Cheated By Death (21 page)

Eyes focused on the road, I gripped the
steering wheel. “It’s Rich. He pissed me off yesterday.”

“About Patty?”

I nodded.

“He did sing her praises for quite a while
last night. But he still feels like he has to look out for you. It
bothers him that you’re such a loner. That apart from us, and
Maggie, you have virtually no friends—no support system. It’s okay,
Jeffy,” she hurriedly continued, “that’s just the way you are. You
have to do what feels right for you. And if that means staying away
from Patty, then that’s what you have to do.”

I felt her eyes on me, but couldn’t bear to
look at her.

“Something about her repels me.”

“Are you getting some kind of psychic message
on her?”

I shook my head. “My father gave off strong
impressions, but she’s a blank, just like Rich.”

Brenda was quiet for a moment. “Maggie thinks
something bad happened when you were a child.”

My hands tightened on the steering wheel.
“She doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”

“I think she does.” Her voice was gentle,
full of compassion.

“She’s wrong. I don’t remember much about
those days, and I don’t want to remember.” That sounded like major
denial, even to me.

“Did your father hit you when you were
little?” Brenda pressed.

“No.”

“You can tell me. I’ve been there,
remember?”

I braked for slowing traffic. “There’s
nothing to tell.”

She touched my shoulder, and looked like she
wanted to say so much. Yet she knew me well enough not to push.

We drove the rest of the way in silence.

Half a block from the clinic I saw a familiar
car parked along the curb. Pennsylvania license plates.

“Shit. Willie’s here.”

Brenda’s eyes widened in panic. “Oh my God!
How could he know where I work? Do you think he’s been following
me?”

“Let’s not panic,” I said, trying to calm
her. “Maybe, maybe—” There really wasn’t a good explanation. Had
Detective Wilder let slip where Brenda worked when she’d questioned
him? At least Willie wouldn’t find Brenda alone.

“Maybe he just wants to meet you on neutral
ground,” I said.

“I don’t want to see
or
talk to him!”
she said, her voice teetering on hysteria.

“You don’t have to.” I found a parking space,
and then looked up and down the street. There was no sign of
Willie, but the protesters with their placards still marched on the
sidewalk across the street. Maybe he was inside the building—or
worse, lying in wait for Brenda.

I unbuckled my seat belt. “I’ll go look for
him. Stay in the car. Don’t open the doors or windows. If he tries
to get in, blow the horn and don’t let up.”

I locked my door and slammed it.

Willie came out the clinic as I approached.
He saw me and picked up his pace to intercept. “Where’s Brenda?” he
demanded.

“She doesn’t want to see you.”

“Why’d she tell the cops to come after
me?”

“It’s their job to protect the public.
Someone’s harassing her. We had to tell them you’re in town. If you
aren’t responsible, you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

“The hell I don’t! I just started a new job.
My boss was pissed when a couple of cops showed up at the office
yesterday. Where is she?”

The protesters had slowed in their circuit.
Lou Holtzinger was among them, watching me with hawk-like
interest.

“She doesn’t want to see you,” I
repeated.

“No law says I can’t talk to my ex-wife,”
Willie insisted, and stepped around me.

I darted into his path. “No, but there
are
anti-stalking laws.”

“What are you talking about?”

“She’s terrified of you.”

“Why?”

“Think about it. How many times did you beat
her senseless?”

Willie’s eyes flashed in anger. “That was a
long time ago.”

“Yeah, well, Brenda hasn’t forgotten. And
what’s the idea of sending her black roses?”

“What do you care—she’s not
your
wife.”

“And she’s not
yours
, either.”

“I’ve got a right to see her,” he grated,
moving forward.

I stepped in front, blocking him again. “No,
you don’t—”

Without warning, Willie’s fist plowed into my
face. I stumbled and he batted me aside like an annoying insect,
knocking me to my knees.

Blood poured from my nose. My vision grayed
and doubled. Blurry shapes danced around me. Someone helped me to
my feet and dragged me onto the heath center’s concrete steps,
where I collapsed against the banister. I looked up, blinked at two
Emily Farrells.

