Enemies and Playmates (36 page)

While the coffee brewed, she switched on the television. She folded her blankets as a diaper commercial played. The mother and baby on the screen made her think of Gina. The unwanted image of Gina and her father in bed popped into her mind. She dropped the pile of blankets on the end of the couch and wished that photo could be removed from her memory.

The smell of coffee wafted out to her. She went to the kitchen and poured herself a steaming cupful. As she stepped back into the living room, her house, her father’s house, filled the TV screen. Next came a video of her father in handcuffs being led down the driveway. Even in handcuffs, shortly after sunrise, he looked impeccable. Well dressed, reserved. A perfect contrast to the demon inside him.

“Oh my God,” Carrie murmured. “Your father.”

Lauren turned to find Carrie in her flannel pajamas staring at the TV. Lauren nodded. “Yeah,” she said. She was surprised at how detached her voice sounded.

Carrie sat down to listen to the newscaster. Lauren heard the words “ongoing investigation”. The reporter offered a few facts, some speculation. It all sounded far away, as if she was trapped in a tunnel. Her stomach churned and the coffee suddenly tasted sour.

Lauren headed for the bathroom and a quick shower. School was not an option today. She’d be bombarded with questions. People would stare, whisper behind her back. Jesse had been right. It wasn’t over. It was just beginning.

Marc had already left for work by the time Lauren reached the condo. She and her mother sat in the cozy living room with coffee and donuts. “How did you feel,” Lauren asked, “seeing him in handcuffs?”

Kara shook her head. “He looked too good. Barely six a.m. and he’s wearing an Ermenegildo Zegna suit, like he’s off to do a photo shoot for GQ.”

That surprised Lauren. The two women had been friends for as long as Lauren had known Gina. But, for some reason, she thought their friendship would have ended with the news of the affair. And the pregnancy. “That’s good,” Lauren said. “How is she?”

“Managing,” Kara said. “Gina has decided to keep the baby. Sandy is afraid she might be doing so with the hope that Alex will fall in love with it and want to be a family.”

“We had a long talk last night. She doesn’t want anything to do with him anymore.”

“You’re sure?”

“She knows the truth now,” Lauren said. “I had to tell her what he’s really like. She’s hurting. And scared. But I think she’s getting a grip on the reality of things now.”

Kara breathed a heavy sigh. “Raising a baby alone is going to be hard for her. Perhaps it would be best for her to give the baby up for adoption. She needs to focus on herself. On putting her life back together.”

Lauren stopped mid-sentence, her eyes fixed on the stranger standing mere feet away. As if the intrusion wasn’t scary enough, the man was wearing a black ski mask that only revealed two large angry brown eyes. One gloved hand gripped a short black handle with a long glistening steel blade protruding from the top.

Lauren’s voice was frozen somewhere deep in her throat. She glanced quickly at her mother, whose eyes mirrored all the fright she was feeling.

He attacked them quickly, without a word. Lauren blocked her face, shrieking as the blade tore into her hands. She was aware of screams, though she wasn’t sure whether they were hers or her mother’s.

He shoved Lauren backward. She slammed her head against the end table. Glass shattered. The room swam around her. She tried to grab the chair for support but her hand slid off, leaving a bloody trail behind.

Kara had been trying to get to Lauren. The intruder grabbed her hair. He yanked her hard and she fell to her knees. The knife blade danced through the air and drops of blood fell like rain.

Lauren scrambled across the carpet. Blood splattered in her peripheral vision. Her mother moaned. She weakly called out for Lauren to run.

Lauren made it to the kitchen. She frantically searched the drawers for knives, anything large and sharp that she could use to protect herself and her mother.

A smothered but torturous scream from the living room sent a cold shiver down her spine. Her stomach lurched. She tasted bile.

“Forget it.” His voice was muffled beneath the ski mask.

Lauren yanked the drawer out and heaved it as his face. He easily sidestepped the drawer. It clattered to the floor beside him. Unfazed, the intruder strode toward Lauren. She threw whatever she could grab. The toaster, a coffee mug. Her hands left a trail of liquid red. A moment later she was cornered, stuck between the wall and his bloody knife.

“Stop!” Kara stood in the doorway behind him, holding a shiny chrome gun with a pearl handle. Her blouse was torn, drenched in blood. Droplets fell to the floor around her.

The intruder half-turned. Time froze as he stood there, the knife blade inches from Lauren’s face, his gaze fixed on Kara. Lauren dropped to the floor and four bullets rang out. Then silence.

Lauren slowly raised her head. The man’s body was sprawled across the kitchen floor. His blood had splattered everywhere. Wet sticky goo clung to her face.

She raced to the living room, snatched her cell phone from the coffee table, and dialed 911. Then she collapsed back beside her mother. She held her mother’s limp hand. And she prayed.

29

Jesse handed a group of photographs to the woman across his desk. He said, “As I told you, she’s alive and well.”

