Tell Me When It Hurts (31 page)

He gave Charlie a contact phone number, which Charlie wrote down on a pad and pen pulled from his inner coat pocket.

“
Charlie, she’s really special. I . . . I can’t do without her,” Gavin said simply.

“
I’ll
say,
she’s special. She eliminated this town’s number one slimeball and got out of there with a slug—maybe—two, in her, to boot. By rights, she should be dead on the floor next to Jerome. . . . I’ll do everything I can, but I gotta be honest. This is a bad hit. Really bad. I’ll keep you posted.” He paused. “I’m sorry, Gavin. I really am.”

Charlie hung up and dialed another number. “This is Assistant Chief Caruso. I need an ambulance at East Eighty-third yesterday. Gunshot wound. This one has to go to Columbia-Presbyterian.”

“
Mount Sinai’s closer, Chief.”

“
Well, thank you so much for the geography lesson—me being new in town and all. I know where Mt. Sinai is and where a Hundred and Sixty-eighth is. And I still want Columbia-Presbyterian—you hearin’ me okay?” Charlie gave her the number of the building next to the alley.

“
Fine. Columbia-Presbyterian,” the dispatcher replied, adding under her breath, “dumb, though.”

“
I heard that. And make it fast.”

Finally, he dialed the number Gavin had given him. The line was answered on the first ring. “Hello.”

“
Dr. Chang? Dr. John Chang?”

“
Yes, this is Dr. Chang.”

“
Sorry to bother you at home, Doctor. This is Charlie Caruso, NYPD. Gavin Kennelly gave me your number. We need you now, Doc, at Columbia-Presbyterian. Gunshot wound to a female operative. It’s bad.”

“
I’m on my way.”

For eleven days, Archer drifted in and out of consciousness. Sometimes she dreamed of galloping through the Connecticut woods on Clique, jumping over logs and splashing through brooks. Once she saw Adam waving at her, Annie in his arms, as she arrived home from the office; and once she was back in Syracuse, putting her rifle together blindfolded while someone played Christmas carols on a honky-tonk piano. On the eleventh day, Annie came to her.

“
Mommy? Are you okay?”

Archer raised her head a little and opened her eyes. And there she was, poised on the edge of the chair, twelve years old, slim and coltish, wearing faded blue jeans and a dark-green Dartmouth sweatshirt, dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, blue eyes bright, looking just as Archer remembered her.

“
Annie . . . ?”

She nodded.

“
How . . . ? Are we in heaven?” Archer asked anxiously, trying to blink away the fog.

“
I am; you’re not. It’s not your time, Mommy,” she added dismissively. “It wasn’t your fault, you know. And he only touched me on the outside, not where it counts. And . . . don’t get mad, Mommy, but don’t do that stuff for me. Don’t do it in my name. It doesn’t help me.”

Just as Archer reached out her arm to try to hold Annie, her daughter began to fade, and in her place was Peter Bennett, sitting at his desk. Instead of his usual mug of coffee by his side, he had an enormous martini, which he was stirring with his glasses. He looked up just then and smiled sadly at her, shaking his head.

“
Archer, Archer, my dear girl. Did I teach you
nothing
about courage? You gave her life, and you cannot go on regretting that. You’ve done your part, my dear. Now, let go. It’s enough. It’s
more
than enough. Let it go.”

* * *

Dr. Chang had been as good as his word, thought Charlie Caruso. He was standing at the ER entrance, already dressed for surgery, when Charlie arrived in the ambulance. Archer, unconscious, was wearing a large NYPD T-shirt as a minidress, her face devoid of makeup, her thick brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. Dr. Chang did the intake and handled the case personally.

Charlie circulated the story that the lady’s father was an old friend of Dr. Chang’s, and so he had taken on the case as a favor. Since all gunshot wounds had to be reported, Dr. Chang advised Charlie that based on the trajectory, gun powder patterns, and caliber of bullet, it appeared to be a self-inflicted accidental shot. The story was that the high-strung woman from Westchester had shot herself when she panicked at the approach of a local panhandler. Charlie wrote up his report and closed the case.

* * *

Twelve days after Archer’s admission to the hospital, she regained consciousness. Sharon arrived with flowers the next morning.

“
Arch, you’re awake!”

“
Yeah, thanks, Shar. I’m feeling okay, actually.” Archer looked around furtively. “Shar,” she whispered. “I saw her.”

“
Saw who?” asked Sharon, getting a vase from a cupboard for the flowers.

“
Annie. She came here to me last night.”

Sharon turned around with her vase of flowers and placed them on the table next to Archer’s bed. She smoothed Archer’s hair back from her eyes and spoke soothingly, as if to a young child.

“
Arch, you’ve been delirious for days. I’m sure it seemed real to you at the time, but you were just having a dream. You know how real dreams can seem sometimes.”

“
No, Shar, no. It was Annie. She came and talked to me. I’m serious. It wasn’t a dream. She was as real as you are,” Archer insisted.

“
What did she say?” asked Sharon.

“
She said it’s okay and she’s happy. That I have to go on with my life.”

“
Hey, see? Now, isn’t that just what I’ve been telling you?”

“
Yeah, I know. But it’s such a cliché—that life-is-for-the-living stuff and all that. But she looked happy. She really did, Shar. And she was the same funny, caring kid. She said he only touched her on the outside, the part that doesn’t matter.”

