40
By the time he was free, it was so late, Demarco thought the kid would be sleeping the sleep of the just and sedated. He was tired enough, he ought to just go home and crash instead of hitting the hospital, but hell, he’d told her he’d be back. He always kept a promise, anyway he’d never rest easy until he’d seen her. A few minutes wouldn’t hurt, make sure the guard was doing his job, see she was all right, maybe sit with her a bit. He wouldn’t wake her.
The guard sent Demarco a look when he came in and Demarco had the uneasy feeling the jerk hadn’t stayed at his post. Her room was dark except for the glow of the computer screen which gave off enough light to see her sleeping form.
“Hey, kid,” he said softly in case she was pretending.
She didn’t move. Her pillow was on the floor, the sheets were twisted. He picked up the pillow, dropped it on the foot of the bed and sat down, just to be with her a few minutes. She must have been exhausted, poor kid, she didn’t even stir. Stretching his legs out, he put his head against the chair back and closed his eyes. This time of night the hospital was quiet, no daytime hustle and bustle; a nurse walked down the corridor to check on a patient, then spoke to another nurse in soft tones.
Almost immediately, he realized the lack of movement and sound from the bed. No rustling of sheets, no noises of breathing. Nothing but stillness. He touched her hand. Cool. He placed fingertips against her wrist, then just under her jaw, couldn’t find a pulse. He yelled at the guard, “Get a doctor in here! Now!”
He started CPR. The room exploded with activity. The crash cart came careening through the door. Nurses and physicians crowded in. One tried to take over the CPR. Demarco shoved her away and kept pushing on the kid’s chest. Finally, the nurse convinced him to step back. A physician said, “Clear,” and applied paddles to the kid’s thin chest. Her body jumped and flopped like a rag doll.
The team worked for minutes, then the physician looked at the clock and said angrily, “Death at twenty-three hundred hours.”
“No! Keep working on her!”
A nurse put a hand on Demarco’s arm. “I’m sorry. She’s gone. There’s nothing more we can do.”
Hot rage started in the emptiness of his chest and burned so fast up to his throat that he choked on it. “Everybody out!”
“Sir—”
“Out! Don’t touch anything! This is a crime scene!”
* * *
“Any idea what she meant by sand?” Susan had lost track of how much coffee she’d consumed in the last four hours, but gamely took a sip from the latest refill. There was enough passion tearing in her office to use up all the breathing space.
Demarco’s jaw was so tight she wondered if he’d be able to wrench his teeth apart to answer. He stood rigid in the doorway, stiff, straight, shoulders back, ready to charge. Parkhurst, almost as mad, paced back and forth in front of him. Since her office was small, he only got six steps before he had to turn and go the other direction.
“No,” Demarco snapped.
“Mean anything to you?” she asked Parkhurst.
“Beaches, sandboxes, sands of time, hourglasses, footprints on, sandman—” Beard stubble rasped as he ran his hand down his jaw. “Give me a minute, maybe I can come up with more.”
These two volcanoes of barely contained fury were giving her a headache. Maybe she should send them to the parking lot and let them use up all that testosterone in hand-to-hand combat. The adrenaline pumped in her system by the girl’s murder and its pursuant investigations had long since dissipated, leaving her with a caffeine jag that fought with fatigue. All the hours they’d put in had gotten them zilch, much to everyone’s frustration.
The unknown suspect had called the nurses’ station claiming to be Parkhurst and asked the nurse who answered to have the guard call the department from a landline and talk with the chief. Not wanting to leave his post, the guard had asked to use the phone at the nurses’ station. The nurse had said she was sorry, but she couldn’t let him. He had to track down a phone and the closest one he could find was the pay phone in the lobby. Apparently, the suspect had stolen a lab coat and stethoscope from the doctor’s lounge, walked boldly into the girl’s room and held a pillow to her face. They’d know for sure in the morning when Dr. Fisher did the autopsy.
