More Bitter Than Death (20 page)

By now, my armed friend outside had realized that the butter knife was no good, and had moved on to credit cards. Luckily, he or she was as concerned as I had been with keeping quiet, and so I gained a few more precious moments as the intruder tried to figure out how to open the door silently.

I reevaluated the risk of climbing out onto an icy ledge during a blizzard: the building was old, but the roof of the porte cochere would surely hold me; I was only on the second floor and the twenty feet or so I could possibly fall probably wouldn’t kill me. There were my dubious abilities in disarming someone; I’d done okay in my Krav Maga classes, but my instructor Nolan had gotten a fake gun up to my head often enough to make me doubt my chances. Although I doubted that whoever had that gun would want to risk the noise in firing a shot,
I
couldn’t risk that he might also have brought a silencer.

I had already started bashing the lock on the window.

The lock gave. With a little effort, I hoisted the window up. I couldn’t believe I was going to do this, but I was more interested in saving my life than I was at being embarrassed, at this point. A blast of cold air and hard sleet roared through the window and I had second thoughts about going out there. Surely it would be better to try and hide or try and get the
gun away from whoever was out there while I waited for the cops…

No. Guns require a drastic response.

Any thoughts I might have had about trying to shut the window after me were immediately banished. The wind whipped so hard that I could barely keep myself stuck to the wall and keep my feet under me.

There was no sound behind me, at least, nothing I could hear over the wind, the ice, and the blood pounding in my ears. Then a shot seemed to come from below me—I felt a thud next to me and brick chips flew up at me—but it must have been a trick of the wind. I couldn’t stay put, in any case, and wait for the cops to show up.

As I shuffled along the narrow, level part of the porch roof, the only thing keeping me from sliding right off the icy masonry was the elaborate system of spikes to prevent pigeons from nesting on the building. I crushed some, and felt a couple getting ready to pierce the leather sole of my shoe as I moved my feet, but that was preferable to bullet ventilation and extreme lead poisoning. At least they provided some traction against the ice.

My fingers were numb and, suddenly, I was measuring happiness by the millimeters of gap between the surface of the mortar and the edge of the bricks. Every second I was losing my sense of touch.

I tried to yell, maybe get the attention of those in the next room. The wind howled around me and drowned my calls for help: I would have to get closer to the window before I had any chance at all of being heard. I would have to get to the window before I froze to death, which felt like it would be in about three minutes on a night like this.

With all of my concentration on the natural forces working against me, I’d nearly forgotten what had compelled me out there in the first place. Another bullet whined past me
just as I slipped on a particularly slippery patch. I could literally feel myself being peeled off the face of the building when a contrary blast of wind knocked me back into the wall. Not daring to look above me, with the side of my face slammed into the cold brick, I shot my hand up over my head in a blind attempt to find a hand hold on a decorative course of brick that jutted out slightly. The first time I did nothing but jam my fingertips into the underside of it, knocking loose a small volley of icicles down onto me. And yet, the next instant I found a purchase again. The only thing I had on my side was that whoever was following me would increase the risk of detection every time the gun was fired. I scraped along the wall as quickly as I dared and prayed that the shooter’s visibility was no better than my own, blurred by snow, tears burning like acid down my cheeks.

Moments that felt like hours had passed, and my strength had almost run out, when I heard my name. I risked turning my head back to the window I’d left—was it really still so close?—and saw Church cupping his hands to his mouth. He was pointing ahead of me. There was a light, now, in the next room, and I could see uniformed officers moving in there. I held on for dear life.

They got their window open, and hollered for me to move to them; I took a few more shuffling, clinging steps and felt a strong hand grab on to the waistband of my trousers. I inched forward, looked down, and saw a bedspread being passed around me, and someone grabbed its other end. With this support I felt like I could try to ease my way down and through the open window, into the room. Too quick: I slid back. But the bedspread was there, barely, and I could hear the shouts and curses of those inside as they struggled to hang on to me. I grabbed the bottom of the raised window frame and slid in.

“W
HAT IN GOD’S NAME WERE YOU DOING OUT
there?” Church demanded. Apparently when he heard that there was more excitement at the General Bartlett, he decided that it was time to visit in person. He looked exhausted, as well as angry.

