Night Fever (25 page)

He cursed roundly. Life had been so simple three months ago. The world was going sour, and all because of a backwards little country girl who baked him lemon pound cakes and made him laugh. He wondered now if he would ever laugh again.

 

B
ECKY HAD BEEN GOING TO SEE
Granddad every night, but he continued to lie in the hospital bed without showing the slightest interest in life. The doctor knew she was going to have fits trying to pay the bill, even though Rourke Kilpatrick had promised to absorb the lion's share. Finally, he recommended moving the old man to an intermediate-care nursing facility.

“It would be the best thing, for the time being,” he told Becky. “I think we can get some funding for him. I'll look into it. He isn't responding as fast as I'd like, and I don't think you can handle him at home right now.”

“I could try,” she began.

“Becky, Mack's in school. Clay's in jail. You're trying to hold down a job. And frankly, you don't look well,” he added with a keen glance at her pinched face and pale complexion. “I'd like to see you in my office for a routine physical.”

She swallowed, trying to stay calm. There were plenty of reasons why she didn't want him to examine her, the main one being that her period was two weeks late and she'd brought her breakfast back up this morning. She'd had a lot of stress, which could account for those symptoms, but she was willing to bet it wasn't purely an emotional state that she was in.

“I can't afford it right now, Dr. Miller,” she said quietly.

“We'll put it on the tab, Rebecca,” he said doggedly. “I won't take no for an answer.”

“I'm just run down and tired,” she tried again.

“I delivered you,” he interrupted. His keen blue eyes saw right through her. “Whatever I find will be between you and me and Ruthie,” he added. Ruthie had been his nurse for thirty years, and even if she knew where all the bodies were buried, nobody would get it out of her.

“All right.” Becky gave in wearily. “I'll make an appointment.”

“See that you keep it,” he muttered. “Now, about your granddad. I think we can get him in at HealthRex—that new nursing home the county built. It's modern and not too expensive, and a few weeks there might be just the thing for him. He'll be around people his own age. Maybe the change will make him want to live.”

“And if it doesn't?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Becky, the will to live isn't something you can prescribe. He's had a hard life, and his heart isn't good. He needs a reason to get well. He doesn't seem to think he has one.”

She grimaced. “I wish I knew what to do.”

“Don't we all. You take care of yourself. I'll expect you to make an appointment Monday. I'll let you know about your grandfather as soon as I can get some information on the possibilities. All right?”

“All right.” She smiled. “Thank you.”

“I haven't done anything yet. You can thank me later. Try to get some rest. You look exhausted.”

“It's been a very long two weeks,” she said, “but I'll try.”

“How's Clay?”

She shook her head. “Depressed and defeated. I met his public defender.” She made a face. “He's young and energetic, but his caseload is ridiculous. He won't have time to prepare a proper defense and Clay's going to pay for it. I wish I could afford a good attorney.”

“You work for some,” he said.

She nodded. “But I can't let Mr. Malcolm sacrifice that kind of time if I can't pay him for it.” She clenched her hands at her side. “The world runs on money, doesn't it?” she asked bitterly, glancing down the hall at the poor people, black and white and Hispanic and Oriental, old and young, waiting at the charity emergency room until they could see a doctor. “Look at them,” she said. “Some of them will die because they can't afford medicine or a hospital or a good doctor. Some of them will wear themselves out nursing their relatives because they can't afford any help. Most of them will die in a charity ward.” Her brows drew together in pain. “It's like jail. If you're poor, you do time. If you're rich, you get a good lawyer and a good chance. What kind of world is that?”

He put an arm around her shoulder. “Tell me about Mack and cheer me up.”

She managed a smile for him. “Well, he's actually passing math,” she began.

“Mack? Amazing!”

“That's what I thought myself,” she replied. Inside, her emotions were sitting on a knife-edge. She talked almost mechanically, but her thoughts were on Granddad and Clay and that inevitable medical examination that was going to change her life. She didn't know how she was going to bear it all. Somehow, she was going to have to find the strength to get through the next few months.

Fortunately, when she called Dr. Miller's office for an appointment, she discovered that it would be a month before he could see her. That suited her very well. It was cowardly to be happy about putting it off so long, but until then, she could pretend that everything was all right. She wouldn't have to face it until she heard the words, and a miracle might happen. She might not be pregnant. It gave her something to hold on to.

 

R
OURKE WASN
'
T SURE WHY
he did it, but he went to Becky's office the following Monday. Bob Malcolm had asked to see him about a plea bargain. Malcolm usually went to Rourke, not the reverse, but it had been almost three weeks since Rourke had seen Becky, and Clay's hearing was set for Friday. He wanted to see her, to find out how she was coping.

When she looked up from her typewriter and saw him, she went first scarlet, then a ghostly kind of pale. She looked gaunt, he thought, as if she wasn't eating properly. Her gray dress was familiar—one she'd worn when they went out together. Her honey-brown hair was in a loose bun and she had on just a bare minimum of makeup that didn't even camouflage her freckles. He filled his eyes with her.

Becky could barely breathe. She hadn't even considered that Rourke might actually come to the office. She couldn't move at first. She just sat there looking at him, blind to everything around her. He didn't look worn at all, she thought miserably. He didn't look as if he missed her or thought about her. He looked the same as he always had—dark and faintly somber and threatening.

He perched himself on her desk. “The preliminary hearing is Friday,” he said. “There are other public defenders.”

She let her eyes fall to his mouth and cringed inwardly, remembering how hungrily they'd kissed that night. She swallowed down the bitterness. “He's a very good lawyer,” she said. “He suits Clay.”

“Does he suit you?” he asked abruptly. “Your brother's life may hang in the balance.”

