Connor's Gamble (18 page)

A gasp escaped as reality set in.  It
was
the same.  The distinct J seared itself into her numbed brain.

Bethany.  The woman in the photos was Bethany
.

“I have to talk to Connor.”  Stuffing the photos back into the torn envelope haphazardly, not caring if they were bent or creased, she grabbed her card key and headed for the door.  In her heart she knew Connor was telling the truth.  He had never cheated on her.  Something more was going on here—what she still wasn't sure.  It was too much of a coincidence Bethany was the woman in the photos and the reporter doing the story on the seniors and their trip.

“They're connected somehow, but what's the key?”   Didn't matter, she had to find Connor.  They'd figure it out together.  Flinging open the door the sight that greeted her stopped her in her tracks.

Freakin' big gun.  In Bethany's hand.  Enormous, silver and shiny.  And pointed directly at her.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Sunday

“M
ove.”

Bethany shoved Alyssa's shoulder, forcing her back into the room.  “I knew you recognized my tattoo down in the locker room.  Stupid bitch, you just couldn't mind your own business, could you?”

Bethany kept advancing toward her and Alyssa took an involuntary step back. 
Gotta stay out of her reach
, she thought. 
She's lost her mind
.

“It was you in the pictures with Connor.”

“Damn skippy it was me.  Son of a bitch ruined my life.  I figured I deserved a little payback.  He's so clueless.  He didn't recognize me—then or now.”  Bethany smirked, waving the gun around as she talked.  Alyssa took another step backward.

“Give me your cell phone,” Bethany demanded.

Alyssa's hands shook so hard she could barely grasp the phone she'd dug out of the side pocket of her purse.  With a gulp she handed Bethany the phone.

“Grab your purse, too.  We're going for a little ride.”

“I'm not going anywhere with you.”  Alyssa stated the words firmly. 
Good, can't let her scare me more than she already has.

“I said get your purse, you stupid bitch!”  Bethany strode forward, snatched her purse off the end of the bed, and slapped it against Alyssa's chest.  Reflexes kicked in and she grabbed it before it fell, then she looped the handle across her shoulder.

“Let's go.”

“Hell, no—”

Crack.
  Alyssa's words abruptly cut off. Pain ricocheted through her from Bethany's backhanded slap.  Her cheek throbbed and her mouth filled with the metallic copper flavor of blood.  The tip of her tongue slid out to lick the sticky substance from the corner of her mouth.

She hit me!  What the hell?

“I have to accelerate my plans, since you and Connor's meddlesome grandmother started putting two and two together.  Nosy old busybody, snooping around, sticking her nose into my business.”  Bethany's evil grimace of a smile never reached her eyes, but the sight chilled Alyssa's soul. 
Molly—had this bitch done something to Molly?

“She'll be fine as long as you do exactly what I tell you.”  Alyssa didn't realize she'd spoken aloud until Bethany answered her question.  “Molly's having a little . . . nap right now.  An extra deep sleep.  Apparently she took a few too many sleeping pills this afternoon.”

“No!”

Alyssa raced toward the phone on the night stand between the two beds, dropping her purse while her hand groped for it.  Bethany grabbed her arm and shoved the gun up under her chin.  The cold muzzle of the .38 dug into her, the slick barrel pressed firmly against her skin.  Alyssa froze, her breath sawing in and out as one clear thought penetrated her brain; Bethany Banks was a certifiable whack job—and more dangerous than anyone could have imagined.

“Now you're getting the picture, sweetheart.  Connor's precious granny, who he adores, will breathe her last today.  He's going to know the despair and heartbreak I went through.  It's not enough, though.  I'm going to make sure he loses everything he loves,
everyone
he loves.  Now pick up that damn purse.  We'll get in the elevator, ride down to the lobby, and walk out to my car.  Cause me one problem, even think about screaming for help and I'll shoot you where you stand.  I've got nothing left to lose.  Nothing.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

Sunday

S
omething wasn't right.  Molly should have called him at least an hour ago.  She'd been plumb tuckered out, she'd told him after breakfast.  Headed up to her room to take a quick nap, then she wanted to go out the casinos to play the slots.  She'd said she would call him when she was ready to catch a cab.  His cell phone showed no missed calls, no voicemail messages.

