Dream Runner

by Gail McFarland

  Chapter 13

  “You know, this might go faster if you helped.” Linda Palmer rubbed her dusty palms against her denim skirt.

  “Aww, come on partner, you look like you’re doin’ fine. Besides, you know my forté is supervision.” Gene Brighton stuffed the last lemony bite of his Krispy Kreme doughnut into his mouth and chewed happily. When Palmer closed her eyes, he grinned and selected another doughnut from the green and white box.

  “If I had a nickel for every page I’ve turned…” Palmer flipped through a sheaf of computerized pages. “Damn, I would be a real rich woman…” Her fingers slowed, then stopped. “Oops, now what do we have here?”

  “I dunno,” Brighton said slugging down coffee. “What do we have here?”

  “We have an official registration on a vehicle from Dr. Parker Aaron Reynolds the Third.”

  “Aaron?” Brighton turned up his nose and snorted.

  “What?”

  “Aaron.” Brighton snorted again, “the Third. There were three of ’em with that name?”

  “Technically.” Palmer dropped into her desk chair and rubbed at the back of her neck. “See, the grandfather would have been first, so he would have been called Senior. His son would have been Junior and the grandson would have been the Third.”

  “No number two?”

  “No, number two is always called Junior.”

  “Assuming they know or care how all that formal crap works.” Brighton used a paper napkin to dab at the sugar frosting clinging to his lips. “Who came up with that sissy rule, anyway?”

  “Do I look like Emily Post to you?”

  “Anyway…”

  “Anyway, I was just thinking…” Palmer moved her hand over several stacks of paper before she uncovered a blue APD folder. “Here it is. This is the final accident report.” She flipped the folder open, found what she wanted, then traced a line of print. Stopping abruptly, eyes shining in triumph, she jabbed at the page. “There it is, the paint they found on her car, just like I remembered.”

  “You got something?” Brighton levered his bulk from behind his desk and moved behind his partner. Reading over her shoulder, his eyes followed her fingertip, and his lips moved slowly. “You found it and it looks like a match. I always knew you were a smart girl.”

  “Woman.”

  “Whatever.” He gave her shoulder a squeeze. “You’re smart, puttin’ two and two together like that; just take the compliment for what it’s worth.”

  “Isn’t it funny how easy it is to backtrack once you realize that the good doctor comes from money?”

  “When your family has as much money as his does, you have to keep good records, and good records include keeping track of vehicle purchases and registrations.” Brighton tapped the page.

  “Wait a minute…” Inspired, Palmer used her elbow to hold the page while she looked for a second report. Flipping pages, she quickly found what she was looking for and laid the two reports side by side. “Look at that.”

  “Only two cars in the city with that paint job.” Squinting, Brighton brought his face closer to the page. “One of them is sitting on a lot up in Buckhead.”

  “And the other one belongs to Dr. Parker Aaron Reynolds the Third.”

  “And son of a gun, there he is, owner of record.”

  “That’s got to be him,” Palmer agreed. “The DMV report shows him owning a Rolls Corniche, and the color is Rolls Royce Tan.”

  “Yep.” Brighton pushed his hands into the curve of his back and stood straighter. “That’s exactly the color of the chips of paint crushed into her factory-issue silver paint job—custom-mixed, specially baked Rolls Royce Tan; probably scraped from the inside of his fender when he hit her. Bet he never even noticed the scratch.”

  “Maybe he didn’t, but I’ll bet he notices us when we call him on it,” Linda Palmer grinned, patting the stack of photos and printouts.

  * * *

  “Somebody has got to get through to her, AJ. I really think you’re the man to do it. She needs to work with someone who shares her passion, someone who has at least been close to the place where she is now. ”

  “You’ve got a lot of faith in me, Parker. I just hope I don’t let you down.”

  “If you can get her up and moving, you will have more than justified my faith.” The doctor’s gaze dropped and then returned to AJ’s. “Marlea’s more afraid than anything else.”

  “Wouldn’t you be? I know I would.” AJ stood and offered his hand across Parker’s massive desk. “Anyway, I just wanted to bring you up to speed on how things are going with her.”

