by Susan Rohrer
There was no point in lying. Either way, she was a dead woman. “Eventually, I’ll go into shock. Then a coma. Then I’d probably die.”
Clay cocked his head. “So, interesting. I really don’t have to do anything. You’ll just slip away.”
How could she reach him? Her vision was beginning to blur, but he didn’t need to know that. Perhaps underneath all that bravado, there was some humanity inside, a wounded heart still within reach. “You don’t really want to hurt me, do you?”
Clay looked down. He pinched his lips together. “Not really.” He rose to his feet. “But what am I supposed to do? You’re all in my business. Telling my brother that I was abused, that you saw blood on me, that I have a thing about Marilyn. Come on, what was going to be next? You forced my hand. Just like he did.”
The truth sliced through her. “Frank.”
He slouched against the bar. “I didn’t want to hurt him either. But we don’t always get what we want. Do we?”
A picture flashed through Laurel’s haze.
Frank. Sitting in his office. And Clay. Silhouetted in the doorframe, as Marilyn.
She watched, stunned, as the scene played out before her. It was all so familiar, picking up where that last disturbing dream she’d had about Frank left off. “You went to his office that night. In costume.”
Desperation flashed in Clay’s eyes. “He said he’d meet me.”
“You just wanted money.”
Clay paced, his jaw clenched. “What are you doing? Stop that.”
“You were desperate.”
“I’d been evicted, okay? Do you get that? I was on the street. He wanted me to back Zoring in the morning. Why couldn’t he pay for that?”
The vision resumed, in harrowing detail. “He felt threatened. He pretended to get his checkbook, then pulled out a gun. That gun.” Laurel nodded toward the revolver on the bar. “You went for it.”
Clay strode toward her. “Stop it!”
“You reached for the gun. Frank fired.” She gasped at the look on Frank’s face. “He was so startled that the first chamber was empty. He checked the cylinder and snapped it back into place to fire again, but you—”
“No, no, no...Stop!”
“You grabbed the letter opener. It wasn’t murder. It was raw instinct. To protect yourself. But when he raised the gun again—”
Clay slapped his hands over his ears. “How do you know? You weren’t even there!”
Laurel gasped for breath. She looked at him as squarely as her faltering eyesight would allow. “He shows me. That’s all I can tell you. I see it.”
Joe hung up the phone in Debra’s office. He cradled his face in his hands. Where could Clay have gone? And what had he done with Laurel? It was all so hard to comprehend, and yet it was true.
Debra bustled into her office. She sure looked a lot more put together than he felt.
He rubbed his eyes. “Thank you, Debra.”
“Forget it.” She pushed her door closed.
“No, it’s...” Joe set his hands down. “You’re stepping up for me and I really appreciate it.” Joe pushed back from her desk. “Still can’t believe it was Clay the whole time.”
“You haven’t called anyone else about this, have you?”
He shook his head. “Nope. Just you.”
“Anything on his manager yet?”
“Disconnected,” Joe said. “No forwarding address or number. Not that I can find. And the number on the councilman’s letter to the victims, it was a burner phone. No longer in service.”
She set her handbag down. “Are you sure you want me to call McTier with this?”
Joe barely shrugged. “Someone has to. And I can’t. He’s still my brother.”
“Yeah. As much as I guess I can, I understand.” She reached into her bag and fished out McTier’s card. “They’re going to want to search your place, you know.”
He nodded. “I can’t get tied up in that.” Slowly, he lumbered to his feet. “I’ve got to find her. Somehow.”
“I’ll oversee your apartment search.”
“As a member of the press?” His weary eyes scanned hers.
“As your friend. I’ll give them my key.”
He rustled his rumpled hair. “I forgot you still had one.”
“Funny, how things change.” Debra forced a half smile, then rounded her desk and hit her speakerphone button. “I’ll make sure they don’t trash the place.” She punched in the number that she had there, jotted on McTier’s card.
