Behind the Shadows (23 page)

Her mother's eyes filled with tears. Her hand pressed deeper in Kira's. Kira felt the flood of emotion passing into her, the sudden pain of loss that was raw and excruciating. It was just hitting her mother now and would take her time to digest, just as it had taken Kira time.

“You'll always be my daughter,” her mother said. “Always. And I couldn't ask for a better one.” She shifted on the bed. “So much. You've had so much on your shoulders. You've always been my Kira, my light. You will always be my daughter. Oh, Kira, I love you so much.”

“I know,” Kira whispered. “And I'm so lucky that someone gave me to you.”

Kira didn't know how long they stayed that way, clutching each other's hands in a world turned upside down. Her mother's eyes finally closed, and Kira leaned back, reluctant to go, even more reluctant not to be there when her mother woke.

A nurse came in to take vitals, and Kira looked at the clock. It was getting late, and she had to get to the meeting.

Her heart heavy, she went outside and waited for the nurse to come out.

“How is she?” she asked.

“She's hanging in there.”

“She's tough,” Kira said. She paused, then added, “I gave her some bad news today. She took it really well, but can you check her frequently tonight?”

“Of course. I'm on duty until midnight.”

“I'll call and see how's she doing.” She already knew all the nurses by name and the number from memory.

The nurse placed a comforting hand on her arm. “She's one of our favorites. We're all praying for that new kidney.”

“So am I.”

Kira hurried down the hall. She had thirty minutes to get to city hall.

Seth decided to call Leigh. He'd been fuming ever since she told him that someone was claiming to be a Westerfield cousin. An heir to the estate.

It had galled his grandfather, father, and himself that his great-grandfather—Dan Westerfield—had left nearly everything to his second son, Ed, and very little to the first son who had been raised by his mother's family. They'd been the poor cousins, part of the family but only on the fringes.

But his resentment had always been aimed at Ed, just as his father's was. Leigh was a victim of Ed Westerfield as much as his family had been. In truth, he'd been a little in love with her during her wild, reckless days. He knew, though, that society would never approve and even in his teens he'd planned to go into politics, just as his father had. Unlike his father, who had never gone beyond state politics, Seth intended to to be a U.S. Senator someday. Maybe even go higher.

He'd always hoped that when Ed Westerfield died, he would make right a fifty-year-old wrong. No such luck. Seth had received a small stipend, and Leigh had been tied in knots by a trust controlled by an outsider.

He hated Max Payton. The attorney had stepped into a seat that should have been occupied by a Westerfield. By himself. Instead, Max lorded over all of them, handing out a dollar or so when he was in a good mood.

Leigh could break the trust if only she tried. He was very close to the probate judge. He'd been responsible for his appointment to the post and then for his continued reelection. But Leigh wouldn't take those steps. Not yet. Soon, though, if he had anything to do with it.

But now …

He didn't think the story was true. The Douglas woman was a con woman. Had to be. Babies didn't get switched in hospitals. And Dr. Michael Crawford, David's father, was the most competent, rigidly correct man he'd ever met.

But even a bogus claim could tie up the estate for years, ruining any chance he had to bring down Max.

He called Leigh's cell.

“I'm checking out the new horse,” she said, a rare excitement in her voice. “She's wonderful.”

Seth didn't give a fig about the new horse. “I was hoping you would drop by the campaign headquarters today. We can use you.”

“I'm sorry. I didn't sleep well last night, and then the horse came, and …”

“So Max came through for you.”

“Partly. It's a lease. But I'm sure he'll end up buying her. One look at her and he'll understand.”

“Anything new on that Douglas woman?”

“I've agreed to the DNA test. A technician is coming over tomorrow.”

“And that's okay with you?”

“No. But it's not going away. That much is clear. If I don't, she'll file suit and force it. It may take months, even a year, but it will be hanging over my head. I would rather disprove it immediately.”

“What if …?”

“There is no ‘what if,'” she said with a surety that surprised him.

“Still, I don't think you should take it.”

“Why?”

“Results could be switched. A lot could happen.”

“Max is arranging it. Not
her.”

“Are you sure he's on your side?”

“What do you mean?”

“I decided it might be a good idea to look into this Kira Douglas. I sent one of my aides over to take photos of people coming and going. He had met Max. When he saw her leave with him, he followed them to a hospital, then to a small restaurant. They were there for two hours.”

There was a silence. “He told me he was going to meet with her.”

“I don't like it,” Seth said. “You know I've never trusted Max.”

“I can't talk about it now,” she said.

“I don't have a meeting tonight. Why don't you come over for dinner? Susan would love that.”

“Sounds good,” she said.

“I'll ask David to come, too. Seven?”

“Okay.” He thought she sounded reluctant.

“Don't do anything until you talk to us. Don't let them take a DNA sample.”

She didn't answer.

“I'll see you then.” He hung up before she changed her mind about dinner and started making other calls. He'd dropped his bomb about Max. Now he would sit back and see what happened.

The meeting dragged on seemingly forever. The council presented the budget, and an overflow crowd complained about bits and pieces. They all wanted lower property taxes and more police services, more fire stations, and more streetlights.

Part of Kira absorbed what was being said. She jotted notes on the small notebook computer, even writing part of the story when nothing more than petty stuff was being argued. The other part of her brain was back with her mother.

She could write the story at home tonight and have it to the paper for the first edition in the morning. She would return to the hospital then. Her mother would have even more questions. Questions she dreaded answering.

Kira sat with Nick Whitten, another print reporter—a big, bulking guy she knew well and liked. At the meeting's end, she turned to him. “Where are you parked?”

“I walked from the paper.”

“I'll give you a ride back,” she said.

“I can walk. Need the exercise.”

“It's dangerous out there.”

“I'm bigger than most victims.”

