Charlaine Harris (89 page)

Most days, though, I was sure Cameron was dead.

I was yanked out of my unhappy reverie by the sudden appearance of one of the detectives from the night before. He came into the hospital room very quietly and stood looking down at my brother. Then he said, “How are you today, Miss Connelly?” in a voice that barely moved the air in the room, it was so hushed and even.

I stood up, because he made me nervous, with his silent entrance and hushed voice. He wasn't especially tall, maybe five foot nine, and he was thickset and had a heavy mustache flecked with gray. He wasn't anything like his partner, Parker Powers. This detective looked like a million other men. I tried to remember his name. Rudy something. Rudy Flemmons.

“I'm fine compared to my brother,” I said, nodding down at the figure on the bed. “Have you got any ideas about who did this to him?”

“We found some cigarette butts in the parking lot, but they could have come from anyone. However, we bagged them just in case we ever get someone to compare the DNA to. Assuming the lab guys can get DNA.” We did some more looking at the patient. Tolliver opened his eyes, smiled at me very slightly, and went back to sleep.

“Do you think they were really shooting at him?” the detective asked.

“They hit him,” I said, a little confused at the question. Of
course
the shooter had been aiming at Tolliver.

“You think they might have been shooting at you?” Rudy Flemmons asked.

“Why?” That sounded stupid the minute it was out of my lips. “I mean, why shoot at me? You're saying you think the bullet hitting Tolliver was an accident, that it should have been me?”

“It
might
have been you,” Flemmons said, “not
should
have been you.”

“You're basing that on . . . what?”

“You're the dominant one in your little group of two,” Flemmons said. “And your brother is strictly your support staff. You're the talent of the outfit. The chances are much higher of someone taking issue with you, rather than with Mr. Lang, here. I understand he doesn't have a girlfriend?”

This was the strangest policeman I'd ever talked to.

I sighed. Here it came again. “He does,” I said.

“Who is she?” He'd even gotten out his little notebook.

“Me.” Flemmons looked up, his eyes quizzical.

“Come again?” he said.

“He's not my brother by blood, you know.” I was very tired of explaining our relationship.

“Right, you don't share parents,” he said. He'd been doing his research.

“No, we don't. We're partners, in every sense of the word.”

“Okeydokey. I got an interesting phone call this morning,” Flemmons said, throwing the line away. I immediately became more alert.

“Yes? From whom?”

“From a detective on the Texarkana police force. Name of Peter Gresham. He's a friend of mine.”

“What did he tell you?” I said and sighed. I really didn't want to hear yet another rehashing of my sister's disappearance. It had already been a “grieved about Cameron” day.

“He said there'd been a phone call about your sister.”

“What kind of phone call?” There are more crackpots in the world than you can shake a stick at.

“Someone spotted her at the Texarkana mall.”

I stopped breathing for a second. Then the air surged into my lungs in a choked gasp. “Cameron? Who saw her? Someone who used to know her?”

“It was an anonymous call. A male, calling from a pay phone.”

“Oh,” I said, feeling as though someone had punched me in the stomach. “But . . . how can I find out if that's true? Get that person to come forward? Is there any way?”

“You remember Pete Gresham? He was the primary on your sister's case.”

I nodded. I did recall him, but not with much clarity. When I looked back on the bad, bad days immediately following Cameron's vanishing, they seemed like one big blur of anxiety to me. “He was a big guy,” I said. I added, less certainly, “Wears cowboy boots all the time? He was losing his hair. He was young to be balding.”

“Yeah, that's him. Pete's bald now. I think he shaves the little he has left in the hair department.”

“So what did he do? About the phone call?”

“He viewed the security tapes.”

“They tape inside the mall?”

“Some, and they tape the parking lot pretty good, Pete said.”

“Was she there?” I thought I would scream if he didn't tell me.

“There was a woman who fits your sister's general description. But there's no clear shot of her face, and there's no real way to know whether or not it's Cameron Connelly.”

“Can I see it?”

“I'll see if that can be arranged. Ordinarily, I guess, you'd want to drive over to Texarkana yourself, but with Mr. Lang here, and liable to stay in the hospital for a couple more days, maybe we can let you see them at our office.”

“That would sure be wonderful if you can swing it,” I said. “The round trip would be a long time to be away from him.” I was trying to force myself to be calm.

Before I could stop myself, I bent over Tolliver and took hold of his hand. It was cold, and I told myself I'd have to ask the nurse for another blanket. “Hey, you,” I said. “Did you hear the detective?”

“A little,” Tolliver said. It was more of a mumble, but I could understand him.

“He's going to try to get the mall tapes here for me to see,” I said. “Maybe we'll finally get a lead.” It seemed incredible that Victoria and I had been discussing this very thing not an hour previously.

“Don't get your hopes up,” Tolliver said, in a clearer voice. “This has happened before.”

I didn't want to consider all the previous false sightings. “I understand,” I said. “But maybe this time will be the charm, huh?”

“She wouldn't be the same,” Tolliver said, his eyes fully open. “You know that, right? She wouldn't be the same.”

I calmed down in a hurry. “Yes, I know,” I told him. She would never be the same. Too many years had passed. Too much pain had been felt, too much . . . everything.

“If you need to go to Texarkana . . .” Tolliver began.

“I'm not leaving you,” I said immediately.

“If you need to go, you go,” he said.

“I appreciate that,” I said. “But I'm not going while you're here in the hospital.” I couldn't believe I said it, even as I listened to my own words. For years I'd been waiting to hear news of my sister. Now there was actually a lead, however odd and unreliable it sounded—and I was telling Tolliver I wasn't going to chase it down immediately.

I sat down in the chair by the bed. I laid my forehead against the cotton blanket that covered my brother. I'd never felt more committed.

