Cheated By Death (6 page)

“You told Dad where you worked. I wanted to
connect with you as soon as possible. How the hell are you?”

“Fine,” I answered, wary. “How are you?”

“Great, now that I know you’re home in
Buffalo. I’ve been waiting my whole life to meet you. When’s a good
time? How about tonight?”

“I won’t get out of work until late,” I lied.
I’d had enough emotional overload for one day.

“Damn. How about tomorrow? I can stop over at
your place on my way home from work.”

“It’s not exactly on your way,” I said,
remembering Chet said she worked in Lockport.

“Don’t worry about that—I just want to meet
you. Is four-thirty good?”

“I suppose so. I live at—”

“Oh, I know the place. Dad’s been driving
past and swearing at it for years.”

I didn’t like the sound of that. Had he cased
the house years before with the crazy idea of kidnapping
Richard?

“I live in the apartment over the garage.
There’s an entryway on the left side. Just ring the bell.”

“I’m sure I’ll find it. This is terrific! I
can’t wait to meet you.”

“Me, too,” I said without enthusiasm.

“Well, see you tomorrow, brother.”

“Bye.” I hung up.

Brother.

I wandered back to the bar in a kind of
uneasy fog, and automatically started washing the glasses piled by
the sink.

“That didn’t sound like Maggie,” Tom
said.

“It wasn’t.”

“Hmm, inviting a lady over to your
apartment?” Something in his tone made me feel sleazy.

“She’s my sister.”

“I didn’t know you had one.”

“Until yesterday, neither did I.”

I didn’t
have to tend bar again until
Friday. Since Brenda went to the clinic with Richard, I wasn’t on
call to take her to work. I planned to spend the morning with Sam
Nielsen interviewing the protesters in Williamsville. It gave me
something to do besides wait for Patty’s visit later that day.

Sam met me in the parking lot of a coffee
shop a block from the Women’s Health Center. We bought coffee to go
and started walking. The brisk wind was at our backs and we talked
as we went.

“I called Bob Linden’s office. He’s expecting
us,” Sam said.

“Why?”

“Showing up unannounced looks sinister. Like
everyone in the movement, he’s suspicious of the
liberal
media
.”

“You don’t look like a bleeding heart
scumbag,” I said.

“I work incognito.”

I told him about Brenda’s confrontation with
the Reverend.

“Better let me do all the talking,” he said.
He got no argument from me.

Sure enough, Linden was on the lookout for
us. Standing a head taller than most of his followers, he looked
pretty much the same as when I’d photographed him; well-dressed,
respectable—and definitely in charge. The hard glint in his gaze
conveyed his stance as a man of uncompromising beliefs—yet my
pictures hadn’t captured the depth of his commanding presence.

Though several inches shorter than Linden,
Sam met his intimidating gaze. He introduced us while I removed the
camera’s lens cap and snapped a few shots.

Linden listened to Sam, but scrutinized my
face. “You walk the black nurse in a couple times a week.”

I put the camera down. “So?”

“Why are
you
taking pictures of us?”
someone else challenged.

“That’s his job, and I’m here to listen to
your stories,” Sam chimed in.

“Why? So you can brand us as fundamentalist
Christian jerks,” another man said.

“No—to understand why you’re so passionate
about your cause,” Sam said.

I let Sam take the brunt of their hostility.
With notebook and pen in hand, I moved through the crowd to take
down the names of people I’d already photographed. Picking the
friendliest looking one, I approached the young woman dressed in a
baggy green parka. Shoulder-length blonde hair framed her
heart-shaped face under a white knit cap. She hefted a sign in one
hand, clutched a little girl’s mittened-hand in the other.

“I took your picture the other day, Miss. Can
I have your name for the newspaper?”

She studied me for a moment before answering.
“Emily Farrell.” She spelled it for me.

“How often do you come down here to
protest?”

“Twice a week.”

“And who’s this?” I asked the little girl.
She clung to her mother’s hand, and gazed at me through lowered
lashes.

“Hannah’s four. Why do you escort that
nurse?”

“Because she’s afraid of you.”

“If she didn’t kill babies, she wouldn’t have
to be afraid.”

“She doesn’t kill babies. She helps women
with health problems.”

