BlackWind (13 page)

Bronwyn met the policewoman's gaze with pleading eyes.

“Don't worry,” VanLandingham said. She patted Bronwyn's shoulder, then motioned Dermot to follow her.

“Don't you threaten him again, Daddy!” Bronwyn called after them. “I mean it. If you do, I'll never forgive you!”

Dermot clenched his jaw as he walked alongside VanLandingham. His hands were fisted, his shoulders rigid.

“Have you threatened the boy in the past?” the detective queried.

“I told him to keep away from my daughter or I'd have him arrested for contributing to the delinquency of a minor.”

VanLandingham chuckled. “You don't know much about the law, do you, Doc?” She stopped in front of a closed door. “Or young love.”

Before he could respond, she opened the door, indicating he was to precede her.

Sean was staring out the window, his fingers hooked in the wire mesh that covered the panes. When the door opened, he looked around, then stiffened.

“I think you know Dr. McGregor,” VanLandingham said.

Sean nodded cautiously. His eyes were locked with the physician's, and neither man made a move to greet the other.

“I want you to sit down, Sean,” the detective said quietly.

With his gaze glued to Dermot McGregor's, Sean asked how Bronwyn was.

“She's fine,” VanLandingham replied. “She's just down the hall.”

“Did he hurt her?”

The doctor lifted his chin, a muscle in his jaw working, but he did not speak.

“No, Sean,” VanLandingham answered.

“Did he make her cry?”

“Sean,” she said, trying to gain his attention. “We have some matters that need to be discussed.”

Sean ignored her. He moved away from the window, his eyes hard on Bronwyn's father's face. “I don't care what you do to me. You can lock me up and throw away the key, but if you lay one hand on Bronwyn—”

“I am
not
Tymothy Cullen!” the doctor spat, taking a step toward Sean. “I don't hit women!”

“Sit down, Doctor,” VanLandingham said. When he made no move to follow her command, she told him again, her voice raised a notch in volume.

“If you ever hurt her,” Sean declared “I swear before God and man, I will come after you, McGregor, and I will make you sorry.”

“You gonna break my jaw, too, like you did Bobby's?”

“That's enough!” VanLandingham shouted. She took Dermot's arm and propelled him into one of the chairs, then stepped up to Sean. “Sit your ass down. Now!”

Sean stared into the angry woman's face, then shrugged. He pulled out a chair and sat, his attention latched on Bronwyn's father, who glared back.

“Sean,” VanLandingham said. “Sean, look at me.”

Reluctantly, he tore his stare from the doctor.

“Something has happened to your father.”

For a moment, Sean did not respond. Then he slowly closed his eyes. “He's dead?”

“Yes. I'm sorry, Sean.”

“Don't be. I'm not.”

“Even so, he was your father,” Dermot McGregor stated.

“Why is he here?” Sean demanded.

“Dr. McGregor is a psychologist and—”

“I know what he is. I want to know why you brought him in here?” For a moment, Sean stared into VanLandingham's face, then the blood drained from his face. He stood so suddenly his chair fell, crashing to the floor. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “No!”

Dermot walked beside the detective, his hands thrust into his trouser pockets. He was subdued, quiet. “I almost feel sorry for him.”

VanLandingham sighed. “You should. I'm sure he hasn't had an easy life.”

“Doesn't excuse what he tried to do to my daughter.”

She put out a hand and stopped him. “What is it you think he meant to do, Doc? Something different than what other teenage boys have been doing since Adam and Eve left the Garden? Wake up and smell the coffee. My gut tells me your daughter loves that boy and I know damned well he loves her. Keeping them apart isn't going to get you anything but a rebellious daughter and a more determined future son-in-law!”

“Like hell!” Dermot roared. “Over my dead body will I allow that hoodlum to marry my little girl!”

VanLandingham rolled her eyes. “She'll probably dance at your funeral, then, If you force her to chose between you and Sean, I can tell you who the winner is gonna be.”

He opened his mouth, then snapped it shut with a click. He walked purposefully to the room where Bronwyn and his wife were. “Let's go,” he told them.

“How is Sean?” Bronwyn asked.

“I said let's go! We'll discuss this on the way home.”

