The Fixer (34 page)

“And Cameron?” Lydia asked. “Why did she have to die?”

“That was Wells’ idea. Nothing more imaginative than revenge for her humiliation of him.” Snelling tilted his head and gave Lydia a sympathetic look. “A terrible waste of your talents, My Dear. For what it’s worth, I tried to talk him out of it.”

“Who was breaking into my house?” Lydia’s fatigue was weakening her. She willed her voice to remain calm.

“More of Wells’ goons. He seems to have a never-ending supply.”

“Then why Wells?” Mort sounded puzzled. Lydia knew it was a ploy. “Why kill the goose who was laying the golden eggs?”

Snelling grimaced. “A pedestrian metaphor, Detective. But to continue it, I’m afraid he cooked his own goose.”

“What happened?” Mort asked.

Snelling sighed. “As I said, Wells and I worked together to convince Meredith she had no other option than to sell, and she came to agree. But two days later she changed her mind. Holding sacred the university’s stewardship of the waterfront or some such drivel. She took the proposal off the trustee’s agenda. Despite my best machinations she stood her ground. When I informed Wells he reverted to the gutter thug he was. He emasculated me. Called me ineffective and refused to pay me a cent for all my efforts. Threatened to tell Meredith of my involvement. Can you imagine word getting out? I’d be ruined. I tried to reason with him, but he dismissed me as though I was one of his hourly factory workers.”

“So it’s your image we’ll see on the security tapes?” Mort asked.

Snelling’s urbane façade slipped for the first time that afternoon. “Security tapes?”

“At Wells’ mansion. They show a man entering his house just before he was killed.”

Snelling stood, less sure of himself than ten seconds earlier. “There’ll be no need for the tape, Detective. I’m also sure once your investigators search Meredith’s office they’ll find the synthesizer and gun I’ve tucked away. My mission today had been to plant the tapes of The Fixer here in Meredith’s home, thereby securing her conviction in the murders of Bastian, Buchner, and Cameron. But now you two have offered a more air-tight scenario.”

Lydia’s focus was pulled away by movement beyond the giant windows. Three squad cars pulled into the driveway. No lights or sirens. The scene unfolded behind Snelling’s back. She glanced Mort’s way and knew he saw them, too.

“What’s your plan, Snelling?” Mort’s tone was of a mix of boredom and curiosity.

Snelling smiled. “Well, Detective, imagine you asked me to join you in a search of Meredith’s residence. As Executive Provost, of course. We were stunned to find The Fixer here, lying in wait. In an astounding encounter, the two of you shot each other and I was left to call the police and tell them I heard The Fixer confess that Meredith hired her to kill all those innocent people.”

Lydia allowed herself one quick glance outside. Several uniformed officers stood at ease, listening to a man in civilian clothes. A large German Shepherd stood next to him. There was no urgency. She imagined they were there to search Meredith’s house. She focused her stare on them; willing them to see the drama unfolding inside. Not one of them turned their way. Snelling’s laugh brought her attention back into the room.

“I can’t wait to hear Meredith try to explain away the mounting evidence. She’ll see exactly how ineffective she is without me.” His hands quivered again. “I’m sure the trustees will ask me to serve as acting university president until a nationwide search can be mounted. Soon they’ll see I’m not only the sentimental favorite, but skilled beyond others to handle the job on a permanent basis.” He waved his gun toward the kitchen. “A much better plan all the way around. I tip my hat to the both of you for providing it.”

Lydia yelled at the top of her voice. “The police are here! Drop your weapon, Snelling!”

Her words kicked off a choreography of three independent dancers. Snelling turned toward the window, saw the police, and rushed back toward the foyer. Lydia tried to step in front of Mort at the same instant he made a lunge for Snelling’s gun. Their stumble allowed Snelling the fraction of a second he needed to sidestep Mort. Snelling grabbed the detective by the collar, pulled him hard against his chest, and shoved his gun tight against Mort’s skull.

“Get out of here, Lydia.” Mort’s voice was strained by Snelling’s tight grip. “Leave now.”

Lydia looked outside. The group hadn’t moved. She stared at them, paralyzed.

Several police sauntered toward the house.

“Call them off!” Snelling screamed. “Or Mort dies right here.”

“For God’s sake, Lydia, run.” Mort’s eyes were pleading. His neck strained against the noose of his collar. “You can make it.”

