Sighs Matter (15 page)

“Not yet, ma’am.” Turning to Claire, Taylor said, “Stay with your aunt. The scene’s been badly compromised, but I still might be able to find something.”

Claire glanced out across the yard as the fireman were busy coiling the hoses, loading up the truck, preparing to leave. “There’s a big flashlight hanging on the wall by the fridge. Wait a sec, and I’ll get it.”

As the heavily laden truck lumbered up the gravel drive, Taylor flicked on Claire’s flashlight, and began making a slow circle around the barn. He wouldn’t find any usable prints this close to the building, but he might get lucky a little farther out.

Circling around to the back of the barn, he let the light play over the broad expanse of ancient wood. Then,
bingo
! A small door, still slightly ajar, led into what looked to be the tack room.

He shone the light onto the dirt just outside the door and found what he was looking for. Shoe prints. Not big boots like the firemen wore, not sandals like Claire or Aunt Sadie might have, but shoes. He followed the trail into the rhododendrons and azaleas behind the barn. Though he lost the prints amid the undergrowth, he kept climbing, crawling up the embankment, until he emerged onto Puget Road.

Wiping his hands on his jeans, he looked up and down the deserted road. The sides were grassy, not soft dirt as he’d hoped. But about a half a mile down, his patience paid off. More shoe prints, and—yeah, baby—tire tread.

As he walked back to his truck to get the glop he needed to make impressions, he let the facts assemble in his head.

First, Claire had been run off the road, probably by a black SUV. She’d been robbed, and her stuff positioned inside the farmhouse. An investigation of the kitchen had turned up a light-colored hair not belonging to either Claire or her aunt. The aunt in question had recently ended a relationship with a man the police were currently investigating, a man who drove the aunt to an isolated place where she’d seen a black SUV. Tonight, someone had set fire to the barn. But if he’d wanted to kill either or both women, why the barn? Why not the house?

Which woman was this guy after? What in the hell would he try to pull next? What exactly did he want, and what was he willing to do to get it?

GI Series
Baseball game between teams of soldiers.

“Have you changed your mind yet and decided to marry me?”

At the sound of Adam’s voice, Claire looked up from her desk at the hospital. Her smile wavered. Adam Thursby was probably the last person on earth she expected to see today.

“Adam. Hello. Um, please come in.”

Rising, she moved a short stack of file folders from the guest chair next to her desk and set them near her computer.

As he dropped heavily into the vinyl-padded chair, a grin tilted his lips. “You haven’t answered my question.”

He was dressed in tan slacks and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Perfectly groomed and gleaming, he looked as if he had just stepped off the jet from Palm Beach. “I overheard two nurses talking at the reception desk. They said there was a fire at your place last night.” He leaned forward to touch her hand. “Are you all right?”

Claire nodded, withdrawing her hand and placing it in her lap. “I’m fine, Adam. It was just the barn, but the sprinkler system kept things from getting out of control until the fire department arrived.”

His chin edged up a notch. “So the old barn’s still standing, huh? Well. That’s great.” Smiling, he picked at a piece of lint on his pants.

With a quick glance at her watch, she said, “Listen, I’m a little short on time, Adam. Maybe this isn’t—”

“The time to repeat my marriage proposal?” His eyes glittered with interest, and something else that struck her as being a bit deeper, and not quite as friendly.

She swiveled her chair to face him directly. “I gave you my answer at dinner the other night, Adam. I’m very flattered, but no.”

His smile widened. “My fault. Sorry. I rushed you. But I’ll keep the ring warm and we can take things a little slower if you like.”

She swallowed, licked her lips. Why was he pressing so hard? “It’s not that, Adam. I don’t want to hurt you—”

“Not a problem,” he interrupted, his tone just short of being sharp. He bent forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “I-I realize I was taking a risk by asking you to marry me so soon, but you have to understand, when I see something I want, some
one
I want, I’m afraid if I don’t make my move right away, I risk losing out.” He took a deep breath, as though he was preparing to deliver a speech. “Maybe I should explain a few things. Maybe once you hear me out, you’ll change your mind.”

She shook her head. “Adam, I don’t think—”

“Remember my kids?” he rushed, his tone on the harsh side. Reaching for his wallet, he flipped it open. Two adorable faces smiled at her, both with blond hair, both with shining gray eyes.

“They’re beautiful, Adam,” she said, and meant it. “How old are they?”

