MADIGAN'S WIFE

by Linda Winstead Jones

  “You love me when everything’s going your way,” he said darkly, frustrated. “When all the pieces of the puzzle fit to suit you.” He placed his face close to hers. “What if I ask you to go to Mobile with me? Would you? Could you take it? Or would you run again? Would you try to make it work and then leave a year from now? A month? I couldn’t take that, Grace, wondering if you’d be there or not when I got home.” He stroked her arm once. “So tell me,” he asked again, his tense voice telling her he thought he knew what her answer would be. “What would you say?”

  “I don’t know,” she whispered, trying to be honest, trying not to hide her fears this time. “It’s not … it’s not that easy.”

  “Yes, it is.” He lowered his head as if to kiss her then stopped suddenly, as if he’d changed his mind.

  The pager went off again, and this time he cursed as he snapped it up to look at the display.

  “Who is it?”

  “Trish,” he muttered, returning the pager to its place and making no move toward the phone.

  Of course, Trish. Grace had to make herself remember that while she hadn’t been able to move on, Ray certainly had. He’d married two more times after she’d left. Who knows how many other women there had been in his life? He hadn’t moped around for the past six years, he hadn’t stopped living or loving.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, backing away one step. “I just got carried away, I guess. The two of us being back together, all this excitement…” her voice cracked. “The past couple of nights.”

  “Are you taking it back?”

  It would be easiest to say yes, wouldn’t it? To blame her declaration on sentimentality and laugh it off.

  “No,” she said, her voice low but very clear.

  The pager went off again.

  “Dammit,” Ray muttered, lifting the pager again and glancing down at it. “What the hell does she want?”

  “Call her,” Grace said, turning her back to Ray. “It must be important for her to page you three times.”

  “I might as well,” he said as he walked to the telephone on the table by the end of the couch. “She’ll just keep paging me until I do.”

  Grace busied herself, frantically straightening the Sunday paper until it was needlessly neat.

  She tried not to listen to Ray’s conversation with his second wife, but his urgent tone stopped her cold.

  “What? No … no … I’m on my way.”

  He slammed the phone down. “Trish has had an accident.”

  “Is she okay?”

  Ray nodded. “Her car’s totaled and she’s a basket case. Her fiancé is with her, but she says he’s as upset as she is and isn’t much help at the moment. I gotta go.”

  Of course he wouldn’t turn his back on Trish, any more than he would have turned his back on her when she needed him. It was in his character to be there, to watch over those who couldn’t take care of themselves. Was that all they had?

  “I’ll stay here.”

  “No, you won’t.” He took her arm and steered her toward the door. “I’m not leaving you alone and it would take forever to get Luther over here.”

  Unwilling to argue with him, Grace stepped into her shoes. “Any more ex-wives and you won’t have time for any career at all, much less undercover work,” she snapped, annoyed that their conversation had not taken the turn she would’ve liked.

  “Tell me about it,” Ray muttered as he checked the deserted hallway before he pulled her into the hall and closed the door behind them.

  *

  Freddie sat on the hill above Trish Madigan’s apartment complex, his back against a leafy tree, the gun in his lap hidden from view by a magazine he’d picked up at a convenience store, along with his soda and cigarettes. He wished he’d picked a more interesting magazine. He needed something to cover the gun, in case anyone happened to walk by. Not likely up on this tree-covered hill, but he had to be prepared for anything.

  He grumbled. His accountant handled all his financial matters. Why had he picked up this magazine that was about nothing else?

  Tracking Trish Madigan down had been a breeze; running her off the road had actually been fun. Like the old days, when he’d been just starting out. The boyfriend had driven the blonde home a half hour ago, and if he knew this broad at all the first thing she’d done was call her ex. And if he knew Madigan at all, the man was on his way.

  Madigan would either have the witness with him, the simplest scenario from Freddie’s viewpoint, or else he’d come alone. If that was the case, when he left Freddie would follow to wherever he had the witness stashed.