Bronwyn looked to VanLandingham. “Is he okay?”

“He will be. He's a strong young man.”

“He's a good man,” Bronwyn said, her eyes on Dermot.

“Is there anything you want me to tell him?” the detective inquired.

“No!” Dermot took Bronwyn's arm and pushed past VanLandingham. “Come along, Bronnie.”

Bronwyn tried to break free of his grip, but he held on tight. She turned as he pulled her toward the exit. “Tell Sean I love him!”

Even though it was close to eleven in the evening, people continued milling about on the sidewalks on both sides of the street. They pointed at Sean as he got out of VanLandingham's car. “Vultures,” he said.

“You got that right,” VanLandingham said. “Just ignore them.”

They had come to the house to pick up a few things for Sean and his mother. He would not be allowed to stay in the house until the forensics team was through, and that might not be for several days. After slipping under the crime scene tape and nodding to the policeman on duty at the front door, VanLandingham ushered Sean inside.

“Where are the suitcases?” she inquired.

Sean led her out of the living room and to the coat closet in the hall. He took a large suitcase from the shelf. “There are two other bags inside this one.” He put the suitcase on the floor, hunkered down, and opened it. He pulled out the first of the two inner bags and handed it to VanLandingham.

“Which room is your mom's?”

He pointed to the adjacent room.

“Let's get her stuff first.”

When VanLandingham had gathered some underwear and a few clean dresses, she asked Sean to show her to his room.

The smell of blood still hung in the air and sickened Sean. He studiously avoided looking at the bathroom door as he passed. Besides making him ill, the stench caused an odd sensation in his chest. He found it difficult to breathe normally. His hands trembling violently, he threw some of his clothes into the suitcase as VanLandingham looked about his room.

“You okay?” she asked.

He nodded, but left the room as soon as he shut the suitcase. Not bothering to wait for his escort, he rushed outside and onto the front lawn. He dropped the suitcase, bent over, clasped his knees, and drew in long, shuddery breaths. He barely felt the gentle hand patting his back and rubbing slowly up and down his spine.

“It's rough, I know,” she said, “but things could be worse.”

“How?” he asked, his voice strained.

“He could have killed her instead of the other way around.”

They had reserved a room for him at the Albany Motor Inn. VanLandingham stopped the car before the building and asked if he needed any money for food.

“I've got some of my paycheck left,” he said, taking the key she held out to him.

“If you need anything, here's my card.” She handed that to him as well.

“Thanks.”

“Those boys won't admit it was you who beat the shit outta them,” VanLandingham said with a grin.

He stared at her.

Her smile faded. “I don't want any trouble brewing between you and her father, though. You understand?”

“Not unless he starts it.”

“Sex between a man your age and a girl her age is a misdemeanor, but it can still get your ass into a whole pile of doggie do, son.”

He opened the car door. “Thank you for the ride, Detective,” he said as he climbed out.

“He's going to protect her, Sean. If you get in his way, bad things could happen.”

He bent down to look at her. “Yes, Ma'am, I understand that.”

She sighed. “Be careful, okay?”

He smiled for the first time since she'd met him. “I'll do my best.” He straightened and shut the car door.

She waved and left him standing outside his room. In the rearview mirror, she saw him staring across the courtyard at the dumpster. An old saying came unbidden to her mind—good riddance to bad rubbish.

She smiled grimly. What a fitting end to a bastard like Tymothy Cullen.

Although Sean was worried about his mother, he knew she would be all right. Her attorney would argue diminished capacity or—most likely—temporary insanity. Since abused women received no special privileges in the state of Georgia, she would be found guilty of manslaughter. Of that, Sean had no doubt. She would be sentenced to Milledgeville, the state mental hospital. How long she would remain there would be up to the judge, but Sean doubted it would be for life.

At least he hoped it wouldn't.

Gripping the suitcase, he turned to the door and stopped. He thought of the other motel room door he'd stood at earlier that day.

Then he thought of the lies he and Bronwyn had told.

And hoped there would be nothing to come of those lies.

Bronwyn had been quiet all the way home from the police station. Her parents had been equally silent. When they turned into the driveway, she knew the reprieve was about to end. But when her mother spoke, her words surprised Bronwyn.

