One We Love, The (10 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY

H
ad
Regina been attempting further research the night she was killed?
Unbidden,
visions of the women’s faces—their poor, broken faces— rose in my mind. I didn’t
have time to explore deeper. Heart thumping, I clicked the closet door shut as
quietly as I could, suddenly feeling like Bluebeard’s most recent wife.

How long
had
I been up here? I tiptoed toward the
door, hoping that the creaking floors hadn’t given away my presence.
Unfortunately, I didn’t prove to be a proficient tiptoer. In my haste, my feet
tangled and I fell full out on the musty, threadbare carpet almost breaking my
nose on an extended leg of one of the wooden chairs.

Bet they heard
that
.

Air huffed out of my lungs and I lay there gasping a vile
dusty air mixture. From this vantage point, I could see the pile of chairs
wasn’t just any old pile. Somebody had made a fort with just enough wiggle room
for a child to squeeze through to the cavernous space in the middle. I would
have smiled at the memories of my own childhood forts—Kris and I using upended
couch cushions and the old quilt to fashion a snug hidey hole—except that a
swath of red fur caught my eye.

Recognizing the missing Mo-mo really did make me smile. Returning
it to Mikey would earn me bonus points as well as giving me an excuse to return
to Karissa’s trailer. I pulled it out, feeling the lumpy stuffing of a
well-loved toy. The smile died when a glint of silver alerted me to the tiny
bauble caught in a terry cloth loop. A charm. A fat, sassy little cow with
black enamel spots. I’d seen it many times dangling from Regina’s wrist. The
whimsical nature of the charm bracelet had always surprised me, but even more
so, this cow. It seemed so. . . well. . .Wisconsin-y.

Finding it there, under the chairs, meant Mikey had probably
been there at the same time Regina had. Maybe they’d even had some kind of
interaction. Maybe she’d handed the toy to him, snagging the charm. Maybe she’d
discovered his hiding place when she’d come up to research the archives. Hell,
maybe they’d been playing hide-n-seek; staff often organized play activities
for the shelter’s children. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

Maybe he’d been here, tucked away in his fort, when Regina had
plunged to her death.

I practically levitated off the floor, OD-ing on adrenaline:
hot and dizzy, ears ringing, a tinny flat taste in my mouth. Clutching Mo-Mo, I
stuffed the bauble in my slacks pocket and fled. In the room across the hall, I
found lots of blankets—stacks and stacks of them on a banquet table running the
length of the back wall. Pillows, too.

A door creaked from the lower floor. Snatching up a set of
sheets and a blanket, I stuffed the toy between their folds, wiped sweaty palms
on the uppermost, and scurried to the top of the stairs.

Lachlyn emerged out of the murky darkness of the stairwell
like a bubble rising to the surface of a stagnant pond, her eyes fixed on mine.
My poor overworked adrenal glands had no more juice to give. I stood there,
dumbly.

“What are you doing up here?” She didn’t actually hiss, but
in my mind, she did.

With a throat so dry I feared it would spontaneously
combust, I husked out a reply. “Joyce. . .  There’s a new girl. She, um, said
she needed a blanket. So I got it. For her. Joyce, I mean.” I held the linens
up.

“Uh-huh. Well, now that you have them, you don’t need to
loiter. This area is off-limits, except to staff.” She stood back, silently
indicating I should precede her down the stairs.

Let her walk behind me on the stairs that Regina had been
pushed from? Not. Gonna. Happen.

“I’ll be right there.” I plopped down on the top riser. “I
have something in my shoe. You go ahead.” I pulled off my flat and shook it
wildly. Nothing fell out, but neither of us believed I was telling the truth
anyway, so no surprise there. Her lips did that bleached white thing, but she
started down the stairs.

“Meet me in the group room in ten minutes,” she tossed over
her shoulder. “Since you’re so
help
ful.”

I had just enough time to hide the stuffed animal, toss the
bedding on the kitchen table, and dart into the bathroom to quietly urp in the
toilet. I multitask.