  Once the witness was disposed of, he’d be out of Alabama in a flash. Florida, he thought with a smile. Maybe the Keys. He wished he could ask Jenny to go with him, but that was a complication he’d have to do without. When he’d left her this morning he hadn’t even told her he wouldn’t be calling her or coming back, he’d just walked out. Made him feel sorta like a heel.

  A gray car pulling into the parking lot made Freddie forget all his regrets. He saw Madigan in the driver’s seat and, as he pulled into a parking space, a dark-haired passenger at his side.

  Show time.

  *

  “I’ll wait in the car,” Grace said calmly as Ray turned off the engine.

  “You will not,” he responded without so much as glancing at her.

  How could she tell Ray that she had no desire to stand back and watch while he comforted his second wife? She’d already made a fool of herself and confessed that she still loved him, for all the good it did. He’d been right all along. All they had was a physical connection, a sexual affinity for one another. When this was over he’d head to Mobile and find wife number four, a Lyle Lovett fan who wouldn’t mind so much when he didn’t come home for days at a time, when he threw himself in front of a bullet.

  “Trish asked for you, not me,” she said, looking out the window. “I’m not as good with hysterical women as you are.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s a gift,” he muttered, throwing open his door and stepping out.

  For a moment, Grace thought he was going to allow her to sit in the passenger seat and mope to her heart’s content, but he crossed behind the car and threw open her door. Offered his hand insistently even as he suspiciously searched the parking lot. He watched a man at the other end of the apartment building gallop down the stairs, car keys in hand.

  “I can’t leave you sitting out here unprotected. Come on, Grace. Don’t be unreasonable.” He was impatient, at the end of his rope.

  She placed her hand in his and swiveled, placing her feet on the ground. “Heaven forbid that I should be unreasonable,” she said as she stood.

  He stared at her, hard and unflinching, unforgiving and unrelenting.

  A split second before she heard the shot, Ray threw her to the ground. She hit the asphalt, Ray on top of her, as a bullet smacked into the building behind them.

  Ray muttered profanely, drawing his own gun and looking toward the hill behind the car. He shielded her with his body, pressing her against the car as he turned his head and searched.

  “How did you know…” she began, breathless.

  “I saw a glint up there,” he said, nodding to the tree-covered hill. “Out of the corner of my eye.”

  Trish’s front door opened. She took one look at the scene before her, screamed, and slammed the door shut. The man who’d been climbing into his pickup truck at the end of the parking lot turned and ran up the stairs.

  “Get under the car,” Ray ordered.

  Grace did as he asked, laid flat on her stomach on the asphalt and scooted under the car. She moved almost to the middle of the sheltered space, leaving room for Ray, but he didn’t follow her. When he started to move, she reached out and snagged his pant leg.

  “Stay,” she whispered.

  He lowered his head just enough to look at her. “I can’t. You stay here until I get back.”

  And he was gone, sprinting away.

  Trish and
the man at the end of the parking lot had probably both called the police. They were on the way, she assured herself. Help was on the way. Would they be in time to help Ray?

  Grace looked at oil-stained asphalt close to her face and tried to slow her heartbeat and find her breath. Ray was good, he was very good at what he did. He hadn’t survived all these years by being careless. But Potts was good, too. Why couldn’t Ray have just stayed here with her? Safe and sound. Protected.

  A shot rang out and she flinched. Who had fired? Ray or Potts? From her sheltered spot under the car she had no way of knowing, no way to see what was going on out there.

  The seconds ticked past. Or were they minutes? Surely it wasn’t long before she heard another shot. Then all was quiet.

  She couldn’t stand it. What if Ray was out there, bleeding in the parking lot? What if he needed her?

  “Ray?” she called softly, peering out from beneath the car, seeing no sign of life nearby. She called again, a little louder, and got no response.

  Moving very cautiously, she scooted to the side and peered around the tire. Still no sign of Ray. She scooted a little farther, and saw him walking down the hill. She rolled from beneath the car and slowly up onto her knees. When he saw her, he started to run.

