Too Close to Home (14 page)

I rejoined Gran and Aunt Lucy, and we quickly reviewed and modified a tactic that we’d used before.

A few minutes later, Gran was feeding quarters into the vending machine, intent on buying a large cup of very hot, extremely mediocre coffee. Aunt Lucy was standing upright,
balancing on her crutches with her thickly swaddled lower leg lifted inches off the ground.

I had already walked around the corner carrying a neatly hand-lettered sign with tape doughnuts stuck to its back. Out of Order, it said. After the restroom’s only occupant washed her hands and left, I stuck the sign to the door’s exterior. Then I waited right outside the door, relying on my hearing and imagination to tell me what was going on just out of sight.

Soon, I knew, the nurse would help Jackie into the wheelchair and begin pushing her down the corridor in the direction of the elevator. She would steer the wheelchair close to the wall that was opposite the vending machine area, her position and pacing encouraging Hector to walk near the center of the corridor.

Not too far from the intersection of the corridors, Hector would encounter Aunt Lucy and Gran.

Frustrating to stay where I was, out of sight of the chaos that I knew was coming. I would have preferred to watch. Would have preferred knowing immediately if something was going wrong, if some unexpected circumstance was creating a situation more dangerous than this one already was.

But I had my own job to do. So I stood just outside of the restroom door and imagined the scene that would unfold the moment Hector walked past the little alcove containing the vending machines.

The nurse would say something to draw Hector’s attention.

At that moment, Aunt Lucy would hobble past, heading along the corridor in the opposite direction. She’d teeter slightly on her crutches, then throw one wide to catch herself. And plant the crutch in front of Hector’s moving feet.

Aunt Lucy would fall. And cry out loudly in pain and dismay.

With luck, Hector would go down, too. But chances were,
his balance and reaction time were better than that. Not that it really mattered. Because, right about then, Gran would step onto our impromptu stage.

Onlookers drawn by Aunt Lucy’s cries would see the next accident coming. It would happen so quickly that they might be able to shout a warning, but wouldn’t be able to stop it. Not if Gran had her way.

Frail and elderly, Gran would act oblivious to the unfolding chaos. Easy enough for onlookers to assume she was a little deaf. Certainly her thick glasses implied she didn’t see very well. Her eyes and attention, anyway, would be fixed on her coffee cup. She’d be stirring it carefully as she shuffled forward into the corridor. And into the center of the melee.

Confused and disoriented by the drama erupting at her feet—a large man either falling or trying not to and a middle-aged woman flinging her crutches wide as she collapsed to the floor—Gran would panic. And fling the cup of hot coffee from her hands. If it landed where Gran wouldn’t seem to be aiming it, hot liquid would cascade out in the vicinity of Hector’s crotch.

If everything went according to plan.

I hated waiting, knowing that a moment of bad timing, some unanticipated circumstance, could turn opportunity into disaster. Then we’d be forced to rescue Jackie beyond the relative safety of the hospital. At her home or on the streets, places where Hector’s violence would be unrestrained.

I heard a commotion just around the corner.

Let the games begin, I thought as a man—undoubtedly Hector—yelped with surprise.

Score one for Aunt Lucy.

A heartbeat later, Hector suddenly cut loose with a string of profanity, pain pushing his voice an octave higher.

Gran scores, I thought. And I allowed myself a smile.

Gran’s voice and Aunt Lucy’s mixed with Hector’s, adding to the noise and confusion. An overlay of running footsteps and strangers’ voices meant that others were rushing to help.

At this moment, I was sure that no one—not even Hector—would be paying attention to Jackie as she was pushed away from the fray by her attentive nurse.

The few people near me rushed around the corner, curiosity and desire to help emptying the corridor that I stood in. A good thing because soon, I knew, the ball would be in my court.

The nurse rounded the corner with the wheelchair.

“She’ll help you,” she said.

I grabbed Jackie’s hand and, in my haste, nearly pulled her from the chair.

“Park it by the stairwell,” I said quickly to the nurse. “Maybe it’ll delay—”

Her quick nod told me I didn’t need to explain further.

I turned my attention to Jackie, took her arm and guided her into the women’s restroom. Pointed to the stall at the far end of the row.

“Hurry,” I said. “In there.”

I gave her an encouraging little push, pressed in behind her and shot the lock into place. As a defense against a well-placed shoulder or boot, I knew it was completely ineffective, no more a deterrent than the out of order sign that was still hanging on the restroom door. But the sign had done its job, clearing the room so that no one would witness our entrance.

And the lock might make Hector hesitate. Besides, maybe I’d misjudged the man. Perhaps he wasn’t the kind of guy who would burst into a women’s restroom, out of order or not.

Yeah, right, I told myself. When pigs fly.

T
he toilet seat was down.

I flipped it upward to provide a stable surface.

“Step up here so that he can’t see your feet,” I said.

Jackie didn’t waste time asking questions. She just nodded and put one foot up onto the porcelain rim of the stool.

After slipping my purse over a hook on the stall wall, I grabbed Jackie’s arm to steady her, helped her climb up and told her to turn around so that she was facing the door. She braced her hands against the stall walls for balance, and I was pleased to see that they were tall enough to hide her.

