Cheated By Death (24 page)

“Christ,” he muttered.

“I want to hang around the house for a couple
of days. Just ’til things settle down.”

“Sure. Take as much time as you need. Dave
and I can handle it here.”

“Thanks.” I swallowed another mouthful of
beer, and stared at the bar’s oak top. “She looked so surprised. I
mean . . . she was alive, and then she wasn’t. It happened so
damned fast.”

He nodded toward my glass. “You want a shot
to go with that?”

I shook my head. “That makes two people who
died right in front of me this week.” I looked up into Tom’s
patient face and wondered if I adopted the same expression when
people told me their troubles. I guess that’s why I’d ended up
here.

“Why don’t you tell me all about it,” Tom
said.

When I arrived home an hour later, a strange
car was in the driveway. I parked my crate and headed over to
Richard’s house.

Ken Tyler, the salesman from Amherst Security
was seated at the kitchen table. “I heard about the shooting and
came right over,” he said.

“We were just going over various options.”
Richard looked back at Tyler. “How soon can the guard get
here?”

“Within the hour.”

Richard nodded.

“Where’s Brenda?” I asked.

“Lying down. She said she didn’t feel
well.”

“You’ll need to take additional precautions,”
Tyler said. “First off, don’t advertise yourselves. That means no
open drapes at night. Don’t go out alone. If you’ve got a set
routine—change it. Anything to throw off whoever’s stalking
you.”

“Standard protective measures,” I said.

“A you familiar with them?”

I nodded.

The lines in Richard’s face seemed deeper.
“We’ll do whatever you suggest.”

Two grim-faced
FBI agents from the
Washington office showed up about the same time as the guard
arrived, and as Tyler was leaving. Richard coaxed Brenda downstairs
to be interviewed by the Washington hotshots. The case was
apparently too big for the local boys to handle. They asked the
same questions as the Amherst Police. Brenda’s letters, already at
the State Crime Lab, would now get top priority, they said.

Rehashing the day’s events only upset Brenda
more, and we were all relieved when the suits finally left.

I scrambled eggs and burned toast for a
makeshift dinner. Conversation was at a minimum; none of us had an
appetite and most of our dinner went down the garbage disposal. A
vacant-eyed Brenda mumbled goodnight and shuffled off to bed early.
I hoped her dreams wouldn’t be haunted by grisly images of her dead
friend.

Richard thanked me for my efforts and I
headed for my own place. The uniformed guard, stationed in a
cruiser at the end of the drive, gave me a thumbs up as I crossed
the driveway for my apartment. He was supposed to do a circuit
around the yard every fifteen minutes. Even so, his presence didn’t
make me feel much safer.

The phone was ringing when I let myself into
my darkened apartment. Herschel assaulted me, winding around my
legs like a boa constrictor. I turned on the lights and picked up
the receiver.

“Jeff?”

Patty.

“Are you okay? I saw you on TV. How’s
Brenda?”

“She’s fine.” Then what she said registered.
I crossed the room to close the blinds, with Herschel hot on my
heels. “You saw me where?”

“On TV. They showed you helping someone into
Richard’s car. Did you know the woman who was killed?”

“She was Brenda’s friend.”

“Aw, too bad.” The words were right, but they
sounded insincere.

“Why are you calling?”

“I was worried about you, of course.”

“You didn’t sound worried last night when you
gave me the brush off.”

“I did no such thing. I—” She stopped in
mid-denial and changed her tone. “I’m sorry you feel that way.
You’re my brother and I care about you. I always will.”

Yeah. And pigs fly.

The silence dragged, only the cat’s happy
purring broke the quiet. I pulled off my coat, cradled the phone on
my shoulder as I hung it in the closet.

“How is Richard taking all this?” Patty asked
at last.

The real reason for her call.

“How do you think? His wife was nearly
killed.”

“Was someone really shooting at Brenda?”

Her phony concern irked me.

“She works at the clinic. It’s a
possibility.”

“Do they know who did it?” she asked, anxiety
in her voice.

“Not yet. Why?”

“No reason. I just— It’s just terrible.
There’re too many guns out there.” She launched into a spiel about
gun control. I didn’t listen to the words, more the tone. Anxiety
bordering on fear. But not for me.