“Sit back.” She pressed a wad of tissues into
my hand, and held it against my bloody face.

“Brenda! Where is she?”

Heavy footsteps thundered. “Are you okay?” a
deep voice said near my ear.

“That big black guy punched him out!” Emily
said.

I blinked at the uniformed security guard
standing over me. “He’s after Brenda Stanley. She’s in a white
Chevy Malibu down the block.” I waved toward my car and the guard
took off.

“Let’s get you inside,” Emily said, grabbing
my arm, hauling me to my feet.

“No. I gotta help Brenda.” I straightened and
wobbled until I got my bearings. My eyesight wavered then
cleared.

Brenda stood next to my car, shouting, waving
her arms, and told the security guard to go after Willie. The
Altima took off with a screech of tires, and flew past them.

I waved off Emily as Brenda caught sight of
me, and ran to meet me on the sidewalk. She wrapped an arm around
my shoulder. “My hero,” she said. Her laugh sounded more like a
sob.

“Some hero. Looks like I’m a pipsqueak after
all.” I wiped at my still dripping nose.

“Are you okay?”

“I don’t think it’s broken.”

“Anything else?” she asked, serious.

“No.”

“Let’s get you checked out anyway,” she said,
already dragging me up the sidewalk.

“This is a
women’s
health center—I’m a
man!”

“Don’t be so damned picky.”

We left Emily behind as Brenda guided me up
the steps. Within minutes I was being quizzed, poked, and prodded
by one of the staff, a Dr. Newcomb. My skull fracture less than a
year before made me a prime candidate for a concussion. I lucked
out, although she warned me I’d probably have a nice black-and-blue
mouse under my left eye if I didn’t put some ice on it.

Brenda was waiting for me when I came out of
the treatment room. “I’m taking you home.”

“No, you’re not. You’re staying here. I’m
going to the Amherst Police Station and file a complaint. I’ll try
to talk with Detective Wilder, too.”

“But—”

“No buts. I’ll pick you up at four. Don’t be
late.”

“Yes, sir.” She walked me to the clinic
doors. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yes. But I feel crummy. I let you down.”

“You did not. You kept that horrible man from
getting to me and I’m damned grateful. But what’re we going to tell
Richard?”

“The truth. But don’t get crazy and call him.
It can wait until he gets home from work to hear this news.”

She nodded. “I love you, Jeffy.” She kissed
my cheek and threw her arms around me. “Thank you.”

I wrapped my arms around her, buried my nose
in her neck, held her tight, closed my eyes and thanked God she was
safe.

She stiffened in my embrace.

I pulled back, stared into her deep brown
eyes—fought the almost overwhelming urge to kiss her.

Her confusion swelled, fear trickling in.

Backing up a step, I laughed nervously. “Get
to work, now.”

She forced a smile and saluted me. “Aye,
Captain,” she said and turned.

I watched her slowly head down the corridor,
wondering what had just happened between us. I turned to leave.

Pausing at the top step, I watched the
protesters circle in front of the building. Emily hurried across
the street to meet me on the sidewalk.

“Your jacket’s ruined,” she said, pointing to
the bloodstains that marred my coat.

“It’ll wash. Thanks for helping me.”

Her eyes shone and she smiled. “What’re
friends for?”

It was my turn to force a smile. “I promised
to take you for coffee. When’s a good time?”

“My lunch break’s about one.”

“I’ll see you then.”

“I’m glad you’re okay.” She squeezed my arm,
turned, and then looked both ways before crossing the road and
rejoining her companions.

Lou Holtzinger glared at me.

Why did I feel like I’d been caught doing
something wrong?

Bonnie Wilder
frowned. “I would’ve
sworn Willie Morgan was a reformed character.”

I looked up from the paperwork before me. I’d
gone straight to the Amherst Police Station and found the detective
in. “Why?”

“He’s been clean for eight years. Not even a
parking ticket.”

“Have you talked to the cops in Philly?”

She nodded.

“Tell me about the years when Willie wasn’t
‘clean.’”

She settled on a chair across the table from
me. “Assault. He did thirty days in the county lock-up.”

“Domestic abuse?”

