Dying For Revenge (The Lady Doc Murders Book 1)

by Barbara Golder

  I had just drained the last of my wine and put my grandmother’s paper-thin Czechoslovakian wine glass on the table by my chair when the cell phone rang.

  “Hi Mom, it’s me, Adam.”

  My first-born had been starting his long distance communications—whether phone or letter — with the same words as long as any of us could remember. As if I could mistake that voice, or his trademark, illegible scrawl. I smiled to myself, but wasn’t able to get my answer out before he pressed on. Also typical of my number-one son.

  “We’re all fine. I wanted to tell you because you’re going to see it all on TV, and it really isn’t as bad as all that. If I hadn’t had the bishop with me, no one would have even noticed.”

  He had my heart in his hands. Adam has always been the daredevil of the family, though apparently possessing a guardian angel who himself is on steroids. At the age of not-quite-two, he pulled a child’s rocker over to the dresser in his room, piled on a stool, and then some books on it to give it the necessary height, and clambered up on the teetering edifice to retrieve a toy I had taken from him and placed out of reach. I had walked in to see him balance precariously, snatch the toy from the dresser, and scuttle back off, oblivious to his peril. His judgment had not gotten appreciably better, and I held my breath, waiting for the rest.

  “Actually, it was cool, awesome. It was amazing. I was taking the bishop over to Kotzebue in the float plane…”

  This seminarian son had taken a summer position on the staff of the most recent “Flying Bishop” of Alaska, which entailed making jaunts all over remote Alaskan territory in various incarnations of small aircraft. He and the bishop were cut from the same bolt of cloth, both having gotten pilot’s licenses while in college, both over the strenuous objections of their powerless mothers.

  “…And we lost an engine just as we were coming in to land. I kind of missed the dock area, had to be towed in by motorboat, but we landed just fine, no worries. Problem was, it looked a little rough coming in, I did a...well, I stalled out a little…anyway, it looked worse than it was and somebody videoed it. It’s going to be all over the news tonight, and I didn’t want you to worry.”

  Mom rule number one is to never let them see you sweat, even when they are not babies any longer. I put a great deal more control into my voice than I felt. “But you’re okay? And the plane will be fixed—what happened?”

  In a voice of supreme confidence and indifference, he answered. “Not really sure, Mom. They’ll have to take it pretty much apart. I guess we’ll be here a little longer than we planned, but that’s really awesome. We just missed the solstice, but it’s light nearly all day. The sun never sets. It’s really an amazing place, Mom, you’d love it.”

  “I expect so. Why were you flying the plane?”

  “Bishop Leland had some kind of stomach flu — tossed his cookies as we landed. He figured I could handle it, so he turned it over to me. It all happened so fast, he didn’t have time to take over again.”

  It does happen fast, a life-changing event like that. One minute, you’re flying along in smooth air, and the next minute you lose an engine and you’re headed straight for a crash. One minute, you’re a happily married woman and the next, some vengeful bastard mows your husband down in a parking lot, and you don’t even get to say goodbye. Tears welled up in my eyes and all the pain in my soul took residence in my constricted throat. I pinched the bridge of my nose so hard that it hurt, emptied my mind, and managed a reply that sounded almost normal. “Well, thank God.” And your guardian angel and your patron namesake Augustine, and whoever taught you to fly so well. “Thanks for calling me, babe — I think I’ll go find the story on the news. I want to see your aerobatics.”

  “Record it for me, Mom, will ya? They’re going to interview me, and the bishop said I’m a real ace, that he couldn’t have done it better.”

  Though he was well into his studies for the priesthood, my son sounded like he did when he won his first space derby with his own innovative — if eccentric and moth-eaten – fenestrated rocket.

  “Sure, son, everyone should be able to review his near death experiences in HDTV.” I paused. “Love you. Be safe. Don’t crash. Say a rosary.”

  I stopped, hoping my silence wasn’t too abrupt. I couldn’t risk saying anything more. It wasn’t. Adam charged ahead, still cruising on the adrenal dump that his unexpected landing and his new notoriety had produced.

