Cheated By Death (23 page)

“He’s a smelly fur-bag. Unless you want him,
he’s going to the pound. Probably tomorrow.”

The cat rubbed against my ankles, looked at
me hopefully with its golden eyes. “I guess I could try to find him
a home. Is he current on his shots?”

“Who knows.”

“How old is he?”

“I don’t know—maybe three years old. Dad got
him when I moved in with John. He’s been fixed and declawed. That’s
all I know. You can take him tonight. I’ll get the cat
carrier.”

She didn’t give me a chance to protest. She
disappeared into the basement, banging around for a few minutes,
before she brought up a cardboard carrier. The cat saw the box and
instantly disappeared—probably anticipating a trip to the vet.
Patty spent the next five minutes chasing him around the place,
slamming doors, and cursing a blue streak. The cat had a sly,
mischievous glint in his amber eyes. She finally cornered him,
picked up the flailing body, and stuffed him into the carrier,
snapping the lid shut.

Then, she methodically gathered up toys,
bowls, food, litter—shoved it all into a large trash bag and set it
by the front door and stood there—waiting for me to leave.

“I better get going,” I said, eyeing the box
that held my new—albeit temporary—housemate. I picked up the
carrier and she handed me the sack.

“Thanks for taking the cat,” she grumbled,
and looked away. “I’m sorry we—”

She didn’t sound the least bit sorry.

“Yeah. I’m sorry, too,” I said.

Patty opened the door. Overloaded with stuff,
I shuffled through. It banged shut behind me. I opened the car
door, tossed the plastic bag in back and put the carrier on the
front passenger seat. The cat let out a piercing howl.

“Hey, I’m not thrilled about this either,
pal,” I said and started the engine.

My life was getting more complicated by the
minute.

CHAPTER

16

Brenda seemed preoccupied during the drive to
the clinic the next morning. She wasn’t particularly interested
when I told her about Herschel and the adventure of our first night
together. Maybe she didn’t like cats, or was she just sick of
hearing me gripe about Patty?

Or was it something else entirely?

Brenda gazed out the passenger window,
distracted. It was the last day of a job she didn’t want to quit.
Her silence only increased my paranoia. Willie would
not
be
hanging around, I kept telling myself. Not after what happened the
day before. Still, I had a really bad feeling as I parked the car.
We got out, and I kept looking over my shoulder, expecting Brenda’s
ex to charge out from a neighboring doorway.

The protesters were louder than usual that
morning, promising hellfire and damnation to anyone who entered the
clinic’s den of death. Two security guards stood at the edge of the
clinic’s property. With no weapons, they were an impotent
deterrent. Brenda trotted past them, oblivious to the zealots’
taunts. I struggled to keep up with her.

Dr. Newcomb was ahead of us on the top stair
in front of the clinic door. She juggled her purse, a grocery bag,
and a couple of bakery boxes.

“Do you need a hand, Jean?” Brenda
called.

“I sure do.”

Brenda started up the steps, with me a few
paces behind. The doctor dropped her purse, which tumbled down the
steps. Brenda stooped to pick it up.

The clinic’s plate glass door shattered.

Bakery boxes went flying.

A crimson stain blossomed across the front of
the doctor’s white ski jacket. She staggered, and fell back.

I caught Brenda’s jacket collar, hauling her
down the steps.

The crack of more gunfire split the air.

I lost my balance, dragging Brenda with me.
We rolled onto dirt and dried leaves, into the cover of
shrubbery.

Behind us the protesters screamed, scattering
like frightened geese.

Another shot rang out.

Brick shards rained on our heads. The damp
earth and sharp scent of broken yew branches stung my nose.

I shoved Brenda against the building,
covering her body with my own, knowing bullets could tear through
two sets of flesh and bone as easily as one.

“Jean!” Brenda screamed, struggling to pull
free. “We’ve got to help her.”

“No one can help her,” I grated, holding her
tight.

Footsteps thundered past us. The security
guards flew up the steps, hauling the dying woman’s blood-soaked,
limp body through the destroyed door.

“Let me go!” Brenda cried.

The gunfire had stopped. The air was suddenly
eerily quiet, with only the muffled sound of traffic over on Main
Street.

“Let me help her!” Brenda begged.

