No Turning Back (7 page)

I could feel a scream coming and I clapped my hand over my mouth in horror. Turning, I sprinted from the apartment into my own. Slamming and locking the door behind me, I tried desperately to think.

Who to call? Grabbing the phone, I tried to dial 911. My hands were shaking so badly, I dropped the phone. Finally able to punch in the numbers, I waited. My breath was coming in gasps and my heart was pounding. When the operator answered, I haltingly gave her the address and told her my neighbor had been hurt very badly. I hung up, then wished I hadn't. My aloneness pressed on me like a physical weight, ominous and threatening. I hesitated, then picked up the phone again.

Clarice answered on the third ring.

"Clarice?" I asked, my voice a thin thread.

"Kathleen? Is that you? Are you all right?" Her voice had been groggy, but now I could hear the worry as she came fully awake.

"I...I'm not sure," I said shakily. "My neighbor. Her name is Sheila. She's...dead. Murdered." The words made it more real and I could feel myself become lightheaded. I sank down onto the couch.

"What?! Oh my God, Kathleen," Clarice sounded shocked.

"I called 911," I hesitated. I hated to ask but I didn't know what else to do. "I know the cops are coming, but I'm by myself and...I'm scared. I didn't have anyone else to call." It sounded pathetic even to me.

"Don't worry," Clarice said confidently. "If the police are coming and there's been a murder, you'll need a lawyer more than anything else. I'm going to call Blane. He'll take care of you."

"No!" I said frantically, appalled that she wanted to call Blane. "Not him! What about Derrick?" Anyone else, really, would do.

"Blane's the best, Kathleen," Clarice insisted. "I'm hanging up now and calling him. You just sit tight." The line went dead before I could utter another word and I hung up the phone.

I don't know how much time had passed before I heard a knock on my door. Jerking in fear, it took me a moment to gather myself and go to the door. Peering through the peephole, I saw Blane standing there. I was surprised at how quickly he had come, arriving even before the police.

Opening the door, I stepped back to allow him to enter. He shut the door behind him and I noticed he was still wearing the tie and jacket from earlier this evening. I wondered if he had left the brunette waiting for him somewhere.

He gripped my arm gently and led me to the couch. I sat down and he sat beside me. He took my hands in his and rubbed them.

"Your hands are like ice, Kathleen," he said. "Tell me what happened." I looked up from our joined hands to his face.

"I was asleep," I said haltingly. "Something woke me. I heard arguing. I thought it was Sheila and her boyfriend, Mark. Then it stopped."

Blane stayed quiet and listened as I talked, his hands still rubbing soothingly over mine.

"I couldn't go back to sleep. I was worried about her. So I got up and went over to her place." The images that I had carefully been keeping at the back of my mind sprang to the fore and I felt tears slipping down my face.

"The door was open so I went in. And she was in her bed. And blood was everywhere." I started crying in earnest now and couldn't continue. Blane gathered me into his arms and I sobbed on his shoulder.

After a few moments, I was able to control myself and stop crying. Blane was rubbing my back as though soothing a small child. When he sensed that I was in control again, he spoke.

"You went into the apartment by yourself?" he asked, and I nodded, still leaning against him.

"Did you see anyone?"

"No," I answered. Not that I had been looking.

"So the person who did this could have still been there when you walked in?" That thought had not occurred to me. A shiver ran down my spine and Blane must have felt it for his grip tightened on me.

"I'm going to go check things out," he said, easing me from him. My eyes widened.

"No!" I said, gripping his jacket. "They might still be out there!"

"It's all right," Blane assured me, and I watched in stunned surprise as he removed a gun from the back of his pants.

"Why do you have a gun?" I asked.

"Have you met our clients?" he replied dryly. "Don't worry. I know how to use it."

"But...how?" I couldn't fathom how a blue-blood like Blane would come to know how to use a gun.

"Military," he said shortly, and he rose from the couch. "Stay here," he ordered.