I wasn’t in any shape to co-lead a group session, but after
bitching about the need to interact more, I couldn’t very well say no.

Strangely, the metal folding chairs had all been pulled back
from the circle and stacked tidily against a wall. Four sets of wary female
eyes stared at me when I walked in. Lachlyn was at the opposite end of the room
and didn’t bother to look up. For the first time, I noticed she was wearing
sweats, hair scraped back from her head, feet bare.

Everybody else was in some form of loose clothing, mostly
sweats with Green Bay Packer logos, although one woman wore pajama bottoms and
a stretched-out tank top. If it weren’t for Lachlyn’s casual apparel, I
wouldn’t have been surprised. It was Saturday, after all, and the women could
be expected to dress for comfort. Not Lachlyn though. Emotionally, she just
wasn’t the relaxed-casual type.

Obviously we weren’t going to be running a therapy session.
Aerobics, maybe? Lachlyn was still fiddling with something across the room so
perhaps she was setting up a CD player. Secretly, I was rooting for a
meditation session. Relaxation and stress were some of the few activities I’d
liked about my own recuperation. I could sure use some deep breathing right
about now.

I said hi to the women, smiling and introducing myself. Each
gave her name, which I promptly jumbled up. There was a Sharon, a Candice, and
a Barb, but they were all wearing green-and-gold and milling around. I was
pretty sure Jan was the one in pjs.

At any rate, I was overdressed.

And oh, so wrong about the activity.

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

L
achlyn was
teaching a self-defense class. Definitely
not
my favorite activity.
Despite Regina’s rigorous drilling, I always flinched when she screamed to
disorient me, cowered when she rushed at me, and got the giggles when she
pinned me to the mat.

I was light-years away from ninjahood. And I sure didn’t like
the look in Lachlyn’s eyes either. Her “pleasant” expression didn’t lie
comfortably on her face muscles, unused to the emotion as they were. Her eyes,
however, retained the usual pissed. Nothing new there.

The other women clustered several feet away from me. As
hyper-vigilant to anger as they were, they sensed enough to stay out of
Lachlyn’s sight line. Self-preservation ran strong. Couldn’t blame them.

Lachlyn turned to me with a smile. Not what I would call a
friendly smile, but it did seem genuine. That made sense since she was about to
thrash my ass.

“All right, ladies, let’s get to work. Today we’re looking
at choke holds—a favorite of a lot of abusers. They like to get up close and
personal. Letty? How about volunteering? You can be my victim.” Lachlyn laughed
as she made the suggestion.

I didn’t. I didn’t break eye contact with her either,
letting her know I was on to her game. One of the few things that Regina tried
to teach me that took was
show no fear
.

I was sick and tired of fear anyway.

“Geez, Lachlyn, don’t look so eager,” I said. “You’re not
trying to scare me, are you?”

The residents giggled nervously. Lachlyn’s smile lost some
of its genuineness, but none of the malice.

We faced off.

“OK, first off, it’s important to remember that while there
are always exceptions, generally speaking, a strong man can render an
average-sized woman unconscious in five seconds. Five
seconds
, ladies.
Count them off, one-thousand one, one-thousand two... That’s not much time at
all. Ten seconds after that, you could be dead. Fifteen seconds, start to
finish. Keep that in mind.”

She motioned to me, my cue to choke her.
Finally
. And
I had permission and everything.

Face to face, I wrapped my hands around her throat, but
lightly. There were witnesses, after all. She smiled, eyes narrowing.

“You have to protect your airway,” she continued, angling
her head back. She was taller than I, giving me an instant disadvantage as her
height pulled my center of gravity up. “That’s first. It’s imperative. Don’t
try jerking away or scratching at him; he’s too strong and you don’t have
enough time. Don’t try fancy footwork; you’ll only end up tripping yourself and
your clumsiness will help him finish you off. Tilt your head back to increase
air flow, and
get to the thumbs
.”