“Well, there was someone trying to get into the hospitality suite,” I said, “and I heard what sounded like a gun.”

I’d finally stopped shivering, shaking hard enough to feel my brains rattle in my skull. I could feel my fingers and toes, though, and had managed to thank the guys who’d hauled me inside.

“And what were you doing in there in the first place?” The scowl on his face was outclassed by the anger in his eyes.

I gave him a quick rundown of the events, but when I got to the part about finding the card, I realized I hadn’t thought everything through. I’d meant to give myself enough time to look at the card more closely, before I told anyone else about it.

“Let’s see it” was all he said.

I hesitated. Then, realizing that I really did need to help
find Garrison’s killer, no matter who it might be, I reached into my pocket and pulled out the card. As soon as I saw it, in the brighter light of the room, my heart dropped away. I now recognized that the cramped writing was Sue’s spelling out Garrison’s name and appointment time.

It doesn’t mean anything, I told myself, it could be anything, it could be…

“This is very interesting,” Church said, getting up. “This fits in with a lot of the information we’ve assembled.” He spoke briefly into his radio.

My stomach rolled. “It isn’t necessarily…it doesn’t have to be interesting.” But as soon as I said the words, the thought that it was Sue’s card came rushing back to me. Sue’s reaction to Garrison’s speech was understandable, but then there was her reaction when I told her of my potential career changes. There was her late arrival to our card game. There was her early absence from the bar. There was the public humiliation.

There was too much.

“You don’t have to worry.” Church was pleased now. “We won’t tell Dr. Ayers where we got the card.”

But I’ll know. “I don’t want someone who might be innocent—”

“Neither do we, of course. This is just
one
part of the investigation.”

I realized that he was trying to be kind to me, but I couldn’t stop myself protesting. “It’s just that…Sue’s had a real bad time lately. I wouldn’t want something unnecessary to make things worse or…” But every time a word left my mouth, I knew I wasn’t doing Sue any favors.

“What about the shots?” I said. “I could have sworn that some of them at least were coming from below me.”

“They probably were,” he said. “I think this would be an excellent time for you to leave yourself out of all of this. Didn’t you just receive another threatening note, this time
followed up with tangible repercussions? Even before you went exploring?” He shook his head. “And there are things going on here that have even less to do with you than you already imagine.”

Afterward, I took a long shower. Dressed in my more formal clothes—I placed the more casual stuff I’d been wearing on the radiator to dry out—I went and sat down on a bench near the railing of the mezzanine. People on their way to parties were quieter than I ever remembered. A few waved to me, but didn’t ask me to join them; I was just as happy that they didn’t. I didn’t want to be alone, but I didn’t want to be with anyone else either. I assumed that they hadn’t even heard the shots. Between the parties, the weather, and what I assumed was a silencer, the most they might have had to react to was the continued, sometimes increased police presence. That was, of course, until news about the students’ room got around.

An hour later, Sue walked out of the elevator. She was staring like a zombie and moved as if she’d just gotten a new pair of knees and hadn’t quite gotten the hang of them yet. And for some reason, despite her earlier antipathy, she homed in on me.

She sat next to me, but it was more like her new knees just buckled and she happened to land on the bench by accident.

“Jesus, Em, the cops were questioning me. Just now.” Sue was shaking like a leaf, as badly as I had been a couple of hours before. “It’s like they think I killed Garrison, or something.”

“What happened?”

“They were banging on the door when I was in the shower. I didn’t hear them, until they got really loud. Scary loud.” She shivered. “I got the impression if I hadn’t gotten out right then, they would have busted the door down or something.”

They probably would have just got the manager to let them in, I thought uneasily.

“Anyway, they gave me a minute to get dressed, but I kinda got the impression that they were scoping the place. They wanted to know if I had a gun. What the hell would I do with a gun?”

It was at that precise moment that I knew more people than I realized who had guns. Meg had a handgun, Chris had shotgun, I knew that Lissa went hunting on occasion—not that they would necessarily have guns with them, of course—and who knew who else? I shook myself, suddenly scared again.

