Before Another Dies (31 page)

I gave another squeeze. “Titus is strong and so are you. It's the waiting that is hard.”

“I was hoping it would be over by now.”

Jerry leaned forward. “Surgeries almost always start late and sometimes word doesn't get out here even after it's over. It's a different world back there.”

“Minutes spent waiting are hours long,” she said. “Things moved so fast. First the test, then the diagnosis, then the surgery. And he was working so hard these last few weeks. He wanted everything in place. He was so worried what you would think.”

That jarred me. “What I would think? About his surgery?”

“No, about the restaurant thing. He knew you'd be opposed to it, and he admires you so much. I don't think you know how much my Titus thinks of you May . . . Maddy.”

The restaurant thing? Bennie's?
Wentworth had mentioned support on the council and I naturally thought it was Tess, and when she convinced me that it wasn't she who had partnered with Wentworth and his boss Rutger Howard, I made another assumption. Jon Adler would sell his mother for Lakers tickets. I never would have expected Titus.

“Why would . . . Never mind. It doesn't matter.” There were more important things at hand. I could talk to Titus later. I'd have to wait.

She looked at me and her eyes widened. “Have I . . . I mean, I haven't said something I shouldn't, have I?”

“Nothing to worry about, Cindy. Just some city matters. You've done nothing wrong, and there's nothing to worry about.” Those words came out smoothly, but my mind was a jumble. I had completely missed my guess.

Cindy shifted her eyes from me to someone over my shoulder. I snapped my head around, and my heart began skipping. Instead of seeing a man dressed in black I saw a man dressed in surgical greens. My heart continued to pump even though there was no danger to me. I had a feeling I'd be doing a lot of unnecessary jumping in the future. Then I felt a new tension. The man was making his way toward us. He looked at Cindy, then Jerry and me. He raised an eyebrow.

“Dr. Thomas? Jerry? What happened to you?”

“Hey, Ben.” He stood. “Ben, this is Maddy Glenn, and you've probably already met Cindy Overstreet. Maddy, this is Dr. Ben Clark.”

“
The
Maddy Glenn? Mayor Glenn?” His voice carried and several people looked our way. “It's a pleasure.” He extended his hand, then noticed the fiberglass cast. He substituted a smile. “I'm dying to hear the story behind all this, but first . . .”

He took the other empty seat next to Cindy, then gave her a pat on the knee. “First, let me say, he's fine. He came through the surgery without a hitch. We got a late start and the surgery took about half an hour longer than expected. We did find cancer. There was more than we anticipated, but we're pretty sure we got it all. It was localized in about a footlong section of colon. We removed that. We examined the area thoroughly and could not find evidence of spread outside the colon, so that's good. There will be some follow-up treatment, but he should be fine.”

Tears began to run down her cheeks. One or two slipped from my eyes as well.

“When can I see him, Doctor?”

“It will be a little while. He's in recovery and will remain there for another hour or two, then he'll be moved to ICU for observation. You can see him after he gets settled in. If he doesn't develop complications, he should be in a regular room sometime tomorrow afternoon. You should plan on his being in the hospital for a week.”

He patted her knee, then stood. He looked at Jerry again. “I wish I had time to hear the story now but I have another surgery waiting, but you will tell me soon.”

Jerry agreed and Dr. Clark left. I watched as Cindy dabbed her eyes. “I'm so relieved. I don't think I could live without him.” I was relieved too and said a silent prayer of thanks.

Jerry wheeled me back to my room. I was exhausted. The short excursion had tired me more than I thought possible. As he pushed me along the corridor, I said, “It's good to see that kind of love.”

“It's better to feel it.”

I climbed back into bed, biting my lip to avoid grunting in pain. I left the robe on. I was feeling cold. “Don't you have patients to see?”

“I have a man covering it. I'm taking a couple of days off.”

“Good for you.” I closed my eyes and hoped for sleep, but Jerry's words kept whispering in my ears.
“It's better to feel it.”
I had felt such love once, and it was taken away from me. One experiences love like that once in a lifetime. My own thought tripped me. Was that true? Who was to say that a person only had one chance at love?

