Charlaine Harris (96 page)

I'd forgotten about that. It had been a long time ago. Gracie had been very little, maybe only four months old. How old had I been? Fifteen? It had been hugely embarrassing to have a baby sister, I remembered, because that was plain evidence that my mother and her husband were actually having sex.

It's amazing what can embarrass you at fifteen.

I knew something about babies by then, because we'd already had the care of Mariella. My mother had been a little better when our first half sister was born, though, and she'd done at least some of the everyday care. We'd been able to leave Mariella with her during the school day, for example. That was out of the question when Gracie was born, underweight and sickly. Why they didn't take Gracie away from Mom in the hospital, I don't know. We had almost prayed that someone would take the baby or that Mom would come to her senses and give Gracie up for adoption.

Neither of those things had come to pass. So Cameron and I had taken turns babysitting for other families, and the boys had earned money, and Matthew had chipped in, too. We'd been able to take the girls to day care while we were out of the house.

Then Gracie, who'd always had trouble with her breathing, had gotten really bad. I couldn't remember much about it, except being scared. We'd been so impressed that Matthew had taken her to the hospital.

“Are you saying I should make friends with Dad because one time,
one time
, he acted like a real father?” Tolliver said, and I let myself exhale. He wasn't fooled.

“Oh, Tolliver.” Matthew shook his head, grief written in big letters on his face. “I'm trying to stay straight, son. Don't harden your heart against me.”

It took everything I had not to speak, but I was proud that I could hold my tongue. For a second, my heart went to my throat, because I thought I detected a weakening in Tolliver's face. “Goodbye, Mark. Dad. Thanks for coming by,” he said, and I breathed out a silent sigh of relief.

The two visitors looked at each other, then at me. They obviously wanted me to leave the room, but I wasn't going to do it. After a moment, they could tell I was staying put.

Matthew said, “If you need our help transferring Tolliver to the hotel, just call Mark's number and leave a message, Harper. We'll be glad to do whatever we can.”

I nodded.

Mark said, “I'm sorry we can't all . . .” His voice trailed off miserably. “Jeez, I wish you two could forgive and forget.”

I found this incredible. I had no response to make to my stepbrother, but I had something to say to my stepfather. “I learned some of the basic lessons of my life under your neglect, Matthew. I don't hate you, but I'm sure not going to forget. That would be under the category of really, really stupid.”

Matthew looked directly at me, and for a second I saw his undisguised dislike before he pulled the repentant mask back over his true face.

“I'm sorry you feel that way, Harper,” he said smoothly. “Son, you'll be in my prayers.”

Tolliver looked at him silently. Then his father and his brother turned and left the room.

“He hates me,” I said.

“I'm not so sure he feels any different about me,” Tolliver said. “If I fall down three flights of stairs, don't call them. I love Mark and he's my brother, but he's back under Dad's thumb, and I don't trust him at all.”

I
left the hospital after dark, and I drove around for a while until I was sure there was no one behind me. I was so new to worrying about being followed that I'm sure there could have been five cars following my trail and I might not have realized it, but I did my best. I parked close to the hotel entrance, and I practically ran into the lobby. The suite was on the second floor, and I waited in the hall until I was sure no one was in sight to watch to see which door I unlocked.

I unpacked and did a little ironing. I optimistically checked over Tolliver's clothes, picking out something he could wear home. I figured he wouldn't be comfortable stretching his arm up to pull on a T-shirt or polo shirt, so I decided on a sports shirt and jeans. I put them in a little bag. I was ready.

After I'd watched the news, I called down for room service. I was glad there was a restaurant attached to the hotel, because I didn't want to go out by myself. I was a little surprised I hadn't gotten a call from Manfred offering to join me for supper, but whether or not I had a companion, I was hungry. I ordered a Caesar salad and some minestrone, figuring that should taste good even if the cook wasn't hugely talented.

I hustled to the door when the expected knock came, but I paused before flinging it open. In my experience, the server knocking at the door always said, “Room service.” This one hadn't.

With my ear to the door, I listened. I thought someone on the other side might be doing exactly the same thing.

Of course I should look to see who was standing there. But weirdly, I found myself scared to put my eye to the peephole. I was afraid the shooter was standing out there with a gun, and he'd fire through the door if he had proof I was inside. I knew if you were alert you could tell when the person in the room was looking out, and for the life of me, I couldn't make myself do it.

I heard the elevator down the hall, and I heard the ding as it arrived at my floor and the sound of the doors opening. There was the rattle of the cart, a sound I recognized, and I heard someone shift positions right outside my door. Yes, someone was still there. But after a second, my caller walked rapidly away. I put my eye to the peephole, but it was too late. I didn't catch a glimpse of whoever had been at the door.

The next second there was a much firmer knock, and a woman's voice said, “Room service.” The peephole verified that this was in fact a server with a cart, and I opened the door without hesitation once I saw how bored she seemed.

“Did you see someone walking away from my door?” I asked. I didn't want to seem too paranoid, so I added, “I was taking a nap, and I thought I heard someone knock right before you did, but by the time I made it to the door, they were gone.”

“There was someone walking the other way,” the woman said, “but I didn't see his face. Sorry.”

That was the end of that, apparently.

I was pretty angry with myself. I should have looked through the peephole. Maybe I would have discovered it was a stranger who'd gotten the wrong room number. Maybe I would have seen Manfred, who knew I was in this hotel. Or maybe I would have seen the face of my enemy.