  “I haven’t found him,” he shouted. “Get back…”

  She felt the impact of the bullet before she heard the shot. Her shoulder burned, her head swam as she listed back so that her spine rested against the car. Her vision blurred and narrowed. And over Ray’s shoulder she saw him. Potts, emerging from the trees like every little girl’s bogeyman. His gun was raised. Aimed at Ray.

  She tried to scream, to warn Ray, but her voice was much too weak. His name came out as a whisper.

  Her image of Ray started to fade away, but before it did his eyes caught hers and he spun around, dropped to the ground, and raised his weapon. He fired, once. Twice. Again. Potts fired in return.

  It all happened so fast… On her knees by Ray’s car she listened and watched, but she finally lost count of the gunshots and closed her eyes. Unable to remain on her knees, she rolled to the side and rested her cheek against the gritty parking lot.

  In the distance she heard sirens.

  “Grace?”

  She opened her eyes and saw Ray bending over her. He took off his shirt, the plaid one he wore over his T-shirt, and quickly folded it in his hands.

  “He shot me,” she said weakly. “Are you okay?” she asked, trying to check him out for wounds, blood, a tear in his clothes. He looked to be unhurt.

  “I’m fine,” he said, pulling her up and toward him to place the folded shirt over her shoulder, supporting her in his lap while he applied pressure to her shoulder front and back. “Potts is dead,” he said, his voice shaking.

  Trish ran out of her apartment, crying and squealing. Ray told her to settle down, call 911 and fetch a blanket. She backed off to do as he asked, crying still.

  “I should’ve stayed under the car,” she said weakly. “But I couldn’t see you, Ray. I heard the shots and I thought that maybe … maybe…” That you’d been shot again. That this time, this time I would have to watch you die.

  Trish scurried out of her apartment, bearing a hand-knitted blanket in many pastel colors. She handed it to Ray and peered down at Grace, then turned her eyes out to the parking lot, where Potts lay dead.

  “Was that the same guy who ran me off the road?” she asked, her voice faint and slightly squeaky.

  “Someone ran you off the road?” Ray snapped as he wrapped the blanket around Grace, making sure her legs and arms were covered. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me that when you called?”

  “I was upset,” Trish whispered. “I was going to tell you all about it as soon as you got here.”

  Ray glanced sharply up at Trish and the slender man who joined her, and they both backed away. Far away.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” Grace asked, her voice weak.

  “Don’t talk,” Ray ordered softly, pulling her gently into his arms, keeping the pressure on her shoulder. “This is nothing,” he said, his voice oddly unsteady. “The police are coming, an ambulance is on its way, they’ll have you fixed up in no time.”

  She wasn’t so sure. Should she be so cold? She started to shake, and Ray held her tighter.

  Grace laid her head against his shoulder and closed her eyes. A little nap would be nice, right about now. But not just yet.

  “I meant what I said,” she whispered. “I do love you.”

  “Stop this,” he ordered. “You’re going to be okay. You don’t have to make any … any…”

  Deathbed confessions. He couldn’t say it and neither could she.

  Ray tried to hold her close, and keep pressure on her wound, and for a few minutes he whispered calming words she knew he didn’t believe. She heard the fear in his voice. Ray Madigan, who was never afraid of anything, was terrified.

  Thinking wasn’t as easy as it should be. Staying awake was an effort. She made the effort.

  “Why didn’t you come after me?” she asked. “I never could’ve looked you in the eye and pretended not to love you anymore. I was just so mad at you for putting yourself in danger all the time. It hurt Ray, it was killing me. I had to do something.”

  “Don’t talk,” he said. “Save your strength.”

  As always, Ray didn’t want to talk about it. He didn’t want to go back in time and suffer through their divorce all over again. Maybe he was right. Maybe rehashing the past wasn’t going to fix things. It certainly wouldn’t change what had happened. Grace closed her eyes and rested against his chest. He held her close. So close.