Detective Flemmons had listened to our discussion with a blank face. He seemed to be reserving judgment on us, and I appreciated that, too.

He said, “I'll give you a call when we're ready.”

“Thank you,” I said, feeling a little numb.

When the detective was gone, Tolliver said, “It's only fair.”

“What?”

“You got shot for me. Now I got shot for you, if he's right. You think the shooter was aiming for you?”

“Huh,” I said. “The difference is, when I got shot, she almost missed me. I mean, it was just a graze. Whoever shot you did a better job.”

“So,” he said, “I get shot by more efficient people.”

“I think that pain medication must be pretty damn good.”

“The best,” he said dreamily.

I smiled. It wasn't often Tolliver was so relaxed. I didn't want to think about Cameron anymore, because I didn't know what I wished for.

His dad knocked on the door of the room and stepped in before we could say yes or no. Our peaceful moment was shot all to hell.

Matthew was looking a little ragged, not too surprising considering how late we'd been up the night before; and he'd told me he'd had the morning shift at McDonald's. Clearly he'd taken the time to shower after he'd been at work, because he didn't have the distinctive McDonald's smell.

“Tolliver, your dad helped me while we called for an ambulance,” I said, because I had to give the devil his due. “And he came to the hospital until they said you were out of danger.”

“You sure he didn't shoot me, too?”

If I hadn't lived with Matthew Lang for several years, I would have been shocked through and through.

Matthew himself gave a good impression of a man hurt to the core. “Son, how can you believe that?” he asked, simultaneously wounded and angry. “I know I wasn't the best dad . . .”

“Not the best dad? You remember the time you held a gun to Cameron's head and told me you would blow her brains out if I didn't tell you where I'd hidden your stash?”

Matthew's shoulders slumped. I think he'd managed to forget that little incident.

“And then you ask me how I can believe you'd shoot me.” If Tolliver's voice hadn't been so weak, it would have been hot with sheer rage; as it was, Tolliver's words sounded so sad I could have wept for him. “It's real easy to believe,
Dad.
”

“But I wouldn't have done it,” Matthew Lang said. “I loved that girl. I loved all of you. I was just a damn junkie, Tolliver. I was a mess, and I know it. I'm asking for your forgiveness, now that I'm clean and sober. I won't screw up again, son.”

“It'll take a lot more than words to persuade us,” I said, looking at Tolliver and seeing how exhausted he was after five minutes in his father's presence. “As long as we're bringing up happy memories, I can sure dredge up a few we haven't reminisced about in a while. You were there last night . . . okay. That was good. But it wasn't a drop in the bucket.”

Matthew looked sad. His brown eyes were like a spaniel's, innocent and liquid with soft feelings.

I didn't believe he'd reformed for a second. And yet, I have to admit, I wanted to believe him. If Tolliver's father could really reform, really try to love Tolliver as he deserved to be loved, respect him as he deserved to be respected, it would be a wonderful thing.

The next second, I cursed myself for being pathetic, for being sucked in to even that extent. Since Tolliver was hurt and weak, I had to be extra vigilant. I was watching out for both of us, not just myself.

“Harper, I know I deserve that,” Matthew said. “I know it'll take a long time to convince you both that I'm really sorry. I know I fucked up, over and over again. I know I didn't act like a real father. I didn't even act like a responsible adult.”

I looked down at Tolliver to gauge his reaction. All I saw was a young man who'd been shot in the shoulder hours before, a man exhausted by the demands his father was bringing into the room.

“Tolliver doesn't need all this drama now,” I said. “We shouldn't have gotten into this discussion. Thanks for your help last night. You should leave now.”

To his credit, Matthew said goodbye to Tolliver and turned and walked out of the room.

“Okay, that's over with,” I said, to fill the sudden silence. I'd taken Tolliver's hand, and he squeezed it, but he didn't open his eyes. I didn't know if he was truly asleep, but he needed to act like he was, so that was all right with me. Our stream of visitors seemed to have died out, and we had a few hours of that hospital boredom that I'd anticipated. It was almost a relief to be bored. We watched old movies, and I read a few pages. No one called. No one came to visit.

By the time five o'clock made its appearance on the big clock in his room, Tolliver insisted I needed to leave and check into a hotel, get some rest. After talking to his nurse, I finally agreed. I was almost walking in my sleep, and I wanted to shower again. All the little cuts on my face were sore and itchy.

I was extra careful with my driving as I stopped at a couple of hotels. I checked into one that had a room that was clean and ready and on the third floor. I hauled my bag in and slogged through the lobby and into the elevator, feeling an intense longing for a good bed. I was hungry, too, but the bed was the central item in my little day-dream. My cell phone rang. I answered it because I thought it might be the hospital.

Detective Rudy Flemmons said, “You sound like you're just about asleep on your feet.”

“Yes.”

“We'll have those tapes tomorrow morning. You want to come by the station to watch them?”

“Sure.”

“Okay, then. See you there at nine o'clock, if that suits you.”

“Okay. What's happening with the investigation?”

“We're still canvassing the neighborhood to see if anyone saw anything last night when your brother was shot. The other shooting was on Goodman Street, and it was a case of a falling-out between thieves. It's possible the shooter in that incident was so jacked up after he took care of his buddy that he decided to take a shot at a good target as he drove by the motel. We think we found the spot where the shooter stood.”

“That's good,” I said, unable to drum up more of a reaction. The elevator opened its doors on my floor, and I stepped off and went down the hall to my new room. “Is that all you need to tell me?” I used the plastic card in the lock.

“I think so,” the detective said. “Where are you now?”

“I just checked into a Holiday Inn Express,” I said.

“The one on Chisholm?”

“Yeah. Close to the hospital.”

“I'll talk to you later,” Rudy Flemmons said, and I recognized the tone of his voice.