Susan felt sorry for the guard. Clark was his name and he hadn’t been with them long. Demarco and Parkhurst had both had a go at him. When they were done the poor kid was left with about as much starch as a dish rag.
“Sand,” she said, and looked at Demarco. “You think the girl meant something about her attacker?”
“I don’t know. I jumped to the conclusion she’d been thinking about the attack. It bothered her she couldn’t remember. She tried to pull memory back from the blankness. Then you called.”
Another chip to add to the pile on his shoulder. If she hadn’t called, the girl wouldn’t have been killed. Susan wondered why he’d gotten so fond of this girl. “Was there any sand in the house?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Sandbox in the back yard? Craft-type thing made with colored sand?”
“No.”
“Cat?”
“No.”
“Was she asleep when you came in, still caught in a dream when she spoke?”
“Maybe. She was asleep when I walked in, woke up when I sat down.” Demarco’s fists were straight down at his side in a white-knuckle clench. “One of them killed her. Held a pillow over the face of a fourteen-year-old girl who was so weak she could barely pick up a plastic cup.”
“Them?”
Demarco kept his gaze fixed on a distant spot just over her right shoulder. “Garrett,” he snapped. “Or the politicos with him.”
“And you think this because—?”
“She said so!” Demarco was teetering on insubordination and Parkhurst was close to blowing up at him.
Susan nodded. “And when you called her on that, she backed down. She thought her attacker had been in the room, but couldn’t say why she thought so. Is that correct?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Parkhurst stopped pacing, put his hands on his hips and glared at Demarco. Demarco stiffened an already stiff spine. Susan sighed. “Who was in her room?”
“Garrett,” Demarco said, “His wife. Campaign manager named Todd Haviland, guy named Leon Massy, another guy named Bernie Quaid, woman named Hadley Cane, woman named Nora Tallace.”
“And some media people.” She looked at Parkhurst. “Find out who they were.”
“Right,” he said.
“And—”
“Yeah. Go through the house again, looking for sand.” He started for the door, Demarco stepped aside. A short nod from Parkhurst had Demarco falling in behind.
* * *
Jack tried to open his eyes. They seemed glued shut. His throat hurt. He couldn’t swallow. He couldn’t breathe. Panicky struggle. Suspended in darkness, the only sound a rhythmic hiss thunk. He struggled to move. Paralyzed. Panic faded as he slipped deeper into the darkness.
41
Jack floated in the darkness, sometimes sensing paler pockets around the edges and above, working toward them like an underwater swimmer aiming for the surface, then sinking down to drift and dream and watch images form, melt and swirl away like multicolored fog. A young man exuberant at the not guilty verdict. A middle-aged woman angry. A gun.
Without a struggle, his eyes opened. He was lying on a narrow bed in a dim room, arms stretched out and strapped down, muted light to his right. Something in his throat. Tried to swallow, felt like he couldn’t breathe.
A stocky man with dark curls, wearing green scrubs loomed over him. “About time you decided to come back.”
Jack tried to speak.
“Hold on, I’ll get the tube out, then you can talk.” He removed tape from Jack’s face. “Cough.”
Jack coughed and choked as the tube slid from his throat, which was sore and swollen. When he tried to shift slightly, searing pain claw
ed at his chest.
“Adam Sheffield.” The stocky man tugged at the bandages over Jack’s chest.
“Doctor?” Jack whispered hoarsely.
“Yeah. Fixed a bloody great hole in your chest. It’s looking real good.”
A syrupy gratitude came over him. Weak as a new-born infant, if he tried to express thanks, he’d probably snivel. “What happened?”
“You don’t remember?”
“Not much. Lots of screaming. People milling around. Sirens.” Jack stirred through the slush in his mind. “Lights. I remember lights.”
Dr. Sheffield leaned against the bed and crossed his arms. “You’re one lucky man, governor. The bullet missed your heart by that much.” He held thumb and forefinger an inch apart. “Went at an angle up and came out the back, missing your spinal cord by about that much too. Tore up a lung pretty good, but that will mend.”
