He had dressed up for the occasion, she thought. He had put on socks.
Etheridge sat down and regarded her steadily. “I want to apologize. I was too infuriated to think clearly and I was rude. I'm sorry,” he said.
He did not look or sound sorry, she thought, and simply nodded.
“Monday evening I stopped to consider the implications of that court order,” he continued. “I have no legal training, but it seems to me that they intend to charge me with Robert's murder, and quite possibly with Jill Storey's murder, as well. They don't have any evidence, but they want to keep me available while they search for some. Is that near the mark?”
“Perhaps,” Barbara admitted.
“I told Chloe McCrutchen that I'd be out of the apartment altogether Saturday morning. I'll fly to San Francisco and come back Monday night in order to check in on Tuesday morning. And I'll find a motel or hotel, possibly another apartment. I'll let you know where it is, where I am. Is that satisfactory?”
“It is. But why let me know, Mr. Etheridge? Are you leaving out one of the steps here?”
Suddenly he grinned. From stern as a hanging judge to a good-natured fun-loving guy in a flash. That was the transformation the grin made. “Yes,” he said. “The missing step. If I'm charged, will you be my defense attorney?”
“If it happens, putting a defense together requires a great deal of time and complete cooperation. Will you agree to that?” Barbara asked.
“Of course. When I get back, I'm done with the seminars, no more public talks and finished with my part of the conference. I'll have as much time as it takes. I said just a few minutes today, and I meant it. I'll call on Tuesday.”
Saturday morning Barbara was roused from sleep by her cell phone. The night before she had gone out for dinner with her two best friends, then to a movie, and afterward Janey had said, “Let's go dancing!” They had done that, too. It had been a late night, and that morning the last thing she wanted to hear was a phone ringing.
She groped for it on the nightstand and mumbled her name, then was jolted wide-awake by Frank's voice, “Bobby, last night David Etheridge was attacked, savagely beaten. He's in surgery, critical condition. He may not make it.”
T
hree hours after her morning call, Barbara drove to Frank's house. She would have been better off staying in bed, she thought grumpily, for all the good she had accomplished. At Frank's enquiring look, she said, “Nothing, nowhere. I got as high as an assistant to an assistant to the administrator of patient affairs, and that pipsqueak quoted rules explaining why he couldn't tell me anything beyond what was reported in the media. Etheridge is out of surgery and in intensive care, critical condition. His parents have been notified and are on their way. I did get him to accept my card and a message for them that I've been retained as Etheridge's attorney, and I welcome a call from them. He may or may not remember to pass the word.”
The police had been as fruitless. Assault, attempted murder. Investigating. Period.
“I can't do a thing about it,” she said. “We didn't get to a contract, so officially I'm not even his attorney in the eyes of the law.”
There were times when Frank would have been justified in saying I told you so, but he had refrained in the past, and he did so again when she lapsed into a moody silence. “Well, you tried the aboveboard approach, let's see if Bailey has any better luck at the back door,” he said.
While she was on her own search for information, Frank had called Bailey Novell, their investigator, who had a reliable contact at city hall. Getting a tip would depend on whether the man was working that Saturday or, if not, if Bailey had an in with someone else who was.
After Barbara left, Frank picked up the thoughts he had been entertaining upon her arrival. The show David Etheridge had put on the night before had been impressive.
When he came onstage, a large screen at one side of a podium had been lit to display a map of the world with the North American continent centered. He used graphics to show the rise and growth of a great nation. With devastating exactitude he had discussed the landing of the first ships from Europe, the first colonies and then the expansion, with acquisitions purchased or taken by force. He talked about the native inhabitants, bought, conquered, vanquished, resettled. He called it ethnic cleansing.
The expansion extended far beyond the shores, out into the Pacific Ocean.
It was show-and-tell, Frank thought, but effective show-and-tell in a way that words on a page didn't convey. As David talked, dates had appeared in a column down the side of the big map, and on the other side, a chart with a line tipped with an arrow, indicating an inexorable upward path, pointing toward what appeared to be a Roman emperor draped in an American flag instead of the familiar white toga and cape. The point of the arrow had come disturbingly close to the figure.
Frank was distracted from his recall by his house phone ringing. Bailey was checking in.
