Close Call

by Laura Disilverio

  Reese didn’t stir. Only her chest rose and fell, rose and fell to the artificially slow beat of a machine. The movement was so slight, Sydney had to watch for it. She leaned down to kiss her sister on the cheek. “You are not a victim, Reese,” she whispered in her ear. “Don’t you dare be a victim.”

  Connie’s voice spoke from the doorway. “Oh my God, oh my God. Reese. Baby. What has happened to you?” She surged forward, her tennis whites speaking to an interrupted game, her mussed hair telegraphing her distress.

  Sydney stepped back so her mother could approach the bed, inhaling a whiff of Chanel No. 5 as she shouldered past. Connie stared down at her older daughter, and then stroked the hair back from her forehead.

  Sydney felt her heart crack open at the expression of love and fear on Connie’s face. Her mother was usually so … untouched by life’s harsher moments, preserving a facade of calm in the face of her daughter’s disgrace, her husband’s incapacitation and death, her own battle with breast cancer, that to see her laid bare like this made Sydney feel like she’d walked in on Connie naked. She shut her eyes.

  “She’s going to be all right,” Connie said after a long minute. “The doctor said … well, doctors are paid to be cautious, aren’t they? My baby’s strong. She’s always been strong. And she’s a fighter. Yes, you are, Reese Elizabeth, you’re a fighter, so fight, damn it.”

  The nurse came to the doorway and motioned for them to leave the room. “Time’s up,” he said. “You can have another five minutes with her later.”

  Connie acted as if she hadn’t heard him, continuing to encourage and chide Reese in a low voice. Sydney put a hand on her mother’s shoulder. “Connie. Mom. She needs rest.”

  Squeezing Reese’s hand, Connie let it slip slowly from hers and followed Sydney into the hall, where West was waiting. She blinked fast several times, then stood taller and looked from Sydney to West. “Someone tell me what the hell happened. Who shot my daughter? Why?”

  Another nurse frowned at them and made shooing motions. West led the way back to the waiting area while Sydney summarized the morning’s happenings for her mother in a low voice, concluding with, “The shooter was aiming for me, but he got Reese instead. She pushed me down. She saved my life.”

  “And you saved hers,” West reminded them both. “If you hadn’t stanched the blood, she’d have bled out before the EMTs got there.”

  “She wouldn’t have needed saving except for me,” Sydney said, her voice breaking. Guilt and fear for her sister threatened to overpower her, and she gripped her hands tightly together to keep them from shaking.

  “Don’t kid yourself,” Connie surprised her by saying. “Reese has always had a mind of her own. From day one. Came out of the womb that way. She was the stubbornest … ” She stopped and seemed to focus on two men praying together in the corner, hands entwined and eyes shut. She faced Sydney again, her eyes shining with tears that she refused to let fall. “She has a habit of putting herself in the line of fire, too. I blame Howard for that.” She didn’t explain why. “Don’t think I don’t blame you, too. If you’d gone to the police with that phone right away, or held onto your own phone in the first place, none of this would’ve happened. Certainly not Reese getting shot. But you chickened out. I don’t know if I can forgive you or not.” She said it flatly, and her lack of emotion was almost worse than tears or rage.

  Sydney flinched and started to say, “I’m so sor—”

  Connie cut her off. “The question is, why are you hanging around here when you should be out there”—she flung an arm out to indicate the world beyond the hospital—“catching the bastard who did this? Get going,” Connie added forcefully, drawing the attention of the waiting room’s other inhabitants, who cast furtive or disapproving looks their way.

  For a startled moment, Sydney thought Connie was speaking to her, but then she saw that her minatory gaze was fixed on West. Even after she’d realized Connie was talking to the detective, Sydney felt the words vibrating inside her chest. She’d led a killer to Jason and now to Reese. She was going to track him down. She couldn’t do anything for Reese here, but she could make sure that the man who shot her didn’t get away with it.

  West seemed amused rather than annoyed by Connie’s command. He held up a placatory hand. “I’m on it.”