  “Don’t plan to auger in, Mom, and the bishop says we’ll all say the rosary together in the church after vespers. Love you too. Bye, talk to you later.”

  I heard someone calling in the background, and he was off before I could warn him that nobody plans to crash.

  I was in the kitchen, wine glass in hand, before it hit me. Adam, my first-born. The carbon copy of his father, with the same big, wide eyes, dimpled cheeks and wicked sense of humor, Adam had almost died. I stifled a sob, and made to put the glass in the sink. I missed, hitting the sharp ledge so that the stem broke with a crack, and, by reflex, my hand closed on the delicate bowl, shattering it in my grip. When I opened it to drop the shards, my hand was already red with blood, several deep cuts across the palm, one of which sprayed blood in the rhythmic pattern that told me I’d cut a small artery.

  Curiously, I didn’t feel pain in my hand, just deep in my heart. I grabbed a floral patterned towel from the counter, where Isa had left it neatly folded, wrapped it tightly around my hand and sank to the floor, finally giving way to tears, heaving great and inconsolable sobs, unable even to catch my breath. I heard the kitchen door swing open and then someone running towards me, long strides, heavy steps. Strong arms wrapped around me, pulling me up and holding me close to a plaid shirt that smelled of peppermint and pipe tobacco. Eoin Connor didn’t say a word, but cradled me as I spent my fear and anguish in gulping sobs until I was exhausted and still. I hated that he had seen me cry. I hated that I cried so much these days.

  Only then did he ask, “And what have you done now? Let me see.”

  The big hands that unwound the towel and coaxed open my bloody hand were rough and calloused, the hands of a laborer, not a writer, but they were gentle and competent. Had Ben told me that Connor kept a farm both in the states and in Ireland, to stay in touch with what he called his peasant roots? I couldn’t remember.

  He kept up a narrative as he examined my palm, spurting again now that the pressure was released, and then quickly wrapped the towel back around it.

  “They told me you’d gone for the day. I was coming to see if you might want to join me for a bit of grub tonight, when I heard a noise and looked through the window. I saw you fall.”

  He finished the wrap with a decisive tug and tucked the end in on itself.

  I still hadn’t looked up at him, ashamed that he had been privy to my pain and oddly aware how I must look, with swollen eyes and a stuffy nose. Connor still held my injured hand in one of his, the other on the sleeve, now blood soaked, that ended at my wrist. I ran the other one across my face to soak up some of the moisture before I answered his unspoken question.

  “I hit a glass on the counter. The glass broke in my hand. Idiot.” I looked up with what I hoped was a smile. Connor’s look told me he expected more explanation. I collected myself and shifted away from his surprisingly comfortable bulk, disconcerted and decidedly not comfortable. And suddenly in physical pain and weak at the knees. I staggered, and Connor caught me by the elbow to steady me.

  “You’re a bit green around the gills,” he said. “Where are your keys? I’ll drive you to the Medical Center.”

  I was in no position to argue, unable to steer and too shaky to walk. I gestured toward the back door with my bloody towel. “On the rack. The 4Runner.”

  Connor retrieved the keys, bundled me into the passenger seat, and refused to leave my side until I was tucked into an exam room waiting for the doctor and a surgical tray to arrive. I heard him exchange a few words with the nurse as he left, and he lingered at the door until she returned
and slipped a paper in his hand, giving me a sideways glance and him a smile. The exchange had the aura of conspiracy about it.

  I’d not met the fresh-faced young doctor that came in to stitch me up, but he was chatty and efficient. He injected my hand, which by now had begun to hurt like hell. I watched in detached fascination as he irrigated out the wound, expelling a few remaining shards and pulling another out with a pair of forceps. Courage failed when he began to stitch, however, and I turned away, counting the stitches by the pressure on my palm. Twenty-two. This fellow could be a seamstress in an atelier; the cuts just weren't that big.

