Last Whisper (31 page)

Seeing that her husband had no intention of trailing after her from the dome, the woman controlled her desire to throw up and went silent, although she did make a great show of burying her head in her hands. That husband is going to catch hell when they leave here, Brooke thought. The wife didn’t act as if she were used to rebellion on her husband’s part.

Although Brooke was riveted by the show, by the spectacular representation of meteors blasting against planets and the moon with spectacular bursts of light, she couldn’t rid herself of the feeling that someone watched her. At first she was certain it was the nauseated woman behind her, glowering at the back of her head in pure resentment because Brooke obviously wasn’t sick, but when she glanced back, the woman still had her eyes covered, letting out an occasional pitiful moan while her husband completely ignored her. Finally, Brooke glanced around the dome. All eyes seemed fixed on some point of the drama unfolding in front, above, beside them. She
even looked at the blond girl, whose head was bent toward her grungy boyfriend’s as they giggled, paying no attention whatsoever to the show. Or to Brooke. I spooked myself, Brooke thought. I got nervous because I imagined that slut looked like the angelic girl at Mia’s funeral—the girl who gave me a vase of roses from Zach.

It seemed to Brooke that the show ended in about five minutes. She would gladly have sat through it again, but Vincent was nudging her to get up. They stepped sideways out into another one of the dark halls lined with tiny white lights, this time climbing up toward the exit, not down the way they had come. Suddenly, people Brooke had not been aware of seemed to come to life. People babbled, men held their wives’ arms and told them to watch their steps, and children dashed past them, laughing and chattering. They’d certainly followed the narrator’s instructions and kept quiet throughout the show, Brooke thought approvingly. Except for the woman behind her, she hadn’t heard so much as a whisper.

Suddenly, Brooke felt something like a spray of moisture followed by a pinprick on her lower back just above her hips. Had she been perspiring? Had her zipper pinched her damp skin? She reached around just as she felt another sharp, stinging jab. “Ouch!” she burst out as pain spread over her lower back. “Darn it! What—”

The pain grew more intense. She felt as if someone were holding a kitchen match to her lower back. Either that, or they’d managed to drop acid on the tender skin below her thin dress. “Vincent—”

He grabbed her arm. “What is it?”

“My back.” The pain flared, raw and burning. “It hurts!”

Brooke knew someone hadn’t brushed up against her with something that accidentally caused the smarting feeling seeming to eat through her skin. She’d been attacked, stealthily, minutely, maliciously. But how seriously?

Brooke instinctively looked around her in the narrow hall for the blond girl. At first Brooke saw no one except strangers
curiously looking at her as she sank to her knees and her eyes filled with tears as the pain intensified, Then she spotted Judith Lambert, who for a second seemed to be watching Brooke before she swept on, keeping her escort firmly in tow.

People parted around them and hugged the walls, staying as far away from Brooke as possible. Typical, Brooke thought. People never want to get involved.

Vincent wrapped his arms around her shoulders and held her tightly. “What is it, Brooke? What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know.” Tears ran down her face as the burning on her back became worse. “I was just walking along and I felt something wet on the back of my dress and then something like a pinprick. It stung. Then there was an actual
jab
right in the middle of the wet spot, and the stinging got much worse.”

Vincent ran his right hand down her back and drew it back sharply just below her waist. “Damn! That smarts!”

Brooke squirmed. “Vincent, what
is
it?”

One of the surveillance police ran up to them, kneeling beside Brooke. “What happened?”

“We were walking out and Brooke felt something sharp and wet on her back. Down low. It stung. Then she felt it again. I ran my hand over it and my skin is burning.”

The policeman immediately pulled out his cell phone and dialed 911, giving them the address of the Clay Center and Brooke’s symptoms. The two men bent her over, staring at the large wet spot on the back of her thin sundress. One policeman looked at Vincent’s reddening hand. “It’s some kind of corrosive,” Vincent told him.

“My partner and I got separated from you on the way out. Who was near you?” the cop asked.

“I don’t know.” Vincent looked down at Brooke. “Did you see anyone?”

“Whoever did this was behind me, obviously. The only person I saw in there I knew was Judith Lambert. Oh God, how long will it take for the ambulance to get here?”