Damn it, he didn't have time to worry about her on top everything else.  Alyssa said he needed to get his priorities straightened out, work out what was important to him.  He'd spent half the night soul searching.  The important things stared him in the face and he'd accepted the inevitable.

It was time.  Time to go to his house here in New Orleans.  Pack up his stuff.  Quit his job.  Nothing in heaven or hell would separate them ever again.  Moving to Florida was a small price to pay if it meant being with the woman he loved.

First, though, he'd find Gran.  Tell her she'd been right all along. 
Not a big surprise, she'll tell me.  She's ALWAYS right.
  He smiled, hearing her voice in his head.  It was a favorite refrain he'd heard growing up—G
randma's always right.
  His grandpop would usually nod, following it up with a “you betcha.”

The ding of the elevator brought him back to his purpose.  When the doors slid open, he exited, striding down the hallway at a brisk clip.  Gran's room was three doors down on the right.  He knocked, a steady thump, thump.  No answer.  Banging harder, he called out for her, jiggling the door handle.  Nothing.

Something's wrong.
To the depths of his marrow he knew.  The sound of wheels rolling on carpet stopped him right before he threw his shoulder into the door frame, which he was ready and willing to do. 
The maid.  Get her to open the door.

“I need to get into this room.  My grandmother's in there and something's wrong.”

“Sir, I can't let you in unless it's your room.”

“Lady, I just told you, it's my grandmother's room.  She wasn't feeling well earlier and I haven't been able to contact her.  I think something's wrong and I need to get in there.”

He read the indecision on her face, wanted to grab the key card out of her hand and open the door himself but held himself in check.

“Call the manager and have him come up.  I don't give a damn, but get me into that room right now!”

She stared at him for a good thirty seconds and must have seen something in his face because finally, with a nod, she slid the key card into the lock and opened the door.  Without a backward glance he sprang into the room, stopped abruptly at the thin frail figure lying bundled under the blankets.  He noted the air conditioning had the room practically freezing.

Why is the air on when it's freezing outside?  Shouldn't it be the heat?
  The irrelevant thought passed through his mind as he rushed to Molly's side.  Fingers trembling, he felt the side of her neck seeking a pulse.  Exhaled a shaky sigh when he found it, though it was weak and thready.

“Call nine-one-one.  Get an ambulance here fast.”  He barked the order at the cleaning lady who'd followed him into the room.  Grabbing Molly by her shoulders he shook her firmly.

“Gran, can you hear me?  Wake up.  Come on, Gran.  I need you to wake up!”

Holding her gently against his chest he pried open one eyelid, noted the dilated pupil, thankful it wasn't fixed.  It contracted slightly to the light being introduced, sluggish but reactive.

Damn, that's not good, he thought.  He stood and took a step, and heard a cracking sound.  Reaching down, he picked up the cracked prescription bottle, saw the half empty glass of water and put two and two together.  Reading the label, he didn't comprehend what he saw until one word jumped out from the label.  

Zolpidem?  When did Gran start taking sleeping pills?  She's never had trouble sleeping in her entire life
.  Wasn't a night went by, she'd always claimed, when the four horsemen of the apocalypse could ride roughshod over her bed and she'd sleep through it.  Not only that—why in the hell was she taking sleeping pills in the middle of the morning.  Didn't make any sense.  Not at all.

He set the bottle on the nightstand, reaching again for her wrist, taking her pulse.  Still there, thready and weak, but she was alive.

He pulled the pillows from beneath her head, tilting her head back to keep her airway open, make sure she kept breathing.  Operating by rote, his training kicked in and he went through all the steps, praying for the EMTs and the ambulance to hurry the hell up and get there.

The hotel manager raced through the open doorway followed by the medical personnel with a stretcher.  Running a loving hand across her forehead and brushing back her thinning gray locks, he stepped back and let them work do their job.

“What exactly happened here, Mr. Scott?”  The manager's anxious voice penetrated Connor's worried contemplation about his Gran.

