Cheated By Death (25 page)

No, I couldn’t.

He let out a shaky breath. “I called my
supervisor at the clinic. I’m not going back. At least not until
this situation is settled. Maybe not even then.”

“What do you mean?”

He took a ragged breath, his brow
puckering—and for one terrible moment I thought he might actually
cry. “I can’t do this anymore. I should’ve known. I couldn’t hack
it after my residency. Why do you think I took that job in
California?”

“What are you talking about?” I asked, trying
to keep my own panic in check.

Richard turned his tormented gaze away.
“Patient care. I can’t divorce myself from what they go through. I
can’t stay detached.”

“It proves you care.”

“Yeah. I care so much I can’t keep my
objectivity.”

So that’s what was eating him. But I sensed
there was more going on. Helping a dying man had exposed my brother
to HIV. So far the tests hadn't shown the deadly antibodies in his
blood. The stress of waiting for them to show up had to be pressing
on his mind. I know the stress had gotten to me. But I had to be
encouraging. We’d come this far. I’d wished and even prayed to a
God I wasn’t sure I believed in to ensure Richard's good health.
Maybe I should've prayed for his child, too.

“Look, now’s not the time to make
life-altering decisions,” I said.

Richard’s fists clenched. I’d never seen him
so demoralized.

Not knowing how to deal with it, I turned my
back on him, and started unloading the grocery bag.

“Did you know Brenda would lose this baby?”
he demanded.

I couldn’t look him in the eye. “Oh, come on.
How—?”

He grabbed my shoulder and yanked me around
to face him. “Because you know these things. You’re psychic,
remember!”

Holy Mary, mother of God
.

“Yeah,” I managed, my voice a whisper. “I
knew.”

He took a step closer and I tensed, expecting
him to hit me. “Then why didn’t you say something? Why didn’t you
warn us? We could’ve taken precautions. We could’ve—”

I stepped aside, needing to get out of his
way. “What kind of precautions? It was me who shoved her to the
ground. It was my fault. I didn’t know that. I would’ve never done
anything to hurt—”

He shook his head, wearily. “Don’t do that to
yourself. If you hadn’t pulled Brenda out of the way, she would’ve
been murdered—just like Jean Newcomb. Losing this baby is hard
enough—I couldn’t bear losing both of them.”

Was he just being kind? Somehow I managed to
meet his gaze. His eyes were bloodshot, but there was no anger in
them. “I’m sorry.” I couldn’t say any more. Especially not what I
feared—that Brenda would never have a child.

Not knowing what else to do, I unloaded the
rest of the groceries, folded the heavy brown paper bag, and stowed
it in the cabinet under the sink.

“I didn’t get much sleep after I talked to
you last night.”

He turned an icy glare at me. My sleeping
habits were the farthest thing from his mind.

“I had a lot of time to think about this
whole situation.”

His gaze shifted, betraying his interest.

“Until yesterday, and except for those
letters, we didn’t have any tangible evidence to link Brenda to
whoever is behind all this. Now we do—the bullets that killed Jean
Newcomb. And the casings they found across the street from the
Women’s Health Center.”

His eyes flashed. “Do you think you could get
something from them?”

“I’d sure as hell like to try. But it’s
likely the Feds took them.” I thought about it for a moment. “Maybe
Bonnie Wilder could pull some strings and get me in to see
them.”

He nodded, the barest hint of a smile
quirking the corners of his mouth.

“I’ll get right on it,” I said, and turned
for the phone. He said he held no grudge against me—for what I’d
done. And I was determined to do all I could to keep Brenda
safe.

Maybe then I’d be able to forgive myself.

Richard used
his cell phone to call
the hospital to check on Brenda while I commandeered the landline
to call the Amherst police station. As I’d hoped, Detective Wilder
was already at her desk. I warned her that Richard and I were on
our way. Maggie decided to head out for the hospital to be with
Brenda until they released her—which wouldn’t happen until at least
eleven.

Three guys from Amherst Security showed up
just as we were leaving, promising most of the system would be
wired up before the end of the day.

At the station, a uniformed officer led us to
a conference room.