“Can I ask you something?” I watched him push the wheelchair into the corridor, then return to the seat by my bed.

“Sure. Unless it's about cooking. I don't know anything about cooking.”

“Oh, I don't know, you pick up a mean take-out meal.”

“That's true. I spend more time sitting alone in restaurants than I care to think about.” That image bothered me. “What's your question?”

“Why haven't you given up on me?”

He looked puzzled. “Given up?”

“It's been almost a decade since my husband was killed and almost that long since your wife left you. You've been attentive, supportive, but never pushy. And you've never hidden your feelings for me.”

“True enough.”

“Yet, I've not repaid you in kind. I've never let us be more than friends.”

“Also true.”

I looked into his still-swollen face. “So why haven't you given up?”

The answer came without deliberation or hesitation. “Because a man doesn't give up on his heart.” He leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees, and studied his hands. “Sometimes it seems to me that you refuse to fall in love with anyone else because it will somehow steal away your love for Peter. Your husband was a good man, and you should always love him. I have never tried to compete with him for your affections. Never if he were alive and not now that he is dead.” His eyes moved from his hands to my face. “I'd rather be in second place with you than in first place with anyone else.”

Jerry had been open about his desire for me, about his love, but he had never been this blunt, this plain. He looked different to me. His swollen nose, puffy face, and still-squinty eye had changed his face for a few days, but it hadn't changed him, and I was beginning to see him in a new way.

“You are a wonderful man, Dr. Jerry Thomas.”

He smiled in an embarrassed way. “Yeah, I know. I keep telling people that.”

I closed my eyes again and the unbattered face of Jerry appeared in my mind. It felt good. It felt comfortable.

Sleep took me in its arms.

chapter 37

A
s Jerry pulled his car into my driveway I felt conflicting emotions. Home looked good. It was my place of peace, my sanctuary, but last night's violence had breached its walls. Mixed with the joy of being home was the bile-tasting fear that had taken up residence in my gut.

“It's a good thing I followed the ambulance last night instead of riding along. Because of my forward thinking, I was able to play chauffeur.” Parked at the curb was my parents' car and Nat's van. I was glad to see both.

“Were you really thinking ahead?” He switched off the car. I looked at the closed garage door in front of us, then to the side yard where my attacker had hidden. I had an urge to buy a big, foul-tempered, ugly dog.

“No. I was barely thinking.”

I could imagine what he was thinking. I was in the worst shape so he wanted the paramedics to focus on me. That would be Jerry's way. He probably threw his I'm-a-physician weight around to get what he wanted.

Jerry exited and rounded the car to get the door for me. Normally, I just bounded out once parked, but this afternoon I was in the mood to be pampered. I had slept another two hours before waking an inch or two more refreshed but in serious need of ibuprofen. At six minutes past one I was sprung and thankful for it. Hospitals are lousy places to rest. Too much noise, too many people, and they smell too much like hospitals.

After helping me down, Jerry offered me his arm. I took it and leaned a little on him until I found my legs. No serious damage had been done beyond the broken wrist, bruised face and body, and sore muscles. I was already feeling better, but was certain it would be a couple of weeks before I felt good.

The afternoon sun was high overhead, doing the same work it had done yesterday, oblivious to our brush with death. The air was still and birds in a nearby fruitless mulberry tree sang a song whose meaning was known only to them. God's creation was looking pretty good to me.

The front door opened before we reached the concrete stoop. My mother stood at the threshold, putting on a brave face, wearing a big smile, and her arms outstretched toward me. I hoped she wasn't going to hug. We could hug next week. Over her shoulder I saw Dad, looking simultaneously pitiful and fiercely angry. Nothing angered him more than someone trying to hurt his family.

“Welcome home, sweetheart.” Mom's smile broadened enough to fight back her tears. She leaned forward and placed her hands on my shoulders as gently as if I were as fragile as cotton candy. She gave me the tiniest kiss on the forehead, then gave way so that I could enter my home.

