Shadow Tag (The Ray Schiller Series - Book 2) (20 page)

“Oh, God.” Ray slumped against the wall, his anger depleted. “Is she going to be all right?”

“It sounds like it, but they don’t want to take any chances. Look,” Woody told him, “I can only imagine what the two of you are going through. If it was one of my kids, I’m not sure how I’d be handling it.”

“I hope you never have to find out.”

Woody checked his watch. “I really hate to do this but I’ve got to get going. If I could, I’d stick around, but—”

“I know. Go ahead.” Ray shook his hand. “Thanks for looking after Gail. I appreciate it.”

“You two take it easy. Krista’s in good hands.” With that, he turned and left.

Ray sat down beside Gail. “He’s right; Krista’s going to make it through this. She’s a lot tougher than we think.”

Her nod seemed uncertain. “She’s a fighter, isn’t she? They’ll stop the swelling. They have
to.”

He offered assurance while his internalized fear clawed to get out. “She’ll be fine, Gail.” Unable to bear the heartbreak in her eyes, he looked away. “Where’s Laurie?”

“At the Clark’s. I thought she’d be better off there for now.”

“You’re right. Good idea.”

Gail turned to him, her anguish nearly palpable. “I’m worried about her, Ray. Laurie was nearly hysterical. She’s convinced the accident was her fault.”

“How could it be her fault?”

Tears slipped down Gail’s face. “She and Krista were across from Braddock’s Gift Shop when Laurie told her the store had something they’d been looking for.” She took a deep, shuddering breath. “Krista got excited and ran into the street before she could stop her.”

“Laurie’s not to blame for that. We taught both of them how to…” He tried to slow down and breathe. “What was so damn important that Krista forgot everything we taught her about crossing a street safely?”

“It doesn’t matter, Ray.”

“It does matter; she knows better than that,” he said. “What was she thinking?” He heard Gail’s throat tighten as she tried to answer.

“She just forgot. Ray.” She turned her face away. “She’s a little girl and—”

He reached over and gently forced her to look at him. “You know. I can tell. What’s going on?”

She shook her head, tears welling in her eyes. “Ray, let it go. It’s not important.”

“Gail, tell me.”

“It’s nothing.”

“Gail…”

Defeated, she focused on her hands. “The girls wanted to buy a Swiss army knife.”

“A Swiss army knife?” He puzzled over that for a moment. “Why would they want that?”

“They’d been saving their money to buy it for you for Father’s Day.”

Ray buried his face in his hands and wept.

23

As Ray kept a vigil outside his daughter’s hospital room in Widmer, Mitchell Gaynor stood toe-to-toe with a crisis of his own. His favorite restaurant’s seared Maine scallop appetizer and pistachio-encrusted Alaskan halibut entrée were delicious, but only a temporary diversion. Tormented by the dilemma he’d brought on himself, he returned to his home in Wayzata. With his wife and son away, his sprawling, 5,000-square-foot home on Lake Minnetonka seemed too empty, too quiet, but the solitude allowed him the privacy he needed to do some serious thinking.

Gaynor grunted as he hoisted his height-deprived, two hundred, forty-eight pound frame from his seat. For the third time, he walked to his home office beyond the master bedroom—Angela’s room, more accurately. When his sleep apnea required the nightly use of a noisy CPAP breathing apparatus, their sleeping arrangements changed. Angela accepted the idea of separate bedrooms in her stride. In fact, she’d been the one to suggest it—strongly. Gaynor had stopped kidding himself about their relationship years earlier. During their brief courtship, Angela overlooked his short stature and large girth, focusing instead on his hefty portfolio. He asked little of her, and little was what he got.

Taking a key from the pocket of his robe, Gaynor went to the desk in his home office, unlocked the center drawer and withdrew a piece of paper. He looked it over from top to bottom, even turning it over as though something might have miraculously appeared on the opposite side since his last viewing.

“Mother of God, how could I have been so stupid?”

