Chapter 18
The instant she stepped off the elevator she saw the roses.
It would have been impossible for her to miss them.
The bouquet had been placed on the ledge of the nurses' station. Nurses and aides had obviously been awaiting her arrival to see her reaction. All were wearing expectant smiles.
"They're for you, Dr. Newton."
"They were delivered about half an hour ago."
"You could barely see the delivery boy behind them. Aren't they gorgeous?"
"Who's your secret admirer?"
"He's not a cop." This from the policeman that Wesley had posted outside Wick's ICU.
"No cop could afford them, that's for sure."
Rennie didn't give the bouquet another glance. "There must be some mistake. They're not for me."
"But-but there's a card," one of the nurses stammered. "It's got your name on it."
"Get rid of the roses and the card. The vase.
All of it."
"You want us to throw them away?"
"Or distribute them among the patients.
Take them to the lobby atrium, the chapel, put them on the dinner menu. I don't care. Just get them out of my sight. I need Mr.Threadgill's chart, please."
The group, no longer smiling, dispersed. The policeman slunk back to his post. One of the nurses carried away the heavy arrangement.
Another passed Rennie the requested chart and bravely followed her into Wick's cubicle.
"He's been waking up for longer periods of time," the nurse told her. "He hates the spirometer." Patients were forced to blow into the machine periodically to keep their lungs clear.
His vitals were good. She checked the dressing covering his incision. He moaned in his sleep when she peeled the bandage off to take a look. After replacing the bandage, she asked the nurse if he'd had anything to drink.
"Just the ice chips."
"If he asks for something again, let him have sips of Sprite."
"Widschumburohn."
Rennie moved to the left side of the bed, the one he lay facing. "Come again?"
"Burohn. In the schpirte." Barely moving his head, he tried to locate her with his single eye. To make it easier on him, she sat on the edge of the chair beside the bed.
"Do bourbon and Sprite mix?"
"Don' care."
She smiled. "I think you're well medicated already."
"Not enough."
The nurse bustled out to get the Sprite.
Wick readjusted his head so that his face wasn't half buried in the pillow. "Did you do this to me, Rennie?"
"Guilty."
"Then you're off"--he winced, sucked in his breath--"off my Christmas card list."
"If you can joke you must be feeling better."
"Like hammered shit."
"Well, that's what you look like."
"Ha-ha." His eye closed and it remained closed.
Rennie stood up and applied her stethoscope to several spots on his chest.
"Are you getting a beat?" he asked, which surprised her because she thought he had drifted off again.
"Loud and strong, Mr. Threadgill." She sat back down in the chair. "Your lungs sound clear, too, so keep blowing into the spirometer when the nurses ask you to."
"Sissy stuff."
"But pneumonia isn't."
"Rennie?"
"Yes?"
"Was I shot?"
"Stabbed."
He opened his eye again.
"With a screwdriver," she told him.
"Damage?"
"Considerable but reparable."
"Thanks."
"You're welcome."
"My balls hurt."
"I'll see that you get an ice pack for them."
It surprised her that a single eye could pack such malice into a dirty look.
"They're swollen," she explained. "Blood collects in the testicles after an injury like yours."
"But they're okay?"
"They're okay. This is a temporary condition."
"You swear?"
"Give them a few days. They'll return to normal."
"Good, good." He closed his eye. "Funny conversation."
"Not-so-funny pain, though. So I've been told."
"Rennie?" He reopened his eye. "Did they get him?"
She shook her head.
"Fuck."
Rennie remained where she was, seated beside the bed. Again she thought he had gone back to sleep when he mumbled, "My face. Hurts like hell.
Wha'd he do to it?"
"Apparently he attacked you from behind."
"Right."
"You fell forward and landed hard on your cheek.
Your chin was busted open, but it didn't require stitches. You're bruised and swollen, but no bones were broken."
"So I'll be as handsome as ever?"
"And as conceited, I'm sure."
He smiled but she could tell that any facial expression caused him discomfort.
The nurse returned with the soft drink in a foam cup and looked at Rennie strangely when she took it from her. Few surgeons ministered to patients this way. She pressed the bent straw against Wick's lips. He took several careful sips, then angled his head back slightly to signal that he was done.
"Is that it for now?" she asked.