“I'm not,” she said, hating the vulnerability the words couldn't disguise.

He glanced at her with surprise. They'd both covered the city hall beat for more than a year, and never once had she said anything that indicated a weakness.

“Then I would appreciate a ride,” he said. “I don't like exercise anyway.”

They walked together down the street to her car. Many of those at the meeting left earlier once their particular agenda item had been considered, and now the remaining attendees and city council workers filtered out with them. She felt safe among them.

They were almost to the car when pain ripped through her side. She stumbled, then was pushed to the ground by Nick, who covered her body with his. She was aware of a shout, then a scream. More screams. Pandemonium. The sound of shoes pounding against the pavement. Nick nearly suffocated her with his weight as more screams rang out. Then moans. Nick rolled off her and knelt at her side. He quickly unbuttoned her blouse and checked her wound, then used his cell to call 911.

Blood stained her white blouse crimson. Pain replaced shock. She felt as if a searing-hot poker had been jabbed into her side.

Nick took off his short-sleeved shirt and pressed it against the wound.

“What … happened?” she gasped between her teeth.

“You've been shot. So have others.”

“How many?”

“I don't know,” he said.

She tried to sit up, but the pain intensified.

“Stay still,” Nick said. “Let me keep the pressure on the wound.”

She looked at him in an entirely different way. “The others … maybe you can help them. I can hold the bandage in place.”

“You might go into shock. Others are helping.” He continued to press down until a uniformed security guard from city hall knelt beside them. “Ambulances are on the way,” he said.

“How many others?” she asked, reverting to reporter mode despite the agony rolling through her in waves.

“Three.”

“What happened?”

“Looks like a sniper with a noise suppressor,” the guard said.

“Did anyone see who was shooting?”

“Not that we can find,” the guard said with disgust.

Distant sirens grew louder. Two different kinds. She knew them both. Police sirens. Ambulances. The noise was suddenly earsplitting as they neared.

The pain was growing worse. She heard other groans. Crying. Then paramedics were there, and police, and two men she'd never seen before.

A police officer talked to Nick as one paramedic applied a pressure wrapping to her wound and the other asked her standard questions. Name. Age. Allergies if any. Next of kin. Not her mother, and there was no one else. Finally, she mentioned Chris and gave the paramedic her cell phone with his number in it. Her memory was fuzzy and getting fuzzier by the moment.

She heard an ambulance leave, the sound of the siren fading as it headed for the hospital.

The paramedic finished his examination. “Another couple of inches and you would be dead.”

“That's helpful to know,” she said, feeling extremely exposed in front of the gathering crowd.

He grinned at her. “Good attitude,” he said, then stood. “I have two others in worse condition than you,” he said. “They'll go first.”

“Were they all women?”

He looked startled. “Yes.”

A policeman took the medic's place at her side. “Do you remember anything, ma'am?”

“Just being hit by a thunderbolt.”

“Looks like a sniper. Seems like he shot at anything that moved.”

But she had been the first
.

Another coincidence? Three attacks in four days.

The Westerfields. It had to be a member of the Westerfield family or one of their retainers. But she didn't have any proof. It could just as well be some unhinged soul shooting randomly. She wanted to believe that. She really, truly wanted to believe it.

She thought about telling him about the MARTA station incident.
This isn't the first time
. But her mouth stayed stubbornly closed. He was a patrolman. She wanted to talk to Chris before saying anything more.

She also wanted to talk to Max. She wanted Max there to tell her everything was under control.

But maybe Max already knew about this.

She didn't think Leigh was capable of finding a sniper, a burglar, and an assailant to knock her onto the MARTA tracks.

And she wouldn't believe Max had been involved.

The second paramedic returned. “Got in touch with your Chris Burke. He's going to meet you at the hospital.” He looked at his partner. “Ready to go?”

She looked at a stretcher they placed next to her.

“I don't need that,” she protested. She tried to stand and immediately felt dizzy.

“You don't want us to get in trouble,” the paramedic said.

“My car? It will be illegal in the morning.” She knew it was a dumb worry, considering the circumstances, but she had to focus on something other than the pain. And the ramifications of what had just happened.

“Give me the keys,” Nick said. “I'll park it at the newspaper. My car's there.”

She hated to be without her car. Even for a few hours. It was her independence. It gave her the illusion of always being in control.

But a wave of fresh pain washed over her as she located her purse next to her. She surrendered. “What hospital?” she asked the paramedic. Any but the one her mother was at. Word traveled too quickly within a hospital. Her mother didn't need to learn about this so quickly after the news she'd heard this afternoon.

Two pairs of arms moved her efficiently onto the stretcher. She shouldn't be here. She had a million things to do. She didn't want to go to the hospital. And she definitely didn't want to think someone wanted her dead.

Her. Kira Douglas. She couldn't wrap her mind around it.

Concentrate
.

She was loaded into the ambulance. It sped through the night, the siren wailing while a paramedic sat next to her, keeping an eye on her vital signs.

Who? Why?

She moved, and jolts of pain surged through her, each one greater than the last. But the questions were more painful. She'd been flippant back there, but that was always the way she confronted anything serious.

She tried to tamp down her fear. There was no doubt now that someone wished her dead. She could give the MARTA incident the benefit of the doubt, even the break-in could have been a coincidence, although that was a stretch. Now she knew that not only did someone want her dead, but they were willing to kill others to do it. She hated fear. And she hated feeling so much fear.

She'd heard no sound, which meant a silencer. No, a noise suppressor. She knew that from covering a hearing on gun control. She also remembered suppressors were highly regulated. Difficult to obtain.

A couple of inches, the paramedic said.

And this time she wasn't the only victim. A crazed killer. Or someone trying to make it look that way. Was she responsible for others being wounded, even killed?