Disappointed in my fearful self, I turned on the television set and watched a rerun of
Law and Order
while I had my soup and my salad. The sun never sets on
Law and Order
, and if I'd seen that episode too many times, there was always
CSI
in any of its incarnations. There is plenty of justice on television, but not so much in the real world. Maybe that's why so many of us like television so much.

I ate slowly, and found that I was trying to chew quietly so I could listen for noise at the door. This was silly. I put on the chain and the night bolt, and with that measure of reassurance, I felt better. After I'd eaten, I looked out very carefully before I pushed the cart into the hall, and I retreated into the room and locked up again. There were no doors leading to other rooms, and on the second floor I felt no one could get in the window. But I drew the drapes.

And I stayed isolated in the room until the next morning.

It was no way to live.

Tolliver looked even better the next day, and the doctor said he could check out of the hospital. He gave me a list of instructions. The wound was not supposed to get wet. Tolliver was not supposed to lift anything with his right arm. He was supposed to have some physical therapy on the arm when he got home. (I supposed in our case that would mean when we returned to St. Louis.) Of course the discharge process took forever, but eventually we were both in the front seat of our car together, and I'd buckled Tolliver in.

I started to say, “I wish we could just leave,” but then I thought that might make Tolliver feel bad. We had to follow the doctor's orders, so we had to stay a few more days. I was increasingly eager to leave Texas. I'd thought we might start house hunting this trip, and instead I wanted to pack our stuff into the car and drive like hell.

Tolliver looked out the car window as though he'd been in prison, as though he hadn't seen restaurants and hotels and traffic in years of solitary confinement. He had on the jeans and button-up shirt I'd brought him, and he looked a lot more like himself than he had in the hospital smock.

He caught me looking sideways at him. “I know I look like hell,” he said, matter-of-factly. “You don't need to tell me.”

“I was thinking you looked really great,” I said innocently, and he laughed.

“Right,” he said.

“I've never gotten shot before. Not really. Just grazed. Was it really like a big fist hitting you? That's the way they always describe it in books.”

“If the really big fist travels all the way through you, making you bleed and causing some of the worst pain you've ever felt, yeah,” he said. “It hurt so bad I wanted to die for a minute.”

“Gosh,” I said. I tried to imagine pain that intense. I'd been hurt, and hurt badly, but when the lightning had struck, I hadn't felt anything for a few seconds, except that I was in another world, and then back in this one. After that, I'd pretty much hurt all over. My mother had told me that childbirth was horribly painful, but I'd never experienced that.

“I hope that never happens again,” I said. “To either of us.”

“Have you heard from anyone?” he asked.

I thought that was an odd way to put it. “Who, specifically?” I asked.

“Victoria came to the hospital last night,” he said.

I held my tongue for a second. “Should I be jealous?” I asked when I could manage the appropriately light tone.

“Not any more jealous than I am of Manfred.”

Uh-oh. “Then you'd better tell me all about it.”

We pulled up at the hotel then, and our talk was postponed while I went around the car to open Tolliver's door. He rotated his feet out, I pulled a little with my hand under his good arm, and out he came. He made a face, and I knew the process had hurt. He moved away from the door, and I shut and locked the car. We went into the hotel slowly. I was more dismayed than I cared to show when I realized just how shaky Tolliver was.

We got through the lobby just fine, then into the elevator. I was trying to keep my eyes on Tolliver in case he needed support, and also trying to watch out for some approaching trouble, so I felt like a demented woman, with my eyes darting here and there and then back to my patient.

When we were actually in our room, I heaved a sigh of sheer relief and helped Tolliver lie down on the bed. I pulled a chair up to the bed, but that felt too much like the hospital, so I lay down beside him and turned on my side so I could look at him.

He took a minute to get settled. Then he turned his head so his eyes would meet mine.

“This is so much better,” he said. “This is better than anything.”

I agreed that it was. In the spirit of welcoming him back to the nonhospital world, I unzipped his pants and gave him some physical therapy he hadn't expected, which pleased him so much that after kissing me, he fell asleep, and so did I.

We were wakened by a knock at the door. I found myself wishing for a door that I could lock, a door no one could knock on. I should have put out a Do Not Disturb sign. Tolliver stirred, and his eyes opened. I rolled off the bed, straightened myself up and ran a hand through my hair, and went out of the bedroom and through the living room to see who was there. This time, I mustered up my courage and looked through the peephole.

To my astonishment, since I hadn't told anyone in the police department where we were staying now, Rudy Flemmons was outside the door.

“It's the detective,” I said. I'd gone back to the doorway into the bedroom. I was stupid with sleep. “Rudy Flemmons, not the one that got shot.”

“I'd assumed that,” Tolliver said and yawned. “I guess you better let him in.” He zipped his jeans and I buttoned them, and we smiled at each other.

I let Detective Flemmons in, and then I helped Tolliver out to the living room to share in the conversation. Tolliver sat carefully on the couch, and Flemmons took the armchair.

“How long have you two been here?” he asked.

I looked at my watch. “Well, we checked out of the hospital about an hour and a half ago,” I said. “We came right here and took a nap.”

Tolliver nodded.

Rudy Flemmons said, “Have you seen your friend Victoria Flores in the past two days?”