By Your Side (30 page)

T
HE BRANCHES OVERHANGING THE ROOF
provided shade
 
—and cover. He’d counted on that. He let himself remember, as he hunkered into position on the shingles, the carving he’d done in the trunk of his neighbor’s old tree all those years ago. Not his initials or some girl’s name. Just five simple gouge marks in the thick bark: four in a row, one slashed diagonally across them
 
—the toughest segment to cut. He’d sliced his finger doing it. Even left a little blood behind.

Five marks. For each of his neighbors’ missing cats. His father wouldn’t have liked it. And he would have hated the rest of this . . .

He looked back toward the house, saw smoke escaping from the windows on the driveway side now. It wouldn’t be long before flames were visible. Before his father’s home
was fully engulfed
 
—gone before they could slam down the gavel, take it away like they had everything else. At least his father hadn’t lived to see it all play out.

He closed his eyes, remembering his father’s age-lined face again, his milky-blue eyes. The way he’d looked on that last day. Had Abe Archer smiled, just a little, when his son kissed his forehead? And when he finally dozed off, did he dream of the times they’d shared . . . the dogs, bedrolls, campfires, that old canoe? And . . . He took a slow breath.
Did he know it was me holding the pillow over his face?

No. It didn’t matter now. It would all be over soon.

Ned Archer lifted the Browning .270 from the shingles, balanced it expertly in his hands. He sighted down the driveway. The sirens were close. It would only be a matter of minutes now. If he’d cut tally marks on that tree for this new hunt, it would have been only two kills so far. The woman and the dog.

Today there would be more. And he’d leave some of his own blood behind again.

“I’m surprised to see you, that’s all,” Macy explained as she walked ahead of Elliot into the empty house. Her footfalls echoed on the hardwood floor like a sound effect in a low-budget horror movie. She looked for a spot to lay the brass door set down and finally put it on the ledge of the small pass-through window that connected the dining room with the kitchen. Then she turned to look at him, feeling strangely uncomfortable. But it was bound to feel awkward, considering their recent history. “Stan wasn’t available after all?”

Elliot’s prolonged silence did nothing to put Macy at ease. “Stan had several appointments,” he said finally. “I told him I would handle this.”

This?
For some reason, Macy thought of the neighbor with the rake.

“I brought the copies of your agreement with the contractor,” he added, resting his briefcase against the dining room wall.

“Good. I appreciate it.” Macy cleared her throat, determined to retrieve that happy feeling she’d had when she first found the good-omen bird nest. The questions she had regarding Charly Holt could wait a bit; right now she wanted to savor her future. Elliot wasn’t going to spoil it for her.

“I told Stan I wanted to take some photos,” she said, reaching up to admire the wood trim framing the pass-through window. “Mostly for my sister. But also to get some ideas for carpet, paint colors, and decorating. Stan said he knew a contractor with contacts at discount places. I won’t spend a lot, but I want to make it feel homey. For us and for when people come to visit us here. So
 
—”

“He’s wrong for you, Macy.”

She thought for a moment that Elliot was talking about the contractor, but the look on his face warned of the same dialogue he’d pressed in his office. He stepped closer and Macy suspected he’d been drinking this time too. Reddened eyes and his breath
 
—“I’m not going to have this conversation, Elliot.”

“Don’t talk; listen.” His eyes darted back and forth. “Whatever Holt told you is a lie,” he sputtered. “I don’t
know how he ever got past the psychological exam. He’s paranoid, dangerous, and
 
—”

“Did you do that?” Macy forced Elliot to meet her gaze but kept her voice calm. “Did you send his mother information about selling her life insurance policy? Without her request? And then imply I had something to do with it?”