Despite my best intentions, my eyes immediately traveled to the stairway where I fought for my life less than fifteen hours before. It looked as it always looked. Once fully in the house I let my gaze wan der to the dining room and the sliding glass doors that had rained in on me the night before. They had been repaired and no little cubes of glass could be seen. The rug bore track marks from the vacuum and I could make out a few spots on the rug that appeared lighter than the rest. Mom must have cleaned up the blood that had poured from Jerry's nose and mouth. The chairs were put back in place and the dining room table repositioned. On the table rested a dark briefcase.

Through the window I could see the deck, the lounges, and the small table Jerry had used to shatter the glass door. My memory reran the image of the dead guard. I forced it away.

I moved toward the sofa, Jerry constantly by my side. I was feeling like an invalid. This had to stop. Releasing Jerry's arm I found my favorite spot on the couch and dropped my aching body onto it.

“Hey, stranger.” I turned in time to see Nat wheeling in from the kitchen. She pulled close and took in my appearance. “Purple's not your color.”

“I wanted to try something new.” We made eye contact that lasted a very long second. Without words, we exchanged what needed to be said. She was sorry it happened, and I was going to be fine. “I didn't expect you to be here.”

“I invited myself. I'm rude that way.”

“Feel free to be rude anytime.”

“What can I get for everyone?” Mom asked. “We have soda, tea, coffee—”

“I don't have soda in the house,” I said.

“I went shopping. You know your dad enjoys soda.”

“I'm surprised you didn't rearrange my closets.” For years I've teased my mother about her tendency to mother a middle-aged woman.

“I'm almost done with that.” She was quick. I asked for a cup of tea, then decided that it would be too hot for my swollen lip. I opted for ice water. Everyone else went for coffee, except Dad. He was now obligated to have a soda.

When Mom got back with the drinks, I said, “The place looks great.”

“Your dad took care of the door,” she said. “The poor workmen could have been done an hour earlier if your father hadn't been hovering over their shoulders.”

We chatted, just light conversation, everyone judiciously avoiding the terror of the previous night. Mom was constantly on the verge of tears. I held her hand for a while, then fought off her suggestion that I take a nap. “I haven't slept well for several days, but if I sleep any more today I'll be staring at the ceiling while you all are snoring in your comfy beds.”

“Well then, I've got a taco casserole to prepare, and since I don't fix things out of a box I have some work to do. Your dad's going to help me.”

“I am?”

“Yes, you am.”

They disappeared into the kitchen. Seconds later I heard water running, pans being shuffled, and other cooking hubbub. I looked at Jerry. He had taken one of the corners of the matching loveseat, his head rested on his hand, his eyes closed, and his breathing revealed a man fast asleep.

“He's been a peach,” I said. “I owe him my life.”

“I doubt he'll ask for anything in return,” Nat said. “He doesn't seem the kind.”

“He's not.” Something warmed inside me as I watched him snoozing.

“So what do you want?” Nat asked.

“What do you mean?”

“After my accident, everyone wanted to take care of me, to do things for me, fetching this and that. They meant well and I needed their help, but I used to wish someone would simply ask, ‘What do you want? Do you want to talk or be left alone?' So I'm asking. We can talk or not talk. We can avoid the attack or address it. We can skip work or do some. You get to call the shots.”

“I wish it hadn't happened.”

“It did.”

“I know. To tell you the truth, I'd like to work. That's my best therapy.”

“I'll be back.” Nat wheeled away. I watched her move to the dining room table, pick up the briefcase, and return with it. “You had assigned some work for me.” She removed a folder and handed it over. I took it and set it on my lap.

“What am I looking at here?”

“I did the research you requested on Rutger Howard and H. Dean Wentworth.”

“Ah, Horace. Find anything good?”

“I knew Rutger Howard was a big operator. He's CEO of the Bennie's restaurant chain, and he pilots its parent company, Howard Enterprises. I'll spare you my research technique but between the Internet and the people I know, I've learned that Howard likes the eminent domain ploy.”