“They say it was a hate crime,” he said. “Some kind of club or loaded pipe was used. Fractured skull, broken ribs, punctured lung, other injuries. A paper with the word
Antichrist
was under him. It's touch and go if he'll make it. My pal said the word is that if he kicks, the McCrutchen case will be closed.” He added what little detail he had been able to learn, and said he'd be around until dinnertime if needed.
After passing the report on to Barbara, Frank sat on the back porch and thought about the events following the presentation the night before. Earlier in the evening he had glimpsed an old friend, Kirby Herlihew, and he had seen him again as the audience began to leave. Kirby had waved him over to the side of the stream of people on the way out.
“Don't go out that way,” he had said, motioning toward the main exits. “Come on, a bunch of us are leaving by a side door. They'll use it for Etheridge in a little while. He walks over so there's no car to destroy.”
Kirby taught European history, a round little man with a startling mop of white hair that forever looked windblown. He hurried, and he and Frank joined several others near the stage. “Rumor is that it's going to be uglier than ever tonight,” Herlihew said in a tight voice.
Well, Frank thought, the rumor had been dead-on. Cars smashed, windows broken, fights, police making arrests right and left, the riot squad deployed. It had been bedlam for several blocks around the university. He had escaped it by going out the little-used side door, down a dark alley and taking a detour of several side streets. Sirens, screams, whistles and raucous music ebbed and swelled a few blocks away. Later he watched the near-riot on television.
A few minutes after four Barbara got a call from Lucien Etheridge, David's father. “Ms. Holloway, weâmy wife and Iâwould like to talk to you. Why did David hire you? To do what?”
“Where are you?” she asked. “I want very much to talk to you, also.”
“At the hospital. In the waiting room at intensive care.”
“I'll be there in a few minutes,” she said.
Barbara spotted Lucien Etheridge as soon as she entered the waiting room. The resemblance to David was striking, the same sharp bone structure, lean and muscular body, and, although the father had gray hair, even that was very like David's. Thick and a little too long. He was holding a bulging manila clasp envelope.
She approached him. “Mr. Etheridge, Barbara Holloway.”
He stood and held out his hand. It was a big hand with prominent veins and enlarged knuckles. He indicated a seated woman and said, “My wife, Dora.” She nodded without speaking. Her eyes were reddened and teary. They both appeared to be in their sixties, and she did not look well. Whether it was shock and fear, or illness, was impossible to tell. Dressed in a blue-and-white knit turtleneck with a wine-colored, stretched-out cardigan over it, gray pants and sneakers, she looked as if she had dressed hurriedly, with no thought of appearance or season. Her hair was also gray, cut short and combed back. She wore no makeup.
“There must be someplace we can talk privately,” Barbara said. “I'll ask at the desk.”
“There's a consultation room. We talked to a doctor there,” Etheridge said.
Barbara spoke to a nurse at a desk near the door, and presently they entered the consultation room. She imagined this was where terrified parents got word about a child, a lover learned the fate of a beloved one. She shuddered.
The room was furnished with a round table with four chairs, two more against the wall, and nothing else. They sat at the table and Etheridge leaned forward. He appeared to be so tightly wound that a touch might send him flying apart. “Why did David need an attorney? You're a defense lawyer, aren't you? We've read about you, some of the cases you've defended. Why did David hire you?”
“You know about Robert McCrutchen's murder? That David was renting an apartment on the McCrutchen property?”
He nodded impatiently. “What's that got to do with David?”
“Maybe nothing,” she said, and told them about the court order. “I don't know what their reason was.”
Dora Etheridge drew herself up and cried, “He had nothing to do with it! Nothing! That's crazy!”
“He was on the scene, on the property,” Barbara said, “and as far as I know that's the only direct connection. For now, of course, it's all on hold.” Then choosing her words with care, she added, “He retained me first to get the stay on the court order and, after that was done, to agree that if it came to an accusation, I would represent him. I agreed to do so.”
Dora was nearly incoherent as she protested that they couldn't accuse him of anything, and Lucien Etheridge exclaimed in a disbelieving way, “They're out of their minds!”
Barbara waited a moment, then said, “If I continue to represent his interests in whatever develops, since he is not capable of signing an agreement authorizing me to do so, I'll have to ask you, Mr. Etheridge, to sign for him.”
“How much?” he asked.
Dora turned on him furiously. “What difference does it make? Who cares how much? They might put him in jail. They could kill him. I'll sign it, Ms. Holloway.”