“Now, Fixer!” Snelling’s spit flew past Mort’s ear. “Call them off!”

Her left hand went to her throat. She pulled out the wooden whistle. She watched Mort’s face turn deep crimson as Snelling pulled the collar ever tighter.

“Don’t do this,” Mort rasped. “Go.”

She blew loud and long. The shrill penetrated the windows. She saw Mort wrest free at the same instant Snelling fired his gun. Four uniforms stormed the house. Lydia watched Mort stumble forward, shirt covered in blood, as Snelling leveled his gun at her.

The bursting front door startled the crazed Executive Provost. Mort reached his bloody arms toward Lydia at the precise instant Bruiser threw his eighty-five rock-solid pounds against the man holding the weapon. Snelling fell to the ground as his gun fired across the room.

Four officers returned fire.

Lydia saw it all in slow motion.

She watched the plainclothes officer head straight toward the Shepherd; his movements an elongated molasses run. “He’s alright.” The man’s voice was slow and low. A recording played at one-third speed. “Bruiser’s okay.”

She felt the searing pain in the back of her neck.

She saw Mort reaching for her. “Liddy!” His voice like the other man’s: drawn-out and deep.

She felt his arms catch her as they both drifted to the floor. She looked into his face. Saw the pain in his eyes. His blood-soaked clothes. The room went silent. His contorted look of panic seared its way into her consciousness.

Another sharp stab of pain brought the room back to normal speed. Yelling. Stomping. The acrid smell of gun powder.

Mort pulled her into his lap. His warm blood pulsed onto her face.

“Hang on, Liddy.” His whisper was low and soft. “Help’s on the way.”

She shook her head so subtly that only he could see. “This is the only way.” Her whisper was as small as his. “Will you stay with me?”

The pain on Mort’s face crushed her heart. His eyes were riveted to hers. She watched as the sadness in them made room for acceptance.

She gasped for breath and hoped he’d read her thin smile as brave. “Are you hurt bad?”

“Don’t worry about me. You just hang on.” Mort strengthened his hold on her.

“Will you stay?” she whispered.

Mort swallowed hard. “I’ll stay,” he choked. “God speed.”

A man walked up behind them. Lydia wondered if this was Jim, the friend Mort mentioned so many times. A wispy daydream came to torment her. A backyard barbeque. She was serving burgers and corn. Mort was groaning that Lydia and Robbie had just beaten the two older men in croquet. Mort’s grandchildren were calling her Auntie.

Lydia sensed the light drain from the room.

“Get that ambulance now,” the man yelled to the police in the yard. “They’re ninety seconds away, Mort.”

“Step outside, will you, Jimmy?” He kept his eyes on Lydia. “We’re all right here.”

“Mort?” Lydia whispered. “I can’t see you.”

He stroked her hair and rocked her. “I’m right here, little girl. Everything’s going to be okay.” He held her close. “I’ve got you.”

The blindness that enveloped Lydia gave way to a pinpoint of light far in the distance. She focused on the light as it grew, drawing her to its center. Brighter and warmer. Closer and closer.

Lydia closed her eyes, eased into the lullaby Mort was humming, and floated toward the light.

First came the beeping. Steady. Muffled. Then the smell. Antiseptic. Harsh on the in-breath. Next, the sense of a warm cocoon. An awareness to body identified it as a heated blanket. A difficult swallow brought a bitter taste down the throat. An attempt to move. A non-responsive body.

She tried again.

This time the back of her shoulders shifted a quarter-inch to the right and scratched against something rough.

She wrestled weakened muscles and sticky ointment to work her eyes open. She blinked away a greasy blur. The light was too bright. She closed them and tried to speak. Her voice didn’t come.

She tried again.

A whimper rasped free. She opened her eyes a second time. A man sat by her bed, reading a newspaper. She strained to produce another sound, louder this time.

The man lowered his paper. His surprised face seemed familiar.

“Lydia?” The man leaned close. She smelled cinnamon and coffee. “Can you hear me?”

She blinked; tried to focus; tried to place the man. An image of a big dog floated through her consciousness.

“Holy Mother of God” The man whispered before leaning back and yelling. “Mort! Get in here.” He turned back to her. “Lydia, hold tight, okay? Mort’s just out at the nurse’s desk.”

She heard the commotion of three people hurrying in. She focused on the one face she recognized. The man with his arm in a sling.

He looked so tired.

The two strangers converged over her. Feeling and prodding. Pushing and thumping. They called her name again and again. She couldn’t respond.