  “I’m coming with you,” Sydney told West. “That is … are you okay here by yourself, Connie? I can stay if you want … ”

  Connie flapped a hand. “Hilary’s coming. I’ll be fine. I need to let some people know”—she held up her cell phone—“and then I can catch up on People. Apparently, Prince William is getting married.” She cast a disparaging look at the waiting room’s selection of outdated magazines. Sydney was sure she’d never read an issue of People in her life.

  West guided Sydney from the room with a hand at her waist. She felt like a soldier must after a firefight—dazed, uncomprehending, shaky.

  “Your sister’ll be fine,” he said. “She’s tough. But she’s clearly out of commission as your bodyguard, so I’m appointing a new one.”

  “No!” Sydney shook her head vehemently. “I can’t let anyone else risk—” She dodged an empty wheelchair, grazing West.

  He steadied her. “It’s not up to you. You’re a taxpayer—you get protection.”

  “Meaning?”

  He smiled grimly. “You get me.”

  46

  Paul

  Paul awoke, momentarily disoriented by the smell of bleach and the feel of crisp sheets tucked under his armpits. Where—? Another second brought the realization that his injured shoulder hurt much less than earlier, and that his mind felt clearer, more focused. His eyes followed plastic tubing from his left hand to a stainless steel IV tree. The hospital. Of course. The almost-empty IV bag sagging from its hook must have contained antibiotics. A clean new bandage covered his wound, and the angry red streaks shooting down his arm had almost disappeared.

  How long had he been here? Craning his head to see the watch on his wrist, he read the glowing numbers: 2:30. More than four hours since he’d missed his shot at the Ellison woman and escaped. He’d been talking to a wino … his bag! Where was his gym bag with the gun? Paul pushed to a half-sitting position, propped on his elbows, and scanned the counters and floor in the small exam room: a glass-fronted cabinet with gauze, bandages, gloves, and other medical supplies he couldn’t identify; a red sharps disposal container; a sink with a soap dispenser; cupboards; monitoring machines on wheeled carts. No duffel. The police must have it. Maybe they’d already run ballistics—

  Rings rattled around the metal rod as a nurse pushed back the curtain surrounding his bed. No one occupied the gurney on the other side of the curtain and a slice of hall was equally empty beyond the door. It wheezed shut.

  “Ah, you’re awake, good.” Middle-aged, she moved with crisp efficiency to check the readings on the machine behind him. Something about the way she carried herself—maybe the sway of her ample hips—reminded him of Moira.

  “Where—?”

  “You’re at Howard University Hospital. You had a nasty infection in your shoulder but the penicillin is doing its trick. Your temp’s down and your blood pressure is much better than when they brought you in.”

  “My clothes? My duffel?” Paul held his breath, waiting for her answer.

  “Your clothes, cell phone, and wallet are in that bag.” She nodded to a plastic bag hanging from a drawer pull. “I don’t think you had anything else with you. I can check.”

  “Thanks.”

  She squeezed the bag of fluids dripping into his IV. A laminated ID dangled from a chain around her neck. “Administration wants a chat with you when you’re up to it—something about your insurance, and I understand the police have a few questions also.” She smiled down at him. “I’ll hold them all off for a while yet. You need more rest.” She palpated the flesh around the bandage and
gave a satisfied nod before bustling out of the exam room. A brisk tug slid the curtain around its rod again. A moment later, the door clunked shut.

  Shit. The insurance card in his false name wouldn’t hold up if the hospital ran it. And the police! Did they want to talk about the gun in his bag, the gunshot wound in his shoulder, or the killing on Pennsylvania Avenue? Whatever it was, he needed to get out of here. He shoved himself to a sitting position, wincing as the needle in the back of his hand shifted. With mordant humor he imagined himself sneaking out of the hospital and down the streets of Washington DC with the IV stand trailing behind him. The IV had to go. He peeled back the tape to expose the needle and a large bruise on the back of his hand. Steeling himself, he pressed the edge of the sheet against the point where the needle disappeared into his vein and pulled. The needle slid free and he applied pressure to the insertion site as he decided what to do next.

