Silenced by the Yams (A Barbara Marr Murder Mystery #3) (18 page)

“Didn’t you promise that last time?”

“Howard, I’m perimenopausal. Loss of memory is one of the most common symptoms.”

“Right.” The line went silent for a minute. “Barb?”

“Yeah?”

“I love you too. You won’t forget that, will you?”

“Not in a million years. In fact, you’re stuck with me for at least the next ten lifetimes.”

“Good. We’re coming up on the three mile mark now, so put the phone down and get ready to pull over.”

“Here we go,” I said to Randolph as I began to decelerate. “Are you doing okay?”

He nodded and looked at me very seriously. “It’s comfortable, isn’t it?” he asked.

I didn’t know what he meant. “What?”

“True love. We have that too, you know—Jorge and I. Since college. It’s warm and it’s comfortable.”

Actually, I didn’t want to tell him that the love of my life would never kill a man in cold blood to protect his own interests and those of a corrupt politician. But it was obvious that he did love Jorge with all of his heart, and so mine broke for him. It must have been very hard to hide that love, pretending to be someone he wasn’t for all of those years.

Randolph stared out his window. “He’s gone,” he said. “Jorge’s dead.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do know.” He tapped his heart. “I sense it—his absence.”

Truthfully, I believed that it was possible that Jorge didn’t survive. He’d been shot, we all saw it. But I wanted to give Randolph hope. “Let’s just wait and see, okay? He’s probably going to be just fine.”

We’d pulled to a complete stop and I threw the gear shift into park, leaving the car running, just as I’d been instructed. I powered down the window and went to reach for the gun between the seats, but I was too late. Randolph was pointing it right at my face.

A thought flashed through my mind—something that I was supposed to do if things became dangerous.

But frankly, there was no time, even if I did remember what it was.

Glass and blood filled the air the instant I heard the explosion, as if it were all occurring at the same exact microsecond in time.

Then I was floating. Howard hovered over my vision and he called my name from the end of a long tunnel that grew longer and longer and darker and darker. I was desperate to touch him, but was too tired to try. Eventually he slipped away, and the darkness enveloped me entirely.

Chapter Twenty-one

Steven Spielberg and Meryl Streep. They’re both on my bucket list of people to meet. And I will. I may have to break some laws, get arrested and have a couple of restraining orders slapped on me, but I will meet them. In the meantime, during moments of stress, Steven or Meryl often visit me in my dreams.

I’m standing at the edge of a large rectangular pool that reflects a high-noon sun. The blue water is motionless and I feel that I could walk right out onto the surface and not fall through. Laughter startles me and I turn to see Meryl and Steven, robed in white flowing cotton gowns. The two of them together, in the same dream. It feels like a miracle. They’re walking toward me from an orange grove, over a plush lawn of the greenest grass I’ve ever seen. Meryl has stopped laughing to sip from the tall glass that she carries—a glass that is exactly identical to the two that Steven holds. When they reach me, Steven offers me one of the glasses.

“You must be thirsty after what you’ve just been through.” His smile is warm.

“Thank you,” I say as I take the glass.

“So you got yourself into another pickle, didn’t you?” Steven was chuckling.

 “My adventures would make some pretty wild movies, huh? Want to buy my story?”

Steven shakes his head. “Not believable enough. Sorry.”

Right. Because a story about a hairless, midget alien phoning his home planet with a child’s toy is so probable. That movie would never make a dime. I’m about to argue this point, but that’s when I notice that they are both barefoot. I look at my feet and realize I’m not wearing shoes either. Somehow, this doesn’t bode well.

“Am I dead?” I ask.

Meryl laughs. “Why would you think such a thing?”

“Because I’m barefoot. In movies, when people dream that they’re barefoot, they’re usually . . . you know . . .” I run a finger across my throat as if giving it a lethal slice.

“There is some truth in that,” Steven answers, “but you’re also dreaming that you’re by a swimming pool on a hot summer day. Shoes really wouldn’t be the appropriate costume for such a scene, do you think?”

He has a point.

“Then why are you wearing those white robes?”

They exchange mournful glances. “Should we tell her?” Meryl asked.

“She’s going to find out eventually.”

They are making me very nervous. The glass is cold in my hand and I want to gulp it down, but for some reason my hand can’t move anymore. Figuring this is a dream, I try to will the glass to my lips with my thoughts, but it stays there, dripping, teasing.

“What will I find out eventually?”

“That man,” Meryl shook her head sadly. “That Randolph man. He is dead.”

Steven adds, “Howard blew his brains out.”

Meryl puts her arm around me. Don’t worry though, the water is helping.”

I’m really confused. What water? Because I can’t drink the blasted glass of water in my hand even though I’m thirstier than an elephant in the Sahara. Suddenly the pool and Meryl and Steven vanish and I’m standing in the middle of a field. It’s raining. I tip my head back and catch the rain drops with my open mouth.

   Even though no one is around, someone repeats over and over again, “The water is helping. The water is helping.”

 I became aware of hard ground beneath my shoulders while someone supported my head. My face and lips were wet.

Howard’s voice said: “Barb, drink.” He was holding a plastic bottle to my mouth. Instinctively, I gulped at it.

“Slow down. Not too fast.”

I’d been pulled from the car and laid on the ground. Judging from the people and activity around me, I hadn’t been lying on the asphalt for long. An EMT ran up with a bag and asked how I was feeling.

 “Tired,” I mumbled.