Joe lingered at the doorjamb as the line rang through.
The detective picked up with a grunt. “Yeah.”
Debra settled into her executive desk chair. “Detective McTier. This is Debra Bernet. I’m with Kickerton Press.”
“How’d you get this number?”
She gave Joe a sly grin. “I heard you were out late last night. I hope I didn’t wake you.”
“Just keep jerking me,” McTier said. “I’m already citing that shooter of yours for impeding an investigation.”
Debra shooed Joe away as she swiveled in her chair. “No, you’re not, Detective. Not actually. And I’m just about to tell you why.”
Laurel’s eyes fluttered to a close. Sleep drew her, pulling her into its bog. Moist, heavy, inviting. She shook her head violently. No. She could not let herself succumb to it, not if she wanted any chance at living, any hope of seeing Grace again.
What must Joe think? She could only hope he’d understood what she’d tried to say in that message. But even if he had, how could he begin to find her? All she could do was pray. And that was getting more difficult with each passing hour. There were no more words, none of her own.
Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death...
The door in the back opened. Then it shut just as quickly. Clay was back. She heard the deadbolt slide back into place.
I fear no evil; for Thou art with me.
It was hard to tell how long Clay had been gone. Standing there in the dark—bound and gagged like that—all sense of time and space blended into a black hole of nothingness.
Clay strode into sight. He set down the newspapers he had bundled under his arm. He loosened her gag and squirted some bottled water into her mouth.
Swallow, she told herself. Swallow as much as you can. He would not give her very much. Too much meant he would have to untie her. He’d have to escort her at gunpoint to that filthy toilet in the back.
The first time, she’d hoped to find a window there. Or something, anything to help her escape. But there had been nothing. Not even a bar of soap to write a message. All she could think to do was leave her fingerprints on the mirror, a strand of her hair on the floor.
Her throat was still so parched. Most of what he’d given her ran down her neck. She shook with fever.
“You made the paper today.” He picked up the day’s edition. “The Times, no less. Not that rag Joe works for. Decent picture. Better days, I guess.”
Clay turned the article in Laurel’s direction. Her eyes settled on the headline: WARRANT OUT ON COUNCILMAN’S EX.
“He knows, Clay.”
Clay waved a hand. “My brother is clueless.”
“I’m talking about God.”
“God?” He spat. “You’re talking to me about God again? What does he care? I mean, look at you. You’re a whimpering disaster. Your husband leaves you, completely trashes you. You lost your daughter. You live in that dumpy neighborhood. You’re a train wreck physically. Please.”
Clay’s gaze turned to the article on former Father Tom Zoring. “And get this: ‘Home Church Employs Fallen Priest.’ ” He shook his head with disdain. “Ever ask yourself why God takes better care of the pedophiles than you?”
“He’s trying to take care of you now.”
Clay slapped the paper down. “Shut up! Shut your lying mouth!”
“I’ll stand up for you, Clay. I’ll tell them what happened.”
Side to side, he paced in fron
t of her. “Yeah, well, you’re a joke. A religious psycho. You know that? You’re just like him.” He stabbed a finger at Tom Zoring’s picture in the paper.
She labored for air. Every breath was an effort now. Much longer and she wouldn’t survive it.
“My brother, Joe. He said he’d stand up for me, too. And we can see how great that worked out. Well, I’m not some snot-nosed runt anymore. I’m not buying that load this time.”
“There’s a reason I was shown these things. I can help.”
He grimaced. “You just want your insulin fix.”
“Please, Clay...”
“You think I’m stupid?” He whirled at her. “No. Absolutely not. This is between me and Zoring. You got that?”
“Where are you?”
As muffled as Debra sounded over his cell, Joe couldn’t miss the urgency in her voice. He stepped forward in the ticket line and cupped his spare hand around the phone. “Don’t repeat it, but I’m at the bus depot.”
“Why there?”