“Maybe they were wondering about those shots we heard the night they announced Garrison’s death,” I said. “And…Sue.” I watched her face carefully. “Someone shot at me too.”

“What?” Sue began to cry, and I realized that she wasn’t really tuned into anything I was saying. “Emma, what’s happening here? And why are they asking me about it?”

“I guess they—”

“I know, I mean, they told me that I had reason to kill Garrison. I thought he was a miserable old prick, but I wouldn’t—who would? I’d already made my decision to go, I told you that, when was it? You should tell them that, if you get a chance.” She put her head down and sobbed. I handed her a tissue, hating myself, hating everything about this.

“Sue. If they haven’t arrested you, then there’s no problem, right? If they’re…just asking questions, that’s not so bad, right? You haven’t done anything wrong, have you?” I meant it to come out as reassuring, but I didn’t do a very good job. Sue still didn’t notice.

“I know, this is just messed up. Logic will kick in, in a minute. After I’ve done crying.” She snuffled and looked at me. “But Emma. I was supposed to meet Garrison, the night
he was killed. They say it was right about the time he went outside, maybe, from what they heard from other folks.”

“Did you meet him?”

“No. I…what was the point? I was going to try and ask him to reconsider, but it was already too late, wasn’t it? He’d already made his recommendation. I just went up to bed, like you saw.”

“Right, and that’s what you told the cops, right?” Jesus, Emma, how can you pretend to be her friend, when you’re the one responsible for all this? No, not all of it. Maybe telling the police about her card, but as for the rest of it, there’s Garrison and Sue herself and possibly others…

Telling the cops something, after someone’s tried to kill you, doesn’t make you a bad person. If she didn’t do anything, she’s in no different a situation than the rest of us.

Not thanks to you, she isn’t.

She snuffled again, not done crying. “Yes, that’s what I told them. Exactly.”

“Well, you’re okay, then. As long as you keep telling the truth, right?” I stood up. “I hate to leave, but I’m still feeling shook up. From earlier.”

“Emma, you were shot at
tonight
?”

She stared at me, her eyes glazed with tears, and I couldn’t believe that Sue had anything to do with any of this. “And you’re letting me go on like this? Damn, I feel like such an idiot!”

“Oh, God, please don’t, Sue!” I closed my eyes and tried to find my way out. “I should have said something, but I wasn’t sure how, if you see what I mean. I’m fine, well, not fine, kind of on autopilot, if you know what I…and I just want to check in with home, you know?”

“Go, please. I’m fine, I’m good, I’m done crying for now.”

I left and headed back to my room. I kicked off my shoes, my feet ached to be flat on the warm carpeted floor. It was
even better when I went into the bathroom; the cool tiles eased the ache further, and I congratulated myself on my recent decision to stop wearing high heels all the time to conferences. It just wasn’t worth it. But now my flats were soaked, maybe ruined.

I rolled my head around gently and heard the cracks that were getting louder and more numerous as the weekend continued.

I got out my phone and then dialed.

My sister picked up after the first ring. “Yeah?”

“It’s me.”

“What’s wrong?”

I told her about what had happened tonight, ending with my conversation with Sue.

“You’re okay?”

“Fine, pretty much. I’m glad I had my phone with me.”

“Amen to that. Hang on—it’s in the drawer! Yes it is! Well, look underneath—aha! See, I ain’t completely senile yet. I’ll just be a minute.” The phone was muffled for a minute. “Sorry. Joel couldn’t find the ice cream scoop.”

“Since when do you have an ice cream scoop?” Last time I knew, my sister’s idea of domestic implements went as far as a can opener, a big knife, and a hammer.

“Since Joel thinks I’m a philistine. Now he’s moved in, it’s Betty-frigging-Crocker rides again. So, you told me you’re okay, that the cops came. What’s the other problem?”

I thought about avoiding the issue, but that would have been stupid. “I feel guilty.”

“What else is new? That’s steady state for you.”

I ignored her. “The students wouldn’t have had to leave, their stuff would still be intact. Sue wouldn’t be going through all of this if it wasn’t for me.”

“And maybe you wouldn’t be going through this if it wasn’t for Sue. Honest to God, Em, you’re such a dork. Haven’t you been through this before—hang on.”