He re-read the simple two-line message:
There comes a time in every man’s life when he must face up to his own shortcomings and deal with them. Now is that time.
It was signed: Paul W. Davis.

Gaynor wanted to believe it was a genuine suicide note. He’d
tried
to believe it. While the message could be construed as such, nothing else supported that interpretation. Clearly, someone had eliminated unwanted text. Telltale signs indicated the reach of a scissors’ blades and the second cut needed to reach the stationery’s opposite edge. The process left a paper of non-standard length behind, the upper edge not quite parallel to the one below.

Without question, the bold signature belonged to Paul Davis. Even his habit of omitting a standard closing supported the authenticity of the familiar, flamboyant penmanship. And yet, there could be no doubt it was a sham—a poor one at that.

Gaynor held the letter fragment in his hand. “Lord, help me.”
For the hundredth time, he played the “if only” game. If only he’d had a chance to examine it before Stuart Felton had walked into the room. If only he’d left the note in place for the authorities to find and evaluate.

The moment he’d discovered Paul Davis’s body—the gun in his hand, the apparent suicide note lying on the table—he’d had no doubt it would lay the blame for Paul’s actions on the board of directors. The appalling turn of events had the potential to become ACC’s undoing. Without the note, the board could mitigate damages. Impulsively, he’d jammed the note into his pocket, unexamined, as Stuart Felton entered the conference room.

It had been a foolish mistake made before his conscience caught up with his hand. The others had slanted the information they’d given to the police to their advantage, but only he had tampered with actual evidence. The note he’d removed was crucial evidence that Paul Davis had been murdered.

Two options weighed on his mind: he could maintain his silence and preserve his good name, or turn the note over and face the legal consequences. By saying nothing, he would ensure his personal well-being but increase the likelihood of Paul’s killer going free. The second option meant facing legal action, but couldn’t guarantee Paul’s killer would be found. Either alternative was a gamble.
Gaynor shuddered at the thought of sacrificing himself for nothing.

He tucked the note in the pocket of his robe, returned to the living room and poured a snifter of brandy. After draining a second generous portion, he pulled an address book from a drawer. With trembling fingers, he struggled to separate the pages. Locating the desired number, Gaynor misdialed, pulled himself together and dialed again.

His call was answered on the third ring.

Gaynor spoke in a rush as though speed were vital to making his admission. “It’s Mitch,” he said. “I’m at my wit’s end. I’ve done something incredibly stupid and need your advice. Listen carefully. Paul’s suicide was staged, and I removed evidence from the scene that can prove it.” There was a stunned silence on the other end. “Hello. Are you there?”

He listened for a moment. “No, I’m certain of it, but if I take the evidence to the police, I’ll be— What?” At the interruption, a bead of sweat trailed down his temple. “It’s a letter,” he said. “Well…a portion of a letter actually. It’s been altered to make it look like a suicide note. I found it on the table next to Paul’s body.” Gaynor dried his brow with the sleeve of his robe and froze. “What did you say?”

The brandy snifter slipped from his hand and shattered on the floor.

24

The ventricular catheter Krista required the day before was still in place. The procedure, they’d been told, had gone well, but the doctor’s words of encouragement were guarded. The day passed slowly as the uncertainty of Krista’s condition gnawed at Ray and Gail with ever-sharper teeth. Too keyed up to sleep, Ray had passed the night alternately pacing and drinking coffee by the quart. Gail sat with him until, overcome by worry and exhaustion, she’d fallen into a fitful sleep in her chair beside Krista’s hospital bed.

In the morning, she remained at the hospital while Ray left briefly to check on Laurie. Her face brightened at the sight of him. At ten years old, Laurie teeter-tottered on the verge between being a kid and becoming a young lady. The burgeoning change became more apparent with each shift in her usage of “Daddy” and “Dad”. Ray prayed it would never become simply “Father”. He held Laurie close, trying to find the middle ground.

His need to return to the hospital growing greater with each passing minute, Ray finally kissed Laurie goodbye, praying he’d given her even half as much comfort as he’d received from her.