Sheer relief flooded over him, of such magnitude that Jack was swamped, left flat and gasping for air. “I can walk?”
“Not right now, you can’t, but give it a few days.”
Jack took in a breath and relished the pain that came with it, because it said he was alive. A second time, he should have died and he survived. He was humbled and grateful. He would live as he wanted, he would walk, he would not end up like Wakely in a wheelchair.
* * *
Friday morning there was a soft tap on the open door and Todd came in. “Happy Halloween, Governor.” He nudged the chair closer, sat down, curved his spine and stretched out his legs. “Thanks for saving my life.”
“… what?”
“You’re a hero, you pushed me out of the way of the speeding bullet. ’Course it would have been better if you’d gotten yourself out of the way, too, but at least you’re not a dead hero.” Todd slid a chair nearer the bed.
“Cut … hero crap … who shot me?”
Todd took off his glasses, held them out and peered through the lenses, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and polished them. “She killed herself.”
“Who?” Jack’s throat was sore, it hurt to talk.
Todd checked the lenses, then put the glasses back on. “Mary Shoals. Daughter brought a suit against her husband, claimed he beat her up. You defended the husband.”
“Alice Vosse,” Jack said, remembering. “Got … bastard off.” Guilt lay pressed on his chest heavy enough to make breathing difficult. “Should have … let rot … in prison.”
“You were doing your job. Defending your client to the best of your ability.”
“… he killed her,” Jack said.
“You are not responsible for her death, or for her mother’s either. You aren’t God, Jack. You’re just a good lawyer. What you need to decide is what you want to do now.”
“Sleep.”
“Good. When you get that out of the way, we’ll get back to work. This is good for votes. Hundreds of people out there are praying for your recovery. If the primary was today, you’d win by a landslide.”
“Molly?”
“She’s on her way. You came back to the land of the living just after she left to go back and take a shower.” Todd stood and put a hand on Jack’s shoulder. “I’m glad you survived, buddy. After this, nobody will blame you if you decide to drop out.”
“Sleep … let you know.”
“What are you doing in here! Out!” The nurse crossed her arms and glared.
“I’ll get the troops together.”
“… don’t forget … Cass,” Jack mumbled.
“Not a chance.”
42
After a long, futile, frustrating straight twenty-four-hour shift, Susan had Osey go out front and keep the media focused while she slunk out the back. Huge black thunderheads were rolling in and at four in the afternoon, it was dark as night. Susan crawled into her house, put a Brandenburg concerto on the CD player, cranked the volume up to window-rattling and collapsed on the couch.
Parkhurst and Demarco had gone through the Egelhoff house inch by inch and had found no sand, nothing related to sand, nothing pretending to be sand, nothing remotely similar to sand. She and Parkhurst had questioned campaign manager Todd Haviland, media consultant Leon Massy, general assistant wherever needed Bernie Quaid, press secretary Hadley Cane, and Nora Tallace, personal assistant to Mrs. Garrett. They’d even spoken with Molly Garrett who was so distraught by her husband’s condition she could barely focus on the questions. The cameraman, female interviewer, and all press who’d been present had been tracked down and questioned. Nothing came from any of it. The governor was still in intensive care, his condition still critical, and no one would hazard a guess as to his prognosis. Wait and see, was the physician’s answer to any probing. Osey and Yancy were checking into Mary Shoals, the woman who’d shot the governor.
Susan was drifting along the stream toward sleep when the doorbell rang, the sound drilled right into her tired brain and brought her up fighting for air. It was Sean toting a large, white paper bag.
“You again!”
“And gratifying it is to see you so thrilled about it and all.”
“What’s in the bag?”
“Food. When did you last eat?”
“What is this? You’re always popping up with food. Like some genie.”
“The hotel kindly packed it for me.” He plopped the bag on the coffeetable, turned down the volume on the CD player and started removing clear plastic containers. “Roast pork. Salad. What they called French bread around here that is nothing but disguised Wonder Bread. And—” Like a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat he brought out a huge wedge of chocolate cake.