“It's late,” Deirdre said. “Why don't you take a shower and go to bed, Bronnie. We'll talk in the morning.”

Bronwyn looked to her father, sitting rigidly behind the wheel. At his curt nod, Bronwyn opened the door and got out.

“Are you sure about this?” Deirdre queried her husband as she watched her daughter enter the house.

“As sure as I have ever been about anything.” He was staring straight ahead, his hands kneading the leather steering wheel cover.

Earlier, while en route to the police station, they had discussed what must be done. Deirdre had initially argued against her husband's plan, but in the end, she had agreed—Bronwyn must not be allowed to throw her future away on a boy like Sean Cullen.

“Go on,” he said. “I'll be in, in a minute.”

“About Neal Hesar...” When Dermot turned to look at her, she shrugged helplessly. “I didn't mean to insult you.”

“I know what you were doing, DeeDee,” he said, his voice tight. “You also know how I feel about the man.”

“Don't you think it would be better to assign him to Mrs. Cullen's case anyway?”

“I certainly can't treat her, given the circumstances, can I? It will have to be Hesar, charlatan that he is!”

There had always been bad blood between the two men. Both had grown up in Albany; both had attended Harvard medical; and both had courted Deirdre Siobhan Brell while she was a sophomore at Radcliff. Even though Dermot had won Deirdre's heart and hand, Neal Hesar was still a sore point in their relationship. It was unfortunate that both men had found work in the same hospita,l for their ongoing antagonism often landed them on the carpet before the institute's board of directors. Since neither was willing to leave the job and settle elsewhere, the battle seemed destined to continue.

“If the bastard would only take that job with Wynth Industries!” Dermot fumed.

“Why don't you? It would mean a huge salary increase and—”

Dermot pounded the steering wheel. “I'm not going anywhere. Let Hesar take the damned job!”

Deirdre clamped her mouth shut. They'd had this same discussion numerous times since the offer from W. I. had been extended to Dermot from Dr. Brighton Wynth, the Executive Director of Operations. She felt Dermot was being irrationally stubborn, but dared not tell him.

“Who the hell wants to live in Iowa, anyway?” he snapped.

“I wouldn't mind. I like the snow.”

He glared at her. “Well, I don't!”

Knowing further talk would make Dermot only more determined not to accept W. I.'s offer, she opened the car door. “You're sure you want to go through with this?” she asked, wanting confirmation once last time before setting his plan into motion.

“Yes.”

Without another word, she got out of the car and went into the house. When she walked past the laundry room and into the kitchen, she heard the shower going upstairs. Showering before bed was a nightly ritual Bronwyn had established at an early age. The habit annoyed Deirdre, herself being a morning shower person. But the nightly routine was something that seemed to relax Bronnie and help her sleep better.

It also took a long time.

Her jaw set, Deirdre climbed the stairs and went into her bedroom. In her bathroom, she opened the medicine cabinet. She pushed aside several pale orange medicine bottles until she found the one she was looking for. She shook two tablets into her hand and returned the bottle to the cabinet.

Dermot was closing the laundry room door when she returned to the kitchen. He barely glanced at her as she took the mortar and pestle from the shelf where she stored spices.

“Grind them as finely as you can,” he instructed.

Deirdre dropped the tablets into the mortar. With more force than necessary, she began to crush the 100-mg. tablets of secobarbital with the pestle.

He poured her a glass of soda pop and brought it to her. As Deirdre reached into the silverware drawer for a spoon, Dermot poured some of the soda pop into the mortar.

When no residual flakes of barbiturate could be seen floating, Deirdre took the glass upstairs and exchanged it for the glass Bronwyn always took to bed with her each night. Though it was another one of Bronnie's rituals that annoyed Deirdre, tonight, she was thankful.

Dermot lifted her to a sitting position as Deirdre knelt on the opposite side of the bed and placed a robe around her shoulders. He helped to thread her arms through the sleeves, then laid her down, rolled her toward him so Deirdre could pull the robe over her flanks. After rolling her onto her back, he tied the robe's sash around her waist and put the fuzzy bunny slippers on her feet.