Joe checked around himself. It was always so unsettling to make private calls in such a public place. People had nothing better to do in line than listen in on other people’s conversations. He stepped closer to the ticket counter. “I don’t know. It’s a stab in the dark. McTier’s tech heard buses on Laurel’s message, so I thought I’d try it. Where are you?”
“Your place. Just outside it at the moment. McTier’s still processing everything, but I thought you’d want to know what they found.”
“Oh, no—”
“It’s not good, Joe. There was a white halter-top dress and gloves.”
Joe hung his head. “His costume.”
“Looks like he tried to clean them, but there are remnants of stains. They think it’s blood, Joe. Already sent it to the lab.”
“He got beaten up, after that night. Possible it’s from that.” A guy behind Joe tapped him to keep up with the line.
“Let’s hope,” Debra said. “Better run.”
“Okay. Thanks.” Joe ended the call and pocketed his phone. This was worse than bad. What was that—that thing Clay had said about his bottle of hydrogen peroxide? Something about using it up on a dress. Maybe about losing a second one. No, what Clay had said was that he couldn’t afford to lose another one.
That meant he’d already lost one, before he’d been beaten.
Joe’s mind reeled. None of this made sense, yet it was the only thing that added up. Somehow, Clay must have talked his way into Laurel’s apartment. How hard would that have been? Laurel would have found his name familiar. As big as her heart was, she probably would have welcomed him in, never suspecting that he’d abduct her and frame her for the councilman’s murder.
A wave of nausea hit Joe. Laurel probably wouldn’t have been a target at all if he hadn’t told Clay those things she’d said, all those things she couldn’t have possibly known. It probably scared Clay into thinking she’d hear something else, something incriminating.
The man behind Joe cleared his throat again. It was Joe’s turn. He stepped up to the window and slid a picture of Clay toward the transit clerk.
The clerk glanced at the photo with a dour expression. “Haven’t seen him.”
Joe took the photo back. “Anybody dressed like Marilyn Monroe? He’s an impersonator.”
The clerk returned a glassy stare. “Still no.”
Joe shifted his weight. “Who else works this window?”
“I wouldn’t know.” The clerk tapped his fingers on the counter. “Come back tonight, check second shift. But if you’ll excuse me, this line isn’t getting any shorter.”
Joe sunk into his car seat, outside the bus depot. Why he’d even bothered to come here, he had no idea. There were buses all over the city; they could be anywhere. It was ridiculously overwhelming. What had made him think he’d find anything at this stab in the dark place? And even if Laurel had called from someplace near a completely random bus, there was no reason to think she was still there.
An even more troubling thought struck. If Laurel was so tight with the Almighty, why had this happened to her? Why hadn’t she been warned? If God cared at all about Laurel, a little help didn’t seem too much to ask. Even if it meant talking to him.
It was no use. Even Laurel had admitted how hard it could be to distinguish those whispers she heard. She’d said that the first time they met, out on that park bench. That time she’d seemed to be chatting it up with God so freely. The memory of her face filled his mind. Her golden brown hair, the depth in those aquamarine eyes. The sound of her voice.
Sometimes it’s just a pull I feel...
That was what she’d said. It had all seemed so far-fetched then. So otherworldly. Joe dragged his nails along his jeans. Why couldn’t he feel that pull she was talking about?
It’s like I’m being turned so I see something...in a way I normally wouldn’t. That’s when it’s easiest to ignore.
Joe closed his eyes. Why couldn’t he see what Laurel saw? Laurel could be dying. She could be dead for all he knew, and at his brother’s hand. Yet, there was no voice, no pull. Only the inky blackness of his eyelids.
Help me.
Joe opened his eyes. Had he even said those words? And who had he expected to hear them? Who was he to break the silence after so many years?
Wait.
He froze. No. This was crazy. This was what happened when you got sleep deprived. You start talking to yourself. You start hearing voices out of nowhere, like those derelicts in the park.
Watch.
It was so faint. Barely a single word. Just a thought was all it was. Probably his own thought.