“As you probably guessed,” Wilder started,
“the situation is now a federal case—and out of our jurisdiction.
Despite what happened yesterday, we have no evidence to connect Dr.
Newcomb’s murder with the harassment your wife received.”

“I realize that,” Richard said. “But in case
there’s a chance—”

Wilder straightened the file folders in front
of her. “I tracked down Willie Morgan at his office yesterday
afternoon. At the time of the shooting, he was in a meeting with
five co-workers.”

“What about Lou Holtzinger?” I asked.

“He wasn’t on the protest line yesterday
morning.”

“Was he questioned?” I pressed.

“As far as I know, they haven’t found him to
talk to him yet. He’s the most likely suspect. Witnesses say he’s
been one of the most vocal protesters.”

“I can attest to that. And his truck has a
gun rack,” I reminded her.

She looked uncomfortable, but said
nothing.

“What about Reverend Linden?” I asked.

“He’s also wanted for questioning. According
to his wife, he didn’t return home last night. She doesn’t know
where he is.”

“Interesting,” I said.

“We have an unusual request,” Richard said.
“We’d like to see whatever evidence was collected at the
scene.”

“The bullets, if they're available, and the
casings in particular,” I added.

“What for?” Wilder asked.

I swallowed my pride. “I’m kind of . . . .
”

“Psychic? Yeah, I heard,” Wilder said, her
voice, and her gaze, level. “I got a call from a Detective Hayden
over at Orchard Park PD. He said if you touched them you might get
some kind of intuition from them.”

Carl Hayden had been the chief investigator
on a murder that had occurred some seven months before. A murder
I’d found myself connected to.

“H-how did he—?” I stammered.

“He saw you in the background on some news
footage.”

“I’m beginning to feel like a TV star. Well,
what’re the chances I can see this evidence?”

“I’ll try calling a friend at the Bureau, but
I can’t make any promises.”

Despite her pessimism, half an hour later we
were on our way downtown.

Agent Dominic Segovia looked typically FBI.
Short hair, wiry build, and completely humorless. Wilder hadn’t
told us what her connection to the agent was, but he treated the
small-town cop with respect. However, he looked at me skeptically.
That skepticism would turn to scorn if I came up with nothing.
Segovia ushered us to an unused interrogation room and left us
while he retrieved the evidence. Long, silent minutes later, he
returned with a number of evidence bags. Using tweezers, he
carefully emptied each of them, setting each item on the table
before me.

I studied the spent casings. “Center fire,
thirty ought six?”

Segovia looked impressed. “You got it.
Semi-jacketed hollow points.”

Richard looked at me in confusion.

“The ammo,” I explained. I looked back at the
agent. “Did they get any prints?”

He shook his head.

I turned my attention back to the shells.
“Well, they’re new. Can you still get these at any Wal-Mart?”

“All you need is a driver’s license,” he
said.

“That narrows down the list of suspects,”
Richard remarked
sarcastically
.

The copper jacket had mushroomed on impact,
ripping through Jean Newcomb’s flesh, stealing her life. Surprise
and disbelief had been plastered across her features. She was dead
before she realized what happened.

“Can I touch them?” I asked Segovia.

“I'd prefer you to handle only one item.”

Terrific. And if I chose the wrong one . . .
.

I picked up a shell casing, wrapping my
fingers around it.

“Are you getting anything?” Richard
asked.

I concentrated. “I’m not sure.”

Segovia waited for a better answer, his mouth
a thin line.

I rolled the casing between my palms. I
hadn’t sensed anything from the letters, but the killer had held
the bullets in his hand. He, definitely not she. He’d caressed
them, relishing the thought of delivering death. Only he’d missed
the target.

“This isn’t what it seems,” I said, still
rubbing the metal between my fingers.

“What do you mean?” Richard asked.

“This isn’t an issue-related shooting. It’s .
. . revenge. The man who loaded the gun meant to hurt—to
kill—Brenda.” I met my brother’s worried gaze. He swallowed, but
said nothing.

“Who’d want to hurt your wife?” Segovia asked
Richard.

“Her ex-husband, for one. When they were
married, he used her as his personal punching bag,” Richard
said.

“We’ve already ruled him out as a suspect,”
Wilder reminded him.

