Even so, Connard flipped through Brian LaPorte’s file once more. The attempted suicide made sense in light of his withdrawal from friends. The bruising on his face made sense in light of his fall. The only strange thing about the case was Rita Brooks.
And speaking of her…he called and identified himself when he answered. “I can’t find anything that indicates foul play.”
“Did you speak with his brother?”
“Yes, but again, nothing suspicious. I think you just misunderstood what he said. I suggest you say your goodbyes to your friend and go home. Oh, and be aware that Christopher LaPorte knows you’re in town, and he didn’t seem too happy about it. You might want to steer clear of him. Have a safe trip home.”
He returned the file and headed home.
She waited until after midnight before paying a visit to Rita Brooks. She slipped over the fence and landed in a clump of bushes. Though she’d made minimal noise, she remained still for a full three minutes just to make sure no one had heard her. Luckily it was too cool for couples to sit amid the shadowy beauty of the courtyard and share quiet whispers.
Satisfied that no one was around, she slipped from her cover and up the stairs. The doors of the rooms were dark green, and she had worn a similar color to blend in. She stopped in front of 315. It was a good thing she was strong enough to do whatever it took to protect what was hers. And there was, after all, a certain power in it. That pleasure couldn’t be denied.
She picked the lock and disappeared into the dark room. It took only a few moments for her eyes to adjust. The rest she filled in from memory. Table and chairs by the front window, double beds toward the back.
The steady sound of breathing led her to the second bed. By the contrast of shadows, Rita appeared to be lying on top of the bedspread on her back. This was almost too easy. She slid out of her thick, jersey jacket and bundled it in her hands.
Rita let out a low moan and started to shift. Or perhaps awaken. No more time to ponder. She slid atop her and pushed the bundle of material over her face in one movement. Rita awoke slowly and started to struggle.
“It’s just a bad dream, baby,” she whispered. “You go on back to sleep.”
Rita thrashed, but in the end, didn’t give up much of a fight. Just to be sure, she checked her pulse before removing the jacket. She knew some people played possum to save their lives. No pulse, no blood moving through her veins.
She put her jacket back on and looked out the window. Quiet as death, she thought with a smile. As quietly as she’d come, she slipped back out into the night.
CHAPTER 6
Rita became aware of the noise first, an uneven thumping sound from above. There was a high-pitched keening sound, too. She pulled the blanket up over her head and tried to drift back to sleep. When her mind placed the noise as crying, she climbed to full consciousness. The room was shadowy, even though shards of light crept around the edge of the insulated curtains.
She rubbed her eyes as she pulled herself out of bed. Sleep had eluded her for hours, filling her mind with Brian, the masked figure, and the images Brian had shown her. As tired as she’d been the night before, as soon as she’d unpacked with the sole intent of falling right into bed, she’d discovered a leak in her bathroom. She’d called down to the desk and been moved to 215. By the time she’d repacked and moved she’d been awake again.
She peered between the curtains and saw people on the other side of the courtyard standing outside their rooms looking at something above her room. Over the fence she saw an ambulance parked by the curb. She dressed and walked out to the balcony. A man was coming down the stairs at the end. She guessed he was another guest.
“What’s going on?” she asked him.
“Apparently the maintenance woman fell asleep in the room upstairs after she fixed a leak. She died in her sleep. She was the owner’s aunt, so she’s pretty broken up about it. I guess she was having health problems, so it’s not a big surprise.”
She remembered the plump, tough bird who had shown up with a toolbox just as Rita was vacating the room. She’d looked pale and her breathing was raspy. Rita had probably been the last person to see her alive. The thought filled her with an eerie sadness. She wished she’d said more than, ‘Sorry you have to deal with this so late.’ She said a prayer for her family and went back inside.
Once she was dressed, she headed to the hospital. She needed a chance to touch Brian, to see if the connection could be reestablished. She needed answers and proof. It was clear that the detective had only done a cursory check and chalked her story up to madness or hormones or whatever he felt comfortable with. Not that she could blame him. If she wanted anyone to take her seriously, she needed something concrete. That wasn’t going to be easy.
He watched Rita leave the hotel, unable to believe his eyes. She had failed. He had driven by the hotel to see if Rita’s body had been discovered. The ambulance had buoyed his spirit until he saw Rita emerge from the parking lot. Who had she smothered then?
He didn’t have time to ponder it. He followed Rita to the hospital, where she was undoubtedly going to visit Brian. Why wouldn’t she die? It would have been so simple if she’d bit it in Boston. Unease tightened his chest. What had she found out that sent her to the police? What did she know?
He watched her go inside. He’d have time to figure out what his next step was. He scanned the parking lot and the distant spot she’d had to take. Yeah, he had a plan.
I’m the boy. I’ll take care of it this time.
Rita made the long, cold trek into the hospital, getting that eerie feeling the whole way. She glanced around casually but saw nothing out of the ordinary. Maybe it was the dreary weather, overcast skies, and the fine mist floating through the air. Or maybe it’s knowing someone tried to kill you, and they probably know you’re here. She shivered.
