A Line To Murder (A Puget Sound Mystery) (30 page)

Chapter 26

Seconds? Minutes later? I came up coughing and gulping for air. I lay where I’d fallen and let oxygen get to my brain and waited for my brain to resume activity. I breathed great lungs full of dusty air, but at least I breathed. The carpet smelled like dirt from the myriad of shoes that had trod on it and made me sneeze—the wrong thing to do. Ow! Ow! Ow!
Don’t sneeze! My ribs feel cracked.

A puddle of blood trailed down my part of my face and breast and dried. My nose told me where it came from. One wrist hung at a peculiar angle and I wouldn’t be turning my neck any time soon. Rolling over and trying to sit up was agony. When I tried to shift, a lot of other things hurt too. Tears rolled down my face and plugged my injured nose.

Bill Haines’ knee was no longer bearing down on my back, thank God, but somewhere out of sight, someone was fighting. Grunts of pain said one of the fighters had to be Haines. Who was he fighting with? I moved painfully around until I was leaning on my side and could see across the room. Four arms flailed and Haines’ assailant needed help. However, I had another issue. In addition to whatever was going on with my neck, ribs and left wrist, my knees were raw and bleeding. Using my right hand and a credenza for support, I slowly pulled myself up. As I did, a pile of ceiling plaster came into view. Above them was a gaping hole where someone or something had fallen through.

From where I stood, it seemed as if Bill Haines was using the same techniques on his opponent he’d used on me and was getting the upper hand.

I need a weapon. Stapler? File folders?
There had to be something I could hit him with. Finally, I took off my shoe, hobbled over and began to pound my attacker around the head and neck with the shoe’s spike heel. The thrusts weren’t particularly forceful, but they fell on tender areas and he flinched. The break in action was enough for me to see his attacker was Andy. It gave Andy enough time to wipe the blood off his face with one hand and get off a punch with the other. Ignoring Bill Haines’ jaw, he aimed for the windpipe. The blow wasn’t hard, but it was enough to break Haines’ momentum. He gasped and grabbed his neck. I threw my shoulder at him and we crashed over a typewriter stand and went down. Andy grabbed a desk lamp and swung it at Bill Haines’ head. The blow dazed him.

I pulled myself up and for a few moments, the only sound in the room was panting. However, Bill Haines wasn’t through yet. He took advantage of the lull and lunged for my ankle. When I fell, he cuffed my jaw, first on the left, then as my head swung, on the right and then back on the left again. Stars were exploding when Andy managed to get the lamp cord around Haines’ neck. He used the same trick Haines used on me:  maneuvered the man onto his stomach, held his arm down with his knee and tightened the cord. When Haines went limp, Andy whipped the cord away and used it to tie Haines’ hands.

“Call nine-one-one.”

Haines began to roll and thrash again, and Andy struggled to keep him down. His words failed to penetrate my fog of pain.

“Mercedes! Damn it! Call nine-one-one.”

I pulled myself to the nearest desk, dragged the phone into my lap and punched the buttons. “Help.” Then I dropped the receiver and blacked out.

I heard sirens wail as I came to again, but I don’t know if Bill Haines heard. He never quit fighting. When the police finally burst into the office, Andy was still struggling to hold the man down.

I was vaguely aware when Andy came and put his arms around me. Through my pain, I smelled blood and sweat. When he reached toward the phone cord still knotted around my neck, I recoiled. “Don’t touch it.” Andy wasn’t the enemy, but I jerked away. “I want the police to see it. That way there won’t be any doubt.” Speaking made me realize how sore my throat was.

First, there were two police officers in the room then more sirens, more red lights flashing on and off and more people crowding around. Bill Haines groaned and I stared at his handcuffed figure.
Does he know I want to kill him? To pound on him until I can’t anymore?
The rage gave way to shock. Someone took photographs of me and someone else removed the phone cord. Andy disappeared into the milling crowd. I was helped onto a gurney and covered with a blanket.