“Patty, what are you trying to say?”

“Nothing. I—” She broke off. “Just be
careful. Please. And . . . look out for Richard, okay? I gotta
go.”

The line went dead.

I hung up the phone. Herschel looked up at me
with pleading amber eyes then went to sit by the cabinet.

“You could at least pretend you see me as
more than just a feeding machine.”

Herschel let out a piteous howl and pawed the
cabinet door.

I fed the cat and sat down with the phone,
punching in Maggie’s number. She’d briefly spoken with Brenda and
had been waiting for my call. The silences between sentences hung
heavily. I didn’t want to talk any more. I rang off, promising to
call her in the morning.

I poured a tall bourbon and tried to read,
but I couldn’t get interested in my book. Turning on the TV, I
flipped channels for almost ten minutes until I came to the
conclusion that I was too wired to concentrate. I kept reliving
those terrible moments in front of the clinic. Jean Newcomb falling
backwards as blood gushed across the front of her jacket. Brenda in
the direct line of fire—me hauling her away just in time. Holding
her in my arms . . . .

I finished my drink and hit the rack early,
losing myself in heavy, dreamless sleep.

At first I wasn’t sure I was really awake
until I recognized the sound of the garage door opener grinding
beneath the floor under my bed. The scarlet numbers on my bedside
clock read four thirty six.

Adrenaline coursed through me and I was out
of bed like a shot, heading for the window overlooking the drive. I
pulled back the curtain to see Richard shuffling toward the house,
his shoulders stooped. I grabbed the phone, punched in the numbers
as he disappeared behind the door. It rang twice.

“Hello?” Weary resignation.

“Rich, what happened?”

Richard exhaled a shaky breath. “Brenda lost
the baby.”

A terrible silence fell between us. Dear
God—everything I feared.

“Where is she?”

“At the hospital. Her OB met us at the ER a
few hours ago. They had to do a D and C.”

Holy shit.

“We asked for a post mortem, but it could be
weeks before we know what happened. We—” His voice broke. “We got
to hold him. He was tiny, but he looked . . . perfect.”

“How's Brenda?” I somehow managed.

He cleared his throat. “She’ll probably come
home tomorrow afternoon.”

“Oh, God, I’m sorry, Rich.”

“Yeah, me, too. Listen, I’ll call you in the
morning.”

“If you need anything—”

“Yeah—” he cut me off, and broke the
connection.

The hardwood floor was cold beneath my bare
feet. I wandered back to the comforting warmth of my bed, pulled
the covers over me and lay there in the dark.

It was my fault. It had to be. When I’d saved
Brenda from the assassin’s bullet — I’d killed her baby—her
son.

I pulled the covers tighter around me as
shivers wracked me.

I’d killed my own nephew.

Herschel jumped onto the mattress and warily
made his way across the down comforter. He looked at me expectantly
in the dim light. Did he want to be petted or did I just need to
pet him right then? My hand cupped the back of his head, skritched
his ear. He hunkered down, and a steady, contented purr vibrated
through his whole body.

I stared at the featureless ceiling.

Good-bye, baby boy—a life that wasn’t meant
to be. And another one of my premonitions come true. I’d tried to
prepare myself—I hadn’t wanted to believe it. But I
had
believed it. Didn’t know I’d be the
cause
of it.

Maybe I should’ve said something to Richard.
Maybe . . . .

But I also remembered what Sophie told me.
Warning people about terrible events only made them
resent—blame—you. Had she known I was responsible?

Herschel’s deep, throaty purr filled that
lonely room. I wished Maggie was with me, thought about and
rejected the idea of calling her.

It could wait.

I kept scratching Herschel’s neck. He hadn’t
judged me a murderer. Would Richard and Brenda?

“Thanks for being here, pal.” The cat
stretched his long black legs, rolled onto his back. In minutes he
was asleep.

It took me a lot longer.

CHAPTER

17

Three blood-spattered corpses lay stretched out
on the grass, their sightless gazes fixed on the relentless gray
sky. Jean Newcomb, the dead man with the Roman features, and my
ex-wife, Shelley, lay side-by-side like casualties in a war.