Bringing her arms outside my own, she reached in, grabbed my
thumbs and levered down
hard.
I slammed to the floor, pain singing
through my knees as I landed. “See how vulnerable your big, bad attacker is?”
Lachlyn said as she smiled down at me. “Look at all the places you can hurt
her. I mean, him.” She air-jabbed at my eyes and throat and feinted a kick at
my midsection. Then, she stood.

I rose slowly to my feet as she nattered on about heel
strikes to the nose, palm strikes to the carotid artery, and the ever popular
kick-him-in-the-nuts-and-run. It was nice to see someone enjoy her work.

My turn. I waited until she was done with her mini-lecture,
and then said, “Mind if I try?”

“Of course. By all means.”

“OK, so I’m getting choked.” Lachlyn wrapped her fingers
around my neck. Long and cold, I felt their strength even though they rested
lightly on my skin. “So I tilt my neck back . . .  Then reach through, get my
thumbs between yours and . . . twist.” I moved slowly through the steps—not
fast, not hard—carefully matching a running commentary to the actions.

When I finished, Lachlyn smiled and said, “That’s ri—”

“And I could do this, right?” I grabbed her by the back of
the head and her chin, and spun her around. Pretty easily, too; bodies, after
all, tend to go wherever the neck goes. But not
too
hard. Manslaughter
would not look good on the old resume. “Because he would be all vulnerable and
everything. In fact, if I really thought he was trying to kill me or go after
my kids, I could just snap his neck like killin’ a chicken for dinner.”

As soon as I released her, she spun around, face red, mouth
pulled into a snarl. Adrenaline spiked through me like a cocktail, my lips snarling
into a crazy-ass smile.

Astrid materialized, shoving her body between us, pushing me
sideways and grabbing Lachlyn’s arm. “That’s wonderful! Wow! What a treat we’ve
had tonight. Ladies, let’s give these two a round of applause for their hard
work. Look at you two. You’re both tired out. Lachlyn, can you pour the
lemonade out? You look thirsty.” Turning her back on me, she herded Lachlyn
over to the table holding cookies and drinks.

I stood there, panting, as a cold sweat popped out of my
skin. I felt nauseous. I looked around for a chair, but despite a wave of
weakness washing over me, I changed my mind. I really didn’t want to stay any
longer. My glance caught on a glint of silver lying on the floor.

The charm.

I snatched it up, slipping it back into my pocket, then
looked around quickly to see if anybody had seen.

Lachlyn’s gaze burned at me from across the room.

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

I
could feel the
bruises gelling under my skin on the drive home, and when I turned my head to
the left too sharply, there was an ominous twinge in my neck. I looked forward
to a long Epsom salt bath until I realized that no amount of hot water would
ease the anger-rich tension from my muscles. Lachlyn hadn’t scared me away;
she’d royally pissed me off. At least now we knew where we each stood.

Once home, I grabbed the copy of Regina’s calendar and set
it with the files on my coffee table. Siggy jumped up to inspect the pile, then
followed me into the kitchen to supervise my coffee-making preparations.

“This might be a long night, Sig.”  

He blinked up at me, then walked over to his food dish as
though reminding me to get my priorities straight. I hadn’t been spending
enough time with him, and he was not averse to heaping on the guilt.

“I know, I know,” I told him as I poured his favorite cat
food into his bowl. “Maybe you could sit by me and help solve the case like
those cats do in books, huh?” Ignoring me, he hunkered over his food like a
prison convict, tail lashing, ready to kick butt if anyone tried to take his
salmon flavored Kitty Krunchies.

Useless.

Before sitting down, I detoured into my bedroom, where I
sorted through my jewelry looking for a chain thin enough to fit the charm’s
tiny fastener. The only one that worked was one that Robert had given me a
month or so before he was killed.

Sadness swept over me. And guilt. I hadn’t loved Robert—nor
he, me—and our break-up had occurred mere days before his murder, but after I’d
finally realized what an ass he was and how little we had in common.

But his death was a direct result of his involvement with
me. There were people at the club who still blamed me. Hell—
I
still
blamed me.

