Authors: Kevin O'Brien
"Did you ever hear him threaten her?" Eli asked.
Vera let out a little laugh. "You sound just like the police." She pointed to his T-shirt, "You look like one, too. Well, Eli, I'll tell you what I told them. I tried not to eavesdrop, but it wasn't easy when their voices were coming right through my window. I never once heard him threaten her. But some of the other neighbors, I guess they heard differently, because the newspapers at the time reported he'd threatened to kill her on more than one occasion."
Vera glanced up at the darkening sky as the sun went behind a cloud. "The police couldn't find enough evidence to make a case against the husband. But that didn't stop people from gossiping. If you ask me, I believe the official story. Loretta seemed to have a lot of emotional problems. I think she slit her son's throat while he was sleeping. The newspapers said she even tucked him in afterward. Then she got undressed, got into the bath, and shot herself through the head." She shuddered. "Well, there's just no polite way to talk about it, is there?"
Eli just nodded. He felt a little numb. He didn't know what to say.
"So--you've been having some strange problems in the upstairs bathroom," Vera said. "Am I right?"
"In my room, too," Eli murmured.
"Oh, of course, that only makes sense. All the different people who have moved in and out of that apartment always reported strange goings-on in the upstairs bath. But most of them used Earl's room as a guest room, and they wouldn't have been in there very much." She patted his arm. "You poor boy, having to stay in that room where Earl--" She shook her head. "Well, I've talked too much."
"No, I asked to hear it." Eli put his hand on top of hers. "Thank you."
She nudged him. "You and your mom shouldn't be living there."
"Right now, I'm trying to get her to move back to Chicago," he admitted. "But I don't think it's working."
Vera glanced up at the sky again. "Looks like we're losing our sun. And I've been sitting down too long." She was a bit unsteady as she got to her feet. Eli tried to take her arm, but she pulled away. "Nope, thank you, dear, but I need to walk on my own."
He walked alongside her until she reached the garden's edge. "I'm moving like molasses in January, I know." She groaned as she got down on the kneepad. "It's no fun getting old, but it beats the alternative."
"Thanks for talking with me," Eli said.
"I hope you don't have nightmares thanks to me," Vera said. She put her gardening gloves back on. "Come back any time, Earl."
He balked. "Um..." He was about to say,
'I'm Eli,'
but instead, he just said good-bye to the nice lady. Then he walked away.
C
HAPTER
T
HIRTEEN
Dear Elizabeth,
I really enjoyed working with Angela on Movers & Shakers last November. Spending time with your sister and getting to know her was a lovely experience. She had such a wonderful spirit. I was so sorry to hear about her death. In my book, she was a true hero and a very special human being.
I got your kind e-mail today. I'm glad the flowers arrived. Do you by any chance know the name of the florist who delivered them? I'm sorry to bother you with this during such a difficult time, but...
"But
what
?" Sydney muttered to the computer monitor. What kind of excuse should she use in this e-mail to Angela's grieving sister? How could she explain her interest in the local florist that had delivered the roses
she'd never sent
? She hoped somehow to trace whoever had put in the order by talking with the people on the delivery end.
But it didn't seem right, bothering Angela's poor sister about this. She was still in shock--and mourning. How devastating to lose a family member in such a violent, bizarre way.
To lose a family member
.
Sydney looked at the clock again: 2:40. She sat back in her chair and sighed. Eli had said he'd be back by three. She still had twenty minutes before she went into panic mode. Sydney glanced out the window at the gray clouds forming over Lake Washington. The beach had to be emptying out. Why wasn't he home yet?
The phone rang, giving her a start.
Sydney jumped up from her chair and raced into the kitchen to answer it. She didn't even bother checking the caller ID box first. "Hello?"
"You sound haggard," her brother said on the other end.
"I am, totally," she muttered.
"I figured something was up. Three messages since yesterday afternoon and you sounded more and more frazzled in each one. I was out with friends last night, and by the time I got home, it was too late to call you."
"So--did you get lucky at least?" she asked, a bit of cynicism creeping into her tone.
"Yeah, I found a dime on the sidewalk. God, I can tell you're mad at me--"
"I'm not," she insisted. And she wasn't, really. Her brother had a life of his own. She hated herself for being so needy and demanding of his time lately.
"Syd, I was out with work people at this lame-o play and then a late dinner. I dragged my ass home alone at twelve-twenty. I didn't call back because I thought I might wake you guys. I slept in and almost missed opening an open house at nine. That just ended, and now I'm finally calling you back. Okay?"
"Okay," she said, rubbing her forehead. "I'm sorry I'm Needy Nelly and left you three messages, but I'm freaking out here."
"'
You kids, and all the bickering!'
" he said, imitating their late mother. It was scary the way Kyle could sound just like her. Then he lapsed back into his own voice. "So--what's going on? Why are you freaking out?"