  By the time he finished, the light through the treatment room window was beginning to soften. As the doctor stripped off his gloves, Eoin knocked on the door and came in, bearing a bag from the pharmacy. He opened it and took out two brown pill bottles and handed one of each of the pills inside to me, one white, one a blue capsule.

  “You’re now masquerading as a nurse?” I asked.

  The doctor, with the same conspiratorial look his nurse had shown, looked up at me from jotting in the chart.

  “Painkillers and antibiotics. No need to wait, so I sent them on with Mr. Connor there to get them filled.”

  The metal cover of the chart made a sharp clang as he flipped it closed, one handed, with practiced ease, and looked at me again.

  “Keep it dry. Take your antibiotics. And for God’s sake, don’t get near any autopsies. I’ll see you in ten days to take out the stitches. Call or come back if it swells or you get a fever. You know the drill.”

  He extended a hand to Connor. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Connor. I enjoy your books.”

  And with that, he was off, leaving me alone in the exam room with Eoin Connor.

  Connor dug around in the pharmacy bag and handed me a pink, long-sleeved tee-shirt proclaiming “Telluride” in teal letters and rampant with garish wildflowers.

  “I thought you might want to change out of that bloody shirt before we go to dinner,” he said, wagging the shirt at me.

  I took it in my good hand and regarded it skeptically. “I’m not all that fond of pink...” I started to say.

  “I figured as much,” Connor interrupted, green eyes smiling. “It's why I bought it. Now be a good girl and change; the only blood anyone wants to see at the Chop House is on the plate with a steak.”

  He slipped out of the room and closed the door behind before I could ask him what in the world made him think I wanted to go to dinner with him, now or ever.

  Breakfast, however, had been a long time ago, I hadn’t eaten my sandwich, I couldn’t drive with my bandaged hand, and the buzz the painkiller was going to give me made food a necessity. Dinner, even with a charming, if irritating, Irishman had a certain practical appeal. I pulled the top on. It was a bit snug. I wondered whether that was intentional, too. I hopped off the exam room table, still a little unsteady, and met Connor in the hallway. A few minutes to reckon the bill and stuff my bloody cotton shirt into the bag, and we were on our way, driving up Pacific Street towards the New Sheridan Hotel.

  The maitre d’ showed us to a corner table, lit the candle, pulled out my chair, flourished my napkin and shook hands with Connor as though he were an old family friend. I was suddenly aware of the awkwardness of the situation. I had rarely eaten out since John’s death, and never with a man, alone. In fact, the last time I’d had dinner alone with a man other than my husband had been long before we were married, some thirty years ago. I gulped and buried my face in the menu, wishing as I so often did that my husband were back with me, and feeling more than a little guilty at the fact that I was finding even a little pleasure in other company. And more than a little surprise in the bargain. Without looking up from his own menu, Connor must have read my mind. Either that or my gulp was audible.

  “It's just dinner, not adultery. I recommend the veal, unless you have some moral scruples against it.”

  In the recesses of my mind I heard John echoing his words. “Dear Jane. It’s dinner, and you need friends. Just enjoy it. It’s fine, Mrs. Doe.”

  I felt myself relax and looked up at my companion. I’d never really studied Eoin Connor’s face before, considering him a grievous thorn in my professional side to be dealt with efficiently and dispassionately. He was now sitting directly across from me, and I could only study the menu, the flowers, and the art on the wall so long.

  His green eyes returned my glance, not in an unkindly way, but full of curiosity. Below his still thick, wiry, silver hair and those tilted, unruly black brows, they had a perpetually quizzical look to them, as though everything he encountered were new, surprising and delightful. His broad face was ruddy, lined and worn, with a scar across his left cheek I’d never paid attention to, but it was a comfortable, open, welcoming face. I was struck that this man was entirely at ease with who he was no matter where he was, and that there wasn’t much of anything that could change that.

  I closed my menu, dropped my eyes, and gathered my courage. Looking up again, I smiled. “I think I'll have the trout. And the macaroni. Comfort food.”

  I sighed, plunged in again. “Thank you for dinner. I don’t know that I would want to be by myself just now.”