“The brochure had our address stamped on it. He didn’t have the envelope. Holt could have picked it up anywhere.” Elliot swept his fingers through his thinning hair, his agitation mounting. “Don’t you see what he’s doing? He’s trying to drive a wedge between us, Macy. He can’t handle that our relationship has spanned
years
and has grown into something
 
—”

“You told him about the trust money,” Macy blurted. The last thing she wanted was to taint this hopeful house with bitter accusations but . . . “You compromised my privacy. You had no right to do that.”

Elliot’s eyes narrowed. “And what exactly do you think
he
wants to compromise? What do you think that street cop’s sniffing after? He only wants one thing. He doesn’t see you like I do, Macy. He doesn’t admire you for all you’ve accomplished, for who you are. Fletcher Holt couldn’t care less that you’re intelligent and savvy . . . and yes, a person of substantial means because of that. And because of
me
. Holt looks at you the way he looks at every conquest. He only sees a very desirable woman with amazing eyes, long legs . . .” His gaze fixed on her blouse. “And such beautiful
 
—”

“Stop it,” Macy demanded, repulsed. “What
is
this? Don’t say another word. This is making me ill.” Her eyes
widened as he grasped her arm. She pulled back, but his grip tightened. “Let go of me, Elliot. Right now.”

“Please,” he begged, loosening his grip only slightly. “Can’t you see that I’m only trying to protect you? I’ve been doing that since you were a kid. I know you better than anyone does. You know me. I would do anything for you,
anything
. Please, listen to
 
—”

“Let
go
.”

“There!” He dropped her arm, then leaned so close that saliva speckled her face as he continued his rant. “You know, you should be a lot more grateful. Where do you think you’d be without me? Maybe living like your mother did? Turning tricks out on the
 
—”

“Don’t!” Macy stepped back, anger giving way to disbelief. Then horror as he lurched forward again, making her stumble backward until her spine smacked against the dining room wall. He pressed closer still, grunting. Pinning her. Macy shoved against his chest. “No . . . stop.”

“You should be a
lot
more grateful,” Elliot growled, grabbing at her hair. Macy thrashed, turned her head as his mouth connected with her cheek, then slid under her jaw to her throat. “Macy . . .”

Kick him!

“No!” Macy fought as Elliot’s hands tore at her blouse, sweaty fingers fumbling with her bra. “Get off me!”

“C’mon . . . relax . . .” Elliot’s mouth sought hers again.

Macy shoved back, tried to bring her knee up between his legs.

“Don’t you dare, you little
 
—”

Elliot’s obscenity dissolved in a guttural growl as he
wrenched her left wrist, hard. There was a pop, pain so intense it made her gag. He slammed Macy against the wall again, yanking her injured arm over her head. But her right hand remained mercifully free, and she stretched it out, searching for . . . hoping . . .
Please, please.

There.

Elliot began pulling her down to the floor.

She raised the brass door set high and slammed it hard against his skull. He cried out, staggered backward, and fell.

Macy sprinted for the door.

“Barricades in place,” the volunteer firefighter reported, wiping a beefy hand across his brow. He glanced toward the house, a scant ten yards up the driveway. They’d pulled the water tender in, parked close to the garage. Flames licked at the windows of a room on the second story. “We’re keeping the looky-loos back. Neighbors. You know.”

“Yeah.” Fletcher had been on scene barely seven minutes and had already escorted an elderly woman home twice, but she’d pushed her way back through the hedge. She was the next-door neighbor who’d first reported the possible prowler and the subsequent smoke. She wanted to make certain Fletcher recorded all of her observations
 
—along with some extraneous and long-winded history about a man with Alzheimer’s and his very nice son who’d tried so hard to hold on to the house. Fletcher squinted toward the porch, thinking he’d been here before. Not on any call he could remember but . . .

“Arson team is on the way,” the firefighter added, raising
his voice over the insistent chug of the tender truck. “You didn’t see anybody when you looked around?”

