Deaths of Jocasta (47 page)

I sat on the floor, holding the receiver until it started bleating at me before I hung it up. I stared at the cuts on my arms, a few smears on my right arm, a steady trickle pooling at my left elbow.

Get up and close the door, at least, I told myself, but I didn’t move. The door would be no protection against a bomb anyway. I thought about trying to find my gun, but did have the sense to realize I was in no condition to use it.

I vaguely wondered if I should search for O’Connor’s number and call him. But it was bad enough for Joanne to see me like this. The fewer witnesses the better. I regretted having lost my temper and calling Cordelia.

Blood was starting to drip off my arm onto the floor. I looked for something to blot it with, but all that was within reach was the telephone and my broken answering machine. A cat was peeking dubiously out from under the couch, unwilling to come closer.

“Fetch a towel, Hep,” I told her. She didn’t, needless to say.

Don’t let Joanne find you sitting here on the floor like this. At least make it to your desk.
I put the phone on the floor and slowly got up.
There, that wasn’t so bad.

Someone was coming up the stairs. I hoped it was Joanne.

It wasn’t.

Well, that will teach me to lose my temper, I thought, as Cordelia entered.

“Micky, what…oh, Jesus,” she said, seeing my bloody arms.

“I’m okay. Sorry, I lost my temper,” I mumbled, trying not to slur my words too badly.

“You don’t look okay. Do you have a first aid kit anywhere?”

“Uh…yeah,” I tried to think where, “maybe my car?”

She went into the bathroom and came back with a hand towel. She used it to wipe away the blood on my left arm.

“A few stitches,” she said, looking at the cut. “Keep this pressed tightly against it. I’m going to my car to get some things. Sit down. It’ll be easier.”

Yeah, it would, but my befuddled brain wasn’t operating at her speed. She was heading out of the room and I still hadn’t moved.

“Are you okay?” she asked, turning back.

“Me? Oh…yeah,” I answered, still not moving. I stumbled toward the couch, but dropped the towel.

Cordelia came back and picked up the towel, then, with an arm around my shoulder, guided me to the couch.

“Sit,” she ordered, firmly maneuvering me down. She wrapped the towel tightly around my arm, placing my other hand on it. “Hold it there.”

“I’m okay,” I retorted, angry at her patronizing me, angrier at myself for needing to be taken care of.

“No, you’re not,” she said matter-of-factly, as she again headed out the door.

I concentrated on holding the towel in place and cursing my stupidity. I had to reek of bourbon. I suddenly saw myself as I had to appear to others—a disgusting drunk. No wonder Danny didn’t want me around her friends. Whatever respect Cordelia may have had for me was surely gone now.

She reentered carrying a black satchel and sat beside me on the couch.

“Why don’t you tell me what happened?” she asked as she started cleaning my cut.

“I got drunk. Isn’t it obvious?” I retorted.

“Who tried to kill you? The same man?” she questioned, pretending to ignore my drunkenness.

“No. But this has to be linked. Nothing else makes sense. Somewhere, I’ve seen him somewhere before.” But I couldn’t remember, couldn’t even concentrate to begin to remember.

“Did he break the window?”

“No, I did.”

“Why did you…?”

But she was interrupted by Joanne’s arrival.

I probably couldn’t have told the story coherently, but Joanne led me through it question by question, her last one being, “How much have you had to drink?”

I sat, trying to remember. Joanne picked up the bourbon bottle from my desk and examined it.

“That,” I said, meaning the bourbon, “and…some Scotch…beer.”

“Why?” she asked.

“I don’t know. I…just went to a bar and started drinking.”

“It’s probably my fault, Joanne,” Cordelia said, as she finished taping gauze over my cut.

“No, it’s not. I was drinking before you arrived,” I countered.

Joanne paced across the room, then back, abruptly stopping in front of me.

“You just started drinking?” Then to Cordelia, “Why is it probably your fault?”