  “So I gathered,” he replied, closing his own menu and motioning the waiter over. “Will you have some wine?”

  The doctor in me screamed no, but the injured woman part managed to shove her into a metaphorical sound-proofed closet in the back of my mind and ignore her. Who cared whether I got a little wasted tonight? I deserved it. I needed it. I probably shouldn’t do it.

  “Sure, just a bit. Sauvignon blanc, if that suits.”

  Connor pointed out a selection from the wine list to the waiter and resumed. “It wasn't just the glass this afternoon. What happened?” His eyes fell on me again and the brows furrowed.

  I took a drink from my water glass to buy some time. My hand throbbed. None of your business, I thought, none of your damn business, as tears welled up again. One splashed on the tablecloth as I fought to regain control. This tearfulness really had to stop.

  “Sorry,” he said gruffly and passed me a handkerchief.

  How few men carry them these days, I thought, as I wiped my eyes. Like his shirt, it smelled of peppermint, probably from a stash in his pocket. He must keep his tobacco somewhere else.

  I shook my head. “No, I’m sorry, really. It’s all right. It really is.” I quickly recounted what had happened with Adam. “I just couldn't bear the thought of losing him,” I finished up, mopping up the rest of the tears that followed, finally handing the sodden cloth back across the table.

  Connor looked at it ruefully, folded it, and tucked it into his right pants pocket, leaning back from the table as the waiter poured the wine. He took up his glass and extended it. “May the face of good news and the back of bad news always be towards us.”

  I clinked my glass to his.

  “Forgive me for not knowing more about you. Ben says I am hopelessly out of it all. How did an Irish farm boy get to be the most celebrated crime writer in the world?”

  A question right out of what one of my more gracious friends called Southern Belle 101. It ought to keep him going for a while.

  I was surprised to see his face grow thoughtful. Surely he’d been asked the question a thousand times in his career, surely it was an answer that would roll off his tongue like legendary Irish blarney. He answered after a long sip from the glass, and it wasn't the glib response I expected.

  “It started out as revenge. I started writing during the troubles, after the August riots, after I saw a boy killed when the RUC fired into his flat. He was just a lad, twelve years old. I wanted to make the whole world see what England had been doing to us. I discovered I had a flair for blood and gore, and that the rest of the world had an appetite for it.”

  Another sip of wine and he set the glass down deliberately, and turned his eyes on me again. “After a while, it got to be a job, one I was good at, no more, no less. It’s served me well. My Da w
ould be proud, after all those stories he told me as a cub, working side by side on the farm to make the time go easier.”

  “Not fond of the English, then?” I winced inwardly. Either the pills or the wine were making me mean. I'd better mind my tongue. I could see John frowning at me in my mind’s eye. This was no way to return hospitality.

  A faint grin crossed Connor’s face as though he were remembering things long past, and pleasant.

  “You could say that. You have to understand, in Northern Ireland, we had to fight to keep anything that was our own: our land, our language, our church, even our bloody dignity. It makes for a certain disaffection for those who are trying to take it away.”

  At this, he filled my glass.

  “But if you don't break under the strain, it makes for a grand life. I decided early on that I wasn’t going to let the English bastards take any of it from me. I bought back the old man’s farm after he lost it to debt with my first book advance, and Mick, Joe, Terence, Molly and I work it to this day. I kept on speaking Irish. I kept the faith in the Church even when she kicked me in the teeth. I know who I am despite those soldiers that bullied me and mine. In the long run, it’s served me well. I’ve made a comfortable life. And the reality is, I don’t give a damn about the bloody English now, one way or the other.” He paused. “I found out that revenge makes for great copy, not a good life.”

  I wondered what it would be like, to get to that point, where I didn't care one way or another about Tom Berton. I decided it wasn't possible, and said so. “I don’t think I’ll ever get past my husband’s murder.”

  I was surprised that my voice didn't falter and my tears didn’t start up again. It was almost as though I were talking about one of my cases, not myself. “I won a huge judgment against several national lab companies for insurance fraud. Huge. 75 million free and clear in my pocket alone.”