Loving Constance

by Lyn Cote

“Did you get what you needed?” Pansy asked, out of breath.

  “I did. The setting is the way he described it. Now I just have to find out who set the fire.” Connie gave a mock shrug. “Do you have trouble with gangs in this area?”

  “You mean like street gangs?”

  Connie nodded.

  “No, I don’t think so, but maybe.” Pansy’s mouth twisted and she stared out into space.

  Connie waited to see what the woman was thinking about, hoping it would be of help.

  “Maybe this isn’t important—” Pansy finally spoke again “—maybe it means nothing at all. But the day after your client went through the neighborhood asking people what they’d seen the night of the fire, Cudahy had the back rent he owed me—in cash, all of it. In fact, he’s paid up now through December. And that’s odd because he just gets Social Security and a small pension. It may mean something or—”

  “Hey, Beautiful!” Chuck hailed her as he pulled up to the curb and parked his red vintage convertible VW.

  Connie turned and glared at him. That’s what I get for asking him for a favor.

  Chuck hopped out of the VW. “How about a bite to eat? I’m off for the weekend and Sheila’s working again tonight.”

  Connie thanked Pansy, who was grinning knowingly at her, and stalked down the steps. “Chuck, I’m just about to drive into the city.”

  “To your friend’s house?”

  “Yes.”

  “You still gotta eat.” He gave her one of his charming smiles. “You’re not going to let me forage on my own, are you?”

  From the end of the street, the silence exploded. Was it gunshots? Both Connie and Chuck swung toward the sound. A figure bolted from the corner tavern.

  “They’re robbing the liquor store again!” Pansy exclaimed from the porch.

  Chuck pulled his gun from his shoulder holster. He started running down the short block toward the tavern. “Police! Stop! Police!”

  The robber turned.

  Connie saw a gun in his hand. And screamed.

  Chapter Nine

  Two more shots cracked. Chuck flew backward as if heaved by an unseen hand. He hit the broken sidewalk. Connie sprinted forward, her heart threatening to burst from her. “Chuck!” she screamed. “Chuck!”

  He groaned.

  Connie reached him and then looked up toward the shooter. She saw the robber’s back disappear in the distance around another building.

  “I need…get him.” Chuck tried to rise.

  “That doesn’t matter now.” She dropped down beside Chuck and pushed him back. A hole had burned through his white shirt near his shoulder and blood had flowed around it. More blood oozed up from the wound. Connie’s head swam. Chuck lost consciousness.

  “Is he hurt?” Pansy’s shout penetrated the roaring buzz in Connie’s head.

  “Yes! Call 911!” With help on the way, Connie could concentrate. Her first-aid training flooded back, banishing the fuzziness that had swamped her. Lord, help me do the right things. He wouldn’t have been here if I hadn’t called him.

  She shrugged out of her lightweight summer blazer and folded it into quarters, then pressed it down over the wound to staunch the bleeding. She closed her eyes, visualizing the wound. The blood had oozed, not gushed. Thank you, Lord, it didn’t hit an artery.

  People crowded around them. Connie ignored their questions—and prayed. Chuck’s face whitened before her eyes. From behind, Pansy wheezed up, unsteady, pushing through the crowd. “They’re on their way. They’re coming.”

  Connie nodded, still breathing hard herself. When the blood seeped through the layers of cloth, she repositioned the blazer. So much blood. So much. Come on, come on. Lord, where is that ambulance?

  Then the whine of a siren. A screech of brakes. Doors slamming. Two EMT’s—one male, one female—shouldered their way through the crowd. They dropped down beside her. “Where’s he hit?” the woman asked her.

  “Near the shoulder, above the heart and lungs.” Over Connie’s head, thunder grumbled, giving voice to her agitation.

  The male EMT pried Connie’s bloody hands off the red-soaked blazer and lifted it. Inspecting the wound, he spoke medical jargon to his partner. He applied a pressure bandage to the wound while the other started an IV.

  Connie crawled backward, feeling the knees in her pantyhose rip and shred on the old sidewalk. She couldn’t rise. She stayed on her knees, her head bowed, her hands flat on the rough concrete. The world swayed and expanded underneath her. Big fat raindrops plopped around her, sending up the smell of dust.