“It’s not!” I burst out. “I’m a drunken fuck-up, okay? That’s why I got drunk.” I didn’t want to go into what had happened last night and have what I’d said to Danny repeated. I could neither explain nor defend it.

“Bullshit,” Joanne said. “Tell me why.”

“Excuse me,” I said, standing up. I staggered to the bathroom, knelt in front of the toilet and started violently retching. I tried to kick the door shut, but couldn’t reach it.

Someone followed me into the bathroom. I was too busy throwing up to see who. A damp washcloth was put on the back of my neck. I fumbled for the handle to flush away my vomit.

“Here, rinse your mouth,” Cordelia said.

I waved away the glass as my stomach heaved again. When I finally stopped, I closed my eyes and laid my forehead against the cool porcelain. I tried not to think of how repulsive a picture I was. Puking drunk.

I knew Cordelia wouldn’t leave me alone in here, much as I disliked her seeing me like this. I flushed the toilet again, then took the cup from her and rinsed out my mouth.

“I’m okay…now,” I rasped out, my throat ragged and sore.

Cordelia knelt beside me. I felt her brush the damp hair off my forehead, but I couldn’t look at her.

“I just need…to sit here for a few minutes,” I said, again resting my head on the porcelain.

“Okay,” Cordelia answered. She gently massaged my shoulders for a minute, then got up and left.

In the silence I heard Joanne talking, evidently on the phone, arranging whatever needed to be done after a bomb blast. Probably calling O’Connor. Then she got off the phone and I heard her asking Cordelia what had happened last night. Cordelia’s answer was low and indistinct, punctuated by Joanne’s, “Then what?” and again Cordelia’s low voice.

I wondered how long I could remain in the bathroom. A year or two minimum seemed best.

“And you let her?” Joanne’s voice carried.

“What was I supposed to do?” Cordelia answered.

“Not have been polite. For once,” Joanne retorted.

I couldn’t catch Cordelia’s reply. I didn’t want to listen to them anymore. I took the washcloth off my neck and used it to wipe my face. Then I rinsed out my mouth, finally splashing cold water on my face. I flushed the toilet again to rid it of any remaining bile.

Joanne came in and knelt beside me, putting her arm across my shoulder.

“Can you sit up?” she asked.

“Yeah,” I replied. “But I don’t know if I want to.”

“Come on,” she said, helping me until I was sitting on the edge of the toilet. “Here, brush your teeth. It will help.” She put toothpaste on my toothbrush.

I got up and leaned against the wall next to the sink, then took the toothbrush from Joanne.

“You going to be okay?” she asked when I finished.

“Me? Yeah…I’ve been drunk before.”

Joanne took my face between her hands, forcing me to look at her.

“We all make mistakes. What you’re trying to do is difficult. And you’re making it twice as hard by doing it alone. If you’d let us, we’d help you.”

“Help me?”

“Why haven’t you told anyone you’ve quit drinking?”

“Well…it’s not that big a deal,” I stumbled. “And I’m not doing a very good job.”

“Micky,” Joanne said, “it is important and you are doing an amazing job. Considering.”

“Huh?”

“What the hell do you think friends are for? Call me. Call Alex. Or Cordelia or Danny or Elly. I’m perfectly willing to talk to you or sit on you. Whatever it takes.”

“Thanks,” I said. I knew she meant it. “But I don’t think Danny or Elly are going to talk to me anytime soon. And as for…I’ve really made a capital A ass of myself in the last twenty-four hours.”

“So?”

“You didn’t see me last night. I was…in rare form. Danny’s pissed…”

“Danny’s probably overjoyed that you finally said something tacky enough to give her an excuse to yell at you.”

“Huh?” My comprehension was not at its best.

“Danny’s been pissed at you for the last eight years. Since you moved out on her. And right now, Danny’s the least of your problems.”

Right. Someone was trying to murder me. “Maybe I should get some coffee,” I said.

