by Eileen Wilks
"That's what I thought." She slid him another glance, as if checking out his reaction. "Danny is my cousin." She had her key out and was reaching for the door.
"The one you grew up with?"
"Yes, he … that's odd."
The door had swung inward the moment she touched the knob, spilling dim yellow light onto the porch.
Jacob acted instinctively, shoving in front of her.
"Jacob." He heard the fear in her voice. "If – if someone's in there, we should call the police."
"Good idea. My cell phone is in the car." With one hand, he shoved the door open the rest of the way. With the other he kept her from moving forward. "Claire. Stay here."
"Danny's in there."
"Maybe. I'll find out. Go call the police." He listened intently, but heard nothing.
A window directly opposite the front door looked out on a small atrium lit by small floodlights. There was a hall at one end of the entry, a doorway at the other. More light came from that doorway. "Stay here," he repeated.
She didn't argue. She didn't obey him, either, but at least she stayed behind him.
Jacob reached the doorway and stopped dead.
It had been a pleasant living area. The walls were a cool white that showed off the dark wood of shelves; there was glass and brass and paler, unstained wood. Deep-cushioned sofas the blue of the ocean faced each other across a celery-colored carpet.
Now it was chaos. A tall entertainment unit had been toppled, spilling its contents helter-skelter across that pale carpet. A lamp had been hurled into the brick fireplace, a glass-topped table smashed, leaving shards of glass sparkling in the light from the remaining lamp.
There was blood.
Blood, splattered obscenely on one white wall. Trailing in a sad, wavering line across that pale carpet. Leading to the body sprawled across the arched doorway at the other end of the room.
Claire made a choked noise caught between a scream and a sob. A name that strangled in her throat.
They'd found Danny.
* * *
Chapter 7
«^»
The surgical waiting room was beige. Carpet, couch and chairs were the color of wet sand; the end tables were blond wood, the walls off-white. A few spots of color sprouted, germ-like, to disturb the room's antiseptic beigeness. The lamp on the table was orange. The covers on the flock of limp magazines scattered around held more secret colonies of color.
The scrubs on the surgeon who'd just entered were blue. He was speaking to an older couple who had been waiting here when she and Jacob arrived. The man was stout, with a shiny bald spot on the top of his head and a stoic expression. He held his wife's hand tightly. She was plump and pale, with beauty-shop hair, a crisp green dress and the dried tracks of tears on her cheeks.
Only serious injury sent people into surgery after midnight.
Danny had been in surgery for… Claire's eyes drifted to the clock on the wall directly above the surgeon's head.
Only forty-five minutes? No, the clock must be broken. Surely hours had passed since she had come here to wait … with Jacob.
He hadn't left her side since they found Danny, bloody and beaten, in her home. He sat beside her now, answering the questions put to him by the police detective. Claire wasn't listening. She had already answered those same questions, and more.
Jacob had quietly taken charge when necessary, helping her thread the paperwork maze once they reached the hospital. Quiet the rest of the time, but always right beside her, his presence as soothing as the strong silence of a mountain. He'd even taken care of her cat – or tried to.
She glanced at his hand. Three raw stripes decorated the back of it. Sheba had rebuked Jacob for trying to catch her, then escaped when the paramedics arrived.
It was stupid to be worrying about her cat. Sheba could take care of herself for one night. But when Claire pushed those thoughts aside, she started thinking about Danny again, lying on the operating table with a piece of his skull removed…
The woman in the green dress gave a little cry. Claire's gaze darted to her. She didn't mean to intrude, but, selfishly and superstitiously, she wanted the woman to learn that their wait had ended happily, as if that would be a preview of the moment when Danny's surgeon came to talk to Claire.
The woman clasped her hands together over her mouth. She was crying. But the man was grinning, slapping the surgeon on the back.
Their news had been good.
"Claire? Did you hear the question?"