  Two more EMT’s appeared and strapped Chuck onto a rigid stretcher. They carried him away. The female EMT helped Connie up by the shoulder.

  “I’m fine,” Connie muttered, trying to stiffen her rubbery legs and arms. Cold raindrops pelted her back, her head. “How is he? Will he be all right?”

  “I don’t think it will be fatal.” The woman turned Connie toward the street. “We’re taking you with us.”

  “I’m all right.” Connie shook her head. The world became a tilting carnival ride. Lightning crackled in the distance. She clung to the EMT’s arm.

  “You’re in shock.”

  Connie couldn’t argue with that. And besides, she wanted to go with Chuck, had to be with him, make sure he was okay. Why did I tell him where I was? He wouldn’t have been here if I hadn’t opened my mouth. I should have known he wouldn’t take no for an answer.

  Rain-drenched, Rand jogged through the E.R. entrance of the Taperville Hospital. He halted and gripped the cool edge of the reception counter. Wild panic was making his heart pound. Focusing, he snatched at the tail ends of his frayed composure.

  This is why I wanted Chuck to go back to college. I knew something like this would happen. Pulling out his badge, he flashed it at the receptionist. “Taperville P.D. One of our men—my brother, Chuck O’Neill. Shot. How is he?”

  She ran her finger down a list in front of her. “He only arrived minutes ago. He’s been taken to X-ray. Please take a seat—”

  “Rand,” Connie called him from a chair along the wall in the sparsely populated waiting area.

  “Connie?” He turned and hurried to her. “What are you doing…what happened to you?” Dried blood spotted and smeared one of her fashionable suits. The knees of her stockings were ripped out. She’d obviously rubbed her face with her hands and left trails of blood and grime there. She looked totally out of character and utterly defeated. He stifled the urge to gather her into his arms. “You’re a mess.”

  Big tears gathered at the corners of her eyes and trailed down her grimy cheeks. He sat down beside her and clasped her sticky hands in his. This can’t have anything to do with Chuck. They couldn’t have been together. No. “Were you in an accident?”

  “No, no…” She swallowed sobs. “Your brother. Your brother…shot.”

  Rand swore and pulled her close. “Tell me you weren’t with Chuck when he was shot. Tell me.”

  She rubbed her face against his chest. “I saw it happen. It’s all my fault….” Tears overwhelmed her voice.

  He pressed his face into her mussed hair, smelling faint perspiration born of fear. “No.”

  This was worse than he thought. His brother shot. This woman… I wanted her to see life as it is, but not like this. And what does she mean it was her fault? What have you been up to, Connie?

  “Rand!” his mother’s voice hailed him from the entrance and he looked up. “Where’s Chuck?” His mother was pale and gripping his father’s hand. “They called us. They say he’s been shot.”

  Rand stood, pulling Connie up with him. His arm hooked under hers, keeping her close. He faced his mother and father. “I haven’t seen him yet. He’s in X-ray.”

  “What happened?” His mother rushed toward him and grasped the hand he held out to her. His father hovered behind her.

  Connie pulled away from Rand. “It’s all my fault. He drove up to talk to me. We were…talking on the sidewalk and—”


  Rand took her elbow in his. “Whatever happened—it’s not your fault.”

  Connie looked at him and then continued in a tight-squeezed voice. “A man robbed the liquor store. It was on the corner just a few houses away. Chuck shouted for him to stop.” She covered her quivering mouth with her hands. “He turned and shot at Chuck.” Tears spilled from Connie’s brown eyes.

  “Rand’s right.” His mother patted her arm. “You couldn’t have known someone was going to rob the liquor store.”

  Connie shuddered and wiped her mascara-smudged cheeks with her fingertips. “I—”

  “Are you the O’Neill family?” the receptionist called to them. “The doctor will see you now. This volunteer will take you to him.”

  Rand’s pulse jerked and sped at an even faster tempo. He wanted to say something comforting to his parents, to Connie. Words failed him. Deep inside, he yelled incoherently at God. Anger, rage, outrage.