“Being pregnant isn’t a problem.”

“For some women it is.”

A frown crossed her features.

I didn’t like being despised for helping my
sister-in-law. “Look, I’m not here to debate the issue. Just to
take pictures for the newspaper.” I noticed she wore no wedding
band. Maybe I could use that.

“I’m sorry,” I said, softening my voice.
“Would you like a copy of the picture?”

She brightened, suddenly looking all of
seventeen. “Really?”

“Sure. I’ll bring it next time I come.”

I should’ve just gone on to the next person,
instead I pushed my advantage. “My name’s Jeff Resnick.”

“Hi,” she said, and smiled shyly. “You really
think they’ll use my picture in the paper?”

“Maybe—maybe not. They’ll probably use one,
maybe a couple of shots for the article—if it makes it to the
Sunday paper.”

She kept looking at me, an innocent smile
playing at her lips. She looked back to the health center. “Is that
nurse your girlfriend or something?”

“Just a friend.” Emily didn’t realize the
opening she’d given me—one I took full advantage of. “How about
you? Are you married?”

She shook her head.

“Dating?”

“No.”

I gave her my most charming smile. “Do you
think we could go for coffee or something some time?”

She drew back. “Oh, I don’t know.”

“Well, think about it.”

A looming presence—Linden—entered my
peripheral vision. He gave Emily a stern, paternal look.

“I have to get back in line. It was nice to
meet you, Jeff.” She gave me another shy smile, before she took the
little girl’s hand. “Come on, Hannah.”

“Mommy, my feet hurt.”

“Every step you take helps save a baby’s
life,” she said, as she pulled the girl along.

I stood back, watching as she marched along
her circular track once more.

Sam nudged my shoulder. “Don’t you have a
girlfriend?”

“Yeah. But it doesn’t hurt to make friends
with the enemy.”

He smiled. “You would’ve made a great
reporter.” He thought better of it. “Then again maybe not. There’s
no story here, Jeff.”

“Of course there is. If you can’t come up
with anything else, try a financial angle. The other businesses
have called the cops a few times. That costs the taxpayers
money.”

“Get real.”

“I’m telling you, Sam, something bad is gonna
go down. Somebody’s going to get hurt—or worse.”

“Can I quote you on that?”

I eyed him warily. “Yes.”

The morning
wasn’t a complete loss. I
got some shots that promised to be good, while Sam went through the
motions of interviewing Linden and several other protesters, as
well as the clinic’s PR Director. He as much as said he had no
intention of writing a story, but it might be useful as background
for a future piece.

The clock read one by the time I got home.
The entire, endless afternoon stretched before me. I didn’t want to
get started in the darkroom, so I turned on the tube, tried to turn
off my mind and watched Court TV for a couple of hours. But I kept
thinking about those protesters, and Emily Farrell’s earnest face
in particular. I wasn’t attracted to her, but her green eyes had a
haunting quality. She warranted further investigation.

Restless, I got up and emptied the
dishwasher, opened some of the mail, and dusted one of the end
tables, but couldn’t seem to accomplish anything of note.

A car pulled up outside the garage just after
four o’clock. Patty was early. It wasn’t the familiar white Mustang
in the drive. A tawny-haired woman emerged from the passenger side
of the blue sedan. I turned for the stairs and jogged down them to
meet her.

Patty’s hand was poised to knock as I opened
the door. We studied each other for an uncomfortably long moment.
It was the face from the high school graduation photo, but older,
thinner. Who the hell did she remind me of?

I spoke first. “Hi.”

“Hi, yourself.” Patty’s tentative smile broke
into a joyful grin and she lunged forward, hugged me
enthusiastically. I stood there, awkwardly put an arm around her,
waiting for a flood of emotion to overtake me, but got no insight
into her soul. Just like Richard—but unlike our father—she was a
blank to me. She pulled back to inspect my face as I scrutinized
hers once again. Shorter than me by two or three inches, there was
something about her that—

“You look like pictures of Daddy when he was
young,” she said.

“I always thought I looked like my
mother.”

She let that comment slide.

“What about your friend?” I said, indicating
the man who sat behind the wheel of the rusting blue Ford. He
raised a hand in a half-hearted wave.