She shook her head. “Against a
co-worker.”

“There’s no record of him beating
Brenda?”

She shrugged. “Apparently your sister-in-law
never filed a complaint.”

“She was probably too ashamed.”

“I’ve heard that story too many times. I’m
still digging.”

I signed my name and handed her the form.
“Will you follow-up on this?”

She nodded. “Mr. Morgan cooperated fully when
I took samples from his computer printer the other day.”

“And?”

“Same font, same type of paper. But they’re
almost universal. The State Crime Lab will run a comparison.”

“How long will that take?”

“They’re pretty backed up,” she admitted. “A
couple of weeks—maybe a month. Or more.”

I pushed my chair back, stood. “What about
Lou Holtzinger?”

“His past is well documented. Busted for joy
riding at sixteen. It’s a habit he hasn’t quite kicked. He’s been
in and out of jail for the last twenty years.”

“I heard he just got out.”

“About six weeks ago.”

“I suppose he found Jesus in jail?”

She laughed. “They usually do. The First
Gospel Church’s secretary said Holtzinger joined the flock through
their Prisoner Outreach program. He’s got a church sponsor, and he
shows up every Sunday and Wednesday for services.”

“That doesn’t mean he’s a model citizen.”

“He hasn’t stepped out of line so far.”

“What about the damage to my car?”

“No one saw him do that.”

“But we both know he did.”

“Knowing it and proving it are two entirely
different things.” Her gaze was level, but her mouth hinted at an
ironic smile.

Suddenly I realized why I liked Bonnie
Wilder: she reminded me of Maggie. Sweet, smart, and practical.

And older than me. About the same age as my
mother when she’d died.

Was I attracted to older women because my
mother had been too preoccupied to show me any affection? Was I
subconsciously searching for a mother substitute?

I didn’t want to think about it. I didn’t
want to think about a lot of things lately. Denial, thy name is
Resnick.

Detective Wilder walked me to the door. “Call
me if anything else happens.” She scribbled a number on the back of
her business card. “If things escalate, call me at home.”

“Thanks. I appreciate it.”

I headed for my car, wondering just how one
forty-something lady detective was going to protect Brenda—and me
—from further harm.

I dropped my coat off at a dry cleaner,
knowing the blood might never come out. But they had a better shot
at it than me. At home, I grabbed my ski jacket and headed back to
Williamsville to take Emily Farrell to lunch. We met at the diner
around the corner from the clinic.

She took a sip of her coffee. “Your eye looks
terrible.”

“Thanks. You look swell.”

She actually blushed. “I’m supposed to
discourage you.”

“Says who?”

“My friends. And Reverend Linden says you’re
just using me to get information on the group.”

Caught, I didn’t blink. “Is that what you
think?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re an intelligent, attractive woman. I’d
like to get to know you better.” No lie there.

“You seem like a nice guy, too. But for all I
know you could be a serial killer.”

“Me?”

“Well, you do believe in abortion. Murder is
murder.”

Her words stung. I struggled to keep my face
neutral. “Just because I walk my friend into the clinic every day
doesn’t mean I believe in abortion. Does anybody really believe in
abortion? The issue is choice.”

“There should be no choice.”

She was so young and suddenly I felt old. How
could I make her understand?

The waitress arrived with our soup and
sandwiches. I waited for her to leave.

“My father died the day before
yesterday.”

Emily looked stricken. “Oh, I’m so
sorry.”

I waved off any further sympathy. “His
doctor, my friend—” I didn’t want to go into details on my
relationship with Richard. “—approved a no resuscitation
order.”

“Is that what your father wanted?”

I nodded. “He’d been sick a long time. He was
ready to die. It was his choice not to fight any more. But it
bothered me.”

“You wouldn’t have made that choice?”

“I don’t know,” I answered honestly. “What
about you?”

“I’d put my life in God’s hands,” she said
without hesitation, “just like your father did. But it’s not the
same thing as abortion.”

“Of course it is. It’s choosing to end a
life.”

She shook her head. “There’s a natural order
to things. It’s God’s gift to us.”

“God gives doctors the knowledge to prolong
life—and sometimes suffering.”