  Connie moved to sit back down, but Rand pulled her along with them. She gave him a startled glance and then hurried to keep up with him.

  In silence, Connie stood side-by-side with Rand at her condo’s front door. Back at the hospital, though Rand had offered his services, his mother had insisted that she and their dad would stay the night with Chuck.

  Before Connie and Rand left, Chuck had regained consciousness. He would be released in twenty-four hours. No complications were anticipated. The bullet had gone clean through, hitting nothing vital. Connie could breathe again.

  “Thanks for the ride home,” Connie murmured, unlocking her door. “I’ll get a neighbor to drive me to my car tomorrow.”

  “No problem.” Rand gave her his shuttered look.

  “I wish…I wish…” She couldn’t finish her sentence, I wish this hadn’t happened. That was understood. She looked up into Rand’s face, so near hers. What she read there arrested her.

  Unlike Chuck’s, Rand’s face never looked cheerful. But now the lines of his face had deepened into pitched gloom. Connie recalled the other time he’d looked like this—that evening in his kitchen when he’d blurted out his wife had been murdered.

  I can’t let him go home alone like this. “Come in.” She pulled at his arm. “Come in.”

  “No.” He turned to go.

  “Yes.” She gripped his sleeve and tugged him toward her.

  “I’m going to the station and see if they’ve apprehended the suspect.”

  “You can call them.” She cast around for a reason for him to stay. “I don’t want to be alone.” That’s the truth. And I don’t want you spending a sleepless night at the department or home alone until… She gave his sleeve another pull, refusing to release him.

  Unexpectedly, he permitted her to draw him inside and lock the door behind them. “For a bit,” he mumbled.

  She’d persuaded him to stay. Now what was she to do with him? Connie led him through the foyer to the living room which opened onto her deck. “Why don’t you call in and get the information you want? I have to go get out of these clothes.”

  Her blouse and skirt, spotted and stained with a murky brownish-maroon, had stiffened where the blood had spattered and smeared. The sticky-starchy sensation rubbed against her, stirring her mind to flashes of Chuck’s body jerking with the impact of the bullet, the sound of his gun clattering to the sidewalk, her throat raw from screaming… She shoved these sensations away. “I’ll…I’ll be right out.”

  She escaped up the steps to her ivory and mauve bedroom and bath suite. The door had hardly shut behind her and she began stripping off the foul clothing. She rolled all of it, even her underthings, into a ball and shoved them into a corner of the room. These rags would all go into a trash bag tomorrow. She headed into the shower and twisted on the faucet.

  Stepping under the warm spray, she let the water sluice away the awful memory of Chuck’s blood and its traces on her skin. She glanced down and saw its stain flowing away, down the drain. She closed her eyes, willing away stark images that had flooded back.

  Within minutes, she walked down the steps wearing a pair of blue shorts and a white shirt. Her still-wet hair hung over one shoulder, occasionally dripping onto the light berber carpet under her bare feet. She drew in a deep sigh. “I’m starved….” She halted. Rand had disappeared. She took in air again, steadying her jumping nerves. “Rand?”

  “Out here.” His voice came from the deck.

  Reassurance swamped her. He hadn’t left. She hurried down the rest of the steps and out to join him. Under her bare feet, the deck boards were still damp from the recent rain.

  He stood alone, his stiff back to her. In that moment, she saw that this was the essence of Rand O’Neill—a man alone in the world with his back to all. If Troy had truly betrayed Annie or turned up dead, would this being separated, feeling distance from others be her reaction, her future?

  To be rid of this presentiment, she shook herself, fanning her wet hair around her shoulders, flinging droplets that fell and clung to her face and bare arms. “I don’t have a beautiful view like you do,” she softened her voice, coming up behind him.

  He turned to her. “They haven’t caught him—” his voice was devoid of life “—but they’ve finished interviewing all the witnesses.”

  “He was wearing a ski mask.” Connie offered this pitiful fact, shrinking from the way Rand was looking at her.

  “Yes, but he had a distinctive voice.” Rand’s gaze was glazed, glacial. “The liquor store owner thinks he knows who it is.”