"What?" Claire blinked, focusing on the woman who'd spoken. Jacqueline Muldrow was tall and thin, with black hair cut close to her skull, a strong face and a Hershey's bar complexion – smooth, rich chocolate. She was utterly lacking in vanity. Claire doubted that Jackie's curly lashes had ever come within blinking distance of a mascara wand. She'd been Claire's best friend since the eighth grade, but Jackie wasn't here as a friend tonight. She was here as Sergeant Muldrow, the detective who had helped put Ken Lawrence behind bars six years ago.
Claire prayed she could do that again. Quickly. "Sorry, Jackie, I wasn't listening."
"Other than the letter you gave me, has Ken Lawrence made any attempt to contact you since he was released?"
"No. Danny said—" She had to stop and swallow. "He said there was a rose, a red rose, on the porch this morning. I told you that."
Jackie's eyes softened. "Sugar, men have been strewing flowers in your path ever since you got tits. A rose on your porch doesn't prove anything."
"But it was a red rose. No note, just the single rose. It was him. You know that, Jackie. You know he always used to bring me one red rose." One perfect rose, because their love was perfect. Because they were meant to be one. She shivered.
Jacob took her hand, the gesture at odds with his crisp, detached voice. "The court won't care what the sergeant knows, Claire. She needs proof."
"I know. I know that, and a rose isn't proof. And the letter he sent was printed and unsigned. But it was him." Her hand tightened on his. Ken had attacked Danny, had nearly killed him. And it was her fault. "When Danny wakes up, he'll be able to identify Ken."
Jackie made a noncommittal sound. Jacob didn't say anything.
Claire bit her lip. The older couple was leaving, the man's arm around his wife. The surgeon had already vanished through the door marked Hospital Personnel Only.
They'd had good news. She would, too. "Danny will wake up."
"He's got a good surgeon."
Claire grabbed hold of hope as quickly as it was tossed out. "Yes, you said he was supposed to be one of the best."
When they'd reached the hospital soon after the ambulance, the emergency room doctor had briefed her quickly. With a depressed skull fracture and a punctured lung, Danny's need for surgery had been immediate and acute. There had been no time to choose a surgeon, but Jacob had checked out the neurosurgeon on call.
"Even once Danny wakes up," Jackie said tactfully, "he may not remember the attack. Head injuries are funny."
Claire tried not to think about all the ways head injuries could be "funny." Danny might not remember other things, like how to drive a car or tie his shoes. She released Jacob's hand and pushed to her feet. "We'll have to wait and see, won't we?"
"In the meantime, I can talk to Ken Lawrence." Jackie stood and slipped her notebook into a pocket in her wrinkled blazer. "See if he has an alibi."
Jacob rose. He was only a couple of inches taller than Jackie. "Has the weapon been found?"
"I'll check with the guys on scene, and let you know. But don't get your hopes up. Even the most reckless perps know about fingerprints."
"Ken's not reckless," Claire said flatly. "He's crazy."
"Hold on." Jackie held up one long, blunt-nailed hand. "Lawrence is the obvious suspect, but we can't close the book on other possibilities, not yet. Danny could have enemies of his own, or he might have surprised a thief."
"Come on, Jackie, you know it was Ken! That wasn't a regular break-in. No
thing was taken, and the living room was trashed." As if Danny had tried to fight Ken.
She'd told him – oh, she'd told him not to.
"Hey." Jackie caught her shoulders in a quick, one-armed hug. "Do I tell you how to make money for your clients? You do your job, and I'll do mine. If it was Lawrence, I'll get him. Don't worry about that. But I have to keep an open mind, or I might miss something. Has Danny made anyone mad lately?"
She shrugged. "You know Danny. Everyone likes him."
"Mmm. I sent a patrol officer to speak to his father."
"Fine. If he can get Uncle Lou to answer the door, maybe he'll come see how his son is." Claire's mouth twisted. "He didn't answer the phone when I called. It's Friday night. He's probably passed out."
"I guess Danny and his father haven't been getting along."
"No worse than usual."
"But he doesn't usually move in with you. His father kick him out?"
"You think – no. No, you're way off base. Uncle Lou can be a mean drunk, but he's mean with words, not his fists."
"I take it Danny isn't working."