Jackie was a skinny kid, not much older than nineteen or twenty. But it was too easy to tell that life hadn’t been kind to her. The restroom’s harsh fluorescent light illuminated her face, making her look paler than she already was. Badly dyed hair stuck out all over her head, accentuating the hollowed-out look of her eyes and cheeks. Her fine, almost delicate
features were marred by the darker marks of bruises and the twisted path of dark, tiny stitches that marched from the corner of her right eye, across a swollen cheek, and down to a corner of her scabbed and swollen lips.

She was wearing black jeans and a skimpy black top. An outfit that Hector had helped her put on. Colors that he would most likely remember. Something that would work to my advantage.

I took a moment, no longer, to meet her too-large and very frightened brown eyes.

“Trust me, okay? It’ll be fine.”

I didn’t know if she believed me, but she nodded.

“Good girl,” I said.

I turned to face the stall door. And got ready for Hector’s arrival.

I hiked up my jumper just long enough to undo the button and zipper on the white shorts I wore. Then, as the shorts fell around my ankles, I took the SIG-Sauer from my purse. Slid my right index finger through the trigger guard and my hand firmly around the butt of the gun. With my legs splayed forward, I slid back along the toilet until I was up against Jackie’s feet.

Ready.

And just in time.

From outside in the hallway, Hector’s loud, angry voice carried clearly into the confines of the stall.

“Where is she? What’d you do with Jackie?”

Though I couldn’t hear the nurse’s reply, I knew what she was supposed to say: “I left her right here, out of the way. Then I went to make sure you were okay.”

Behind me, Jackie whimpered.

Quickly, I turned my head, looked up at her.

“Be quiet,” I said urgently. “No matter what happens, you have to be quiet. Promise me.”

She caught her lower lip between her teeth. Bit down hard. And nodded.

As Hector drew nearer the restroom door, I could hear the nurse’s voice, too.

“Your wife wouldn’t go in there, Mr. Townsend. It’s out of order.”

I held my breath, praying that Hector would agree. And move on. Once he was out of range, Gran would come into the restroom and give me the all clear. Then we’d slip away from the hospital, carefully detouring to avoid Hector.

Not all prayers are answered.

Hector came crashing into the restroom.

“Quit playing games, Jackie. I know you’re here!” he bellowed.

He began opening stall doors, checking inside.

The nurse kept trying to reason with him.

“Mr. Townsend! This makes no sense. Your wife is probably waiting for you downstairs.”

Hector ignored her. Kept checking. Despite the nurse’s escalating threats, he reached the stall where we hid. I could hear his labored breathing on the other side of the door.

He rattled the lock. Called his wife’s name again.

“Get lost, jerk,” I shouted back, working to sound outraged rather than afraid. “I’m not Jackie. Whoever the hell
she
is.”

Hector must have been from Missouri. The show-me state. He bent over and attempted to peer beneath the door.

I kicked at his face and shrieked as I pulled my legs—and the white shorts—back farther into the stall.

“Help!” I screamed at the top of my lungs. “Someone! Please! Help!”

All the while, I kept my gun aimed directly in front of me.

If he attempted to break in, I would shoot him at point-
blank range and claim self-defense. A not-unreasonable claim when a raging man has you trapped in the women’s restroom. A realistic claim, in fact, should Hector find me hiding Jackie in the stall with me. No doubt, he
would
try to kill me.

I’d tell anyone who asked that Jackie had been in the stall next to me. That she’d crawled beneath the divider to escape her psycho husband. A female cop from Maryville would have a lot more credibility than a creep like Hector. He would, anyway, be too dead to speak on his own behalf.

I took a breath. Steadied my nerves and my aim. And waited.

That was when the nurse spoke again, her voice filled with outrage and authority.

“I’m calling security, Mr. Townsend!” the nurse said. “And I promise, you
will
be arrested.”

There was a moment of quiet as, I supposed, Hector considered what to do next. Then he cursed, accused the nurse of incompetence and muttered something about suing the hospital. For what, I couldn’t imagine. But, in the end, he made a decision that saved his life.

His footsteps retreated across the restroom.

The nurse followed in his wake, still threatening him.

Eventually, when I could no longer hear either of their voices, I exhaled. And relaxed. Just a little. I stepped forward in the stall and put my gun back in my purse. Then I turned to look up at Jackie. Smiled just a little, more from relief than anything else. And she giggled. Not quite hysterical, but darned close.

“It’s going to be okay,” I said. “But I think we’ll stay right here for a couple more minutes, just to be sure that no one’s coming back. Sound good to you?”

Her voice cracked, but she managed to answer. And almost smile.

“Yeah. Sounds good.”

I bent to pull my shorts back on. After that, I stripped off my extra layer—the cranberry-colored jumper I was wearing. Which left me dressed in shorts and a blouse.

By then, my heart was almost beating normally.

I held out my hand to Jackie, helped her step down beside the toilet, and felt just secure enough to unlock the stall door. I snagged the purse as I left the stall. And I handed her the jumper.

“Put this on,” I said.