Howard told the young female technician that I only blacked out for a few seconds and that I hadn’t experienced any physical trauma. She felt my hands, commented that my skin wasn’t clammy, then shined a penlight in my eyes. Finally she told Howard that I wasn’t showing signs of shock and that she was needed to assist with the shooting victim. The nice lady smiled and patted my hand. “If you need me, just tell someone, okay?” She scooted off around the car.

“Do you think you can walk if I help you?” Howard asked.

Nodding, I sipped on more water first. “Where are we going?” I asked after I’d quenched my thirst.

“Just to my car where you can sit.”

When we finally got comfortable in the backseat of his FBI-issue sedan, he kissed my hand and held it tight. “Eighteen years I’m in the Bureau, and in the last two years you’ve been in more danger than I have all my time as an agent. You’re making me look bad.”

“How are you doing?”

He looked into my eyes with an amazing sense of calm that surprised me, given that he’d just killed a man.  “I’m fine now that you’re safe.”

“It’s that easy?” I asked.

A puzzled look crossed his face. “What do you mean?”

“Steven Spielberg said you blew Randolph’s brains out. That doesn’t bother you?”

“It bothers me that you’re having Steven Spielberg hallucinations.” He put his hand on my forehead. “You sure you feel okay?”

“It wasn’t just Steven. Meryl Streep was there too. They gave me water but I couldn’t drink it.” I squeezed his hand. “You mean Randolph isn’t dead?”

“He’ll survive. I wanted to blow his brains out, but I didn’t. Did some serious damage though, and no, that doesn’t bother me.”

“Meryl Streep lied to me. I can’t believe it.”

Howard smiled. “You can give her a piece of your mind later.”

“He thinks Jorge is dead—do you know? Is he right?”

He raised his eyebrows. “That makes sense.”

“You want to elaborate?”

“His firearm—it wasn’t loaded and we’re pretty sure he knew it.”

“Why are you so sure?”

“His first words when I opened his door were, ‘Let me die.’”

I felt like someone punched me in the gut and it was hard to catch my breath. “So Jorge is dead?”

Howard nodded. “According to agents still on the scene.”

“And Randolph was trying to commit suicide? He wanted you to kill him?”

He nodded again and pulled me in to hold me tight when my tears started to flow.

Exhausted from lack of sleep and too much excitement, I remained nuzzled against Howard after my cry, warm and protected. Sleep might have come quickly, if visions of the shootout in front of the Tanner Building hadn’t flooded into my mind.

I remembered seeing Colt on the ground and my eyes popped open. “Howard! What happened to Colt?”

“I’m waiting for confirmation right now.”

“Confirmation of what?”

“Where he was transported.”

He squeezed my hand again, and I knew from the way his face tightened that something was wrong. “He lost a lot of blood, Barb. There was some concern,” he cleared his throat, I think to hide the fact that he was choking up. “Concern that he wouldn’t make it.”

Chapter Twenty-two

Howard received a call informing him that Colt had been taken to George Washington University Hospital. There was no news on his condition.

Howard didn’t even ask me if I wanted to go. He simply told Smith that he’d check in later, helped me around to the front seat, and we were on our way back to Washington, DC. As soon as we were underway, he said there would be a lot to discuss about why I was at the Tanner Building and what happened there, but that would happen officially at some point.

“You mean you’re not going to yell at me?” I asked.

He smiled. “Not now.”

After calling my mother and asking her to check in on the girls and Mama Marr, I trained an air vent on my face. The longer the day got, the steamier the air became. “This is the second time Colt was injured because I asked for his help. He’ll never forgive me.” My cheeks puckered and tears rolled down my cheeks again.

“He’ll live, and I highly doubt there’s any question of forgiveness. He’d walk through fire for you.”

“For you too,” I sniffed.

He nodded. “I know.”

The drive from Haymarket to Washington, DC is a long one. I decided to take the time to seriously discuss the touchy subject of Colt Baron and the Marr family.

Howard admitted that theirs had been a tumultuous friendship mostly because of his own jealousy. He knew, as did most of the world, that Colt still carried a torch for me, regardless how much he played the role of being a lady’s man. “But I’m over it—the jealousy, I mean.”

I reached over and rubbed his arm. “That’s good. Besides Steven Spielberg, you’re the only man I dream about.”

“And I trump Spielberg, right?”

“Especially after that last dream,” I said as I watched the suburbs of Northern Virginia sail past my window. “He’s got some ’splainin’ to do.”

We drove in silence for a moment.

“He makes me comfortable,” Howard said.

“Steven Spielberg?”

“No. Colt.”

“How’s that?”

“I know he’ll take care of you if anything ever happened to me.”

God forbid. I spent a lot of effort trying not to think of anything happening to the love of my life. Colt might watch out for me, but he’d never replace Howard. Not for me, not for the girls. Thinking of the girls reminded me of Clarence and I realized that Howard didn’t know. When I told him that Colt had a son, I thought he might drive the FBI’s car right off the road. Once he recovered from the surprise, Howard said he didn’t remember Deena Heatherington, but he was very anxious to meet Clarence.

“Let me warn you,” I said, “he’s . . . unique.”

*****

In fact, the first person we saw at the ER was Clarence, drinking a glass of orange juice. He’d ridden with Colt in the ambulance. Knowing that Colt had lost a lot of blood, Clarence offered his own as soon as they arrived, hoping it would help. He’d taken a shot to the thigh and to the gut, that was all that Clarence knew.

The worried son pushed his blond hair away from his face. “He’s in surgery now.” He sat on a chair, and Howard and I joined him, one of us on either side. I put my arm around him for comfort.

A wall-mounted flat screen TV caught my attention and my face drained. “Would you look at that weasel?”