“What do you care?” she asked rawly, looking up with angry, hurting hazel eyes. “You're the one who's trying to send Clay to prison! Why should it matter to you who defends him?”

“Oh, I like a good fight,” he said tautly. “I hate to win a case too easily.”

Her lower lip trembled. She looked away. “You needn't worry. Clay will be just another statistic for you to use against Mr. Davis in your campaign. He tried to kill you, remember?”

He picked up a paper clip and turned it in his lean, dark hands, oblivious to the curious stares of Becky's co-workers. “You don't think he did.”

“No,” she said simply. “I may be blind as a bat in some respects, but I do know my brother and what he's capable of. He could never take another life.”

He opened the paper clip, bending it. “How is your grandfather?”

“We've moved him into a nursing home,” she said dully. “He's given up.”

His eyes lifted and caught hers. “How are you?”

She felt her cheeks go hot. His eyes didn't match the words. There were dark memories in them—sensual ones that struck an answering chord in her—but she didn't dare give in to them. “I'm all right,” she said evasively.

“If you aren't all right, I expect to be told,” he said sternly. “Do you understand me, Rebecca?”

Her jaw set. “I can take care of myself!”

He sighed angrily. “Oh, certainly you can. We both found out how careful two people can be, didn't we?”

She went scarlet. Her hands twisted together and she didn't dare look around to see if anyone was watching. “Please go,” she whispered.

“I came to see your boss, actually,” he said carelessly and stood up. “Is he in?”

She shook her head. “He's in court this morning.”

“Then I'll phone him before I make the trip again.” He stuck his hands in his pockets and stared down at her with narrow, brooding eyes. “You said you hated me. Did you mean it?”

She couldn't look up. Her fingers clenched in her lap. “Are you going to prosecute my brother as an adult?” she asked.

His face hardened. “Is that your condition for a ceasefire?” he asked with quiet mockery. “Sorry, Rebecca, I don't use bribes. Yes, I'm going to prosecute him as an adult. Yes, I think he's guilty. Yes, I think I'll get a conviction.”

Her eyes blazed with dislike. She hated that arrogant, mocking smile. She'd underestimated him all the way along, and now she and Clay were paying for it. “The jury may not agree with you.”

He shrugged. “That's possible, of course, but not probable.” His jaw tautened. “A little ten-year-old boy died because your brother got greedy. I'm never going to forget that.”

“Clay didn't do it,” she said huskily. “He didn't!”

“He even tried to involve Mack. Did you know that?” he asked.

She closed her eyes to blot out the accusation in his face. “Yes,” she whispered. “Clay told me.” She didn't question how Rourke knew that. The anger in his voice diverted her.

“You're welcome to rationalize his behaviour all you like,” he said after a minute. “But the fact is this—Clay knew exactly what he was doing, and the consequences if he were caught. He's going to do time, and he deserves to. I won't apologize for my part in his arrest. Given the same set of circumstances, I'd do the same damned thing again—exactly the same, Becky.”

“Clay didn't wire your car,” she said spiritedly. “He didn't sell drugs to the Dennis boy. He may be guilty of every other charge, but he isn't guilty of those.”

“You just won't quit,” he said roughly. “The Harrises and two other eyewitnesses saw him dealing. They'll swear to it. There was an eyewitness who saw him sell the crack to the Dennis boy, as well,” he added gruffly. He hated to tell her that, but Dan Berry had brought that tidbit back from an interview with some teenagers at the high school.

“It's a lie,” Becky said. She looked up at him levelly. “I don't care how many people swear they saw it. Clay told me he didn't do it. He can lie to anybody else, but I could always see right through him. He wasn't lying.”

He just shook his head. “God, you're stubborn,” he muttered. “All right, hang on to your illusions.”

“Thank you for your permission, Mr. Kilpatrick,” she said sweetly. “Now, if you'll excuse me, I have work to do.”

She turned back to her typewriter. Rourke stood and watched her for several long seconds. He'd wanted to smooth things over, but he'd only made them worse. She was never going to believe Clay was guilty.

He turned and walked out of the office. But as he drove back to his own, her words nagged him. They nagged him so much that he drove right past the courthouse and on to the county jail, where Clay was being lodged.

He hadn't planned to see the boy. Becky didn't know that he'd disqualified himself from prosecuting the case, and he'd been too angry to tell her. He still thought Clay was guilty, but maybe he was allowing himself to be prejudiced because of his run-in with their father years ago. Like father like son might not be the answer here. He'd always seen things in black and white, but now he was involved with the family, whether he liked it or not. Since he'd been instrumental in putting Clay here in the first place, maybe it wouldn't hurt to assure himself that he'd been justified.

Clay reddened at the sight of him. His angry eyes flashed at Rourke when he walked into the cell, a smoking cigar in his hand.

“Hail the conquering hero,” Clay said as the guard left him alone with Rourke. “I hope you're satisfied, now that you've got me where you want me. I hear I'm being accused of everything short of actual murder, as well as being a notorious dope dealer. Why don't you just send in a cop with a loaded gun and let him save the taxpayers some money?”

Rourke ignored the tirade and sat down on the bunk. He was used to these outbursts. He'd spent most of the past seven years dealing with angry men.

“Let's put things in perspective,” he told Clay. “I think you're guilty as hell—by association, if nothing else.” His dark eyes pierced Clay's. “I've seen kids like you come and go. You're too lazy to work for what you want, and too impatient to wait. You want everything right now, so you opt for the easy money. It doesn't matter to you how many lives you destroy, how many innocent people suffer. It's
your
needs,
your
comfort,
your
pleasure that counts.” He smiled without humor. “Congratulations. You hit the jackpot. But this is the price.”