Kyle already knew about Leah and Jared. Sydney told him about Angela Gannon's death, and how--for the second time--someone had sent flowers to the next of kin in her name. "It's nobody from the network, I checked," Sydney said.
"It isn't someone on your film crew?" he asked.
"No. That wouldn't be like them. We pass the hat whenever we have to buy someone a birthday cake. If one of them was sending flowers in my name, they'd let me know."
"That's really screwy," he said. "No wonder you're freaking out."
"Oh, that's just for starters," Sydney said. She recounted her brush with the stranger in the Mariners 59 T-shirt, the dead robin on her pillow, and the blow-up with Eli last night. She took him right up until three hours ago when Eli had gone off to the beach. "He didn't answer the lifeguard's page. Maybe he didn't hear it. But with everything that's been happening, I don't want him roaming around by himself."
"I understand why you're going into meltdown territory, Syd," Kyle said. "But Eli's very smart and very mature for his age. He'll be fine. Nothing is about to happen to him in the middle of the day on a crowded beach. He's all right."
Sydney let out a shaky sigh. "Kyle, let me remind you that in the middle of a hot July day on a crowded beach--by Lake Sammamish--Ted Bundy abducted two of his victims."
Kyle was silent for a few seconds. "That kind of creeps me out," he admitted. "Okay, now I'm officially worried, too."
She glanced at the microwave clock again. "If Eli's not back in ten minutes, I'm going to the beach again. It should be less crowded. I ought to have a better shot at finding him--" Sydney heard a beep on the line, another call coming in. "Oh, maybe that's Eli right now," she said. "I'll call you back."
"Okay," Kyle said, and then he hung up.
Sydney clicked the Flash button on her receiver. "Hello?"
"Is this Sydney Jordan?" It sounded like a woman, her voice weak. But the nasally whine was very familiar. Sydney hadn't heard that voice in over ten years. She cringed, and her grip tightened on the phone.
"Sydney? Is that you? Hello?"
"Yes, this is Sydney," she said.
"It's Rikki Cosgrove, Sydney." There was a pause, in which it seemed she struggled for a breath. "I saw you on the five o'clock news last night--at that ValuCo thing in Auburn. I had no idea you were back in town. Shame...shame on you for not calling me."
"I'm sorry, Rikki," she said. She glanced at the clock again. "I've just been very busy. How are you? How's Aidan?"
"Oh, I'm not doing so well. I've been seriously ill, Sydney..."
Rikki Cosgrove had always had problems--and demands. Sydney didn't want to hear them now. For the last thirteen years, she'd managed to avoid Aidan's mother. Unfortunately, that had meant losing touch with Aidan.
"Well, you do sound very weak, Rikki. I can barely hear you."
"Oh, it's true. I can't even get out of bed..."
Sydney wondered if Rikki was still smoking in bed. They say that was how the fire had started. Even with all her respiratory problems, she hadn't quit smoking.
With the cordless phone to her ear, Sydney wandered to the front door, opened it, and stepped outside. She gazed at the courtyard and the gate at the end of the driveway. All the while she listened to that raspy, whiny, weak voice: "...haven't been able to get around for quite a while now. The doctor says there's not much they can do..."
Sydney remembered back when she'd been recuperating in the hospital, trying to keep her spirits up by visiting the other patients. But the one patient she'd missed seeing was the boy whose life she'd saved. So Sydney had arranged a trip--by ambulance--to Harborview Hospital's Burn Center. She'd made arrangements on the phone with Aidan's mother, whom she hadn't met yet either. How was she to know that Rikki Cosgrove had decided to transform the private visit into a media event?
After they'd arrived at Harborview, instead of escorting Sydney to Aidan's room in the ICU, the orderlies took her by wheelchair into the lobby, where two slick-looking hospital PR people met her. They rolled her to the stage entrance of the hospital's small auditorium. Dozens of reporters, photographers, and TV cameramen clogged the aisles and crammed into the first few rows. At least another two hundred people filled the seats. Sydney thanked God she'd had her hair washed recently, and before leaving for Harborview, she'd applied a little makeup and donned a not-too-humiliating, dark-blue sweatsuit. Still, she was wearing a plastic neck brace and one of those halo contraptions with the screws in her forehead. She also had a cast on her right leg, and her arm was in a sling.
Some hospital bigwig with glasses and a blue suit greeted her as she was wheeled onstage. Flashbulbs blinded her, and the audience broke into applause. They even gave her a standing ovation. Sydney worked up a smile, all the while thinking how pathetic she must look in that neck brace. She used her workable arm to wave. Still, it hurt.
