My Sister's Keeper (12 page)

Martha had taken a Percocet that left her groggy and thick-tongued. “Oh, Richie,” she moaned as they played video of Richard being paraded through a crowd of reporters and pushed into the back of a police car. Tears streaked Pearl’s cheeks and collected on her chin.

As the reporter continued, the picture changed to video of the police going in and out of Ashleigh’s house.
“Matthews was reported missing Monday morning after her landlord found her door open and evidence of a violent struggle inside.”
The picture panned from Ashleigh’s dark pool house to the left as the reporter pointed to Richard’s house next door.
“Thirty-two-year-old Baimbridge lives next door to the missing woman and is thought to have been romantically involved with her.”

Martha squeezed her mother’s hand. “He didn’t do it, Mama. I know he didn’t.”

“
Sources close to the investigation say evidence linking Baimbridge to the victim was found in her home and a witness alleges to have seen the two of them enter her house around nine Sunday evening. A grand jury hearing has been scheduled for tomorrow morning and is expected to return an indictment formally charging Baimbridge with second-degree murder. Baimbridge could stand trial as early as October. Tonight, some are wondering; Is this an isolated case or could Richard Baimbridge be Wilmington’s serial killer?”

Pearl clasped a hand over her mouth but it could not contain the cry that escaped from deep within her.

“
This is Teresa Hedge reporting live.”

With a clinched fist against her lips, Pearl’s sobs became wails. Martha switched the TV to Channel 6 and caught another story about the arrest—one that showed a close-up of Richard from a photograph taken the year before when he received an award for
Director of the Year
at Thalian Hall. As another version of the story unfolded, Pearl dropped back against the headboard and wept. Gus stumbled into the room clutching his chest, staggered back against the wall, then toppled face-first onto the hardwood floor.

“
Daddy!”

Pearl hurled herself off the bed and, rolling her husband onto his back, dug into his pockets. Blood dripped from a split in his lip and his eyes darted about aimlessly.

“
Mama! Mama!”

Pearl screamed, “Call 9-1-1, Baby. Now!”

As Martha lifted the phone and pressed the numbers, Gus began slapping an open hand against the floor. Not finding his bottle of pills, Pearl leapt over him and dug into more pockets. When the emergency operator answered, Martha tried to speak clearly, but the operator had to ask her to repeat twice. “What is the nature of the emergency again?”

Martha spoke as clearly as she could. “Har

attack!”

“
Heart attack?”

“
Yes.”

“
I’m sending help immediately. They’re on the way, Ma’am.”

“
Than’ you.”

The operator spoke calmly, “Please stay on the line.”

Pearl’s fingers found the tiny bottle of nitroglycerin, ripped it from Gus’s pant’s pocket, and dumped the tiny white pills on the floor. She’d witnessed many of her husband’s attacks over the last several years, but never one as bad as this. Grasping a single pill in her fingers, she lifted it to his mouth now clamped shut with pain.

“
Open your mouth!” His lips parted, but his teeth were clinched. She shook him. “Gus, open your mouth!”

“
Daddy?”

Gus’s eyes were hammered shut and his skin had turned gray. Pearl grasped his jaw and tried to open it, but he knocked her hands away. She slapped his face. “Open your mouth!”

Martha dropped the phone, rolled off the side of the bed, and dragged herself across the floor. “Daddy, open your mou’h!”

Pearl saw the terror of knowing he was going to die in Gus’s eyes, and realized her worst nightmare was becoming a reality. Her skin flushed. With perspiration pooling in the creases of her neck, she straddled him on her hands and knees and shook him.
“Don’t you die on me, you

you

BASTARD!”

She cupped his neck, hooked her thumb in his nose, and wrenched his head backward forcing his mouth open. As Martha fell on his shoulder, Pearl dropped the pill under his tongue.

“
Don’t die, Daddy. P’ease don’t die.”

The nitroglycerin dissolved quickly and as it entered Gus’s bloodstream, his blocked arteries began to dilate, and the blood began flowing past the blockages. As his panic subsided, Gus relaxed, closed his eyes, and drew a deep breath as Pearl planted a row of kisses across his forehead. Then the three of them lay on the floor until the ambulance arrived and took him away.

16

A
WEEK EARLIER, I HAD SECURITY, a good reputation, and a thriving business. Everything except a woman to share my life. Then one stopped by. A woman. Just for an hour. But that’s all it took to destroy everything that had taken me a lifetime to build. One hour. One lousy hour.
When will I get it through my head that women and I don’t mix?

I’d had no sleep, still wore the clothes I’d been arrested in, and was growing more panicked by the minute.
What was taking so long? Why haven’t I heard from Joe?
Finally, shortly before noon, he showed up and there was someone with him.

“
Scott McGillikin, Rich Baimbridge,” Joe said introducing us as a guard let them in. “Scott’s a criminal attorney.”

Scott extended his hand and, clearing his throat, waited for the guard to leave before speaking. “The Grand Jury just returned an indictment, Mr. Baimbridge. On what are they basing that?” he asked, his eyes cold, uncaring.

“
I was in her house the night everything happened and they found a spot of her blood on my shirt.”

“
How’d that get there?” he asked.

“
I have no idea.”

“
You have the victim’s blood on your shirt and you don’t know how it got there?”

“
I wish I did. It would answer a hell of a lot of questions.”

Taking a seat on the end of the cot, Scott sighed, propped his briefcase on his knees, and produced a tape recorder. “Suppose you start at the beginning and tell me everything.” I lowered myself next to him and for the next thirty minutes gave him the complete story. Scott’s eyes were dull and piercing—like Dad’s—and he didn’t seem to grasp the situation at all, asking questions that seemed completely off-base. He acted as if he presumed I was guilty.