Still, Joe turned. He let out a moan. Another city bus came to a stop. A piercing beep went off repeatedly as it lowered its hydraulic ramp. An amputee in a chair wheeled himself on board. Fine. The bus was helping the disabled vet, but it sure wasn’t helping him.
Joe banged the heel of his hand against his forehead. This was madness. Complete and utter insanity. He started his car.
Slowly, the bus rumbled away, revealing nothing but a trashy, boarded up club across the street. This really was a lousy part of town. What was he even doing here?
Joe slammed his steering wheel. “Why won’t you help me? You should at least help her!” He curled his arms over his head. Somehow, he had to get a grip on himself. He had to face facts. He was totally on his own, looking for a needle in a field full of haystacks.
He rested his chin atop his hands, limply hanging over the steering wheel. Blankly, he stared across the street.
A chill ran through Joe. The glass on the poster case outside the club was broken. The poster itself was half shredded away, but enough remained intact to stall his breath.
Marilyn.
As fast as his legs would carry him, Joe darted through traffic. A sedan squealed to a stop, barely missing him. The driver laid on his horn and shouted after Joe. “Watch it, Moron!”
Joe just kept running. He threw himself against the club’s door and jerked at the handle. Locked. He pounded the door furiously. “Clay!”
Joe whirled, his heart racing. He wedged his fingers between the plywood boarding and the club’s front window, then yanked with all his might. Please, God...
As he pulled the plywood down, a shout sounded in the distance.
“Hey! Police! Stop!”
Joe glanced down the block. A beat cop was sprinting his way. Joe grabbed a trashcan and hurled it through the exposed window. Barehanded, he thrashed at the remaining glass. A jagged shard sliced into his palm, but that would have to wait.
Joe stepped into the pitch blackness of the club. He narrowed his gaze. How could he get his eyes to adjust to this darkness? Then, there. Across the room. Were it not for the light streaming in from that broken window, he wouldn’t have seen her at all. An ache ripped through Joe’s chest. Was he too late?
Laurel lay motionless, in a heap on the tile floor.
A gun cocked behind Joe. “Hold it right there.”
>
Panting, Joe raised his hands and turned to the cop. “Get an ambulance. Now.”
seventeen
Shana Fischer stood at her bedroom window, overlooking the back yard. Across the grassy expanse, Grace slouched on her swing. Not a year ago, Frank had put up that swing himself. Grace had loved it so. She’d lean back as she propelled herself higher and higher. Now, Grace just sat there, listlessly twisting side to side.
What must it be like for normal children? Just how was it for those little darlings who grew up untouched by tragedy, in normal families with moms and dads and sisters and brothers, maybe a little dog or two? Shana certainly couldn’t claim to know. Not after that horrible day when her world came crashing down, when she’d been no more than Grace’s age.
It was hard to tell if she’d really felt anything since. They’d said the pain would go away in time. The shock of losing her parents would dissipate. She would adjust to life without them. The numbness of her mind would fade. And it had. Somewhat.
She couldn’t blame Grace for not wanting to talk about the death of her father. She was hardly ready to talk about Frank’s demise herself, what with so many unanswered questions. Yet, how was she to ever know the truth that evaded her?
Maybe it was best this way. Perhaps it would be better not to know at all than to face what could be a devastating reality. Besides, how could she even begin to answer Grace honestly, especially if the facts were what she most feared?
And now, Laurel.
If this situation could have developed in a more sordid way, Shana couldn’t imagine it. How would Grace recover from all of this?
Shana rubbed her thumb into her palm. Grace looked so limp out there. She wasn’t even twisting on her swing anymore. She just sat there, her little head hung down, digging the toe of her shoe into that worn place in the grass. History was repeating itself all over again, whether Shana liked it or not.
Helen tapped lightly at the door.
Shana turned.
“They’ve called again,” Helen said.
Shana turned back to the window. “The answer is still no.”