The bigwig stepped up to the podium. He talked about Sydney's figure-skating career and what an inspiration she was to so many youngsters. And now she was even more of an inspiration, a genuine hero. The orderly hadn't turned her wheelchair around to face the speaker, and Sydney couldn't move her head to look back at him. So the whole time, she was staring at the audience, trying to smile, and feeling like a total idiot while the man sang her praises. Worse, she desperately had to go to the bathroom. Bladder problems were just one of the many side effects of a spinal injury. She'd thought this would be a ten-minute private visit; and assumed she could hit the bathroom at any time. Instead, she was trapped on this stage with this well-meaning windbag.
The lights dimmed, and two big-screen TVs were rolled out on either side of the stage. The orderly turned her wheelchair toward one of the television sets. They started to play the home video of her rescuing Aidan. Until now, Sydney had managed to avoid seeing the clip.
Sydney watched herself in the slightly shaky, slightly grainy home video. She weaved through the crowd and called up to Aidan Cosgrove. The camera kept tilting up and down--from the boy to her. It pained Sydney to see that poor, sweet handsome boy on that ledge again. A collective murmur and a few gasps came from the audience as Aidan's shirt caught on fire. They gasped even louder as he jumped from the ledge and plummeted down toward Sydney. Her arms were outstretched in an effort to break his fall. She winced at the sight of him crashing down on her. Small wonder they both weren't dead. Sydney could almost feel her bones and organs being crushed all over again.
There was an awkward silence as the video clip ended and the lights came back on. It was like watching the Zapruder film; obviously, no one wanted to applaud. But they didn't even whisper or cough.
"Sydney," the big shot said at last. "There are two people here who would like to thank you for your courage and your selflessness."
The orderly was a bit slow picking up his cues, and she still had her back to the speaker while the bigwig was addressing her. He finally turned Sydney's chair around in time for her to see Rikki Cosgrove emerge from behind the left curtain. Aidan's mother rolled onto the stage in her mechanized wheelchair. It had a small sidecar attachment that held a respiratory device. She took a brief hit of oxygen from a mask, and then set the mask in her lap. Rikki was about forty with a pale, careworn face and coppery-auburn hair that was cut in an unflattering bob with bangs. She wore a shiny lavender and powder blue jogging suit and slippers. She had an anguished look on her face--as if every breath she took hurt. And it probably did, Sydney figured.
Rikki Cosgrove rolled up beside Sydney and rested a hand on her arm--the one in a cast. Aidan's mother had tears in her eyes. Another orderly brought a microphone and set it close to Rikki. Then he lowered the mike so she could make her statement from the wheelchair.
"Sydney," she said, in a strained, almost whiny voice. She seemed to struggle for a breath. "I--I wouldn't be here right now if it weren't for you--and--and your
humanity
." She took a moment to catch her breath again and then started to cry. "I want to thank you for my life and the life of my son."
Sydney put her hand over Rikki's and squeezed it. The audience cheered and flashbulbs popped. Rikki kissed Sydney's hand and held it to her cheek. Sydney was so overwhelmed, she couldn't speak.
The orderlies wheeled Aidan--in a portable bed--onto the stage. Staring at that poor, damaged little boy, all Sydney could think was:
It's too soon for him to be put on display.
The white bedsheets covered him up to the waist and he wore no shirt. There were no bandages hiding the horrible burns and blisters on his arms, stomach, and chest. A clear salve coated the blood-red and pink scarred skin, making the wounds look moist and greasy.
Several people in the audience gasped at the sight of this beautiful boy who was so disfigured. He seemed in terrible pain, but managed to give the crowd a brave smile. One of the orderlies grabbed the mike, and held it in front of Aidan. He didn't say anything for a moment. He seemed nervous and scared. Finally, he looked over at Sydney. "Thank you, Sydney Jordan," he murmured. "You're my hero."
The crowd applauded and cheered. One orderly moved the microphone back to Rikki while the other man wheeled Sydney to Aidan's bedside. More flashbulbs popped as she reached over and stroked his brown hair. Some of the hair along his right temple had been burned off and hadn't grown back yet. She could see he was trembling. "I kind of hoped we could get together in private," she admitted, under her breath. "I know you're in a lot of pain, honey. I'm--so sorry. I hope you feel better soon."
"You, too," he whispered. The brave smile ran away from his face. "I really, really tried not to land on you. I didn't expect you to catch me."
"That doesn't matter," Sydney said. "All that matters is that you're alive, and you'll get better soon."
No one else heard what was said between them, because Rikki was addressing the audience. Sydney just heard snippets, something about
people touching people's lives
. She mentioned how difficult it was raising a child on her own and taking temp jobs. She thanked the hospital for everything they'd done for her and Aidan. But the cost of their medical care would be enormous, and she welcomed donations through the hospital from people who wanted to
touch their lives
the way Sydney Jordan had. "You can be a hero--like Sydney Jordan," she concluded in her strained voice. "We're not asking for a handout--just a helping hand."