This time she checked before walking into Brian’s room. No Christopher. She really didn’t want to see him now that she’d sent the police to question him. Even worse, he would know she’d eavesdropped on his conversation.
She watched Brian for a few minutes, finding the rhythmic sound of the respirator comforting. He was alive, at least. Would he ever come out? What would he be like? Brian, talk to me. I miss you. I feel kind of hopeless about the future, yours and mine. Besides, I need your help. She felt a wave of sadness that the man who would come out of this coma might not be the same man she’d been ready to open her heart to.
She reached out and took his hand in hers. His skin was cool and dry. She hadn’t realized she’d closed her eyes as she waited for the jolt of those images. Nothing came. No images, no revelations, not even a nuance. The connection didn’t extend beyond the gray place.
“What the hell are you doing?”
She spun at the voice behind her and came face to face with Christopher LaPorte. He advanced on her until he was way too close, his mouth in a hard, tight line.
“I asked you what you’re doing. I’m not sure whether to think you’re just a little nuts or firmly on the psycho side of things. First you don’t tell me everything, and now you’re here telling the cops I’m threatening you because you eavesdropped on a private conversation. Inferring that I had something to do with Brian’s condition. What kind of game are you playing?”
She let go of Brian’s hand and gestured toward the door. “Let’s talk over there, where he can’t hear us.”
Perhaps he’d been told about coma patients hearing what was said around them, because he followed her without argument.
It also bought her a few seconds to figure out how she was going to handle him. Not long enough, unfortunately.
He spun her around to face him, his jaw rigid and his eyes an angry blue. “I want answers, Rita Brooks.”
She didn’t know how much to tell him and she certainly didn’t trust him.
“I just asked the police to check into all the possibilities.”
“Why do you think someone pushed him?” he asked. “Was he involve
d in something? You’re involved in it, too, aren’t you?”
“I don’t have to answer your questions,” she said, walking out of the room. The truth was she had no logical answers. She didn’t want to wait for the eternally slow elevators, so she looked for the fire exit. He was right behind her as she pushed through the doorway and took the stairs at a sprint.
“You’d better damn well tell me what you know,” he said behind her.
She needed to get away from him. He’d pin her down and force her to tell him everything, and then she’d really come off as more than a little nuts. Since he hadn’t mentioned the coma connection, she assumed the detective hadn’t told Christopher about it. She needed time to think this through, to figure out what her next step was and who she could trust.
She pushed through the ground floor doors and headed straight for the entrance. He grabbed her shoulder and spun her around. “Leave me alone,” she said in a strained voice.
“Or what, you’ll call security?”
Of course she couldn’t call security. He hadn’t done anything wrong. The cold air embraced her. She headed to her car where she could lock him out. If he tried to follow her, she’d head straight to the police station.
“Dammit, woman, if you know something, I’m the one to tell it to.”
She spotted her car in the near distance. She was pretty sure he wouldn’t accost her in the parking lot, not with people in the vicinity. She dared a sideways glance back and saw that he was a few feet behind her.
Her car wasn’t far away now. Impending relief was only an illusion, as she found out. She heard tires squealing on the pavement first and then spotted the car tearing around the corner. Someone tackled her from behind at the same moment the car veered toward her. She screamed as the strong arms clamped around her pulled her off-balance. They went rolling beneath the back of a truck. She had only a moment to realize it was Christopher wrapped around her, rolling her on top of him as they hit the wet asphalt. The car screeched past them.
He was big and solid, like a shield.
“You all right?” he asked as he disentangled from her.
She could only nod before he crawled out and jumped to his feet. She scrambled out behind him, feeling dazed. He was searching for the car, the muscles in his jaw and neck rigid with concentration. The car was gone.
“Bastard,” he muttered to the absent driver and turned his attention to her. He reached out and rubbed asphalt crumbles from her cheek as he seemed to survey her for injuries. He knelt down, grabbed her cashmere hat and handed it to her, doing another scan of the lot.
She played the scene through her mind. What little she’d seen, anyway. She was shivering as she stared at where the car had been. It seemed unreal to her, but something was very real.
She turned to him. “You knew he was going to hit me, didn’t you?”
“I didn’t grab you for the fun of it.” He rubbed the back of his neck and grimaced. “Did you happen to see the license plate?”
“No, but it was a beige sedan, late eighties, I’d guess. Did you see anything else?”
He took the hat she was scrunching in her hands and placed it on her head. “I was too busy trying to figure out where we were going to land. Come on, let’s go inside and call the police. That guy needs to be taken off the road. And you should have someone look you over, make sure you’re okay.”
He guided her toward the entrance with his hand on her back. She fought the urge to move away, considering he’d likely saved her life. “How did you know he was coming at me? When I looked up, he was going fast but straight.”
His expression darkened. “Call it a sixth sense.”
Once they got to the lobby, Rita instructed one of the women behind the desk to call the police and ask for Detective Connard. Then Christopher insisted she be checked out by one of the emergency room doctors.
“You should be checked, too. You took a harder fall than I did.” He’d pulled her on top of him so he’d take the brunt of the fall. She needed to thank him, as soon as she got her bearings.