There was another muffled exchange, and I heard raised voices. Somehow, I didn’t think it was about the Ben and Jerry’s.

“—she is too! What do you know about it? You are such a pain in the ass. You there?”

That last question was apparently directed to me. “Yes.”

Bucky sighed. “Look, I’m sorry.”

For a minute I thought she meant the yelling on her end, but then my sister surprised me when she continued. “You’re upset—no, not upset. Scared and angry. I can see that. I’m sorry, and I shouldn’t be adding on to it. But all I’m saying is that you’ve been through this before and by the looks of things, you’ll probably be through it again, and it will probably suck less and less each time you keep doing it, right? You’re not going to stop, so you shouldn’t slow yourself down with guilt for something you’d willingly do again.”

I could only blink in stunned silence.

“So, to sum up, I’m glad you’re not hurt and Meg’s not hurt and I hope you’ll call Brian and I think you’re beating yourself up for no good reason. Which is fine, if you’re into that, but all evidence to the contrary, I don’t think you’re really a masochist, but if you’re just flogging yourself for kicks, don’t involve me, okay? My ice cream is melting.”

“Uh, okay. Thanks. Say hi to—”

But Bucky’s newly found, emotional awareness—unexpected and limited as it was—didn’t alter her social skills, and she hung up on me.

After I finished getting undressed, I dove into bed and was asleep almost instantly.

I had planned to sleep in, as late as I wanted, Saturday morning, but slamming doors got me out of bed about eight anyway. It was still better than six o’clock, though I was surprised that there was still so much activity that early, on the penulti
mate day of the conference. I regarded the skirt and shoes I’d put on the night before, draped over the chair, and decided that I couldn’t face them. I put on the jeans and boots I’d worn out to the site and that I’d planned to wear on the drive home tomorrow afternoon. The conferees had seen archaeologists in jeans and boots before, and they could deal with it or not.

I found my way to the coffee shop and saw Lissa talking to Gennette Welles, someone I now knew well enough to say hi to, but that was about it. What I heard as I reached for my chair almost made me turn around and leave.

“…hungry, and you know there’s a reason they call them cat head biscuits,” Lissa was saying. Enthusing, even. She ran her fingers through her hair as if caught up in the sensuality of the discussion.

I paused, wondering if this was a conversation I wanted to be part of.

“Oh, my grandmother makes the best ones,” Gennette said. “Shoot, I could go for a plate now, with gravy.”

“Tell me she doesn’t use cat-head gravy too,” I said, sitting down and hoping I’d heard them both wrongly.

“Huh?”

“I’m going to regret asking this, but—cat’s head biscuits? Color me morbid, or maybe it’s just the lack of coffee and a desperate misunderstanding, but all I can imagine is the shing-shing of the deli meat slicer.” I mimicked moving the blade of the slicer back and forth. “Please tell me I’m wrong.”

“That is the most disgusting thing I’ve ever heard, Emma!” Lissa looked like someone wrung out a diaper near her.

“Excuse me? I’m not the one for whom cat heads are a part of every good breakfast.”

“Emma! They’re called cat head biscuits because they’re the size of cat heads! They’re a Southern specialty. Don’t be gross!”

“Why do you eat with her?” Gennette asked Lissa, but she was smiling.

“She’s usually much better behaved, this time of day,” Lissa explained. “Quieter.”

“Just because you got to the coffee first,” I grumbled, reaching for a mug. “Anyone could have made that mistake.”

Gennette had been staring at my name tag. “You know it’s never occurred to me before. Fielding’s your last name? Married name?”

“No, I kept my birth name,” I said, bracing for the inevitable questions about having worked with Oscar.

“We’ve got some Fieldings in Richmond. I wonder if there’s a connection. When did your people come over?”

“Uh, could be…” Although it wasn’t the question I was expecting, I wasn’t a whole lot happier with this one. “I’m not really…”

The waitress arrived with the coffee, and I was able to stall. The coffee, however, was just hot and weak. This would not do, I thought. Eleni—where’s Eleni? I want her crabbiness and her lack of professionalism and her wonderful, wonderful coffee. I drank what I had anyway, but it really sucked.