She did as I said and didn’t have to be told to slip off the black jeans that showed beneath the hem. Those, I stuffed in the trash.

Then I pulled out the wigs.

“Brunette or blond?”

“Blond,” she said.

A moment later, she was transformed from biker punk to hometown girl. With bruises. But the simple change in appearance would make our escape easier. At a distance, Hector would be unlikely to spot his wife among the crowds of visitors to the hospital. And in the unlikely event that he’d managed to enlist anyone’s help in finding his suddenly absent wife, she wouldn’t look at all like he’d describe her.

We went back into the corridor, followed it around until we passed the kiosk, then continued, unaccosted, to the parking garage.

A few minutes later, Gran and Aunt Lucy joined us inside the Suburban.

Despite our success, Aunt Lucy looked grim and nearly exhausted. Not surprising. Though she’d gone on the Underground’s rescues ever since
she
was sixteen, she faced each extraction with competence and resignation. As if they were nothing more than dangerous, unpleasant tasks that needed doing. For the sake of the women.

But Gran flashed me a grin that I could only describe as gleeful. As if, had she been unrestrained by age or convention, she would have been punching the air, whooping with joy and doing a victory dance.

I grinned back across two generations, recognizing my own feelings in my grandmother’s expression. Not for the first time, I realized that she and I were of a kind. Certainly, our commitment was to the helpless and abused. But it was the challenge of outwitting—and defeating—human monsters that kept our work for the Underground interesting. And made us feel truly alive.

When we arrived at the Cherokee Rose, it was already dark.

Katie was on the front-porch swing, in a pool of yellowish light cast by the overhead bulb. Her workday was long over and she’d dressed for the warm, humid night in dark shorts and a pale green tank top. Her legs were curled up beneath her and a book was open on her lap. As I parked the Suburban, I saw her look up from her reading.

I expected her to go back into the house, to retreat to the kitchen or the private apartment where Aunt Lucy and Gran lived—where Katie and I had grown up—and avoid contact with anyone traveling along the Underground. But as Gran, Aunt Lucy and Jackie preceded me through the hotel’s front gate, Katie hurried from the porch and along the flagstone path that bisected the yard.

She met us near the rose arbor. Pushing past Aunt Lucy and Gran, she reached out and grasped both of Jackie’s hands, then pulled her in close for a hug.

“I’m so glad you’re letting us help you,” she murmured.

Her back was to Gran and Aunt Lucy. So they couldn’t see the smug, almost vindictive smile that my sister shot me
over Jackie’s shoulder. It said, “I told you so,” much louder than words.

After a moment, Katie released Jackie from her embrace, but kept a hold on one of her hands as she continued speaking.

“Your name’s Jackie, isn’t it? Well, Jackie, you’ll be safe here. I promise. Are you hungry? Do you like chocolate cake? I just finished frosting one. But maybe something more nourishing first. Come on into the kitchen. You can tell me what you like to eat.”

At first, Gran and Aunt Lucy looked surprised. But as Katie continued talking to Jackie, they began looking almost pleased. As if this were a moment they’d been waiting for. The moment our entire family was involved in the Underground.

Jackie, responding like a needy child to Katie’s overt mothering, clung to Katie’s side. Hand in hand, the two of them walked up the front steps and through the big double pillars that supported the porch.

Gran and Aunt Lucy followed them.

I stood where I was, watching mutely. Shocked as I saw how easily my concerns were dismissed. How easily the understanding we’d come to during lunch was forgotten. Now it was all too apparent that Katie was determined to get what she wanted. And neither Aunt Lucy nor Gran would stand in her way. Because they loved Katie, but more importantly, because they believed in second chances.

Aunt Lucy paused at the threshold of the big front door. She turned, looked over her shoulder and saw that I was still standing on the path.

“Come on, honey,” she said. “Let’s celebrate a job well done.”

I shook my head and turned away, knowing there was nothing to celebrate. To protect those seeking refuge at the Cherokee Rose—to protect the Underground and those who
ran it—I would have to prove to Aunt Lucy and Gran that my sister was still capable of violence. And I would have to do it quickly. Before someone like Missy came along.

But what if I was already too late? I asked myself as I had so often since first discovering the inhaler. What if I was many years too late?

As I walked back along the flagstone path—as Aunt Lucy continued calling my name—I prayed that Missy was my sister’s only victim. For all of our sakes. But I also made the decision that I’d been trying so hard not to make. Because it would undoubtedly tear my family—and my life—to pieces.

If I uncovered proof that my sister had hidden her first crime in the trunk of an old tree, there’d be no cover-up. Not this time. No matter what impact that had on me, my family, or the Underground. I would not allow a serial killer to continue walking free. I would not give Katie an opportunity to kill again.

Fighting back tears, I walked beneath the rose arbor. And for the first time that I could remember, I was unmoved by the enduring beauty of the Cherokee roses that had flourished for many generations at the entrance to our family home. Ignoring the abundance of waxy white flowers surrounding me, I grasped the latch on the heavy front gate.

A stray rose tendril snagged my bare arm.

Thorns embedded themselves deep in my flesh.

Unthinking, unfeeling, I wrenched myself free.