Death at the Wheel (37 page)

I pulled off Rosie's warm blue sweater and dropped it on the raincoat. Cold, cold rain on my cold, cold skin. Once again, bending over made me dizzy. Ever since the car had run into us, there had been something very wrong with my head. I undid the belt—fumbling awkwardly, as if it were the first belt I'd ever undone. It seemed to take an age. I was very conscious of Moreau's gun pointing at me, of his watching eyes—and then suddenly the pants were down around my ankles and the cold rain falling on my legs. I lifted one distant, heavy foot, shook one leg free, then the other, and stood defiantly in my underwear and cherry-red sneakers.

I took a step toward the bags. Moreau said something but his words were lost in the roaring in my head. I thought I heard the word food. I took a step toward it, stumbled. Saw him jerk the gun up. A firecracker exploded behind me. The old woman was falling and I couldn't help her because the ground was rushing up to meet me. It smacked me, hard. I smelled earth and grass as I fell into a squirming darkness as noisy as the Fourth of July.

The flashes behind my lids were not fireworks or gun flashes. I opened them to find a reporter taking my picture. I'd been a reporter. I knew what bottom-dwelling scum they were. He'd get the most salacious picture he could and he'd use it. Close-ups of me in my muddy underwear on the front pages of every paper he could sell it to. Not if I could help it. I tried to push myself up, to get at him, to grab the camera, but it was hopeless. Whatever had made me topple over in the first place kept me down and dizzy now.

Beside me, a voice bellowed, "Hey!" followed by scuffling feet, a torrent of bad language, and something dropped on the ground near my head. I was Chicken Little and the sky was falling. I opened my eyes. A camera. Then a foot stomping on the camera. A furious voice yelled, "What the hell! You can't do that!"

Then a voice I recognized. Roland Proffit. "Sorry, sir. Accident. Now, if you could just step back...."

I smiled. Despite the roaring confusion in my head, I understood this. I was among friends; he wasn't. Andre's colleagues understood that he wouldn't want these pictures printed. The camera was mauled by a horde of milling feet, reduced to a flattened mass of parts, the long spiral of film curled up like a piece of fallen fly tape.

Someone put an arm around me. Help me sit up. Draped a coat around my shoulders. I was drained and weary, desperate to know what had happened, too confused to ask. Through the milling legs I caught a glimpse of a figure on the ground, a tuft of graying yellow hair. Moreau. No sign of Andre. I should get dressed. There were people around. It was what he would want me to do. Andre was a very private person. He might never forgive me for this. A wave of dizziness came, shook me, and passed, leaving me weak and confused. I wanted to find him. To see if he was still alive.

Something dropped into my lap. Soft and soggy. And cold. My clothes. I looked up, slowly and carefully, humoring my brain's tendency to slosh, and saw Jack Leonard glaring down at me. "Get dressed," he growled, and turned away.

"Jack. Wait! Andre... is... he...?"

"Alive," he allowed. "On his way to the hospital. Get dressed, for heaven's sake. Aren't you embarrassed?" He hurried away.

Okay, okay. So I'd get dressed. Did the big lunk think I was enjoying this? It wasn't like I wanted to be undressed or anything in the middle of a cold wet field before dozens of people. If I'd planned on it, I would have worn something a bit more elegant. I had some navy-blue lace that would have been stunning with livid red bruises and pale blue skin. I giggled. Jack just didn't get it, did he? I would have done a heck of a lot more than this if I thought it would help save Andre. Maybe Jack had never loved someone this much.

I picked up the bundle of clothes and tried to sort them out. My hands couldn't have been more inept if I was wearing boxing gloves. I couldn't separate the top from the pants, couldn't find sleeves or legs. Remembered Moreau staring at me, the harsh voice and eerie eyes. I was suddenly light-headed and dizzy and sure I was going to be sick. And so cold. I wrapped my arms around myself and hugged, grateful for the coat. Was it Proffit's?