Patty didn’t even look over her shoulder.
“That’s just Ray—a guy from work. My car’s in the shop for a new
computer chip. He said he’d wait.” She looked beyond me at the
staircase. “So this is it, huh?”

“Not exactly. Come on up.”

She followed me up the stairs and stepped
into my living room, taking in the ten-foot ceiling, the newly
sanded oak floors and refinished trim. Maggie and I had spent the
better part of the summer renovating and redecorating the
apartment. I closed the door and leaned against it, watching as she
took in the place.

“Not bad,” she said, admiration filling her
voice. “How come you don’t live in the big house?”

“I used to. When I was a teenager. And for a
few months when I came back to Buffalo. I’d rather have my own
space.”

She nodded. “Nice little setup you’ve
got.”

“Sit down. Do you want some coffee?”

“A beer if you’ve got it.”

I grabbed a Molson Ice from the refrigerator
and a glass from the cupboard.

Her voice stopped me from pouring. “The
bottle’s fine.”

I brought it over to her, setting it on a
coaster. She rummaged through her purse and took out a pack of
cigarettes and a lighter. “Have you got an ashtray?”

“No. My girlfriend has allergies. Even stale
smoke makes her sick. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Oh. Sure,” she said, but her expression
reflected her annoyance. I’d just fallen a peg. She replaced the
items in her bag and set it on the floor.

“I wasn’t expecting you for another half
hour.”

“I skipped out of work early. They won’t miss
me.” She took a swallow of beer, set the bottle down on the
cocktail table, ignoring the ceramic coaster. “Dad says your
brother’s a millionaire.” Why did her tone sound cunning?

“I wouldn’t say that,” I lied. “But he’s
comfortable.”

“A lot more comfortable than me. They’ve got
to have servants and stuff in a big house like that, right?”

I shook my head. “It’s just the two of them.
A cleaning lady comes a few times a month.”

She looked skeptical. “So what’s the story?
Do you live here for free?”

“Not exactly. I’m sort of the caretaker.”

“Does it pay well?”

“I work for my keep.”

“I suppose that’s not too bad. What do you
do?”

“Yard work mostly. If something breaks, I try
to fix it. If the cars need an oil change, I get it done.”

“I wish I had such a cushy life.” Her tone
was wistful, with a touch of resentment.

“Did
Dad
tell you I got hurt earlier
this year? I can’t work full time. At least not yet.”

She looked me over again. “What
happened?”

“Fractured skull. I get bad headaches. I work
when I can, but I can’t make it on just that money. I’m grateful
for Richard’s generosity.” Why had I told her all that?

Patty nodded, taking in the apartment once
more. Dollar signs lit her eyes and I felt embarrassed for her.
Maggie’s decorating flair was evident by the prints on the wall,
and arrangement of the furniture. We’d refinished my old coffee and
end tables and she’d slip covered my crummy couch and chairs.

Patty picked up the bottle, took a long pull
on her beer. “So when do I meet Richard?”

“What’s the hurry?”

“He’s sort of like family. Maybe I can work
for him, too.”

The hairs on the back of my neck
bristled.

The sound of a car engine broke the quiet as
another car pulled up outside. Patty got up and moved to the
window. I followed and we both gazed down on the driveway to see
Richard’s silver Town Car.

“Nice wheels,” she said.

Richard and Brenda got out of the car and
looked up. They saw us and waved. I braved a smile and returned the
gesture.

“Who’s the jig?” Patty asked

I turned to glare at her. “I beg your
pardon?”

“The jigaboo he’s with? Is she the maid?”

“That’s Richard’s wife, Brenda.”

“Wife?” She laughed.

“Don’t ever call Brenda that again.”

She pulled a face. “Sorry.” Then she smiled.
“Oh, I get it, you’d like a little brown sugar, too, huh?”

“What the hell is wrong with you, Patty?”

She laughed and punched my shoulder. “Can’t
you take a joke?”

“That wasn’t a joke.”

She scowled at me. “Dad was right. You
can
be grim. Lighten up. Life’s too short to get upset over
nothing.”

Suddenly, I’d had enough.

“Listen, Patty, I can feel one of my
headaches coming on. Maybe you should—”