  “Good.” She tucked her cold hands under her arms. “I hope they find him and quick.”

  “I’m sorry you had to go through this.” Rand sent his words at her, shards of ice.

  “I’m more sorry for Chuck.” Connie stared at her bare toes that had curled up, chilled by Rand’s stark voice.

  “Chuck knew what he was doing when he became a cop. I warned him enough times.”

  The frigid cynicism of Rand’s tone looped a tight cinch around her heart. This man had a reason to feel the way he did. When his wife was murdered, he’d suffered a terrible loss. One he obviously hadn’t put behind him. This is none of my business. But thinking that was easy. Acting on it was hard.

  Make that impossible. Connie dropped her arms. “Come inside. Neither of us ate. I’ll throw together one of those bags of frozen stir-fry.”

  “No, I—”

  “Let’s just eat a bite and then you can go home and I’ll go to bed.” Somehow she couldn’t let him go without giving him something, even if it was only frozen stir-fry. “I’m not the domestic type, but I can follow the directions. Come on.” She touched the sleeve of his wrinkled shirt and glanced up.

  In the glow from her neighbor’s patio light, his eyes still glinted dangerously, ominously bleak.

  She leaned closer to him for only a moment. “Don’t leave me alone yet,” she whispered and then released his sleeve.

  His unnerving gaze flickered over her and he moved forward. She led him back into her living room. He followed her, but unwillingly.

  “Make yourself comfortable,” she recited the polite phrase. To put him at ease or herself? She made herself be honest. His being here ignited a physical tension she knew he must be aware of also. Why this was, she refused to probe. She needed to defuse this intensity that crackled between them. Then she could send him home in good conscience.

  He rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt and then heaved himself onto one of the stools at the kitchen bar. Ignoring the way her mind tracked his every move, she busied herself with the frying pan and oil. Soon the fragrances of oil and soy sauce filled the room.

  “Aren’t you going to ask me anything about Troy?” he goaded her, mocking her.

  Connie detected an urgent undercurrent in Rand’s tone. What was it? It sounded like it was prompted by more than the emotional distress caused by Chuck’s being wounded.

  “Well?” he said, needling her.

  Switching the burner lower, she turned to him. “What do you want me
to ask you?”

  He switched topics again. “Do you think a meal will send me home happy?”

  She eyed him, again sorting through his motives. What do you want from me, Rand? “The doctor said Chuck will be all right.”

  “He could be dead.”

  “So could I.” The terror she felt when Chuck had been shot jarred her again. She shivered, but lifted her chin. She wouldn’t let Rand take his emotional backlash out on her.

  “Yes, you could be.” His voice was harsh. “Both you and my brother could be lying cold on slabs in the morgue now.”

  “Your point being?” she asked sharply.

  “Have you finally begun to see reality?” He hunched forward, his elbows on the counter. “Your old friend Troy may eventually turn up. But when he does, he isn’t going to come out squeaky-clean, perfect like you think he is. He wasn’t kidnapped.”

  She took the hot pan off the burner and faced him. Then she voiced her question aloud. “What brought this on?”

  “People don’t think,” he said without looking at her. “They go through life with blindfolds on. They don’t even realize they’ve been walking on the edge of a cliff until it’s too late. Your friend Annie ignored big flashing neon signs that should have alerted her that something was very wrong with her marriage.”

  The unseen connection between Rand and her had become a battle front. Waves of anger emanated from him, surging against her, fast and hot. “What signs?” she demanded, trying to make him deal in facts, not fury.

  He ignored her. “He buys an expensive truck they don’t need. Gets a post office box in another town. Diverts all their mail to it. Abandons the truck he’s only made two payments on right when it’s about to be repossessed. When the truck is released from the impound, it disappears.”

  “What is your point?” Connie moved toward him.

  “You still don’t get it, do you?” He stood up, shoving back the stool.

  “I get that you’re upset because your brother was shot today. I get that.”

  “You’re so naive you can’t even believe that good old Uncle Lou might be hand in glove with the mob—”

  “What’s your point?” She flattened her palms on the counter between them.