“I’m going to ride with you in the ambulance.” I didn’t know the soft-spoken female officer but was glad she was there. She asked me questions and gave me assurance. A needle pricked my arm and her voice and the pain faded away.

* * *

I awoke in a hospital room with an IV feeding something in my right hand. My left wrist was splinted and wrapped and I wore a neck brace. A person just had to suck up the pain of injured ribs, though, and try not to breathe too much. It hurt to move my knees. I didn’t want to move much anyway. The room was warm and whatever was in the IV gave me a pleasant buzz. I drifted happily.

The door opened and a nurse came in. She smiled, stuck a thermometer in my mouth and checked the drip bag and my chart. Her name tag read Rachel Ramirez, LPN.

“Good morning.” She had a lovely Caribbean accent. “How are we doing?”

“Not necessary to use the royal we. I’m just regular folk.” I grabbed my neck in pain.

Nurse Ramirez laughed. “Occupational hazard.”

“Everything hurts, I’m thirsty and I have to go to the bathroom.”

“Okey dokey, then, here we go.” She cranked up the head of the bed and handed me a glass of ice chips. While I sucked chips, she helped maneuver my legs over the side and supported me when I slid off the bed and stood up. It appeared the IV was going with me but it was better than a bedpan or a catheter. I wished I had on underpants under the hospital gown.
How will I wipe?
A few minutes later I learned that necessity is indeed the mother of invention.

While I “invented,” someone straightened the bed covers. Nurse Ramirez helped me back in and I was glad to be there. Everything ached, but it didn’t affect my appetite. I was hungry. Apparently, something pleasant went into the IV. The next sounds I heard were those of metal food carts rattling in the corridor.

Nurse Ramirez appeared in the doorway. “Would you like anything special?”

“Ice cream.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

I got some ice cream along with applesauce and chicken noodle soup. After breakfast, an orderly came in to dry-mop the room. I asked him to prop the door open. He also turned on the wall-mounted TV and gave me the remote. I turned the sound off and listened to what was going on around me. Hospitals are not quiet places, but it felt restful, perhaps because I also felt safe
.

A dark-haired young man with laugh lines around his eyes and a stethoscope around his neck came in and looked at me over the top of his glasses. “I’m Doctor Singh.”

“Is this Ringer’s lactate?” I gestured toward the IV drip.

“Medical shows?”

“A program I used to watch called
Emergency
. Someone was always yelling for Ringer’s lactate and a saline drip.”

“Good call.”

He reviewed my medical chart and removed the needle from the back of my hand. Nurse Ramirez appeared just in time to hold my arm up and apply pressure to the vein. After a minute, she swabbed the insertion site and covered it with a cartoon bandage.

“You have a broken bone and some torn ligaments in your wrist.” The doctor flipped a page on my chart. “Your larynx is badly bruised and swollen. Upper and lower jaws were damaged but no teeth lost. Your right shoulder was injured but not broken. You’ll probably need some physical therapy so be sure to see your family physician. Two ribs are cracked and you have lots of rug burn on your knees. All told, plenty painful but no serious damage.”

Easy for you to say. You’re not lying here.

“I’ll release you after lunch.” He re-hung the chart and stood and stared at me. “You’re one of the lucky ones.”

For lunch I had Jell-O, tuna on white and more ice cream. An orderly took the tray away and a different nurse came in to ask who he could call to drive me home.

“A cab, please.” I drifted into a nap.

Mid-afternoon a CNA helped me dress. The bra was difficult, but I insisted. My nylons were gone, so I got to keep the blue hospital footies. “Not much of a fashion statement.” I turned my ankle to get a good look and flinched at the pain.

“Better than the blood you came in wearing.”

True
.

“Doctor Singh has some pills he wants you to take and, if he didn’t mention it,” she helped me into a wheelchair, “psychological counseling is often a good idea in these situations.”

“Ummm.”

“I’ll get you a list of groups you can contact.”