"You look like you could use a hand," Dom said, squatting down beside me.

"Some guardian angel you are," I said. "Where have you been?"

"Checking on Andre."

"And?"

"It ain't pretty, princess, but I've seen worse. And he's a tough guy."

"Come on," I said, grabbing his arm. "We've got to get to the hospital."

"Like that?"

"Like what?"

"Your clothes," he said. "They're a bit damp, but you still might want to put 'em on."

"Please. If you'd help me...."

"I am at your service." I stood up, took off Proffit's coat, and let Dom drop the sweater over my head. It smelled of Rosie's perfume. Then, with one hand on his shoulder, I stepped into the pants. From the knees down they were cold and wet; the rest was just damp. I rested against Dom's chest while I fastened the belt. I still felt sick and dizzy, but it would just have to wait. There were places to go and people to see.

"Well, shall we go, then?" Jack Leonard said, reappearing suddenly. Like me, his place was at the hospital. Jack and I weren't friends. Never would be. I wasn't his kind of woman and he wasn't my third favorite cop. But he was a good man, and fair, and right now just as worried about Andre as I was. "You want to bring your own car or ride with me?"

"I'll drive her," Dom said.

"Follow me, then," Jack said. "It'll be faster."

Dom helped me put Proffit's jacket back on and we followed Jack back down the road to the cars. It was still daylight, which surprised me. It had been a very long day. I wouldn't have been surprised to find weeks had passed.

Dom kept one arm firmly around me and I needed it. I was like a cartoon character with great long rubber legs. Jack waited impatiently by the cars for us to catch up, standing with arms folded while I stopped and threw up in the grass. I was surprised when he stepped forward and held out his handkerchief, an unexpected kindness that shook my tenuous hold on control.

"Thea," he said, "You're a brave girl. If anything happens to... if Andre... I just want you to know..."

"Please, Jack. Not now. Let's wait and see what happens."

"Right. See you at the hospital." He folded his lean frame into the car and took off. So much for following him.

Dom and I staggered down the road to his car, where he opened my door, tucked my blanket around me, and we set off.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I've put you through a lot today, Dom. Thanks for being here for me. I couldn't have done it without you."

Dom shook his head. "You sure don't make it easy on a guy, Thea. Leonard nearly died of apoplexy when you grabbed that food and took off. Earlier, you know, you were asking me what's wrong with you? Well, I think I've figured it out. You've never outgrown that adolescent belief that you're immortal. Everybody else, see, they reach a point where they're more concerned with saving their own skins. They don't want to take chances. You don't even stop to think about the danger."

"That bad, huh?"

"Not very sensible."

"So I'm immature as well as headstrong. If it had been Rosie in there?"

"Then everything I just said is bullshit. I would have taken the house down."

"Whatever you all may think, Dom, I didn't mean to do that. I wasn't trying to be heroic or anything. When the guy hit our car, I think it did something to my head. I was feeling dizzy and confused and suddenly… I couldn't stand their dithering. All the delay. Not with Andre in there. Something came over me...."

"That's the point I was trying to make," he said. "Those things don't come over other people."

"Can you stop the car? I'm feeling sick again," I interrupted.

"We'll be at the hospital in a few—"

"It's your car, Florio." He stopped. Cops who are completely sanguine about people bleeding in their cars will stop on a dime if the person threatens to be sick. I'd be the same way myself, with my own car. When I was hollow all the way to my toes, I wiped my sweating face with Jack's handkerchief and got back in the car. "I forgot to call my insurance company about the accident," I said. "And my credit card companies. Got to get a new driver's license...."

"You'll roast in hell for sure. Look, Thea... you said you've been feeling dizzy ever since we got rear-ended?"

"Uh-huh."

"And now you're sick to your stomach?"

"Very."

"Sometimes, when a person has a concussion, the effects are delayed. After what you've been through, it might be a good idea to get yourself checked out."