"Don' wanna throw up."
Then he remained quiet and she was certain this time that he had gone back to sleep. Even after the nurse left the room, Rennie stayed. The next thing she knew, a soft voice was asking,
"How's he doing?"
She looked up to find Grace Wesley standing just outside the door. Rennie hadn't heard her approach, hadn't noticed anything, hadn't been aware of the passage of time. How long had she been staring into Wick's battered face?
Quickly she came to her feet. "He's, uh, he's better, actually. Talking coherently when he wakes up. He had some sips of Sprite." She set the cup of soda on the rolling bed tray. It seemed incriminating somehow to be caught holding it. "He's sleeping now."
"Is it okay if I come in?"
"Of course."
"I don't want to disturb."
"I doubt you will. He's out of it."
Grace Wesley was attractive and slim.
She wore her hair in a small chignon on the back of her head, a minimalist style that was flattering only to someone with her high cheekbones and delicate features. Her almond-shaped eyes bespoke intelligence and integrity. She had a quiet and gentle way about her. Earlier, Rennie had noticed that Grace's slightest touch had a calming effect on her brawny husband.
She moved to the foot of Wick's bed and for several moments watched him sleep. "It's hard for me to believe that's Wick," she said, smiling.
"I've never seen him inert. He never even sits still for more than a few seconds at a time.
The man's in constant motion."
"I've noticed that too." Grace turned and looked at her quizzically. "Of course I don't know him well," Rennie was quick to qualify. "Not well at all. But I gather you do."
"Wick was a senior in high school when Oren, my husband ..."
Rennie nodded.
"When Oren and Wick's brother Joe entered the police academy. We became good friends with Joe. He invited us to a high school basketball game "to watch my kid brother play," he said." She laughed softly.
"Wick fouled out."
"He's an aggressive competitor?"
"And a hothead. Volatile, easily set off. But when he loses his temper he's usually just as quick to apologize."
They were quiet for a time, then Rennie said, "I didn't know about his brother until today when a reporter asked me about him."
"Joe died three years ago. None of us is over it. Especially Wick. He thought Joe could do no wrong and loved him very much."
The nurse came in to replace an IV bag. They suspended their conversation until they were once again alone. "I understand that Joe was ..."
"Murdered," Grace said bluntly.
In one blinding instant of clarity, it connected.
Rennie said, "Lozada."
"That's right. Lozada."
"How'd he get off?"
"He was never indicted."
"Why not?"
Grace hesitated, then took a step closer to Rennie and spoke more softly. "Dr.
Newton, I asked my husband what was going on between the two of you this morning. I sensed the strong undercurrents."
"Two weeks ago I served on a jury that acquitted Lozada."
"Oren explained that."
"Your husband resents me for the outcome of that trial. Especially now. Lozada took one friend from him, and almost took another." She looked down at Wick. "If the jury had arrived at a different verdict, Wick wouldn't have been attacked and that young woman who was killed last night would be alive."
"May I ask you something?" Grace asked quietly. When Rennie turned back to her, she said, "If you could do it all over again, would you still vote to acquit Lozada?"
"Based on what I knew then, or on what I know now?"
"On what you knew then."
Rennie gave the question the same degree of consideration she had given that final and fateful vote. "Based strictly on what I knew then and the charge the judge gave us, I would be compelled to vote for acquittal again."
"Then your conscience should be clear, Dr.Newton. You can't be held responsible for Lozada's attack on Wick."
Ruefully she said, "Tell your husband that."
"I already did."
Rennie was taken aback. Grace smiled her gentle smile and reached out to press Rennie's hand. "I'll go now. But when Wick wakes up please tell him that I was here."
"I'll be going soon too, but I'll leave word with the nurses to be sure and tell him."
"Do you know when he'll be moved to a regular room?"
"In a day or two, if he continues to do well. I'm watching him closely for any sign of infection."
"What can I tell my girls?"
"You have daughters?"
"Two. Very lively ones."
"How nice for you."
"They begged to come with me tonight, but Oren didn't want them to leave the house."
Rennie didn't need to ask why. Wesley feared for their safety, feared Lozada might not be satisfied with an attempt on Wick's life. He had posted policemen at various places throughout the hospital, and now she noticed two more on the other side of the glass wall of Wick's ICU. No doubt they were Grace Wesley's bodyguards.