“Not ’til I’m sure it’s safe. I couldn’t face
Rich if I let anything happen to you.”

Her lower lip trembled as her eyes filled
with tears. She buried her face in my shoulder, and clung to me as
great choking sobs shook her.

I rocked her, let her cry, trying to keep
from shaking as adrenalin coursed through me. How close to dying
had we been?

“Come on,” I said at last, “Let’s get you
checked out.”

“I’m okay.”

“Then let’s make sure junior’s all
right.”

She nodded, and let me help her stand. My own
knees were rubbery. We ended up steadying each other. Then a
white-shirted security guard was pulling at us, yanking us up the
steps and into the Women’s Health Center.

Despite her years of medical experience,
Brenda wasn’t a trauma nurse. I didn’t want her to see what I
saw—her friend, torn apart, an exit wound the size of my fist in
the center of her back. I turned her face away, wouldn’t let her
see the lifeless, blood-soaked form on the lobby floor as we were
scuttled down a hallway.

I’d been sitting there, numb, staring at the
wall for what seemed like hours. I knew every stray mark, had
memorized the location of each grimy handprint made by the
patients’ children. Scuffmarks and dents marred the molding where a
floor polisher had smacked into it countless times. Aged, wrinkled
magazines with torn covers were haphazardly stacked on a chrome and
glass table. Women’s magazines, filled with diet recipes and sex
surveys. It was all so pointless.

Bonnie Wilder was suddenly at my side. Like
the rest of the cops on the scene, she wore a Kevlar vest over
street clothes. Her face was taut with concern. She’d already
questioned Brenda and me when she’d first arrived, only minutes
after the shooting.

“Well?” I asked.

“I thought you might like an update.” She
took the seat opposite me. “We’ve got officers canvassing the
neighborhood, looking for other witnesses.”

“What’re the odds of finding any?”

“Probably nil.”

It figured.

“We’ve got some shell casings off the roof of
a boutique on Main Street. It’s a long shot, but we might lift a
decent print.”

“Do you have any suspects?”

She pursed her lips momentarily. “I’ll find
out if Willie Morgan has an alibi. We hauled a few of the
protesters down to the station. They’ll be questioned, but I’m not
counting on getting anything.”

“Was Reverend Linden out there today?”

“No.”

“He’s an expert marksman.”

“I know.” She pursed her lips. “Any minute
now the FBI will descend and it’ll be their ball game. We’ll be out
of the loop,” she said bitterly.

Not surprising. Any incident involving an
abortion clinic meant the feds were called in. But was Dr. Newcomb
the target, or was Brenda?

Despite their protests to the contrary, would
anyone in Reverend Linden’s group be willing to help find a
baby-killer’s murderer?

“As soon as the FBI okays it, they’ll remove
the body. We’ll have autopsy results by tomorrow.”

“Why bother? She was shot. She’s dead.”

“We’ve gotta go by the book so we can nail
the shooter.”

“If you ever find him.” God, I sounded
cynical.

“It’s a damn shame,” she said, her eyes
shadowed with compassion. “The victim was a single mom—three kids,
all under twelve.”

I hadn’t known that. But I’d picked up a
number of impressions from the somber-faced staff as they’d
wandered through the lobby. Dr. Jean Newcomb was the one who’d
checked me out the day before. I could see why she was so
well-liked. She’d seemed to be the kind of person you could pour
your heart out to. They mourned her, their faces radiating their
shock, loss, and most of all their fear. They were reluctant to
leave, afraid to return.

I looked over my shoulder. A knot of local
press had gathered outside. Now that a newsworthy tragedy had
occurred, was I assured a photographic sale to
The Buffalo
News
? This wasn’t the way I’d intended it to happen. I’d wanted
to prevent this—draw attention to the danger . . . and nobody had
wanted to listen. I’d warned Sam Nielsen, but this was one ‘I told
you so’ I could keep to myself.

Detective Wilder craned her neck to see what
I was looking at. “Vultures.”

“Think how they’ll tease this on the national
news: ‘Clinic doctor blown away in front of abortion
protesters.’”