"Dominic, I was checked out last night. It's no big deal. Don't you start fussing over me, too. Turn at that light up there. Hospital's down the hill. Oh, cripes. I am so sick. I feel like I've been poisoned. What were all you guys thinking back there when... when I... when he made me take my clothes off?"

I didn't want to ask but I had to know.

"The general consensus was that Andre Lemieux is a pretty lucky guy. And one idiot who thought your legs were too thin. Silly twit. Uncle Dom thinks you're just perfect."

One of the things I cherish about Dom is his ability to appreciate me as a woman without a touch of the salacious. He's seen me in my underwear more times than any man except Andre and David, and it's always the same. His face says I'm am attractive woman and he doesn't need to have a piece of it, just to be sure. When we were working on Helene Streeter's murder, people who saw us having coffee together made a point of calling Rosie to tell her about it. Rosie's response was priceless—she said she didn't care where he whetted his appetite as long as he took his meals at home. Dom Florio was a guy who would always go home for dinner.

"About undressing," he said. "Don't feel bad. Gunman once did that to me. And I don't look half as good as you."

"Have I told you lately that I loved you?"

He shook his head. "Not for a few hours. You've been distracted." He pulled up behind Jack's car and stopped. "Here we are. Why don't you scoot in and I'll go park the car."

I got out. Doubled over. Threw up again, just barely missing my shoes, and staggered into the emergency room. I was trying to ask about Andre when someone collared me and dragged me into a curtained cubicle. Jack Leonard followed me in. "I heard you hit your head when the car got banged," he said.

"Maybe that accounts for my bizarre behavior," I suggested. There was a bed in the room and suddenly I was desperate to be lying down. I even let Jack help me. The mattress and pillow felt good. Now all I needed was a blanket. "Where's Andre?"

"They're taking him upstairs to surgery," he said. "It will be awhile before we know anything."

I sat up. "Upstairs where?" I asked, ready to jump off the table.

"Hold on," he said, grabbing my arm and pressing me back down. "You're not going anywhere until these guys have checked you out."

"I didn't think there was anyone left in the state who hadn't checked me out."

He rolled his eyes. "It was a sight," he said finally. "Please...."It sounded like a word he didn't use very often. "Just let 'em take a look at you. I've got enough to worry about."

"You and me both," I said. His plea was so like Andre's "put a cork in it, Thea and try to cooperate," that I shut up and stayed put.

"Okay. I'll stay. But promise you'll let me know if anything..."

"Scout's honor," he said. There was a tremble in his voice. We both knew that any news that came at this point would be bad news. He squeezed my hand and left.

Dom came in, and assorted medical folks who poked and prodded and flashed lights in my eyes, clucked and fussed over all my livid bruises, and declared me genuinely concussed. So what was new? They gave me a vile elixir to settle my stomach and left me to rest.

Alone at last, weak and shaky as a newborn kitten, I thought about Andre. In a way, our relationship had begun with my being sick. Sick to my soul at the shocking pictures he showed me of my sister Carrie's body. Would it end the same way?

 

 

 

Chapter 29

 

In a minute, I would get up and find Andre. Attach myself to him like a limpet and never let go. First I had to rest. Had to let my stomach settle and my sloshing head, too. I closed my eyes and nestled into the soft pillow, the warmth of the blankets, relieved of the effort to stay upright, to be alert, to fend people off. I dozed and dreamed. I was on a racetrack, whizzing through the corners, Nick's cocky voice, half amused, half cynical, barking instructions in my ear.

Then, the way a projector that's been out of focus suddenly projects with startling clarity, I was looking at Tony Piretti and the pieces of the puzzle began to fall into place. My mind works like that. I'll be totally immersed in one thing and suddenly instead I'll be thinking with perfect clarity about another. I forced myself to relax and let the pictures come. I was having lunch at the racetrack, still flushed with the exhilaration of driving, pulling pictures out of my purse. Piretti sifting through them and holding out a picture of Dr. Durren. "Who's this?" he said.