"No. He's started going to AA, Jackie, but it's going to take time. No one wants to take a chance on someone with his employment history. When he's been sober longer—"
"That's just like you," a belligerent male voice said. "Tryin' to blame the boy's screwups on booze. Can't admit it's your fault can you? All your fault."
She jerked and turned to the door. And sighed. "Uncle Lou."
Jacob had guessed the newcomer's identity before Claire spoke. The man's features were a blurred and ruined male version of hers, and his hair had probably once been the same flaming red. His bloodshot eyes gave him the look of an angry boar, an impression heightened by the graying bristles on his cheeks and chin.
He brought the stink of stale beer in with him. "Don't want me here, do you? Didn't even have the courtesy to call me, let me know my boy's in surgery with his head bashed in." His mood shifted with alcohol-slippery suddenness into tears. "Danny. My poor Danny."
"I called," Claire said quietly. "You didn't hear the phone ring."
"You've always been bad for him. Taking him away from me, settin' him against me…" He shifted back to anger. "Meddling bitch. You put him here. You and your—"
"Be careful," Jacob said, his voice icy. "Better yet, be quiet."
He squinted sullenly at Jacob. "Who're you?"
Claire's cop friend moved between them. "Mr. McGuire, I'm Sergeant Muldrow. Would you mind answering some questions?" With a deft application of official courtesy, she steered him out into the hall.
Jacob would rather have hit the man, but the sergeant's technique was probably better. Claire was pale, her skin tight under haunted eyes. She didn't need a scene. What she did need was someone who understood all this emotional business. Someone who could help.
Unfortunately all she had at the moment was him. "Are you all right?"
"Family." Her grimace may have been meant as a smile. "They can be the very devil, can't they? Uncle Lou is a trial at the best of times."
"What happened was not your fault."
"Wasn't it?" She lifted stark eyes to his. "I knew Ken might come looking for me. He's supposed to be okay now. He got treatment while he was in prison, but I can't make myself believe in his 'recovery.' His letter scared me, and I ran off. But I left Danny there…" Her lips quivered. "Dammit, I told him to call the cops if Ken came around. I told him."
She was blaming herself, and he had no idea how to get through to her. "You aren't responsible for what Lawrence did."
"Maybe not, but I know Danny. He has this idea that he owes me. I've helped him sometimes, sure. But the fact is, I owe him, not the other way around. Uncle Lou is right. I was bad for Danny, back when we were kids. I…" She shook her head. "Never mind. You don't want to hear a lot of ancient history."
"It won't hurt me to listen." He might not know how to go about offering any real comfort, but he could listen. "Why do you think you were bad for Danny?"
"Because I was." She passed a shaky hand over her hair, which had lost its neat waves when they rode with the top down. It rioted quietly around her face now, making his palms itch with the urge to touch it.
He put his hands into his pockets. "When you were a young hell-raiser, you mean?"
"I told you that, didn't I?" She managed a smile, but it slid away quickly. "When I was a teenager I put my mother through hell. And I dragged Danny right along with me."
"He's responsible for his own choices."
She shook her head. "He's two years younger than me, more like a kid brother than a cousin. He'd always run tame in our house … well, you've seen his father. Danny had problems enough of his own. I should have tried to keep him out of trouble. Instead … just before I turned seventeen, my mother remarried and I ran away from home. Danny went with me." Her voice caught. "That's when he started drinking."
"Your folks are divorced?" There was a tug, hard and specific, of understanding. He knew what divorce could do to kids.
"No, my father died when I was fourteen. My mother was devastated. Grief sent her inside herself, and I felt – oh, invisible. Wild with grief at first … my father and I had been close. You might say I didn't handle it well." Her smile caught and held this time. "If you were given to gross understatement."
"Fourteen is a rough age. You can't date or drive, but you aren't a kid, either. You don't have a clue what you want to be – other than not fourteen anymore."
Her eyes brightened with curiosity. "I have a hard time picturing you unsure of your goals, even at fourteen."
"I knew what I wanted to be. I also knew it wasn't a practical goal."