A work crew had arrived to install plywood in
the shattered door frame. They were measuring the aperture when a
maintenance man in white work clothes, carrying a galvanized pail
filled with hot, sudsy water shuffled across the lobby and pushed
through plastic draped where the door had been. He’d already swept
the steps of glass. He dumped the soapy water onto the concrete
steps. The blood had seeped into the porous concrete. How much soap
and bleach would it take to erase all evidence of carnage?

I turned my attention back to the lady cop.
“Now what happens?”

“The feds will try to find out who killed Dr.
Newcomb.”

“Jeff?”

Richard’s voice.

Turning, I saw a haggard version of my
brother behind me.

“What the hell happened?” he demanded.

“Rich, this is Detective Wilder.”

“Detective,” he said, giving her a cursory
nod.

“I wasn’t there for the security guys,” I
babbled guiltily. “I called them. They’ll install the system
tomorrow, but it’ll cost you—”

“Where is she?” he demanded, ignoring me.

She. Brenda. His wife. The woman whose life
he’d entrusted to me.

“Down the hall.”

“Is she okay?”

“I think so. Just a little shook up.” Talk
about a stupid remark. “Make that a
lot
shook up. If Dr.
Newcomb hadn’t dropped her purse. If Brenda hadn’t—”

Richard looked at me critically. “Are
you
okay?”

I hadn’t given it any thought. “I guess I’m
kind of shook up, too. It isn’t every day you see—”

I couldn’t finish. Richard wasn’t listening
anyway. His attention was fixed on the corridor behind me. He
brushed past us. I turned to see Brenda with another white-clad
nurse. She broke into a jog when she saw Richard, flying into his
arms.

Something in my chest twisted.

“I’ll keep you posted,” Detective Wilder
said, patted my arm, and continued down the corridor.

I took my time catching up to Richard and
Brenda.

The nurse put her hand on Brenda’s shoulder.
“Talk to you later,” she said, turned and walked away.

“Are you okay?” Richard asked, pulling back
to inspect his wife’s tear-streaked face.

“Aren’t you going to say ‘I told you
so?’“

He exhaled, his eyes filling. “No.”

“Can we go home?” she asked.

“There’s a crowd of reporters out front,”
Richard said.

“Out back, too,” I said.

“I don’t want to talk to anybody,” Brenda
said.

“Bring the car around,” I told Richard. “I’ll
get her through the mob. Then I’ll meet you guys at home.
Okay?”

They both nodded, and Richard headed for the
door.

“I have to sit down,” Brenda said. She
sounded tired. Dead tired.

I steered her over to my former seat on the
couch, and took the chair opposite her.

“What’ll happen now?” Brenda asked.

“I don’t know.”

She bit her lip. “Were they after me?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’m afraid, Jeffy.” Her eyes filled with
tears. “My friend is dead and I’m afraid I’ll be killed, too.”

“Don’t think like that.”

“What if
I
was supposed to die, not
her?”

“I’ll make sure nothing happens to you.
Nothing
,” I said and grasped her hand, yet as soon as I said
it I knew it was a lie. I couldn’t protect her. I didn’t even own a
gun anymore. But thanks to Richard’s financial resources, I’d make
sure every precaution was taken to protect her.

I rested my other hand on her shoulder and
touched her fear. She looked at me with such trust.

I felt like a fraud.

Richard’s Lincoln pulled up outside. I helped
Brenda to her feet and hustled her out of the building. Dodging the
press, I gave them the old “no comment.” The Lincoln’s tires spun
and Richard took off. I headed down the street to my own car,
ignoring the shouted questions that followed me. I got in, started
the engine and took off in the opposite direction, relieved to
escape.

The lunch
crowd was long gone at The
Whole Nine Yards. Silent runners sprinted across the large-screen
TV, in time to an old Judds tune playing on the jukebox, while the
few stragglers finished their Friday fish fries.

“What’re you doing here?” my boss asked from
behind the bar. “You’re not on the schedule ’til tomorrow, you
know.”

I grabbed a stool. “Give me a beer, will you,
Tom?”

He drew a Coors and set it in front of
me.

“I’m gonna need some time off.”

Tom picked up a paring knife and resumed
cutting fruit for the happy hour garnishes. “You want to tell me
what’s wrong?”

“A woman got killed at the Women’s Health
Center a couple hours ago.”

He paled. “Not Brenda.”

“No.” I took a sip. “But it happened right in
front of us.”