“I don't know.  She said she was tired and came up to her room to take a quick nap.  Said she'd call me in a couple hours.  I didn't hear from her, got worried, so I came to check.  Found her unconscious.”  Connor saw the moment the EMT noted the pill bottle and glass next to the bed, and watched him snatch up the bottle, checking the drug name and dosage, while his partner continued to work on his grandmother.

“She's stable, but she'll need to go to the hospital to be checked out.” the EMT spoke to Connor and the manager.

“I'm going with her.”

“Fine but we need to move now.  She needs to be checked out in case of an overdose.”

Connor read the pity in the EMT's eyes, which only fueled the fire burning in his blood.  He knew damn good and well this wasn't an overdose, at least not a willing one.  His Gran did not take anything except for a pill for hypertension.  She'd been proud of the fact that she was as spry as anybody half her age—healthy as a horse she'd tell him every time he'd call.

“Let's go.”  Picking up the pill bottle, Connor handed it to the EMT, knowing he needed the information for the ER physician.  Connor strode out the door without a backward glance, hearing the manager lock the room after the stretcher cleared the doorway.  As a firefighter, he worked with EMTs every day.  Stabbing his finger hard on the elevator button, he wanted to keep punching it, as if that would somehow make the elevator get there faster.

The ride down was quick and eerily quiet.  Molly's gurney loaded into the ambulance with little difficulty and Connor followed the attendant into the back.  As the doors closed, the siren wailed plaintively.

Connor prayed the entire trip to the hospital, holding his Gran's hand.  One thought kept repeating itself over and over in his mind. 
Why?

Chapter Twenty-Six

Sunday

C
ell phones weren't allowed in the emergency room.  Connor understood but it frustrated the hell out of him.  The doctors worked on his grandmother, pumped her stomach to get all the sleeping medications out of her system.  She was resting quietly now, out of danger, but they'd keep her overnight for observation.  The meds had been flushed from her system, her vital signs were shaky but stable.  But from the whispered conversations among the staff, it had been a massive overdose.

Alyssa
.  He needed her.  Beside him, telling him everything was going to be okay.  Rubbing the bridge of his nose, he slumped in the hard plastic chair in the waiting area.

“Molly's a fighter, Connor.  She's gonna be fine.”

Connor started at the voice from the seat next to him.  Gladys sat beside him, legs crossed, her foot swinging those fuzzy slippers she seemed to wear everywhere.

“How'd you get here so fast?”

“Saw the ambulance and you racing next to the stretcher.  Figured something bad happened to Molly.  So here I am.”

“Did you talk to her after breakfast?”   Connor whispered the question.

Gladys shook her head.  “Naw, I was downstairs in the big room with all the fancy slot machines.  Hadn't seen Molly all morning.  What happened?”

Connor leaned his head back, rested it against the wall and exhaled slowly.  “The doctors said it was a drug overdose.”

Gladys spat a curse so vehement, he glanced around, worried somebody would take offense at her colorful language. 
Man, I hope no kids heard that.

“There was a bottle of sleeping pills on her night stand with a half empty glass of water.  The bottle was empty.”  He paused remembering the sight of his Gran lying so still and pale in her hotel room bed. 
What if I'd been a few minutes later?  I can't imagine this world without her in it.

Gladys's next words echoed his thoughts from earlier.  “Molly don't take no sleeping meds.  Never has.  Me, I never slept through the night most of my life; took 'em all the time.  Not her.  Nope.  She hated taking anything stronger than an aspirin and half the time she had to be forced to even take one of those.”

“I know.  But they pumped her stomach and found lots of pills.  I could have lost her.”  He leaned forward in his chair, hands dangling between his spread knees.

“You think it's got anything to do with that nosy reporter?  Saw her talking with Molly early this morning and she looked mighty ticked off.”

“Bethany Banks?”

“Yeah, her.  Didn't hear what they was talking about, but that Bethany's face got all red and she kept clenching and unclenching her fists like she was mad.  Molly started to walk away and that woman grabbed her arm.  I even started over toward them, but Molly said something to her and yanked her arm free and walked away.”