Returning to the couch, I placed the files on my lap,
stomach churning. Skolnik, of course; I set her file back on the table. I
didn’t remember the next one—Bailey—from the closet boxes. My heart banged at
the next though: Church. It went on top of Skolnik’s. As did the next
file—Tammy Long. Jordan and Tshida didn’t ring any bells, and I was pretty sure
that Tshida hadn’t been one of the labeled boxes.

 I started going through the paperwork slowly, taking notes,
trying to find a common denominator that perhaps I’d overlooked the first time.
If there was one, it eluded me. They’d had different therapists; none of the
time periods seemed to overlap; after-care services were varied; they didn’t
live in the same part of town. I puzzled on it until the information started
swirling in my head—something joined these women together. Regina had seen
something, knew something. And it had gotten her killed.

Frustrated, I set the stack of files to the side and picked
up Regina’s calendar. I paged through to the beginning of September, a couple
of weeks before Regina’s “accident.” I found Karissa’s initials penciled in
various places, seeming to correspond with what I remembered of her sessions.
Other initials had been recorded as well, and a few “Gp Tx” abbreviations
indicated when Regina had led the group therapy sessions. I paged back a month
to August. More of the same. She’d also made a habit of listing phone calls or
tasks she needed to complete. One date, with a telephone number, caught my eye.

I knew that number. I’d called it numerous times last spring
when a nasty client had filed a false complaint against me to the state
licensing board. I’d consulted with Regina over the issue, but that had all
been settled by late spring.

If the licensing board note didn’t have to do with me—and I
didn’t see how it could—who did it concern? Was Regina being investigated? I’d
have to check with Bob, but if it wasn’t connected to the clinic, he wouldn’t
know. Maybe the shelter? Could that be why Clotilde and Lachlyn were so edgy?
I’d never get a straight answer out of them, and I doubted that Astrid would
spill the beans, either.

It was possible, likely even, that if Regina was being
investigated she would have consulted her lawyer. I made a note to call Ashley
Perkins.

There was another possibility, however. If Regina wasn’t the
target of an investigation, maybe she was the initiator of one. In which case,
she would have pissed off someone.

Between the discovery of the archives and this new
possibility, I had more than just an icky feeling to show Blodgett. If it wasn’t
so late I’d call him, but unless he was working a case he preferred to be in
bed by 10:00. I didn’t want to scare his wife Diana, either. She’d put up with
enough over the years; she didn’t need me calling at close to midnight. On the
off chance that I’d catch Blodgett at work, I dialed the police station.

And learned my friend had just been rushed to the hospital.

T
he hospital, of
course, gave me even less information than the desk sergeant had. I ended up
calling Sue—a truly courageous act on my part—and made her call her on-again,
off-again beau, Pete Durrant, an officer with Chippewa PD. She claimed the
reason they fought was for the spicy, make-up sex. A nice way to rationalize
being a bitch. At any rate, even though they were in an off-period, she was
willing to call him to see if he’d track down information about Blodgett’s
admission.

It would be awful if Blodgett had a heart attack just a few
months before retiring. If his heart didn’t kill him, Diana would.

Pete Durrant called back within twenty minutes. It wasn’t a
heart attack. Blodgett had been attacked—knifed from behind—while off-duty. Diana
had found him lying on the sidewalk leading to their back door. Although he was
unconscious by the time she’d found him, the blood trail showed that he’d
managed to crawl from his Chevy truck. He’d lost a lot of blood. He was still
in surgery.

Even though I made it across town ten minutes quicker than
the law allowed, Pete was there before me. He met me at the Emergency
Department entrance—the only doors unlocked at this time of night—and led me
through the hospital maze to a waiting room where Diana sat, the only soft pair
of eyes in a sea of flint.

Blodgett’s colleagues had shown up en masse, an undercurrent
of anger creating a subliminal hum of energy. One of the few things that TV cop
shows apparently got right was the rage incurred when one of their own was hit.
I sat next to Diana and took her cold hand. We waited.