  Easing himself off the gurney, he held onto it for a moment when his head swam. Soon, he felt steadier and headed naked for the cabinet with the bandages. He found one and stuck it on his hand. There. Clothes came next. Feeling stronger by the moment, better than he had in days, in fact, he quickly dressed and slipped his wallet and cell phone into his pocket. He paused for a moment, listening, but heard nothing but the usual clatter of an ER outside the room. Opening the door a crack, he peered out. No one in sight.

  Feeling exposed, as if he were crossing a rice paddy, Paul stepped into the hall. Forcing himself to walk, he headed away from the sound of the noisy waiting room. A quick turn put him into another hall. A red exit sign beckoned from the far end. He sped up. Suddenly, a door opened in his path and a young woman backed into the hall, pulling a cart with what looked like a mobile x-ray machine. He ploughed into her.

  She staggered, putting a hand to the red rectangular glasses he’d knocked askew. “What the he—” She bit back the word and glared at him.

  “My daughter! They said she’s having her baby. Do you know—” He didn’t have to fake his panic and he knew it sounded in his voice.

  The anger receded from the woman’s face. “Labor and Delivery is on three,” she said. “Just take those elevators and turn left.” She pointed. “Your first grandbaby?”

  “Yes. Thanks.” He turned on his heel and walked in the direction she’d indicated. With her eyes on him, he pressed the call button and stepped on, flipping a brief wave at her.“Good luck, Grandpa,” she called as the doors came together.

  He stabbed the button “2” and got off at the next floor, merging with a group of visitors carrying flowers, balloons, and a large candle that leaked pungent bayberry from within its plastic wrapping. When they passed a stairwell, he peeled off and darted down the stairs, taking them two at a time. Any second now, if they hadn’t already, they’d discover he was missing from the ER and raise the alarm—driven by the desire to get a valid insurance number from him, he thought cynically.

  At the landing, he paused a moment outside the door stenciled “1” to catch his breath. The hallway was empty when he opened the door, and he heaved a sigh of relief. Only steps away was the exit door, this one marked Emergency Exit Only. Alarm Will Sound. A faint odor of stale cigarettes drifted to him. Maybe the unredeemed smokers snuck out this door to puff and had disabled the alarm. The hell with it. He banged the door open and ran. He thought he heard an alarm but then realized it was a siren from an approaching ambulance. A parking lot choked with cars, some illegally parked in the aisles and fire lanes, spread out ahead of him. He slowed to a walk, risking a glance over his shoulder as he reached the asphalt. No one behind him.

  Threading his way through the densely packed cars, mothers with kids in strollers, and geriatrics hunched over walkers, he left the hospital grounds and looked for the Metro sign he knew must be nearby. Spotting the Shaw/Howard University Metro sign, he headed for the dark tunnel like a prairie dog for his burrow, sure of safety. As he put a foot on the escalator, his cell phone rang. He reached for it, stepping aside to let a paunchy businessman onto the escalator.

  “What the hell are you doing?” The familiar voice bit at his ear. “You shot goddamned Reese Linn, the writer! It’ll be a media feeding frenzy. Is this how you cover your tracks?”

  “She jumped on top of Ellison,” Paul said. Who the hell was Reese Linn? Obviously, the woman who took the bullet for Ellison, but why was it such a big deal? And why couldn’t women have female names anymore? Susan and Pamela had been good enough for the girls in his generation. “Look—”

  “No, you look. You concentrate on Montoya. Today’s the election and I want him dead. D-E-A-D. I paid you a hefty sum up front and I want results. I don’t want to have to spread the word that you’re past it, Mr. Jones.”

  “You’re the one who changed the assignment, tacked on Ellison,” Paul said, his voice as cold as the client’s. “You don’t want to threaten me.”

  The client didn’t back down. “You just fucking make it happen with Montoya. I’ll take care of Ellison.”