I continued to roll the metal between my
palms. “I don’t get a feeling of—” The words didn’t want to come.
“Connection.”

“What do you mean?” Detective Wilder
asked.

“The guy who loaded the gun doesn’t even know
Brenda.”

“A for-hire hit?” Segovia asked,
incredulous.

“Why not?” Richard said. “Willie could’ve
hired someone to kill Brenda.”

I kept palming the casing. “I don’t
know.”

Segovia looked skeptical. “Sorry, Mr.
Resnick, but we can’t take your word on this. As far as the
Bureau’s concerned, this is an issue-related shooting. Unless we
find evidence to the contrary, that’s the route we’re
following.”

I watched him replace the evidence into the
numbered bags. He was wrong, but I wasn’t about to push it.

Detective Wilder lagged behind as Richard and
I left the office building. The cold December morning was bright;
branches on the leafless trees swayed in the brisk wind.

Richard shoved his hands
into his coat pockets.
“
Well, now
what?”

“
There's n
ot much
else we can do. You should be with Brenda.”

He frowned. “Yeah.”

We looked at each other for an uncomfortably
long moment. Were our positions reversed, Richard would’ve asked me
if I needed to talk. Spilling my guts was still a new concept. I’d
done it with my boss only the day before. But experiencing the loss
of a much-anticipated child—I still couldn’t fathom that kind of
loss. I was sure if Richard needed to talk about it, he would.

I waited.

The silence lengthened.

Finally, I nodded toward the car. “Let’s go
home.”

As I pulled up the driveway, I noticed that
Maggie’s car was back, too. Had she already brought Brenda home?
Richard had spent the ride across town staring out the passenger
window, his expression guarded, playing strong and silent all the
way home. I was glad to get back to the house where Holly greeted
me with a wet tongue and a wagging tail.

“Maggie!” I called, and rubbed the dog’s
sleek ears.

“She can’t be very far away,” Richard said,
peeling off his coat.

Approaching footsteps announced Maggie’s
arrival. “I hope you don’t mind, but when I got to the hospital,
Brenda was ready to leave. She’s upstairs now.”

Relief softened the lines in his face.
“Thanks, Maggie.”

Maggie’s eyes filled. “It was kind of
awkward. I didn’t know what to say to her. I just gave her a big
hug and we cried. I feel terrible. There’s nothing I can do to make
this situation better.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Richard said
gently. “You’ve been a good friend and she needs you more than ever
right now.”

“I’ll never have a child. That’s hard enough.
But I never lost a baby,” Maggie said.

“Neither had I. Until yesterday. So help me
God, Maggie, I don’t know what to say, either.” Richard’s voice
cracked and his eyes were watery once again. She took his hand and
squeezed it.

I shoved my hands into my pockets and looked
away as guilt threatened to overwhelm me.

Richard cleared his throat. “I better go to
her.”

“Wait,” Maggie said, wiping at her eyes. “The
clinic called. One of your patients needs you. I told them you’d
call as soon as you got in.” She grabbed a note off the Post-It pad
by the phone.

Richard straightened, regaining his
composure. “I’ll call them first.”

“I’ll hang up your coat,” I said, and he
handed it to me before heading for his study.

A dejected Maggie leaned against the counter.
Holly settled at her feet, her tail thumping the floor, her dark
eyes filled with hope, wanting only to please. Maggie reached down
and patted the dog’s head.

“I think I’ll go see how Brenda’s doing,” I
said.

“Okay. I was just going to make some lunch
and a fresh pot of coffee for Brenda. Do you want a sandwich?
There’s ham in the fridge—or I can make you a grilled cheese.”

“Surprise me,” I said, and headed for the
closet. I hung up the coats, then started up the main staircase. A
veil of sadness clouded the long, empty corridor. The door to my
former room—what was to be the nursery—was closed. The door to
Richard’s and Brenda’s room was ajar.

I crept closer and poked my head inside.
Original art decorated the pale blue walls; flowers . . . large
watercolors of iris, pansies, and morning glories. Over the summer
Maggie had helped Brenda redecorate the room. A loveseat by the
large bay window overlooked the now-empty flower garden Brenda and
I had worked on last spring.