“The man who was with me last night, the young one, how is he?”

“Are you a family member?”

“Just a friend.” She didn’t answer. “Privacy issues?”

“You got it.”

She finished helping me dress and getting settled in a wheelchair. “I’ll wheel you slowly past his door so you can look in.”

“Thank you.”

Andy’s door was closed. She opened it enough so I could see indications of his bandages and a cut running from his upper lip to his chin. He was asleep. Someone had put his hearing aid on the nightstand. My eyes filled with tears. “I’d like to leave him a note.”

We stopped at the nurse’s station and a nurse handed me a sheet of paper and a pencil.

I quickly jotted, “They released me and I’m going home. Call me when you can. Mercedes.”

The spring air was clean and bright, and an after-the-storm sun coaxed out tulip buds. The nurse and a cabbie helped me into his vehicle. She advised him to avoid potholes. The cabbie kept to the speed limit and I leaned against the seat and sighed. The question of who killed Isca had been resolved and so had the reason. I had closure, but not so her family. Did closure have an opposite? If so, it was what Betty Haines would have to face. She’d have to come to grips with her husband’s allegations and actions; come to terms with any part she might have inadvertently played in his drift into madness. She’d have to learn how to forgive or to at least move on. Not easy at any age. Parker Haines and the various grandchildren would have a lifetime of stigma cast against them. As did Ted Bundy’s Tacoma family, and what about genetics? Scary thought that you might just be carrying a murder gene.

The distance from the hospital to my apartment was short, but when I got home, I realized I didn’t have my purse. I hadn’t been awake to ask the ambulance crew to put it on my stretcher so it was probably still at the office. The cabbie helped me up the stairs and into the lobby. I asked him to knock on Dave’s door. Dave wasn’t home but Francisco was. He paid the fare and used the spare key they have to open my door.

Oh, happy, happy home.

“Coffee? Tea? What can I do?”

“Coffee and then go home.”

He started a pot, let the cat in and turned down the covers on my bed. The coffee smelled wonderful.

“You’re a good wife.” I smiled.

“I like your footies, very red carpet.”

And then I was alone.

The cat was hungry; the parrot was hungry and his cage was dirty. I took care of their needs as best I could. Then I opened the balcony door and stepped outside. The park was at its best, and people were taking advantage of the warm weather. Some kids were on bikes, others on skateboards and some just ran around. A basketball went slap, slap, slap against the cement and bonged off a backboard. Women pushed strollers and joggers jogged. Just a regular Saturday. No need to worry anymore. Normal was a wonderful thing.

A bath was out of the question, but not a shower. I put plastic bags over my arm and used rubber bands to hold them shut. When I stepped under the flow of water, everything hurt, my rug-burned knees most of all. Steam filled the bathroom, particularly inside the shower-curtain cocoon. I stood until the water turned lukewarm. The room was a sauna when I turned the water off and got out. I toweled off as best I could, put Vaseline and gauze patches on my knees and worked my way slowly into sweats. Francisco’s pot of coffee was hot, my bed was soft and Porch Cat purred. Comforts after a near-death experience.

Sometime later, a knock at the front door woke me. I got up with a groan, shuffled slowly to the living room and look through the peephole. Andy. I had sticky-out hair on one side and flat, airplane hair on the other. Who cared? I opened the door. Andy looked like the losing side of domestic abuse. He also wore sweats; his hearing aid was in place, but the glasses he sometimes wore had a wad of tape holding them together.

“No hugs,” I said.

“Right back at you.”

A figure behind him shifted and Betty Haines came into view.

“Come on in. The coffee might still be hot.” I stepped aside and she followed Andy into my living room. Her dress was wrinkled and her lipstick was gone, but her hair was in place and she seemed in control. When I started shuffling into the kitchen for the coffee, she said, “let me.” Andy eased himself into a chair and I took the couch. She carried mugs to us then got her own and sat down.

Andy looked at my splint. “How do you feel?”