The two sisters sat silently for a few minutes until Sharon broke the silence. “Arch, I know something happened between you and Connor after Christmas, but I still think he’d like to know that you’re sick. I’d like to call him.”

“
I’m not sick. I got shot. There’s a difference. But anyway, no. We haven’t been in touch at all since he left, and I . . . I don’t want him to come here because he feels sorry for me, or something like that.”

“
Well, Archer, as I understood the chain of events,
you
rejected
his
offer. In my book, it’s your place to contact him.”

“
Yeah, well, I need to think. I need to rest and think.” Archer rubbed her head.

Silence.

“
Do you really think you talked to Annie?”

“
There’s no ‘think’ about it.”

* * *

That evening, Sharon got Connor’s phone number from information and called Three Chimneys. One of the ranch hands answered and said Connor was away in Scotland. Sharon left her name and number, though she wasn’t confident it would reach him anytime soon.

* * *

The day Sharon drove her home from Columbia Presbyterian, Archer had asked lightly, “So, Shar, did you ever try Connor’s phone number?”

“
I did, but he was away on business.”

“
Oh,” was all Archer said.

As August passed, she was able to do a little more each day. She could walk a little farther, carry a few more groceries, survive with fewer naps, and since she had no work, she had a lot of time to think.

She thought about Annie, of course, but now more of her thoughts were good thoughts, happy memories. She thought of Connor, too—how she met him, the fall and winter with him, all they had shared. She ached to pick up the phone and call him, but she was afraid. One thing had changed, though: she wanted to live.

* * *

Connor returned to Three Chimneys with orders that would take the ranch through another two years of solid business, with capital to expand the operation. He had stopped in Chicago for a week on the way home. Lauren was on summer vacation, and they had carefully planned some time using e-mails back and forth. Connor had spent three days in Chicago, going to her riding lessons and meeting her friends. For the next four days, he drove with Lauren to a resort for families farther up on Lake Michigan.

They canoed, ate trout cooked on an outdoor grill, and rode bikes along the lakeshore. They also had long talks at dinner about what each of them liked to do on vacation, foods that delighted them, and foods that disgusted them. They talked about favorite colors, a boy Lauren liked, and why girls Lauren’s age were sometimes mean. They saw three movies and chatted for hours about what they had seen, what they each thought, and quotes that stuck with them. It was the best trip Connor could have imagined for a man who hadn’t met his only child until she was nine.

He thought, as he did often, about Archer. He wondered how she would react to a phone call, but the thought made him sick to his stomach. He had told her that if she didn’t come with him, he wouldn’t haunt her. She had never asked him to stay in her life on any level. He sighed. Whenever he thought about Archer, he went around the same well-traveled circle. There was no future of any kind. She had made that clear.

* * *

When Jake answered the ranch phone, the phone message from Sharon had gone into his head, and he had every intention of writing it down. But then another call had come in, and then a man was at the door saying something about one of the dogs needing to go to the vet, and ten minutes later, Jake looked at the pen in his hand and couldn’t recall why it was there.

CHAPTER 35

It was September 5, Archer’s birthday. She was forty-four. For her, the fall, not New Year’s Day, was the time for organizing and fresh beginnings.

She started to clean the basement. As she did, she found that many things could be thrown out, and began making piles. Definite saves, definite toss-outs, definite maybes. She worked steadily for two days, and after seven trips to the town dump with the definite toss-outs, she started in on the maybes and eliminated half that pile. She hesitated for a moment at the box with the unmarked training manuals from the Group. It was moved to the maybes. After three days of sorting, Archer realized she was packing—packing to leave.

The next week, she called Rachel Cohen to submit her resignation.

“
Oh, Archer, do you have to go? You’ve been a godsend. Is it the money? I can ask for a salary for you. The Center’s board meets next month.”

“
No, Rae, it’s not money,” said Archer, smiling through the phone line. “The Center gave me more than I gave it. No, I’m going to get him back somehow.”

Rachel sucked in her breath. “Oh, my God, you’re going to get back your cowboy! Like Scarlett O’Hara. Wow! If anyone can, you can, Arch. Go for it, girl; you go for it.”

“
Thanks. Wish me luck, and I absolutely will stay in touch. You are the best, Rae.” Archer hung up, and as she did, Hartford faded away.

* * *

The last card from Peter Bennett arrived two weeks after Archer’s forty-fourth birthday. She chuckled when she pulled it from her P.O. box, recognizing Peter’s distinctive script.

Old Peter must be slipping, she mused as she climbed into the Jeep next to Hadley. He was never late with anything. He must be, oh, God, about seventy-eight—and she had thought him ancient when she met him twenty-two years ago.
The arrogance of youth,
she chided herself. But the guy never gave up. She would have to give him her new address—when she got one.”

She put on her reading glasses and opened the envelope, looking forward to Peter’s dry wit. The clipping fell out first. Odd—Peter never sent extras. It was from the
Washington Post,
a few weeks ago. She read:

Archer refolded the clipping and laid it on the dashboard. She leaned her head back on the headrest and swallowed hard as sorrow and loss washed over her in strengthening waves. Her more recent contacts with Peter had been limited, but they had given her security, continuity, and solace. They made her feel that some things never changed, and could be counted on to be there always. Archer hadn’t known that Peter had a wife and sons—he’d never mentioned them. She sat lost in thought for several minutes, then forced herself to go on. She unfolded the note with apprehension. It was handwritten, dated three days ago.