  “Thanks.” Parker stood and grabbed the other man’s hand. “You’re the right man, AJ. I know you’ll get her through this.”

  “If she doesn’t get me first,” AJ laughed.

  His stride was purposeful, but he was no longer laughing as he walked away from the doctor’s office. Marlea Kellogg was on his mind, and he couldn’t get her out of his head. She’s not trying to hear anything from me. She’s fighting me every step of the way. Even went to Reynolds and asked for a female therapist. Thank God, he saw through it—knew that it was her fear talking.

  And why shouldn’t she be afraid? The woman used to outrun almost everybody in sight. That listing of her races and times I found on the Internet showed that she had more than just potential—she was the real deal. Every article said she had the speed and technique; just never made it to the finish line she set for herself.

  She knows what she was, and has no clue as to what her future includes. Only knows that she won’t ever run the way she used to. Probably feeling like the Lone Ranger, too—like she’s lost her identity and that this has never happened to anyone else in the world. Running his tongue over his teeth, AJ pressed the elevator’s call button and tried not to look impatient.

  “You think better when you’re calm.” Every coach he had ever played under had told him that, and now, thinking about Marlea Kellogg, he needed to be calm. But she’s not alone, and truth is, I want her to walk as much as she does. She just doesn’t know how much she wants it—yet.

  He was still studying the tips of his shoes when the elevator doors opened. Stepping aside quickly, he managed to avoid running into the small black-haired woman who jumped out of the elevator.

  “Hey! I know you,” she blurted. “You’re that therapist, right? AJ something?”

  AJ paused midstep and looked down at her. Though she stood perfectly still, everything about her, head to toe, was frenetic—almost as if she was vibrating. She looked as though she would burst with energy. And I should remember someone like this.

  “We’ve never formally met, just spoken on the phone. It’s good to finally put a face with the name.” Now moving from foot to foot, the woman grabbed AJ’s hand and pumped it vigorously. “I’m Libby Belcher. Marlea Kellogg’s friend. And I’m her coach, or at least I was.” Dropping AJ’s hand, Libby’s teeth tugged at her lower lip, but her eyes remained fastened on his face.

  Tenacious as a pit-bull, AJ decided when she blocked him, as the elevator doors closed. What is she waiting for me to say?

  “I want to know about Marlea’s progress. She’s been in this hospital for a long time. You’ve had a chance to evaluate her condition, and I need to know what’s going on with her.” When he was slow to answer, Libby reached out and tugged at his sleeve, holding on tightly. “There is no way in this world I’m gonna let you walk around all closed-mouthed while you’re working with my friend. She’s had enough trouble to last her for a while, so you need to start talking to me right now!”

  She cares. AJ looked down at the small hand on his sleeve and hesitated. She truly cares.

  “Don’t make me follow you,” Libby threatened. “’Cause I will if I have to.”

  My client has the right to keep her business to herself. Still hanging onto his sleeve, Libby bristled, anticipating resistance. But I need every ally I can get if I’m ever going to get her to work with me. AJ thought of Marlea’s determinati
on to hold onto what she seemed to see as the last vestiges of her dignity and self-reliance. And it’s not getting her anywhere. Client confidentiality be damned. I can’t get her attention any other way, and this little dynamo might be able to get her to move where I can’t…

  “Let’s move over here.” He led Libby a few steps away from the bank of elevators. “I’m only talking to you because, while I have nothing to lose in her participating in therapy, she has everything to lose. And damn it, as hard as she is to get along with, I don’t want her to be the loser in this.”

  Libby released his sleeve and focused on the wrinkles her death-grip had created. Smoothing her hand over the creases, she nodded. “You like her, don’t you?”

  “That’s a hell of a question. I barely know the woman.”

  “Uh-huh,” Libby grinned, patting her palms together. “Barely knowing her ain’t got much of nothin’ to do with how you feel about her. You like her.”

  AJ shrugged. If it will make this go any easier…“Yes. I like her.”

  Libby snapped her fingers and forgot his shirt. “I knew it!”