"My girls adore their Uncle Wick," she was saying. "If there were a poster of him, it would be on the wall of their room along with their other heartthrobs."
"Tell them their Uncle Wick is going to be all right."
"We have you to thank for that. The girls are dying to meet you."
"Me?"
"I told them all about you. Afterward, I overheard them talking together. They've now decided to become surgeons. They want to save people as you saved Wick."
Rennie was so touched she didn't know what to say. Grace must have sensed that. She let her off with a quick good-bye. The two policemen flanked her as they walked to the elevator.
There was no trace of the roses when Rennie returned to the nurses' station. Inside the circular enclosure sat several desks, computer terminals, monitoring machines, file cabinets, and general clutter. She didn't know where to begin looking for what she needed, and apparently she looked at a loss.
"Can I help you find something, Dr. Newton?"
"Uh, yes."
Several drawers were searched before a tin of medicated lip balm was located. Rennie took it with her into Wick's ICU. He was still sleeping, breathing evenly. She sat down in the chair at his bedside, but it was at least a full minute before she uncapped the small tin and released a pleasant aroma that hinted of vanilla.
She had noticed earlier that Wick's lips were dry and cracked. This wasn't an unusual side effect of surgery and loss of fluids.
In fact it was quite common. But Wick's lips had looked exceptionally dry. She had thought an application of lip balm might help. What was wrong with that?
Who was she arguing with?
She rubbed the surface of the salve with the pad of her index finger, making several tight circles in it, until the friction and her own body heat warmed and softened it. She dabbed the salve on his lower lip, then the upper one, barely making contact, touching him so gingerly it hardly counted as touching.
When both lips had been dotted with the fragrant salve, she withdrew her hand.
Hesitated. Then she touched his lower lip again, except this time she didn't break contact.
Slowly, she spread the balm from one corner of his mouth to the other, then back again. She did the same with the upper lip, following the masculine contour, staying within the shape of it with the painstaking care of a child who would be scolded if she colored outside the lines.
And just as she was about to retract her hand again, he woke up. The eye contact was electric.
Neither said anything. They remained perfectly still, with her index finger resting on the seam of his lips. Rennie held her breath, realizing that his deep and even breathing had also ceased. She strongly felt that if either one of them moved, something would happen. Something momentous. Exactly what, she didn't know. In any case, she didn't dare move. She wasn't certain she could. His blue gaze had an immobilizing effect on her.
They remained frozen in that tableau for ... how long? Later she couldn't remember. It lasted until Wick's left eye closed against his pillow. She actually heard his eyelashes brush against the pillowcase. She didn't resume breathing until after he had.
Then she pulled back her hand, clumsily recapped the tin of lip balm, and left it on the bed tray. She didn't look at him again before leaving the ICU. "Call me if there's any change," she instructed brusquely as she returned his chart to the nurses' station.
At the elevator, the policeman on guard held open the door and addressed her shyly.
"Dr. Newton, I just wanted to say ... well, Wick's a great guy. A few years back, one of my kids got hurt. Wick was first in line to donate blood. Anyhow, I wanted to tell you thanks for pulling him through this morning."
Rennie attributed the tear to exhaustion. She hadn't realized how tired she was until the elevator began its descent. She leaned against the rear wall of it and closed her eyes. That was when she felt the tear roll down her cheek. She wiped it away before reaching the ground floor.
As she moved through the hospital exit, another policeman surprised her by following her out.
"Is something wrong?"
"Wesley's orders, ma'am. Doctor," he said, correcting himself.
"Why?"
"I didn't ask, and he didn't say. I figure it's something to do with Threadgill."
The officer walked her to her car, checked the backseat, looked beneath it. "Drive safely, Dr. Newton."
"Thank you, I will." He continued watching her until she had gone through the gate.
She had driven several blocks before she noticed the cassette. It was protruding from the audio player in the dashboard. She stared at it, mystified. She never played cassettes, always CD'S.
At the next stoplight, she pulled it out to check the label. There was none. She could see the tiny spools of audiotape through clear plastic. Dismissing the sense of foreboding that came over her, she inserted the cassette and punched the arrow indicator for Play.