“For the love of Christ, will you give her a minute?” Mort’s voice danced to her across the room. “She’s been hooked up to your damned machines for nearly three weeks. You’re not going to learn anything more by poking at her now.” She watched him step in front of the stranger who had his fingers on her pulse. He leaned down. His eyes shimmered in the light.

“Welcome back, Liddy Girl. Good to see you again.” His smile soothed her. She croaked two soft sounds.

“Don’t try, Kiddo.” Mort’s voice was warm silk. “They took you off the vent yesterday. You’re going to be sore for a while.”

Mort looked over his shoulder. “Give us a few minutes.” The two strangers exchanged questioning looks. Mort turned to them again. “Please.” They shuffled out, warning Mort not to excite her.

“Can you believe it, Mort?” The man with the paper stood and grabbed his jacket. “You’re here twenty-four/seven and nothing. I step in for ten minutes and sleeping beauty comes back from the dead.” The man smiled at Lydia as he zipped his windbreaker. “I still got a way with the ladies, huh?” He winked at her and slapped his newspaper against Mort’s arm. “Wait til I tell Micki what’s up. Call me.”

Mort waited for the man to leave before he pulled a chair next to her bed. He slid his hand over hers.

“What d’ya say we do one blink for ‘no’ and two blinks for ‘yes’? Sound good?”

She blinked twice. It was easier this time.

“There you go.” Mort’s eyes scanned her face. “I got to ask you a tough one, Liddy.” His voice caught. “Can you see me?”

She blinked twice. No problem at all.

“Oh, Sweet Jesus.” Mort’s smile was wide and strong. “The docs said it could go either way. That part of your brain took a tough hit.” He stroked her hand. “Do you remember what happened?”

She recalled Snelling holding a gun to Mort’s head. Choking him on his own shirt. Shooting him. The police dog charging. The searing pain. The darkness and the bright light.

Lydia blinked twice.

“Let me bring you up to speed.” Mort leaned against the side of her bed. “It’s March 19
^th
. You’ve been in the hospital nearly three weeks. Came up from ICU yesterday morning. Docs tell me you’re getting stronger by the day, but you’ve got a long rehab ahead of you. You up for that?”

Lydia’s breath grew shallow. She wondered what was at the end of the rehab road. A tear escaped her eye and slid into her ear. She couldn’t lift her hand to wipe it away.

Mort looked over his shoulder before leaning in close. “Liddy, Snelling’s dead. Cameron’s back home singing your praises. She swears it was a stroke of genius for you to make up the story that you killed Bastian. Says she wouldn’t have trusted you any other way.”

He brushed a hand across her forehead and Lydia felt a wisp of hair move. “Robbie’s story’s a hit and The Fixer’s out of business. No one knows where she is.” His voice was firm. “Savannah’s name has never been brought up. Your little Greta can rest in peace.”

Lydia’s mind swirled with half-formed questions and hazy thoughts. What if’s and how’s. She couldn’t block them correctly. Couldn’t speak them if she could.

She watched him lean back and pull a notepad from his shirt pocket. “The joint’s been hopping.” He flipped to the page he wanted. “Let’s see. Some fellow named Jeffe’ says to tell you he’s starting work first of next month and his wife is coming soon. A Deshaundra Clemmons nearly got herself arrested when the staff told her you weren’t ready for visitors. They came and got me. Says she heard your story on the news and knows you were too busy fighting crime to remember details. I’m supposed to tell you she forgives you.” His eyes scanned the sheet. “The list goes on. Looks to me like you’re very well-loved.”

Another tear escaped. This time Mort grabbed a tissue, leaned in, and wiped it away. “It’s done, Liddy. The case is closed.” Mort reached for her hand. “The Fixer’s identity died with Snelling.” He looked deep into her eyes. “Let’s bury her along with him.”

Lydia struggled for breath. Her heart pounded in her ears. She closed her eyes against the power of his gaze.

“Let it be done. The pain, the loneliness. All of it. Let it be done. Let’s see how little Peggy might have turned out if she didn’t have to go it alone.”

She felt his hand caress the top of her head. She opened her eyes and looked at the only man who knew all she was and all she’d done. She scanned his eyes, his face, his body. Lydia let the emotion she saw sink in for a few long moments. She relaxed against the initial urge to defend and felt her body loosen. The ache left her; replaced by something warmer.