  “But what good is my liking her going to do if I can’t get her walking? She seems to think that the role of therapy in her recovery is optional.”

  “She ought to know better than that, and she can’t stay here forever.” Libby gnawed at her lip, thinking. “Well, things are gonna have to change. Soon.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve had some family stuff come up, and it looks like I’m going to have to leave Atlanta, at least for a little while.”

  “Damn.” AJ ran a finger along his jawline. A couple of the nurses had whispered about the relationship between the coach and the runner. Like sisters, they said. One or two of them even doubted that their patient would have come this far without her friend’s support. “How long is a little while?”

  Libby’s hands wiggled and she grimaced. “Plus or minus…I don’t know…six months or so.”

  “Six months can be an eternity when you’re hanging on by your fingernails.” AJ remembered his own recovery. I had family in my corner, and it still felt like a lifetime. What would it be like to have to take every step alone? According to everything in the record, Marlea Kellogg had no family—no one on her side other than this tough little lady. “You’ve been her rock.”

  “Maybe I was, once. But now, I think it’s your turn.”

  “What?”

  “You’re big enough to be her rock.” Libby gave him an appraising once-over. She ran a hand over his arm, squeezing the muscle as she went, smoothing the remaining crinkles on his sleeve. “Yes, sir, you’re big enough for a lot of things. I’m going to talk to her.” She checked her watch. “I’ve got to get going.” She backed a step away, then waved as she turned. “Don’t give it another thought. She’s going to work with you—you have my word on it.”

  Determined little woman. Wonder if she’s determined enough to wear that other one down? I hope so.

  She’s going to work with you—you have my word on it.

  Libby said the words out loud, then repeated them in her heart—a mantra matched to her footsteps as she came to Marlea’s door.

  Funny how I’ve come to think of this as her door, like it’s the door to her home or something. She pushed the door wide and stepped through. “Hey, girl!”

  Marlea’s head barely moved. Sitting on her bed watching a video, she seemed riveted by the children speaking into the camera. Her face mirrored their earnest openness.

  “Marlea?”

  Marlea’s attention snapped into focus at the sound of her name, and she swiped at her tear-filled eyes before looking at her visitor. Using the remote, she darkened the television screen, then pushed the remote beneath her leg. “Libby.”

  “The Runyon kids getting to you? They wondering if you’re coming back in the fall?” Libby let the door fall shut behind her and came closer. “You are planning on being there for them, aren’t you?”

  “You can’t even come in and give me a hug without a million questions first?” Marlea opened her arms, and seemed relieved when Libby walked into them and squeezed her tightly.

  “Okay, there’s your hug,” Libby drew back to look into Marlea’s face. “What’s this I hear about you not cooperating with AJ? Seen him a grand total of what, like two times? And I hear that all you’re doing when you see him is lying there like a bump on a log.”

  “I did tell you who he is, didn’t I? That he’s the one who tripped me at the Peachtree and…”

  “Quit trying to blow smoke up my ass. What’s your point?” Libby’s sandal slapped at the tile floor.

  “Libby, you don’t understand.”

  “Damned straight I don’t.” The sandal slapped again.

  “Libby, it…” How to explain that the man’s every touch felt sexual, that he stimulated her in ways only a lover should? “What I’m trying to tell you is that…maybe therapy isn’t for me because…”

  “Because, why?” Libby cocked her head impatiently.

  “Because every time he puts his hands on me, it feels like sex,” Marlea blurted.

  “Is that a bad thing?”

  “I’m not crying rape or anything, but…I don’t have any control over it and I…I don’t like it. The nurse said I would probably get over it in time, but until then…I don’t think he can do anything for me.” Libby doesn’t look pleased, but what do I care? She’s gonna be able to walk out of here and get on with her life. Marlea looked away.

  “So you’re not willing to try?”

  “It’s not that. It’s the way it makes me feel when he touches my foot and I go spinning off into orgasmic rapture. I don’t know him like that, and even if I did…

  I…”

  “So you’re going to ignore your doctor’s orders? You’re not even going to make the effort and give him a chance, ’cause your nookie is tickled? Marlea, I can’t have you acting like this.”