“No charge to you,” Barbara said. “David already gave me a retainer. He didn't have time to wait for the agreement to be drawn up, and we had an appointment to take care of it on his return from California on Tuesday.”
Mr. Etheridge rubbed his eyes. “Sorry. I didn't mean that the way it sounded. What can you do? I won't give you the right to make life-and-death decisions.”
Barbara shook her head. “No, and you must not give that right to anyone.” She looked from him to his wife. “But there are other things that should be done. He has a leased car that should be returned to the company, and the apartment should be closed, his personal belongings stored for safekeeping. The conference organizers should be notified and airline tickets canceled. When he is removed from intensive care, he should be in a private room. When he's released from the hospital, he'll need a safe place for his convalescence, with adequate help until he's able to care for himself again. With your authorization I can arrange all of it, and I'll be able to get information about his attack, and keep up-to-date with his progress here. I can appoint a family spokesman to deal with the media, and I advise you to avoid them and, if cornered, say simply that you have no comment.”
Dora's expression had changed when Barbara spoke of David's recovery. From despair and dread, it had changed to a look of hope. She nodded. “He'll need all of that done for him. I want it done for him.”
Her husband took her hand. “We'll both sign it.”
Barbara took the document from her purse and waited for Mr. Etheridge to read and sign it, then pass it to Dora. She didn't read it, just added her signature.
“I'll need his keys to the apartment and the car,” Barbara said.
Silently Mr. Etheridge undid the clasped envelope and emptied the contents onto the tableâa cell phone, digital camera, keys, a ring, his watch, wallet, a few papers. Dora Etheridge swallowed hard and turned her head away and her husband picked up the keys and handed them to Barbara.
“Take what you need,” he said heavily. “In fact, take it all and put it with the rest of his things. He'll want it all when he gets out of here.”
He pushed everything back into the envelope and handed it to Barbara. She met his gaze then and realized with great sympathy that he had not found the same hope in her previous words that Dora had. He did not expect his son to live. He looked away as she reclasped the envelope.
“Do you have a place to stay yet?” she asked.
They said they hadn't thought that far ahead.
“If you'd like, I can get you a motel not far from here, or a hotel room downtown, whichever you prefer.”
They wanted something as close as possible to the hospital, and she said she would arrange for a room, secure it with her credit card, and they could present theirs when they checked in. Dora gave her a cell phone number, and very soon afterward Barbara left, and Lucien and Dora Etheridge returned to the waiting room to resume their vigil.
At a little after six Barbara called Frank. She told him what she had been up to, then said, “I'm going to the apartment to collect David's belongings before someone decides to ransack the place or the cops move in. I left a message for Bailey to pick up someone and meet me there so they can move the car. When you talked to him, did he say if he'd be around?”
“They could be out to dinner,” Frank said. “Come by the house and pick me up. I'll drive the car back. I'll leave another message for Bailey.” He fully understood that if David died, the police would seize his belongings, if they decided he was guilty of McCrutchen's murder. If everything was in Barbara's hands, she would have a little leverage to get some information. She said she would be there in fifteen minutes.
She was prompt, and he was ready to leave with her. “I got his parents a room,” she said, on their way to the apartment. “But I bet they won't use it tonight. They'll stay right there at the hospital.”
He nodded. It was exactly what he would do if it were Barbara in that bed in intensive care. He told her about the alley he had used after leaving Buell Hall. “Pretty dark, led to a quiet side street that had few lights and no rowdy troublemakers. They were all out front. It's hard to imagine anyone unfamiliar with that side door following Etheridge without his noticing.”
“Not a crime of impulse, but a calculated ambush?” Barbara asked.
“Maybe,” he said.
She drove along Franklin, past the university, past a strip of commercial properties, fast food, gas station, grocery, then turned off to the right, two more blocks, another right turn. This was a quiet, old neighborhood, six or seven blocks from the university, an easy, pleasant walk most of the time on shaded side streets. There were old-growth trees, a lot of shrubbery, deep shadows that evening, houses set far back on wide lots.
“If I had ambush in mind,” Barbara said, “I'd pick a neighborhood like this to carry it out.”
Frank made a grunting sound.
Barbara spotted the house number over the garage, pulled in and parked at the front entrance. They both went to the door. A very attractive, dark-haired young woman opened the door.