“We’ll help you to the front doors,” one of the cops said. “The ambulance will be here in about five minutes.”

Five minutes turned into ten minutes. While they waited, Vincent sat down on the front steps of the Clay Center, placed Brooke beside him, turned her back toward him, and pulled down the zipper of her dress. People glanced at the blonde with her dress hanging below her waist and only a lacy strapless bra covering her chest, but she hurt so much, she didn’t care. Vincent looked at her lower back. “There’s a spot about the size of a fifty-cent piece, red as fire and beginning to blister. She’s also bleeding.”

“Oh great, more blood?” Brooke moaned.

“It’s not a
lot
of blood.”

“That’s so comforting. Can’t you do something?”

Vincent fumbled in his pants pockets. “I have one of those moist towelettes—Dad never lets me leave home without one, like I’m six or that detective on TV—but I’m afraid the chemicals in it might do more harm than good.”

A small, round man rushed out of the building carrying a wet cloth. “I heard what happened and I doused my handkerchief in the water fountain. Maybe this will help.”

Vincent immediately applied the handkerchief, and the pain eased slightly. “Oh, thank you,” Brooke said to the man, tears still running down her face. “I hate to be such a baby, but the pain—”

“You’re not being a baby, ma’am.” The man smiled. “I’m glad it helps a little. Is there anything else I can do?”

At that moment the ambulance pulled up. “I think we’re in good hands, now,” Vincent said. “Thank you, sir.”

An hour later Brooke sat up on a bed in an examination room. A doctor had thoroughly cleaned her wound, given her a mild painkiller, greased her with what seemed like half a tube of antibiotic ointment, and placed a thick bandage over the injury for protection against pressure. “The lab will identify the chemical on your dress,” he said in his beautiful Pakistani accent. He’d already told her he’d come to the United States from Kashmir seventeen years earlier. “Hopefully, we’ll soon see what we’re dealing with. What a nasty thing to do to such a pretty girl.”

“Thank you for the compliment, but it was a nasty thing to do to anyone,” Brooke said. “You’ve been very kind.”

Vincent came into the room, briefly conferred with the doctor, then walked slowly to the bed. “This wasn’t quite the afternoon I had planned for you, Cinnamon Girl,” he said apologetically.

“I know,” she said gently. “I also know who did this to me. That girl—the one who was at Mia’s funeral.”

Vincent frowned. “The girl at Mia’s funeral? What are you talking about?”

“The pretty girl who handed me the vase of roses was at the planetarium, only looking extremely different. Lots of makeup, hair tossed back so you could see four earrings in one lobe, cheap come-and-get-me clothes. She looked at least eighteen, not sixteen like she did at the funeral.”

“You didn’t say anything about her.”

“I wasn’t sure it was her at first. I wasn’t really sure until after this happened.”

Vincent looked at her seriously. “Brooke, it was dim in there.”

“Not while the show was going on. At times it got really bright.”

“And you looked at her then?”

“A couple of times.”

“Did she look back?”

“Once. It was just a glance and she acted like she’d never seen me before. She turned right back to her boyfriend—”

“She was there with a guy?”

“Yes. About the same age. Longish, sort of greasy black hair. A tattoo on his neck. He had that same trashy look she did. They couldn’t take their hands off each other.”

“And you’re sure
this
was the girl at the funeral?”

Brooke got impatient. “Yes, Vincent, I
am
. After all, no one at the funeral knew who the girl was. She gave me the flowers from Zach. Don’t you see? He
planted
her there, just to give me the flowers. He probably found her on some street corner and, in spite of her striking outfit and makeup, noticed her resemblance to me, my mother, Mia. He thought the whole plan with the flowers would scare the hell out of me, which it did. All he needed was for her to clean up and to buy her a sweet, innocent-looking dress and—”

Vincent held up his hand. “You could be right.”

“You’re not going to argue with me?”

“I can hardly ignore that both times this girl no one knows has been around, something bad has happened to you.” He grinned. “Do you think you have a dumb boyfriend or something?”

Boyfriend? Had he called himself her
boyfriend
? It sounded so adolescent. So presumptuous. So foolishly wonderful.

“But Brooke, don’t forget that Judith Lambert was there, too, and you said she doesn’t like you.”