When we finished, I asked, “So, what do we do now?”

He returned his tape recorder to the briefcase and withdrew a set of papers. “First, we get you out of here. Do you have two hundred thousand dollars?”

“
Cash?”

“
Or equity in something.”

“
I have some equity in my building downtown, but not much.”

“
I’ll have to use it as collateral to post bail. Sign these papers.”

I had no idea what I was signing, but signed and dated each one. He snapped the briefcase shut and rose. “You should be out in a couple of hours.” After the guard closed and locked the door, the pounding in my chest returned and panic again swelled inside me. I dropped my head against the bars and closed my eyes.

By 3 p.m. I’d been released, given my belongings, and told they were keeping my car until they’d finished with it. I was tired, dirty, bewildered, and confused. I emerged from the building into another horde of frantic reporters that had obviously been tipped off by someone at the police station. Like children around the ice cream truck, they pushed and shoved seeking a headline and a sound byte for the evening news. Scott told me to keep my mouth shut and guided me through them to his Porsche Boxster.

Arriving at my house, he had to ease through yet another caravan of news trucks and reporters, some from as far away as Charlotte. Neighbors watched anxiously from their porches as if something important was about to happen.

“
The best thing you can do is say nothing,” Scott said.

“
Can’t I at least tell them I didn’t do it?”

“
You can say that if you want, but no more. You’ll just end up giving the prosecution rope that he’ll use to hang you.”

When I got out, the mob pushed in around me, knocking me off balance and yelling questions. They tripped over each other and stumbled about while keeping their cameras trained on me. A microphone swung in on an overhead boom and struck me on the forehead hard enough to break the skin. I pressed a hand to my head and there was a burst of at least thirty camera flashes. It reminded me of feeding the fish in the fountain at the cemetery where mother used to take us as kids. She’d give us stale bread to throw at them while she changed the flowers on a nearby grave and sat on a stone bench crying. The fish, some as big as cats, all fought to get to the front, rolling over each other, pushing and shoving like a pack of starving animals all wanting their piece of the kill—their mouths stretched wide like camera lenses. As we threw the bread crumbs, the water erupted in a frenzy of pushing and shoving that even splashed us. The only difference here was that I was in the fountain with them, surrounded.

“
Mr. Baimbridge, what did you do with the body?” one asked.

There was a momentary silence as they waited for my response.
Did I have any crumbs to throw?
“I had nothing whatsoever to do with Ashleigh Matthews’ disappearance,” I said, but before I could even finish the last word, they erupted into another volley of questions. “Quiet! Listen!” I shouted, waving my hands in the air as Scott drove away.
Say no more.
I started to turn away, but pictured how guilty that would look if I were watching. It was
my
ass on the line here, not Scott’s. I pumped the air with my hands to quiet them. “I am cooperating fully with the police and trust that their investigation will prove my innocence. I extend my sympathy to Ashleigh’s family and pray that she will be found alive.” With that, I turned and waded through them to the house.

As I’ve grown older, I’ve noticed that there are rhythms to my life. Cycles. Patterns. Times when everything is going my way, as if I have an angel on my shoulder. And there are times when everything begins to unravel regardless of whether I caused it or not. These seem to come in ten-year cycles and I realized I was
due
.

It wasn’t until I’d showered and dressed that I remembered my only transportation was a ’89 Harley-Davidson Low Rider in the garage that hadn’t been started in close to a year. I knew the battery would be dead, so I connected it to a charger. I then called Mom to let everyone there know I was okay, but didn’t get an answer and decided to run by there later.

At six o’clock, I flipped back and forth between channels to see how the media was portraying me in the news. I was the lead story on every station and they all had photos of me, video of the arrest and my leaving the police station, and my statement at the house. I looked tired, worried, and
guilty
. I only hoped Mom, Dad, and Martha weren’t seeing this. I poured my third scotch and was about to call Mom when I remembered I had a rehearsal at 7 p.m.

I showered and, just before 7 p.m., pulled the bike off the charger and cranked it. After a couple of growls, the machine thundered to life and I wondered why I had stopped riding it. My favorite rides had been out in the country where I could open it up and feel the exhilaration of speed, and along the beach road on warm summer nights.

That was another thing I was going to miss about Wilmington.

I snapped on my helmet and, with the cameras rolling, goosed it out of the garage, through the mob of reporters lining the street, and headed to the studio where I found no one but Sappy waiting.

His expression was somber. “I guess they all figured you wouldn’t be here tonight.”

I slumped on the seat. “Great.”

“
This thing’s going to cost you the show, you know.”

I exhaled. A nighthawk beeped high above the buildings of downtown Wilmington. I looked up to see it flitting in its distinctive rhythmic pattern as Sappy dragged his shoe across the asphalt. “You’ve been charged with murder, Rich, and the reporters already have you convicted as the serial killer. Don’t you think the board will consider that something of a problem?” The lonely cry of the nighthawk faded slowly as it headed up the river. “I suspect they’re on the phone with one another right now. You need to talk to them. Soon.” He slapped the back of my helmet. “Let me know what happens.”

“
Yeah. Okay.”

“
You going to have rehearsal Sunday?”

“
I’ll be here. Don’t know about the rest of the cast.” I fired the bike up, the rumbling vibrations soothing me as he walked away. Sappy was right. I needed to talk to them

and soon.

I eased the Harley forward, gunned the throttle, and rode to my parents’ house where Mom threw her arms around me and sobbed like a mother burying a child. Telling her it was all a mistake made no difference. Nothing was going to calm her fears. Then she told me about Dad.