faint hope––let him go free. He waited out the ten minutes in silence until the rap on the door finally came.

“Who is it?” Chavez called, peering through the peephole again. Bulworth’s big florid face magnified by the little circle of glass glared back at him.

“It’s Detective Bulworth, Chavez, open up.”

“What about the password, sir?”

“Don’t be an asshole, Chavez,” Bulworth hissed. “You can see it’s me, God damn it.”

“Not until you say the password, sir, that’s the rules,” Chavez said, grinning like a jackal as Bulworth pounded his fist against the door.

He opened suddenly and Bulworth staggered in, followed by Giraud, who gave a broad wink in Chavez’s direction on his way to shake hands with Steve.

It did not pass Steve’s attention that the last time they had seen each other in the interview room at the Twin Towers jail, Giraud had deliberately not shaken his hand.

“Do I take this as a sign that all is forgiven?” he asked drily, as Bulworth too came over and clasped his hand.

“Not only that, Steve, but we have news for you.” Bulworth looked at Giraud, waiting for him to tell the story.

“It’s about Vickie, Steve. She’s responding to people, responding to touch and to instructions. She’s coming out of it, fella, and the medico there says she’s on the mend.”

Steve slumped into the chair, his head in his hands. “Thank God.
Oh, thank God,
” he murmured as the tears threaded their way through his fingers.

“The thing is, the medicos think it would be good for her to see you, to know you are there. Maybe you can talk to her a little, not about what happened, but about your lives together, memories, the children, that sort of thing.”

“When do we go?” Steve was already on his feet, picking up his jacket.

Giraud grinned. “Right now, buddy. Marla already told her to expect you.”

“Yeah, but then you come right back here again, into hiding,” Bulworth warned. “This is risky enough and we can’t take any chances.”

“Just let me see her,” Steve agreed humbly, “that’s all I ask.”

San Francisco police officer Guido Minelli was at the wheel of a patrol car cruising the streets of Potrero Heights, when the call came through of a possible shooting a couple of blocks away. He switched his flashing lights on, put his foot down and, weaving through dense traffic, was in the area in minutes, easing down a narrow alley in back of some warehouses.

It was dusk, a tricky time for seeing who was where and how many there were and who was holding a gun. His partner, Officer Luther Winesap, had his semiautomatic at the ready as they cruised slowly down the alley.

“Warehouse door’s open on your right,” Winesap said tersely, and Minelli stopped the car, unholstered his gun and got out.

“Don’t see no bodies,” he whispered.

“Probably inside the warehouse. And if he’s still around, so is the shooter.”

In the distance, Minelli heard the sound of approaching sirens. He figured they were at least five blocks away but it was good to know assistance was on its way, along with paramedics for the injured––or the dead. He motioned Winesap behind him and edged along the wall, alert for any sound. Then he heard it.

“Sounded like a groan, man,” Winesap said softly. “There’s somebody in there, alright.”

“Let’s go,” Minelli said, taking a quick, cautious peek through the open door. The warehouse was in darkness, not even a glimmer of light, and he felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. Then he heard it again. A groan, louder this time.

“Help,” a male voice said. “Help me, I’m shot. I’m dyin’.”

“Sounds to me he’s too strong to be dyin’,” Winesap commented.

“Police,” Minelli yelled, loud and clear. “Come on out with your hands over your heads. Now! Out!”

“Yo, I bin shot, I cain’t git up to come on out there. My leg’s hurtin’ like hell and the little fucker who did me’s gotten away, left me to die. . . .”

Minelli sighed, he knew from experience you couldn’t trust anybody. He flashed a light into the warehouse, saw a big old RV and a man lying on his back next to it. Even from here he caught the dull black gleam of blood on cement.

“Back me up,” he said, edging into the warehouse, his back to the wall, and Winesap crouched at the entrance, his weapon clasped in both hands, ready for whatever hell might break loose.

The sirens were closer now, no more than a couple of blocks. Help was at hand should they need it. Suddenly a figure darted from the shadows, racing for the door. Winesap had him covered, yelling at him to stop or he would shoot and the kid, for he was after all only a young boy, stopped and lifted his hands, defeated.