  Paul found himself listening to silence when the client cut the connection. He slid the phone into his pocket slowly, misgiving and anger writhing in his gut. It might be time to implement his precautionary measures related to his mercurial client. Past time.

  47

  Sydney

  “What did you mean, you’re my bodyguard?” Sydney asked, taking long strides to keep up with West as he headed toward the hospital’s front exit. He’d spoken to the officers who’d responded to the shooting, made a couple of calls to arrange for a forensics team to scour the roof of the building across from the dentist’s office, and ordered a guard put on Reese, more to keep out the reporters than prevent the killer from making another attempt, he’d told Sydney.

  Now he ignored her question. “I’m taking you to a safe house.”

  She stopped dead. “I am not going anywhere dressed like this. I look like I’m wearing my pajamas. I need to stop by my townhouse, get some clothes.”

  “Negative.” He was shaking his head before she finished speaking. “Your townhouse is not on the agenda, not with a hit man out to kill you.”

  “So you believe me?” Her eyes widened and she hurried to catch up, almost knocking against a wizened man inching along the wall with a walker.

  “Yep.”

  “Great. And all it took was my sister getting shot.” Relief, bitterness, and guilt clashed within her.

  “I’m sorry about that.”

  She waved his apology away, although the sincerity in his voice eased the tension clenching her stomach. “What do we do now?”

  He slanted a look at her. His lashes really were absurdly long. “We don’t do anything. You stay holed up in a safe place. I do the detecting and find this guy before he gets another chance at you or Montoya.” Halfway across the lobby, he stopped. “Shit!”

  “What?”

  He pointed toward the tinted floor-to-ceiling wall of windows bracketing the revolving door at the hospital’s entrance. “Reporters.”

  Sydney heard the din through the closed doors, a pack of hounds baying for the fox’s blood. Or, in this case, the vixen’s. She tamped down the anxiety rising within her, noting that the reporters’ presence didn’t panic her as much as usual. Their menace paled in comparison to the rest of the day’s events.

  “They’re onto the shooting. Someone here leaked. C’mon,” West said, spinning on his heel. “You don’t want to deal with that right now.”

  No, she certainly didn’t. She followed him as they retraced their steps.

  “Detective West!”

  The voice and heavy footsteps trotting their way stopped them just before they cleared the lobby. Sydney turned, wincing in anticipation of being pelted by a reporter’s questions, to see one of the policemen who’d helped with Reese approaching them. West put out an arm to edge her slightly behind him.

  “Glad I caught you, sir. Th
ought you’d want to know,” Sergeant Morrison said. He had a stolid, capable presence Sydney felt would be comforting to find on your doorstep if you ever reported a prowler in the middle of the night. “Following the shooting incident, my partner and I were notified that another victim needed help, several blocks away. I sent Donnelly over and she said the man, white and in his sixties, was in a bad way.”

  “Yes?” West made a “get on with it” motion.

  “Yes, sir. Well, the man had a GSW in his shoulder.”

  “What?”

  “Yes, sir. The ER doc said the man had a bullet wound—two, three days old maybe—in his right shoulder. He was here, but he did a runner before we could talk to him about it. Doc said it looked like the wound had been professionally treated, but it was infected.”

  “They get a name?” West pulled out a notebook, prepared to write.

  Sydney’s gaze went from him to Sergeant Morrison, wondering what it meant. Gunshot wounds weren’t all that unusual in downtown DC, after all.

  “Yes, sir, but it was a fake. Anyway, what with the shooting and all, I thought you’d want to know about this guy. Especially since he matches the description of a strange man a witness saw in the garage of the building across the street from the Penn Professional Building just after the shooting. She said he was white, in his mid-to-late-sixties, and wore a ball cap and tan utility uniform that had the name ‘Lionel’ on the pocket. She thought he was a maintenance guy and seemed pissed he hadn’t come to fix her sink.”

  Sydney paled. Was it possible that the man who’d killed Jason and shot Reese had been here, only a floor or two away from them if that? She shivered involuntarily. “Where—” she started, but West cut her off.