“No.” It had been a cursory inspection; the firefighters needed to get in. But Fletcher would buy the arson idea
 
—it fit from the 911 sequence
 
—except that the neighbor woman said the house was bank owned and scheduled for auction. It wasn’t like a foreclosed homeowner could collect on insurance. The house hadn’t been sitting empty as long as some, from the looks of it. But long enough for the back lawn to grow weeds and thistles knee-high; Fletcher could vouch for that. And it had been vacant enough time for its windows to be shattered by vandals. The garage windows were covered with plywood.

“Let’s get some hoses in here!” a firefighter shouted as smoke billowed out from the open garage. “And we better roll this old car out.”

Car?

Fletcher squinted, pulse quickening. Couldn’t be . . .
Is it?
He broke into a jog, one hand on his radio. Ready to
 
—

A sharp crack split the air.

The firefighter dropped in the driveway, bleeding.

God . . . no.

“Down, down! Everybody, down!” Fletcher drew his weapon and hunkered low, scuttling for cover. “94-Boy
 
—shots fired! Firefighter down,” he radioed as he attempted to gauge the trajectory of the shot. “Be advised: vehicle in garage fits description of
 
—”

Shouts rose. “On the roof, up there. Next door!”

Fletcher whirled, gun raised, saw the muzzle flash
 
—and was blown instantly backward, his thigh exploding in pain.
He collapsed onto the driveway, blood gushing beneath him.

“Officer down!”

Another crack. The cement pulverized mere inches away.

“94-Boy . . . I’ve been shot. . . .” Fletcher groaned and rolled to his side, slipping in pooled blood as he positioned himself to take aim again. His heart was as loud as gunfire in his ears. He risked a glance at his leg. Too much blood. Pumping, red . . . an artery? He was dizzy, faint . . . Couldn’t pass out. Had to stop the shooter before he killed someone else.
God . . . help me do this.

It was an effort to lift his gun. . . .
Weak, too weak.
And the pain . . . Fletcher held his breath, searched the roof
 
—
there. He’s there.
He fought a surge of nausea as the man met his gaze directly, lowered the rifle a few inches, and continued to stare. Fletcher blinked as his vision dimmed. Sweat dripped down his face; he was cold, dizzy.
Bleeding out . . . got to stop it. Get a shot, before . . .

The shooter began to raise his rifle again.

Fletcher snatched at his bloody pant leg, found the bullet hole. Gritted his teeth and jammed his thumb in, burying it deep enough to feel the weak pulsing of his severed vessel. He pressed down hard, sucked in a breath, then aimed his weapon and fired until the slide locked back
 
—clip emptied.

S
IRENS .
 . . Did they need so many sirens?

Fletcher’s head pounded . . . then floated. He wanted to vomit. He needed to sit up. It felt like there was a block of cement sitting on his leg. And what was this thing tied over his
 
—?

“Easy, Deputy Holt. That’s an oxygen mask. In the ambulance, remember?” A man’s face loomed over his. Young, stethoscope around his neck. “Your heart’s pumping more IV fluids than blood right now. You need all the oxygen you can get. Trust me.” He shook his head. “That bullet got some major vessels.”

Bullet. Fletcher’s groan fogged the mask as the images rushed back. The house fire, the Buick . . . “The shooter?”

“You got him.” The medic leaned over him again. “Someday you’re gonna show me how you did that with
one thumb buried in your femoral artery. But right now I just want to keep your BP over 70 until I can hand you over to a trauma surgeon.” He steadied the IV bags as the ambulance jolted around a turn. “We’re taking you to Sacramento Hope.”

Macy.
Fletcher closed his eyes, saw her beautiful face. An ache crowded his heart. The oxygen mask wasn’t giving him enough air.

“Almost to the ER,” the paramedic reported, frowning at the numbers on the monitor displays. “You hang in there. Don’t let me down now, hear?”

Fletcher nodded, tried to lift his hand for a thumbs-up, but it was more than he could do. Even breathing was sapping his strength. His head was floating, bobbing like a buoy out on Galveston Bay. The pain was hardly there anymore. Was that a good thing or
 
—? Fletcher’s vision went fuzzy dim as he tried to sit up.