“What is it you’re trying to get from me?”
“Only bringing you dinner. Just sit. I’ll take care of everything.” He went off to the kitchen and returned with knives, forks, napkins and two plates. He handed her one of each and sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the coffeetable. “Bad day?” He scooped salad on the plates and handed her one.
“You could say that.” She stabbed a cherry tomato and popped it in her mouth.
“I’m sorry about the little girl. I heard she was smothered with a pillow.”
“Fourteen years old and some asshole smothered her. A kid. A funny, smart, silly kid who called herself Moonbeam because she thought Arlene was dorky.” Susan smacked down her fork. “God damn that son of a bitch!”
Sean went in search of wineglasses, filled one, gave it to her, filled the second and took a sip.
“It’s a good thing you aren’t staying long.” She tipped the glass and took a good swallow. “Otherwise, I’d be an alcoholic.”
“Damn right. It’s your heritage, darlin’.” He forked pork medallions from the plastic container. “You think it was a man? The attacker?”
She shrugged. “Who knows. At this point, I don’t think anything.”
“Hey.” He put down his fork and picked up her hand. “It wasn’t your fault.”
“Yes, Sean, it was. It was my fault. I should have protected her.”
“Suse, you had someone standing at her door.”
“Oh yeah, look how effective that was. You got by him.” She clenched her teeth. “God damn it, so did the creep who killed her.”
Sean topped off her glass, put it in her hand, and guided it to her mouth. She took a gulp. “Why the hell didn’t I put two people on her?”
“Susan, I don’t mean to make light of your officers, but I venture to say they don’t have a lot of experience in big bad ways.”
She shot him a look, got ready to hit a defensive stance, then sighed. “Still.”
“If you’d had two people watching her, the killer would have figured a way to get by two of them. If he was determined, he would have found a way.”
Susan jabbed a piece of lettuce.
“Why was she killed?” Sean asked.
“I don’t know.” She reminded herself Sean was press and she shouldn’t get tipsy in front of the press. “I shouldn’t be talking to you.”
“W
eekly magazine,” he said. “I’m not the daily news rushing off to meet the deadline.”
“We’re assuming he was afraid she could identify him.”
“By we, I assume you mean you and Tonto.”
“You’re not funny.”
“You always used to think I was.”
“That was before I knew better.”
“Why wouldn’t he smother her immediately? Why wait two days?”
“Assumption again. This was his first opportunity.” She swirled the wine and watched it circle in the glass.
“There you are, you see. He waited and went in when he found an opening. You couldn’t have done anything.”
“I could have put armed guards with shotguns around her bed. Goddamn it.”
“If he was determined, he’d have found a way.”
“Fourteen, Sean. She was fourteen. I failed her. I failed the department, and the town and—”
“And who?”
“Nobody. I just feel like a failure all around.”
“Daniel? Don’t tell me you’re comparing yourself with your husband. He died four years ago.”
“He was a good guy, Sean.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
She smiled shortly. “Okay. I don’t know what he would have done. I don’t even know what kind of cop he was. We weren’t married long enough for me to learn much about him. It’s just that I’ve been thinking so much about him lately.”
“I know, darlin’. I can see that,” he said gently. “You’re looking back, Susan. You can’t do that forever.”
She sighed. “Sean, do you think I should go home?”
“Absolutely.”
She threw a pillow at him and he ducked.
“Now that that’s out of the way, what’s on your mind?” Sean set the cake in front of her.
“Sand,” she said.
“Sand?” He stuck her fork in her hand and guided it toward the cake. “Like the beaches of home?”
“What else comes to mind?”
“Mr. Sandman. Sands of Iwo Jima. Footprints in the sands of time.”
“I get that one a lot.”
“Is there a prize for the correct answer? You think sand has something to do with the man who attacked her?”
Up in Smoke Page 28