I circled the bodies, unable to tear my eyes
away, looking for the elusive common denominator besides the most
obvious: they all died from gunshots. Revulsion made me shudder at
the sight of their mortal wounds.

I couldn’t look at Shelley’s face—at least
not all at once. I zeroed in on the top of her head. It was gone,
the surrounding tawny hair matted with dried blood. Her glassy,
lifeless brown eyes haunted me.
My gaze traveled down to her
slightly parted lips, her mouth poised as though to tell me
something, but no sound came forth. I tore my eyes away, and stared
at her blood-stained, beige jacket with the silver snowflake pin on
the lapel.

Dead. All dead.

Motion caught my attention. Brenda stood at
the edge of a grassy field, waving to me. The lower portion of her
long white gown was blood soaked, her eyes wild, haunted . . . but
she lived.

For the moment, because the threat still
loomed.

And was there any way I could save her?

It was
still dark when I awoke feeling
achy and miserable. I staggered to the bathroom, drank a glass of
water, and headed back for bed.

Eyes closed, the images from the nightmare
lingered in my mind. What did it all mean? What did Shelley have to
do with these people? Why, after all this time, did she still haunt
my dreams? Was my subconscious pulling in a thread from my past to
make sense of the present? The dead man was a stranger to me. I
hadn’t witnessed Shelley’s murder, but I had seen Jean Newcomb die.
She was the link, but to what?

Three people who’d been murdered. Three
unconnected deaths.

Shelley had been moldering in a grave in
Jersey for over two years. I didn’t know when the dead man was
killed. But Jean Newcomb had been alive less than twenty-four hours
ago.

It had to connect. Somehow it had to all make
sense. But I couldn’t see it. And I wouldn’t figure it out by
staring at a darkened ceiling.

A cat’s
empty stomach makes a fine
alarm clock. Not that I needed one that Saturday morning. I got up,
fed the cat, then dressed, not knowing what to do with myself. But
I needed to be doing something. I grabbed my coat, headed for the
garage, and backed my car out.

The changing of the guard had already
occurred, and I introduced myself to the stranger now manning the
Amherst Security car at the end of the drive. He showed me his
photo ID and gave me a brief report. There’d been no sign of
intruders. All was calm.

Then why were my nerves stretched taut?

I drove to the grocery store, bought a basket
of sweets and desserts—sinful chocolate cake, double mocha
brownies, and a two pound box of assorted chocolates—all the stuff
Brenda liked. I picked up a bouquet of carnations, too; pretty
white ones streaked with red, like frilly candy stripers. By the
time I got home it was after eight thirty—late enough to wake
Maggie with the bad news.

I dialed her number, but voice mail caught it
on the third ring. I hung up, frowned, and heard a car pull up the
drive—Maggie’s Hyundai. I grabbed the bag of groceries and made it
down the steps in seconds, meeting her as she got out of the
car.

“Richard called,” she said in greeting, but
there was none of the usual warmth in her voice. Her blue eyes were
haunted. I saw an overnight bag on her passenger seat. “Brenda’s
sisters won’t come,” she said in explanation. “I’m going to stay
with them for a few days.”

I nodded, and put an arm around her shoulder
as I walked her into the house.

Richard was waiting in the kitchen. Maggie
went to him; embraced him. “I’m so sorry.”

He nodded, but said nothing. He pulled away,
leaned against the counter and cleared his throat, folding his arms
across his chest. “Would you mind packing a case for her? Clean
clothes—underwear. You know the kind of stuff she’ll need.”

Maggie nodded.

“There’s an overnight bag in our closet,
and—”

“I’ll find it,” she assured him, and headed
out of the kitchen and toward the stairs and the master
bedroom.

“How is Brenda?” I asked.

“She called. Thank goodness for cell phones,
eh? She’s pretty good. Considering.” His gaze remained fixed on the
floor, and his expression hardened. “I talked to both her
sisters.”

“Maggie said they wouldn’t come.”

“Brenda called Evelyn last night—before this
happened—and asked her if she could stay with us for a few days.
Evelyn's retired, but she said she couldn’t come. Some flimsy
excuse about it being too near the holidays. I called her this
morning. She said she was sorry about the baby, but said it was
probably for the best. Can you believe that?”