“Yes, but she hasn’t liked me for a long time and nothing has happened to me.”

“Maybe she was biding her time.”

“Maybe,” Brooke said reluctantly. “But I can’t get that blond girl out of my mind.”

“Okay. The police will want you to confer with a sketch artist,” Vincent said. “We both helped with the first one after the church incident, but you’re on your own with this one, because I didn’t see her.”

“I remember her perfectly. But the sooner I talk to the artist, the better, so I don’t forget any details.”

“Want to go to headquarters now?”

“Not quite yet. While we’re here at the hospital, I’m going up to see my grandmother,” Brooke said quickly.

“Are you going to tell her what happened?”

“Heavens, no! The last thing she needs is something else to worry her. Does my face look okay? I mean, not like I’ve been crying or in pain or frightened?”

“You look beautiful, as always,” Vincent said.

“Yes, well, that’s debatable.” Brooke’s voice was crisp, but only from embarrassment. He’d sounded tender and admiring. “Do you want to go with me?”

“I think I’ll stay in the waiting room, if you don’t mind. I’m not as good at hiding my feelings as you are. Your grandmother is still sharp, Brooke. If you don’t want her to worry, don’t let her get a good look into your eyes. She knows you too well.”

“Better than anyone does,” Brook answered. “Well, if you’ll remove yourself from the premises, I’ll get dressed.”

Vincent grinned. “The police took your dress so they could identify the chemical.”

“The whole dress?” Brooke burst out. “The doctor told me a lab was going to run tests to see what the liquid was, but I thought they might have just cut a little piece out of the dress.”

“Cops are thorough, Brooke. They took the whole thing.”

“Well, what am I supposed to do? Wear this hospital gown home?”

“It looks like an expensive designer gown, Brooke,” Vincent said seriously. “I don’t think they’ll just let you take it.”

Brooke glanced down at the thin gown with its ugly blue, unidentifiable pattern against white. “Yes, I’m sure it’s a designer gown. It must have cost five whole dollars. What am I supposed to do? Go up to see Grandmother in my bra and panties?”

“And shoes. They left your shoes.”

“Wonderful. This couldn’t be coat weather, could it? That would give me something to wear.”

“If it had been coat weather, your back would have been protected,” Vincent said.

“Oh, quit being so reasonable,” Brooke snapped, knowing none of this was Vincent’s fault, but annoyed with him anyway just because he was the only person around. “Please call Stacy. She’ll bring me something to wear.”

“Will do, ma’am. But what if she’s not home?”

“Just call her,” Brooke said. “If she’s not home, I’ll think of another solution.”

“I liked the bra and panties idea.”

Brooke gritted her teeth. Now that Vincent was certain she wasn’t seriously injured, he was getting too much enjoyment out of this situation. “Just call her, dammit.”

Twenty minutes later Stacy arrived carrying an A-line dress in a paper sack. “Vincent said for me to bring something without a waistline. You have mostly suits and I finally had to look in my closet. I found a dress, but it will be longer than you like since I’m taller than you.” She looked at Brooke in anxiety. “Vincent said something about a burn on your back. Let me see.”

“It’s covered with a bandage, Stacy.”

“Oh. Well, how bad a burn? How did you get it?”

Brooke slid out of her attractive hospital robe and reached for the gray silk shantung dress. “We went to the planetarium. As we were coming out, walking down that dark hall, someone jabbed me with something.”

“Jabbed you?”

“Yes.” Brooke went into details as she slid on the silk-shantung dress and reached for the zipper. “The doctor says I’m suffering from some kind of chemical burn. The police took the dress to a lab for testing.”

Stacy was right. The body of the dress was only a bit loose, but the hem hung three inches below Brooke’s knees and made her feel like a little girl dressed in her mother’s clothes. She said nothing, though, and stepped back into her high-heeled sandals.

“I’m sorry for dragging you down here with something for me to wear, but since the police took my dress—”

Stacy waved away her apology. “Jay’s watching some baseball game—I hate baseball—and I was restless. Vincent’s call caught me just before I left for a walk. I’m not a big fan of solitary walks with only my thoughts to keep me company, so you did me a favor, made me feel useful.”