I obeyed wordlessly. Watching him as he slipped out the door, I tried to absorb the fact that, at some point, Blane had been in the military and he was now stalking a possible killer next door. I could hardly wrap my mind around Sheila's death and this completely different side of Blane.

After a few agonizing minutes, he returned.

"No one's around," he told me, tucking the gun back into the small of his back. "They're probably long gone by now."

I could hear sirens now coming progressively closer. Blane looked at me, concern etched on his face.

"Are you going to be able to talk to the police?" he asked kindly. I'd regained a semblance of calm, the hysteria and panic now receded, and took a deep breath. I nodded and stood, shoving my feet into a pair of flip flops and following Blane to the door. We reached the parking lot as an ambulance and two police cars pulled up.

One of the policemen saw us and walked over. Motioning to me, he asked, "Are you the 911 caller?" I nodded.

"There's been a homicide upstairs," Blane said.

"And you are?" the cop asked Blane.

"Blane Kirk," he answered. "This is Kathleen Turner. I'm her lawyer."

The cop looked surprised at the presence of a lawyer. "Where's the victim?" he asked.

Blane pointed him in the direction of Sheila's apartment and we watched them climb the stairs. I didn't follow, remaining next to Blane while I waited. When they returned, one headed to the car and began talking on the radio while the other cop we'd spoken to earlier came back to us.

He took my name and contact information and I repeated what I had told Blane. When I got to the part about finding Sheila, my voice faltered. I felt Blane slide his arm around my waist and I was grateful for the support. I finished explaining what I had seen.

"So you were only in the apartment for a minute or two?" the cop asked me.

"Probably a bit longer," I said, "but I didn't see anyone."

"Do you know of anyone else that had been with her tonight?"

"She had a boyfriend," I said. "His name is Mark. I don't know his last name. He was some kind of computer guy. He was supposed to come over tonight. She was going to make him dinner." At that, I remembered my earlier conversation with Sheila and how she'd joked that she was going to put restaurant food on her plates, and I felt tears on my cheeks again. The cop seemed sympathetic but didn't stop his questions.

"Is there anyone else you know of that might have wanted to hurt Sheila?" he asked, and I thought for a moment, blinking back my tears.

"She worked as an escort," I said.

The cop looked mightily interested at this.

"Did she say who she worked for?" he asked.

"No," I answered, "she never said."

"Did she tell you anything else about this escort service?"

Before I could answer, I felt Blane's fingers bite into my waist. I flinched. That was obviously some kind of signal, but I didn't know why he'd want me to stop talking. I hesitated. I felt I should tell the police everything, but also knew that Clarice had been right, Blane was the best at what he did. I should heed his advice.

I shook my head. "No. That's all I know." Blane's fingers relaxed marginally.

Movement on the stairs distracted me and I saw the EMT's hauling a stretcher down the stairs, the figure on it covered completely with a white sheet. I bit my lip as I felt tears forming again. Blane turned me toward him, away from the scene, and I pressed my head against his chest. I allowed myself, for just a moment, to savor the feeling of someone else being strong so I didn't have to be. I hadn't had that feeling in a very long time.

The shock of Sheila's murder weighed on me as I tried to get a grip. Taking a deep breath, I stepped back from Blane. I seriously doubted he wanted a crying female hanging on him, no matter what the cause, and I reluctantly released him. A flash of orange caught my eye.

"Tigger!" I exclaimed and rushed forward. The cat had been behind some bushes, but poked his head out when I called. He trotted over and leapt up into my waiting arms. I nuzzled his thick fur and squeezed my eyes shut.

The police were ignoring me now as they went about their jobs and I saw a photographer head upstairs to take pictures of the crime scene. I went up as well, holding Tigger. Blane followed.

"Why did you want me to stop talking?" I asked Blane, sitting down on my couch with Tigger in my lap.

"You didn't tell me she was a prostitute," Blane answered, sounding irritated. That got my dander up.

"Why should it matter?" I retorted. "She was my friend and someone killed her. It doesn't make her death any more acceptable because of what she did for a living."