A doctor checked both of them over, though Rita had to insist Christopher remain for his examination. Her elbow was sore, and she suspected she’d have a nice bruise before long. He had a scrape on the back of his hand and fingers. His jacket and jeans took most of the scrapes. He let them clean and put salve on him but not a bandage. By the time they were cleared, Connard was waiting for them in the lobby. He was clearly surprised to see the two of them together, but she didn’t give him a chance to ask.
She walked over to him. “Now you’ve got to investigate Brian’s fall. Someone tried to run me down—again. I didn’t see the driver, but it has to be the same person who came to Boston. Christopher was there, he can tell you what happened.”
Connard’s normally neutral expression was tainted with skepticism, but he turned to Christopher.
“I don’t think it was intentional. The driver was probably stoned.”
Rita’s mouth dropped open. “What? How can you say that? You were there!”
He held up his hand as though to ward her off. “What I saw was a car veering toward you. I heard squealing tires as he took the corner too fast. I don’t think he had control of the car.”
“He drove right at me! Oh, this is ridiculous.” She waved him away and faced Connard. “It was intentional, the same way the car hitting me in Boston was intentional.”
“A car hit you in Boston?” Christopher asked.
She ignored him, which was much better than grabbing his coat and shaking sense into him. “Can’t you see, there’s a pattern here?”
Connard said, “The officer I spoke with in Boston said he thought the driver was a teen who had stolen the vehicle for a joyride.”
“Why would a joy-rider purposely try to hit another car?” she asked.
“Why do joy-riders shoot paint guns at pedestrians? Why do they run up on curbs and lay out people on the sidewalk? Drugs can make people do crazy things.” He glanced at Christopher, and then pulled Rita a short distance away and spoke in a low, calming voice. “Brain injuries can make people do crazy things, too. Being in a coma could make a person paranoid, maybe think that people are trying to kill her.”
She had to reign in her anger. “I’m not crazy, and this has nothing to do with my being in a coma. Well, it does, but not because I’m brain damaged.”
His hand was still on her shoulder. “Here’s what I suggest: you get on your flight tomorrow and forget about New Orleans. Forget about that guy in the coma. Be safe.”
She pulled out of his grasp. “Am I being paranoid when someone has tried to run me down twice in a six week period of time?”
“I think you’re just unlucky. We’re talking two different states and two different types of accidents.”
“Using a car as a weapon both times. I know you have to look at things objectively. That’s your job. But you”—she turned to Christopher—”you were there. Why can’t you see that it was intentional?”
“I stopped seeing demons in every shadow a long time ago,” he said, one of those shadows in his eyes.
Rita wanted to scream in her frustration. Since that would only contribute to Connard’s view of her, and Christopher’s as well, she simply stalked away. This time she kept a careful eye on what was going on around her as she made her way to her car. Once inside, she warmed up the engine and let the adrenaline and frustration drain from her body. She felt an overwhelming urge to cry, which seemed weak and ineffective. She heaved great gulps of air to keep it at bay.
Was Christopher’s denial a way of protecting someone? She had to admit, as much as she wanted to see him as a bad guy, he had saved her life. She grimaced when she reached to put the car into gear. Her elbow ached.
“Breakfast,” she said, heading out of the parking lot. She spotted a beige sedan in a spot near the exit that looked like the car that had tried to run her down. “It was on purpose,” she said. She was sure that the driver wouldn’t have left the
car in the lot even if he had stolen it, so she continued on, keeping an eye on her rear view mirror…looking for evil in every shadow.
CHAPTER 7
After breakfast, Rita felt the emotional effects of nearly dying and the physical effects of being tackled. She went back to her hotel room, promptly heaved up the three pancakes she’d managed to eat, and fell into a fitful, achy sleep for two hours. The images Brian had showed her saturated her sleep with feelings of fear. Finally she dragged herself to full wakefulness, wrapped her wool coat around her and found a cozy table down in the courtyard. The air was warming up some, and it helped to clear her head.
She had brought her cell phone and called Officer Potter in Boston. When he got on the line, she asked him about the feather.
He paused, as though he wasn’t sure he should tell her. Finally he said, “Yes, we found a black feather. And a red feather. And two painted macaroni noodles. Detective Connard told me what you’re thinking, and I have to tell you, this feather doesn’t mean anything. Not unless you can produce the mask it came from, prove who owns the mask, and that the person was in Boston at the time of your accident…you get the drift?”
Yeah, she got it. She thanked him for nothing and hung up. She might not have tangible proof, but that black feather was proof enough for her. She tucked her legs beneath her in the wrought iron chair and tried to figure out what to do.
She kneaded her forehead, fighting off a headache. Her gaze drifted to room 315 where the woman had died in her sleep. Was that why she felt unsettled in the serenity of the beautiful courtyard?
It was everything, she decided. She wanted to call Marty and ask her advice. The problem was she hadn’t exactly told Marty she’d come here. She’d said she was taking a couple of days off. She hadn’t mentioned the trip at all to her mother, who was making a habit of calling once a week to check on her. She felt a prick of guilt that she hadn’t initiated one call.
What She Doesn't Know Page 6