“What’s wrong?” The paramedic loomed overhead again.

“My parents . . .” Fletcher swallowed, mouth dry. “They’ve had a lot to deal with. If I die
 
—”

“No way.” The paramedic clamped a hand on Fletcher’s shoulder. “We’re pulling up to the ER now, buddy. No dying on my watch.”

Please, Lord, don’t take me . . . not yet.

“Do you believe Mr. Rush’s intent was to rape you?”

Macy’s stomach lurched. If she had anything left in it, she’d probably heave again. Even close to two hours afterward, it was still impossible to accept. “I’m not sure.”

The older female deputy leaned forward in the clinic’s chair, her tone gentle but firm. “You told the doctor that Mr. Rush tore your blouse and touched your breast.”

Macy nodded, glanced down at her left arm
 
—in a purple fiberglass cast. Elliot had twisted her wrist hard enough to fracture it. Her voice emerged in a hoarse whisper. “I was afraid he might . . . force it further. He wouldn’t let go of me. That’s why I hit him.”

“With that brass . . .” The deputy scanned her notes.

“Door set. I was hoping to have it installed on the house.” Nonni’s door set. In a police evidence locker now. Macy shivered despite the warmed blanket the nurse had given her. She’d driven to an urgent care a few blocks from the hospital, too embarrassed to go to the ER where everyone knew her. And where they knew
 
—“How badly did I hurt Elliot?”

“I can’t really answer that. I mean I don’t know,” the deputy amended. “I only know that he’s in custody. His arrest was without incident.”

Arrested.
Macy struggled to take it in. How could all of this be possible? It was a nightmare. A new thought made her breath catch. “Will I need a lawyer? Will there be
 
—?”

The deputy’s cell phone buzzed and she held up a finger. “Excuse me one minute.” She stood and walked a few steps away.

Macy took a sip of water, hiked up the blanket. She wouldn’t confide any of this to Leah. It would be such an unwelcome reminder of
 
—

“I’m sorry for the interruption,” the deputy said, taking her chair again. “Crazy out there after we took down the freeway sniper.”

Macy’s jaw sagged. “I didn’t hear. I haven’t seen the TV or . . . You got him?”

“About forty-five minutes ago. He was pronounced dead on scene. The media’s having a field day trying to ferret out the details, of course.” The deputy’s brows puckered. “That call was an update on our deputy who was shot in the confrontation. He’s in surgery. Such a great guy. And his mother’s a Crisis Care chaplain.”

Macy’s heart stalled. “Wait . . . Fletcher Holt?”

“That’s right. You know him?”

Taylor pressed Charly’s doorbell a second time, glanced at Seth. She was still reeling. The shooter was Ned Archer. She and Charly had attempted a chaplain visit at that house
 
—Seth too. The man had been a patient at the ER; Taylor had talked to him. And now . . . Her stomach knotted. “Charly hasn’t answered our calls either. Maybe
 
—”

“Ring it again.” Seth’s expression said he knew what she was thinking: chaplains on the doorstep meant bad news. They were bringing it to a friend this time. “Charly could have been showering, having quiet time with her Bible,” he explained. “She should hear this from us first.”

Taylor pressed the doorbell again. Took a slow breath
 
—and it stuck in her chest as Charly opened the door.

“Oh, my goodness, what a treat,” she said, her lovely eyes lighting. She wore an apron and a spongy set of vintage earphones draped around her neck. “I hope you weren’t standing there long. I was cooking venison spaghetti and listening to music on my
 
—” Her gaze met Taylor’s, and the light went
out of her eyes. Charly pressed a hand over her heart. “Is something wrong? Oh, dear God . . . is it Fletcher?”