  “You don’t understand,” Marlea frowned. “This is about more than a little ‘tickle.’ And you can’t have me acting like this? What are you going to do, Libby? Make me run laps, do a few jacks to get over it, what?”

  “I gotta tell you, even the doctor said you’d get over it in time. Did you tell him how you feel, and why?” Marlea’s eyes widened. “I should have known you wouldn’t.” Libby did a little side-to-side dance, demanding attention. “Marlea…this is not easy, but…I’m afraid I’m not going to be here to make you do much of anything. Hal’s parents are going to be moving. To Florida.” Her blue eyes clouded. “It’s his father’s health, and of course, you know his mother’s never been all that strong. Hal and I, well, they need us…”

  “You’re moving, Libby?” Marlea’s lip quivered. “When I need you,” she whispered.

  “It won’t be for long. Six months at the most.” Libby reached for the hand that Marlea pulled back against her chest. “If you can hang on for a few months, I’ll be back. You’ll be healed up enough to go back to your own place, and then you can get on with your life and all.”

  “Sure.” Marlea nodded. “Sure, I can hang on.” I mean, what in the world else am I going to do?

  “But in the meantime,” Libby said, pointing a stern finger and shaking it for emphasis, “you’ve got to work with Mr. Yarborough.”

  Marlea sighed and generally made it plain that she was trying not to feel sorry for herself.

  “You’re such a brat, and you know it, don’t you?”

  “She’s right, you know.” Parker Reynolds pushed through the door and came over to the bed. “From what I hear, you’ve got decent insurance and a real chance of a solid recovery, but that will do you no good if you ignore the therapy. Oh, and you will have to move out of this room eventually.”

  “You’re not funny,” Marlea mumbled.

  “I’m not intending to be.” Reynolds stuffed his hands into the pockets of his white coat. “The usual stay for a procedure like yours is seven days or less. You’ve been here for,
what? Fourteen?”

  “Not ’cause I wanted to be. My plans had me up and running…somewhere.”

  “Well, if you got on with your therapy, you could at least be walking somewhere.”

  “Thank you for your wisdom.” Marlea directed her scowl to Libby, who simply smiled.

  “I’m going to get on with my rounds,” Reynolds said softly. “You give some thought as to what your next step is going to be.”

  “Yeah, I’ll do that,” Marlea said to his back.

  Resisting the urge to say more, Parker let the door close behind him.

  “Dr. Reynolds?” The woman’s soft voice made his name more of a statement than a question.

  “Yes?”

  “I don’t know if you remember us,” the big man stepped forward, offering his hand.

  “Ah…” Parker accepted the meaty palm. For some reason, he knew both the man and the slender, bookish woman at his side. Parents or children of a patient? No, I would have remembered. But they’re so familiar…And then the faces clicked into context.

  “I’m Detective Brighton, and this is my partner, Detective Palmer.”

  “Yes.” Parker nodded numbly.

  The plain little woman came a step closer. She fished a small notebook from her purse. Then she looked directly into Parker’s face, and her brown eyes were anything but timid. Her gaze was frank and carnivorous—and it gave Parker a deadly cold chill.

  “Do you drive a Rolls Corniche? Rolls Royce Tan? Tag number BEST 1?” she asked, her tones clipped and acidic.

  Parker Reynolds hesitated, blinking to buy time. “Yes, why?”

  “We would like to talk to you about an accident involving your vehicle.”

  They know! Suddenly airless, the hospital corridor seemed to swim around him, and Dr. Parker Reynolds struggled to stay on his feet. “Ah, an accident?”

  “Your insurance company was presented with a claim. State law requires that they follow up on the report with a computer listing, and as luck would have it, your paint job matches a sample taken from a hit and run on I-75/85 running through Atlanta.”

  “This is about the Corniche? It was stolen—I reported it…” Right after I left it on the corner of Metropolitan and University, by the takeout chicken restaurant, with the lights on, the engine running, and the doors hanging open. “I don’t suppose you’ve found it?”