One more stop before he could rejoin Gail: home. Even unspoken, the word had an undeniable effect on him. Inside the house, nothing appeared to have changed, but it seemed different somehow: he felt disenfranchised.

He hurried to clean up and change clothes. Ray found two pairs of jeans he’d left behind in his dresser. In the closet, a few of his shirts still hung beside her things. Gail had gotten rid of nothing, except him. Stomach knotted, he reminded himself she had begged him to stay; the decision to leave had been his.

Ray stepped out of the shower physically refreshed, but emotionally fragile and slid into his jeans. In the process, he bumped Gail’s nightstand, knocking a few CDs from its surface. He caught one in mid-fall—the Righteous Brothers.
Gail had become an ardent fan decades after the height of their popularity. One of their song titles caught his eye—“On This Side of Goodbye.” He’d learned the lyrics almost by osmosis—lyrics about second chances and being haunted by dreams that once were shared. Ray couldn’t shut them out of his mind.

Had there been a day he hadn’t wished he and Gail could turn back the clock? That was impossible. But another try… Ray wondered if that was possible. His anger, pride and pain simmered below the surface, but something more powerful lay buried beneath the emotional rubble.

Returning to Krista’s hospital room, he handed fresh clothing to Gail, nodding a “you’re welcome” to her “thank you”. He saw a flicker of disappointment with the outfit he’d brought for her: a pair of blue shorts and a semi-sheer, white top, with a low, scooped neck and flirty ruffled sleeves barely long enough to cover the curve of her shoulders. She said nothing except to excuse herself as she left to change.

Ray turned to Krista lying as still as death in a medically induced coma. Her eyes were closed, her freckled cheek scraped and bruised. He brushed aside a lock of white-blonde hair jutting from beneath the bandages, leaned down and kissed her forehead.

“Hey, you,” he said, “don’t think you’re getting off the hook. When you’re feeling better, you and I are going to have another serious talk about the way to cross a street.” A tear as stubborn as Ray himself broke free and trickled over a lid. “Listen, munchkin,” he said, brushing it into oblivion, “you and I still have to fix up that tree house of yours—slap on a little paint, put some curtains up inside. What color do you think? Maybe a bright, sunny yellow. You like yellow, right?” He tried to fill his lungs, but found he could barely breathe. “Are you just going to lie there and make me figure it all out by myself?” He gently ran a fingertip over Krista’s less-damaged cheek. “I’m a terrible decorator. If you don’t believe me, wait until you see my new apartment.” He laughed as though she shared his joke, glad she couldn’t see the first tear’s reinforcements welling in his eyes.

Struggling to keep the words from catching in his throat, Ray began reciting her favorite Dr. Seuss story about Horton the elephant hatching an egg. His face close to hers, he kept his voice low, stopping only when Gail returned.

Reading Krista’s medical records, Dr. Meier entered almost on Gail’s heels. Other medical personnel had come and gone earlier to check her vital signs. They had done their best to be cautiously reassuring, pointing out that, to some extent, there were no guarantees regarding the final outcome.

Ray and Gail stood on the opposite side of the bed, waiting as Dr. Meier did a quick visual assessment of their daughter. “There’s some good news,” he told them, motioning for them to follow him. They stepped into the hallway after him. “We’ve stopped the swelling. I need to caution you, though. Your daughter’s not entirely out of the woods yet.” He looked up at them, his expression a mixture of weariness and concern. “We’ve managed to stop the swelling, but haven’t been able to reverse it yet.”

“So what do we do next?” Ray asked as though he could be part of the process.

Meier sighed. “We wait.”

A trace of panic wove its way into Gail’s voice. “There has to be more.” Her words came out choked with emotion. “Isn’t there something else you can do?”

Meier put a steadying hand on her shoulder. “I understand what you’re going through. Waiting is never easy, but sometimes all that’s left to do is pray. In the meantime, you’re not doing your daughter any favors by going without food and rest, Mrs. Schiller.”