Mrs. Hartman sifted through the pictures. Her eyes registered disbelief as she gazed at her pretty, blonde, eighteen-year-old daughter dressed in a tight denim mini skirt and a cropped t-shirt that showed off her pierced bellybutton. “I can’t believe this is Marybeth,” Mrs. Hartman said. “What happened to my little girl?”

Jesse leaned back in his chair. Mrs. Hartman’s sad eyes gazed at him intently. She had perfect creamy white skin. Her pale blonde hair, the same shade as her daughter’s, was pulled into a careless ponytail. She was about thirty pounds overweight and a few decades behind in fashion. He could picture her baking cookies for the neighborhood kids. Not the type of woman you’d expect to raise a teenage drug-addicted prostitute.

Jesse was trying to come up with some sort of reply when his intercom buzzed. He excused himself, lifted the receiver, and said, “Yeah, Dawn?”

As Dawn spoke, the room closed in around him. He punched the button for the outside line. “This is Jesse Ryder.”

He listened, thankful he was already sitting. He was sure his knees would not have held him up. He said, “How bad?”

For a few moments he listened to a nurse from the emergency room. Lauren and Kara had been attacked by a man with a knife. The details didn’t totally register. But Lauren was alive. And she’d been asking for him.

“I’m on my way,” Jesse told the nurse.

“Are you all right?” Mrs. Hartman asked.

Jesse turned. He’d forgotten she was sitting there. “I… uhh…” He got to his feet, saw the fear in Mrs. Hartman’s eyes and wondered if it was a reflection of what he was feeling. He said, “I’ve got to go.”

“Oh dear,” Mrs. Hartman said. “You don’t look well. Something is terribly wrong.”

Jesse nodded absently as he reached for his jacket. This whole thing was his fault. He should have backed off. He should have left Covington alone. What the hell had he been thinking?

Jesse somehow managed to make it to the hospital without causing an accident. The emergency room bustled with activity. He jogged past the reception desk, opened the door to the treatment area, and found a nurse. “Where is Lauren Covington?”

“Cubicle four,” the nurse said. “But you can’t go in right now. The doctor is -”

Jesse stopped listening as he scanned the curtained petitions. He spotted one with the number four above it and strode over. He parted the curtain and stepped inside. A young Indian doctor and an older gray-haired nurse stood on one side of the bed. The nurse held a bloody hand, Lauren’s hand, while the doctor stitched it. She wore a hospital gown speckled with blood. Her eyes were closed. Tubes hung over her, pumping blood, drugs, and fluids into her body.

Jesse stood still for what felt likes hours. He stared at the caked blood in Lauren’s hair and the streaks on her face, fighting to control the tears that threatened his eyes. He needed to keep himself together for Lauren’s sake. She was going to be okay. She had to be.

Voices floated toward him but the words didn’t register. Lauren opened her eyes. She spotted Jesse and almost smiled. In a voice that was impossibly small, she said, “Jesse, thank God you’re okay.”

Here she was, lying beneath a bloodstained sheet on a hospital gurney, and she was worried about him. He forced himself to the empty side of the bed. The doctor shot him an irritated glance but said nothing. He couldn’t take her hand, wasn’t sure where he could touch her. He wanted to say something strong and comforting. All he could manage was, “I’m so sorry.”

“My mother… is she…”

“She’s going to be fine,” Jesse said. He didn’t know that. Hadn’t even asked anyone yet. But he sure as hell wasn’t about to tell Lauren otherwise. “Just rest.”

“I’m glad you’re here.”

Jesse touched the side of her face. He wanted to tell her how sorry he was that he’d pushed too far. Sorry that he hadn’t been there to protect her. But all he said was, “I love you.”

***

Lauren slipped in and out of consciousness. Various members of the medical staff worked quickly, while giving Jesse reassuring speeches about her recovery. The standard speech, probably given dozens of times a day. Nothing they said could ease the guilt and rage burning inside him.

Could Lauren’s own father actually be responsible for this? Would he pay someone to do this to his own daughter? Jesse recalled a conversation he’d had with Dominic Forenzi not that long ago. Covington had wanted his wife dead. If his wife, why not his daughter as well? Especially when she was so blatantly working against him.

Jesse took Lauren’s doctor aside. He was short, dark-skinned, and spoke with a heavy accent. His eyes were the kindest Jesse had ever seen. Jesse said, “Was Lauren…” His voice faltered. He didn’t want to ask this question. He had to know the answer. He cleared his throat, started again. “Was she raped?”

“No, no,” the doctor said. “Thankfully not.”

Jesse breathed a sigh of relief. “Do the police have any idea who did this?”

“Sure do,” the doctor said. “Mrs. Covington shot him. He’s dead. Have to say I’m happy not to have to work to save the bastard’s life.”

“Do you know the guy’s name?”

“No, I’m sorry,” the doctor said. “You’d have to ask the detectives handling the case.”

Jesse thanked the doctor and left him to his work. Too much of a coincidence for this not to have come from Covington. Would the cops be able to find proof? Had Forenzi been released and done it himself?

Forenzi’s words stuck in his mind. He wants me to plant his wife beside you. Why hadn’t he done something to prevent this? And why hadn’t whoever did this come after him first?