"No, but it does make things more dangerous," Blane said firmly. He sat down next to me and rubbed a weary hand over his face. I felt a pang of guilt. He didn't have to be here at all and here I was going into bitch mode on him.

"What do you mean?" I asked in a lot less defensive tone.

"There's only one escort service in Indy and, if that's who she worked for, the last thing they're going to want is for that fact to get out. Or any information on who her Johns were." He looked pointedly at me. "I want you to keep quiet about what you know or else you could become a target."

I hadn't thought of that. Absently, I petted Tigger while I mulled this over. It seemed inherently wrong to me not to do everything I could to help the police catch Sheila's killer just because I was afraid.

"I don't know if I can do that," I said honestly. I had been brought up with a deep sense of justice, thanks to my father, and it went against everything I'd been taught to look the other way, even if it was for my own safety.

"What do you mean?" Blane asked sharply.

"I can't just pretend I don't know anything," I insisted. "Sheila told me she was seeing some guy that kept requesting her. She'd mentioned him several times. The police should know that information. It could have been him and not Mark that killed her."

"You don't know that."

"No, but somehow I can't see Mark doing that to her either," I said. "He just...didn't seem the type."

"Ted Bundy didn't look like a homicidal maniac either," Blane said dryly. "If you think this man she talked about might have been involved, then I'll look into it."

This offer took me by surprise. "You will?" I asked.

"Yes," he answered. "Better me than you." I bristled at this.

"Why is that? Because you're a man?" Blane looked at me strangely.

"Yes," he said slowly, as if I were bit of an idiot. "I also have more resources at my disposal than you." Well, that last part was certainly true.

"Oh," I said, feeling my face heat. It actually did make more sense for him to check it out. I wouldn't even know where to begin hunting down not only Sheila's boss, but the mysterious client as well. "Well, thank you." I strived for a gracious tone, but it had been a really long day.

"Are you going to be all right tonight?" Blane asked, and I looked up at him quizzically. "By yourself," he clarified. "Is there someone I can call to come stay with you?"

The sad part is there really was no one else to call. I hadn't made any close friends in the city yet. Sheila and Clarice were the only friends I'd made that I would have felt comfortable asking to come stay with me. I didn't want to call Clarice because I knew she had kids so she couldn't just drop everything and come over. I felt uncomfortable telling Blane this, though. It made me sound like a real loser.

"I'll be fine," I said, shrugging off his concern. He didn't look convinced and I squirmed under his steady gaze.

Glancing at his watch, he said, "Look, it's really late. Why don't I just stay on the couch for a few hours? You can get some sleep and I'll leave in the morning."

I had to quickly turn away, blinking my eyes rapidly against the new tears that had formed. The unexpected kindness of his offer punched another hole in the protective barrier I'd put up to guard myself against him. The truth was, I doubted I'd be able to sleep again tonight if I was here by myself. The images in my head were just too fresh. I also had the feeling that Blane knew I had no one else to call to stay with me.

I cleared my throat before risking speech, not chancing to look at him. "If you wouldn't mind," I said over the lump in my throat, "I would appreciate that." Then another thought occurred to me. The brunette.

"Um," I started, unsure how to put this, "unless you have someone...waiting for you?" I felt the blood rush to my face and still couldn't look him in the eye. He didn't say anything for a moment and I think he was trying to decipher my code. I could hardly ask if the leggy slut was waiting in his bed now, could I?

"No," he finally said, his voice expressionless. "Not tonight." I nodded silently. Rising from the couch, I lifted Tigger into my arms.

"Can I get you anything?" I asked. It was such an odd sight, Blane sitting on my shabby couch. My grandma's faded patchwork quilt was folded over the side and her old orange recliner sat in the opposite corner. My TV wasn't one of the new flat kinds and wasn't that big. Blane looked very out of place with his perfect hair and designer clothes.

"I'm fine," he said dismissively, pulling out his cell phone. "Just going to make some calls." He punched a few buttons and held it to his ear. Feeling summarily dismissed and at a loss as to anything else I might do to make him more comfortable, I retreated to my bedroom.