"Who told you it wasn't practical?" She sounded indignant on behalf of that long-gone boy.
"No one." Jacob was pleased. She was thinking of something other than her cousin now. Maybe he didn't know much about comforting, but he was distracting her. "I figured it out myself. I wanted to be a flying ace – a World War One flying ace. Or a member of the French Underground in the Second World War. Or a cavalry officer at the Battle of Waterloo."
She chuckled. "I have to agree – those weren't practical goals. Had a taste for blood, history and heroing, did you?"
"Hero isn't a verb."
"You know what I mean. You wanted to go back to times when we thought we knew who the good guys and the bad guys were. You wanted to be one of the good guys."
"Fourteen is the age for that sort of thing." He shifted, uncomfortable with talking about himself. "What did you want to be back then?"
"Aside from not-fourteen, you mean?" Her smile came easier now. "I'm afraid most of my goals were negative, centered around what I didn't want to be. Like a cheerleader or a model or a beauty queen."
His eyebrows lifted. "I'm no expert on teenage girls, but I seem to remember a number of them wanting those things."
"Maybe I would have, too, if my mother hadn't wanted them so much. She was always trying to talk me into entering a beauty contest." She chuckled. "To foil her, I tried to get a tattoo. Had it all picked out – a design with a snake and a rose that I considered terribly symbolic. I was all of fifteen then, and nuts about symbolism."
Humor and horror mingled. "Good God."
"Hey, it would have worked. You may not have noticed, but beauty queens never have tattoos on their faces."
"Now that you mention it, I've never seen a tattooed Miss America. I take it the operator of the tattoo parlor you chose wasn't crazy about, ah, defacing a minor."
"Defacing?" She pulled her lips into a frown, but the corners twitched to match the mirth in her eyes. "Bad, Jacob. Very bad. You're right, though. For some reason, the man who owned the place didn't believe I was eighteen."
Jacob looked at the soft cheeks colored once more by the warmth of her blood, and felt something soft and unnervingly tactile move inside him. As if he had touched her, when he hadn't. When he spoke, his voice was lower than he'd intended. Huskier. "It would have bee
n a crime to mar such a face."
Darkness ghosted across her eyes, a hint of memory. Was she remembering the woods, the sound of water smoothing itself over rocks? The feel of his hands on her?
Or the feel of Ken Lawrence's fist?
She moved then, putting a couple of feet between them, stopping at a table to fiddle with the magazines, straightening them. "It would have been a crime to tattoo any girl that young," she said lightly. "Literally. Which is why I don't have a snake and a rose on my cheek today."
"I don't understand why you wanted to try. Even then, you would have been very beautiful. Were you so lacking in vanity?"
"Oh, I was vain enough." She straightened. "Competitive, too."
"But not about your looks."
"I didn't want to compete that way. It felt wrong. Winning a beauty contest wouldn't have meant anything, because I would have won for something I'd been given at birth, not something I'd done. Losing would have been just as bad, though." She grinned. "I hate losing. At anything."
"Sounds like you had a pretty clear set of priorities, even back then."
"Don't give me too much credit. At fifteen, I just knew the whole idea of beauty contests made my stomach hurt. I never could explain it to my mother."
Jacob was beginning to dislike her mother. "She pushed you?"
"Not like some mothers do. I mean, she accepted it when I refused – every time I refused. She'd get this sad look on her face, though." She shook her head. "The whole beauty pageant thing didn't become important to her until after Dad died. I look a lot like him, you see."
He thought he was beginning to. Before he could decide what to say, however, they were interrupted by her friend.
The sergeant moved those long, skinny legs of hers briskly, and spoke the same way – to Jacob, not Claire.
"Claire's uncle is getting a cup of coffee. While he's out of the way, I've got a couple questions for you."
His eyebrows lifted. "Ask."
She gave him a long, appraising look, head to toe and back again. Such a careful scrutiny might have been a come-on. Jacob was double-dead sure this one wasn't. He felt as if his assets – physical, mental and spiritual – had been totted up and entered into the appropriate columns. The assessment amused him. And reassured him. Claire needed a friend like this one.