Macy stood outside the ICU doors, trying to work up the nerve to phone the unit’s clinical coordinator. She’d changed into scrubs, hung her hospital ID badge around her neck, and made her way into Sacramento Hope, satisfying security. Though she had no official reason to be here. And no credible relational reason either.
Would Fletcher even want me here?

He’d been out of surgery for five hours. Macy had waited
 
—watching TV news, pacing the house
 
—until the hospital night shift arrived. The nurse in charge was a friend. She’d confided that Fletcher’s condition was critical but stable; his initial lab work was . . .
so bad.
Macy’s heart cramped. They were infusing blood.

She tapped her phone.

“You’re here?” the nurse asked her.

“Right outside
 
—in scrubs. Okay to come in?”

“There’s family in there. His father just got in from Alaska.”

“I won’t even go to the bedside. I . . . need to see him with my own eyes. That’s all.”

“You know the door code. He’s in 15.”

Macy stepped inside, blinking as her eyes adjusted to the dim lighting. The familiar
whoosh-sigh
of ventilators and dinging of alarms welcomed her. Staff hustled in all directions. Her friend, desk phone to her ear, gave Macy a discreet nod. Room 15 was right over there. She told herself
he’d probably be asleep, certainly in no shape to converse. Not that she would even try to . . .

Macy stopped a few feet from the door, shocked as she caught sight of Fletcher through the glass. Eyes closed, oxygen mask over his face, skin so sallow and pale that . . .
he looks dead.
Macy forced herself to remember that critical blood loss always looked that way. Fletcher was still under the effects of anesthesia, and he was receiving transfusions. Her gaze swept the IV poles: near-empty blood bag, a fresh one at the ready. Liters of normal saline and Ringer’s solution . . . Macy took a slow breath. It was only then that her tunnel vision widened enough to see Fletcher’s visitors.

His father
 
—she’d have known it without the charge nurse’s remark. Tall, darker hair than his son’s, but the same angular jaw and wide shoulders, hunched over now as he sat in a chair pulled close to the bed. Near him was a woman who looked something like Fletcher’s mother, same coloring but shorter probably. She had a spiral notebook in her lap. Macy’s gaze shifted to the other side of the bed. Someone there, too. She took a few steps closer to see better.

The young woman, pale blonde, slid her chair forward, angling it to bring herself as close as possible to the bed. She stretched out a bare, willowy arm to smooth the sheet over Fletcher’s chest. Then she grasped his hand and kissed it lightly. She tipped her head, saying something to the family on the other side of the bed.

A piece of rolling equipment clattered behind Macy, and the blonde glanced up. Spotted her standing there.

“Did y’all need to get in here?” she asked, stunning gray
eyes connecting with Macy’s. “Just say the word and we’ll scoot out of the
 
—”

“No,” Macy muttered quickly. “No problem. You’re fine there. I . . . I have the wrong room.” She made herself smile, backed away, and then forced herself to walk, not run, out the ICU doors.

She leaned against the corridor wall and closed her eyes.

Jessica.
Of course she would come. It was clear she was incredibly close to the Holt family. A childhood neighbor to Fletcher, a dear friend. Macy tried to push the image aside: the beautiful woman clasping his hand. Kissing it. There had been concern on her face. And love. Anyone could see that. Even . . .
a fool like me.

Macy lifted her cast, supported it with her other hand. Her fingers were swollen; she’d left it hanging down too long. It ached. Like everything else today. She needed to find some ice. And get away from here.

She approached the ICU waiting room on her way down the corridor
 
—and caught a glimpse of someone in there: Charly Holt, alone, hands clasped and head bowed. The poor woman. Macy told herself she should go in there, see if there was anything Charly needed. She should tell Fletcher’s mother how very sorry she was that this awful, incomprehensible thing had happened and . . .

Apologize for my part in sending that viatical brochure? For trying to “profit” from her cancer? Did Fletcher say that to Charly, too? Would she really believe I’m capable of that?

Macy hugged her cast to her chest and jogged toward the exit to the parking lot.