Strains of piano music filled the car, along with the husky tones of a female torch singer.
"I've got a crush ..."
Rennie struck the controls with her fist, banging it against them repeatedly until the music stopped. She was trembling, primarily with anger, but also with fear. Having policemen posted around the hospital hadn't deterred Lozada from placing this tape in her car. How the hell had he managed it? Her car had been locked.
She groped inside her leather satchel in search of her cell phone, but all she succeeded in doing was dump the contents of her satchel onto the floor. She reasoned that by the time she stopped and found her phone she could be home. She would call Wesley from there.
She sped through two red lights after glancing right and left to check for oncoming traffic. She wheeled into her driveway at an imprudent speed. The garage door took an eternity to open. It had barely cleared the roof of her car when she drove under it. She used the transistor to reverse it, and it began to close behind her before she even cut her car's engine.
Leaving her spilled possessions on the floor, she clambered out and hit her back door at a dead run. She burst into her kitchen, then drew up short.
Flickering light shone through the connecting door to the living room. No light source in her living room produced that kind of light. So what was going on? Until she knew, the sensible thing to do would be to back out the door, reopen the garage, and run down the center of the street, waving her arms and yelling for help.
But she wasn't going to run screaming from her own house. To hell with that!
She left the back door standing open. She took a butcher knife from a drawer. Then she crossed the kitchen and entered the living room.
Candles, hundreds, it seemed, but probably closer to dozens, flickered in clear-glass containers of every shape and size. They had been placed on every available surface, filling the air with a heady floral fragrance and making the room appear ablaze.
On her coffee table was another bouquet of red roses. And from the CD player, music in stereo. Another version. Another artist. But the same classic Gershwin tune. Lozada's theme song.
She was breathing hard through her mouth, and she could hear the pounding of her heart above the music. She took a cautious step backward, rethinking the advisability of handling this herself. Maybe she should escape through the kitchen door after all.
She calculated the time it would take to get help. Back through the kitchen. Out the door.
Punch the garage door switch on the wall.
Duck beneath the door. Down the driveway and into the street. Or through the hedge to Mr. Williams's house. Calling for help. Involving other people.
Involving the police.
No.
She walked to the sound system and turned off the music. "Come out and face me, why don't you?"
The shouted words echoed back to her. She listened closely, but it was difficult to distinguish any sound except those of her own harsh breathing and hammering heartbeat.
She moved toward the hallway, but paused at the end of it. It stretched before her, dark and ominous, seemingly much longer than it actually was. And because he had made her afraid in her own sanctuary she became even angrier. Anger propelled her forward.
She moved quickly down the hall and reached for the light switch in her home office. The room was empty, with nowhere to hide. She pulled open the closet door. Nothing in there but her stored luggage and travel gear. Again, there was nowhere for a grown man to hide.
From there she went into her bedroom, where more candles flickered. They cast wavering shadows on the walls and ceiling, against the window blinds that, because of him, she now kept closed at all hours of the day and night. She looked under the bed. She went to the closet and opened the door with a flourish. She thrashed through the hanging clothes.
The bathroom was also empty, but her shower curtain, which she always kept open, was drawn.
Too angry now to be afraid, she shoved it aside. Another arrangement of roses rested on the wire shelf spanning her tub.
She swung at the vase and sent it crashing into the porcelain tub. The racket was as loud as an explosion.
"You bastard! Why won't you leave me alone?"
She marched back into the bedroom and went around blowing out the candles until she feared the smoke would set off the alarm. She retraced her steps through the living room but left the candles burning for now. In the kitchen she closed the back door and locked it, returned the knife to the drawer.
She found a half full bottle of Chardonnay in the fridge, poured most of it into a glass, then took a long drink. Closing her eyes, she pressed the cold glass against her forehead.
She debated whether to call Wesley. What would be the point? She couldn't prove that Lozada had broken into her home any more than Wesley could prove that he had murdered Sally Horton and attempted to kill Wick.
On the other hand, if she didn't report this and Wesley somehow found out about it ... Right. Much as she dreaded doing it, he should be notified.
She raised her head, opened her eyes, and saw her reflection in the window above the sink.
Standing behind her was Lozada.
She'd only thought she was too angry to be afraid.