  “I left,” she said lowly, her breath steady against Ray’s shirt, her body shivering. “But you let me leave. You weren’t supposed to let me leave. Why didn’t you come after me?”

  He held her tight and rocked gently, the movement slow and steady.

  “I did,” he whispered. “Dammit, Grace, I went to Chattanooga twice. You weren’t hard to track down.”

  “I wasn’t supposed to be,” she murmured.

  “But when I got there I couldn’t face you. I sat in the parking lot and watched the door to your apartment … and I couldn’t make myself go up and ring the bell. I could face bad guys and whatever weapons they threw at me seven days a week, but I knew I couldn’t survive you looking me in the eye and telling me you didn’t love me anymore.”

  “I couldn’t have done it.”

  Ray held her tighter, warmer. Good, she needed that warmth.

  “What an idiot I was,” he whispered in her ear. “I couldn’t face you, so I came back here and tried to pretend that everything was all right when nothing was all right. I worked myself up, I made myself angry. If you and I had a good marriage, I could by God have a good marriage without you.”

  “Trish and Patty,” she whispered.

  “Yeah.”

  She snuggled closer. The truth came easier at a time like this. Games seemed senseless. All they had was the truth. All they had was each other.

  “Have I ever told you how much I hate those two?” she confessed. A wave of cold shot through her body and she shuddered. It would be so easy to go to sleep, to lie here in Ray’s arms and drift away. “I just can’t help it. I really, really hate them.”

  Was that a laugh she heard? Maybe … maybe not. It was either a laugh or a sob, and Ray never cried. If she had the strength she’d lift her head to see if it was laughter or sorrow on his face. She didn’t though. Couldn’t.

  The ambulances were near, Trish and her fiancé hovered somewhere close but not too close. All around there was the shuffle of feet and lowered voices as the residents of the apartment came out to see what the excitement was about. And still, she felt like she and Ray were all alone.

  “I love you, Gracie,” he whispered.

  I’m going to die, Grace thought dreamily. Ray would never say such a thing if he thought I was going to make it.

  The sirens were closer no
w, so close the blaring noise hurt her ears. Ray placed his mouth close to her ear. “You’re going to be all right,” he whispered, sounding almost like he believed it.

  *

  It was just a shoulder wound, he told himself again and again. Nothing vital had been hit, the bullet had gone straight through.

  But she was so cold, and he had a feeling that if he let her drift away she’d never come back. She had lost too much blood. No matter how much pressure he put on her wound, she continued to bleed.

  “Grace,” he said as he felt her slipping into unconsciousness.

  She didn’t answer.

  The paramedics forced him to release her, to move out of their way. Something deep inside shouted insistently that if he let her go she’d die. They couldn’t take proper care of her. Only he could do that.

  His brain knew better, and he reluctantly backed away to let the paramedics do their work.

  Everything inside him wanted to kneel back down beside her and order her to open her eyes. Her face was too white, her lips too bloodless, the blood staining her clothes and the blanket a paramedic tossed aside too red.

  Luther appeared beside him. Hell, he hadn’t even seen the car pull into the parking lot.

  “Son of a bitch shot Grace.” He never took his eyes from her face. “It’s just a shoulder wound,” he said, for his own benefit as well as Luther’s. “She’s going to be all right.”

  “That’s good.”

  “I told her to stay under the car. Dammit, why didn’t she stay under the car?”

  The paramedics worked quickly and efficiently, checking Grace’s vital signs, restricting the flow of blood.

  “You got Potts good,” Luther said, glancing over his shoulder to where the hit man’s body lay in the parking lot, just beyond the trees he had emerged from firing his weapon. “That is one seriously dead hit man, I tell you.” He grabbed a peppermint from his jacket pocket, slipped off the cellophane, and popped the mint into his mouth.

  A new commotion started behind them, and Ray groaned as Sam Morgan and his cameraman leapt from the car that had stopped in the middle of the parking lot. Almost immediately, Morgan’s eyes landed on Ray.