“You should sleep it off. But not here. You’ve been attacked twice here. Unfortunately, our favorite detective is on his way. That bomb needs to be investigated.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” I nodded my head sparingly, not wanting to wake any latent headaches. “Joanne? Thanks.”

“For what?”

“For coming over. Even though I was drunk.”

“Of course,” she said, then put her arms around me and hugged me tightly.

At least one of my friends was still my friend. Until she found out what I had said to Danny. She kept an arm around my waist, steadying me as we went back into the living room, sitting me down gently on the couch.

“How’s your head?” Cordelia asked.

“Still there. Unfortunately.”

She sat down next to me.

“You had a lot to drink,” she commented.

“No. Not for me,” I answered.

“After four months of being sober, you had a lot,” she responded. Heavy footsteps and a familiar grunt came from the stairs.

“Dr. James. Sergeant Ranson,” O’Connor said, entering. “How nice of you to be here to greet me. Glad that you thought to call me, Sergeant.” He glared at me.

“I couldn’t find your phone number,” I said. Only because I didn’t look.

“With the number of attempts on your life, it might be worth your while to memorize it,” he said sarcastically.

“I’ll work on it.”

Then, with considerable help from Joanne and Cordelia, I told him what had happened. I really just wanted to go to sleep, which made repeating my story even more difficult. I could hear sirens and voices off in the street, exploring the newly mined crater, no doubt.

O’Connor was not thrilled with my lassitude. “Wake up, Miss Knight, it’s only your life we’re trying to save. Why don’t we go to the station and let your two guardian angels wing their way to work?” He was clearly not happy with Joanne serving as my interpreter.

“No,” Cordelia answered.

“Why not, Dr. James?” O’Connor demanded.

“She’s in no condition to be answering questions.”

“So it appears. What are you on?” he asked me sharply.

“I’m…”

“…sedated,” Cordelia answered. “I gave her a sedative.”

“Right,” O’Connor said sarcastically. “Did she?” he demanded of Joanne.

“I believe so,” Joanne answered. “I arrived after Dr. James did.”

“All right, Miss Knight. When you become ‘unsedated,’ come by the station. Answer a few questions. Glance at a few mug shots.”

“No mug shot,” I muttered, “like Frankenstein. Religious nut. I saw him at Betty’s.” I suddenly remembered the young man who had been talking to the old woman. It was him, those innocuous-looking apple cheeks.

“At Betty’s, huh?” O’Connor prodded.

“Yeah, I think,” I mumbled, beginning to doubt my perception without sobriety’s sureness to guide me.

O’Connor grunted, “I’ll expect you soon,” and exited.

No one said anything until we heard the bottom door slam.

“I’ll take you back to my place,” Joanne offered. “You can’t stay here.”

“No, I’ll take her,” Cordelia said. “To the clinic. I’d feel better with people checking up on you through the day.”

“I’m okay,” I protested.

“Stop saying that,” she told me. “You will be okay, but right at the moment you’re cut and bruised and suffering from alcohol poisoning.”

“Cordelia’s right, Mick,” Joanne backed her up. “Let’s go.”

Cordelia got her medical kit. Joanne found my keys.

“Feed the cat,” I remembered.

Joanne went into the kitchen to get some cat food. Hepplewhite, at the sound of the can opener, joined her.

“Navigational aid,” Cordelia said, then pulled me upright, placing my arm around her shoulder and supporting me with an arm around my waist.

“Thanks,” I replied, thinking that Cordelia deserved the kindness medal of honor. I don’t think I would want to be stuck with me all day. Not after the way I had acted last night.

We started down the stairs, letting Joanne lock up and wave good-bye to Hepplewhite.

“I guess I’ll have to hire you back,” Cordelia said as we got halfway down.

“Sure you want to?”

“Whatever keeps you safe,” she responded.

Joanne caught up to us, stuffing my keys and wallet into my pocket.