“Crystal’s almost ten, and Josh is eight,” he said, his voice filled with pride. “They miss me as much as I miss them, if that’s possible. Why, when I call, it’s all I can do to get them off the phone. They adore me.”

Turning the wallet in his hand, he gazed down at the photographs.

“I lost them in the divorce, you see,” he said. “My ex-wife made up all kinds of lies about me. Horrible things. The judge believed them and granted her full custody.”

“I’m sorry. I know how that must hurt.”

He ran his finger around the edge of the picture, across the clear plastic, gently, as though he were caressing his daughter’s cheek.

“Hurt?” His voice shook and his fingers trembled as he closed the wallet and thrust it back in his pocket. “Life is nothing to me without my kids. I can call them, but I can only see them once a month. And while Brenda has them at her mercy, she’s been polluting their minds and hearts against me.” His eyes sought Claire’s.

“And they live in squalor,” he continued. “Brenda takes my child support payments and squanders it on clothes and parties, jewelry, drugs for all I know, while the kids barely have enough to eat. Their clothes are rags. I’m worried about their health, their safety.”

Claire’s brow furrowed. “Surely there’s something you can do. If the children are being neglected . . .”

“That’s why I need you, Claire.”

She sat straight up and blinked. “Me? What can I do?”

“You can marry me.” He looked like a starving animal being teased with a morsel of food, a treat he would not be granted unless he performed the right trick. In the back of Claire’s mind, warning bells began to chime ever so softly. “I have money and prestige,” he said, “but I don’t have a wife and home. You are smart and beautiful, a doctor. That would go a long way in influencing the court to grant me custody.”

Claire shook her head and pulled away as much as she could. “Adam, I don’t see how—”

“It has to be soon, though,” he warned. “That’s why I rushed you the other night. I’m so sorry. But you see, Brenda’s getting married again. In just a couple of weeks. I’ve met the guy. He’s . . . he’s mean, brutal. He doesn’t like kids at all. Crystal and Josh will suffer from living in the same house with him. He’s sure to abuse them. So you see, I
must
get them back. I
must
convince the court to grant me custody.”

Claire swallowed past a painful lump in her throat.

“I . . . I have to go, Adam,” she murmured, shaking her head. “I’m terribly sorry for what you’re going through, but I can’t marry you. I’m sure if you talk to an attorney and explain—”

He jumped to his feet, startling her and nearly overturning the vinyl chair. His fists balled at his sides, he glared down at her, his eyes burning with fury.

“Can’t marry me, Claire,” he charged, his voice thick with emotion, “or won’t. Time is running out, don’t you see? Don’t you
see
?” he pleaded. “Please, Claire. For God’s sake, help me. Help me rescue my kids.
Please!
”

She had to get out of there. Adam Thursby appeared to be a man on the brink. His body shook with rage and his eyes stabbed her with accusation, and suddenly, she was afraid of him.

“I have to go,” she said and brushed past him, feeling an enormous sense of relief when he did nothing to stop her.

Walking quickly down the short hallway to the reception desk, she tried to compose herself by looking over a chart, any chart—for all the good it did. She was so upset, she didn’t see a word on the damn thing, but holding it helped buy a little time to settle her nerves.

When the door opened and closed behind her, she didn’t look up. A moment later, through the open window on the other side of the waiting room, she heard the sound of a powerful engine revving in the parking lot. Adam’s car sped by the window as he turned onto the street, tires squealing, the engine gunning. She listened until the sound faded into the distance.

Why did she feel like such a failure? Her heart ached for him, knowing now what he must be going through. There had to be some avenue he could pursue to ensure the safety of his children, or even be granted custody. Marrying her certainly wasn’t the answer.

Adam was a physician, a well-respected orthopedic surgeon, at least, he apparently had been in Oregon. What kind of accusations had his ex-wife made that would prevent such a successful man from being granted at least partial custody of his own children? The woman must be horrible.

Claire let her gaze rest on the window while the scene in her office replayed in her head. Adam’s behavior had been markedly different from anything she’d seen from him before. While his change in demeanor could be attributed to the fear and desperation he felt about getting his children back, still . . .

Before she could think more about it, Sally Beane, one of the volunteer nurses appeared at the door.

“Ready for you, Dr. Hunter,” she said, handing Claire a pastel blue folder.

Claire gathered her thoughts and pulled herself back into the moment. “Um, great, Sally. What have we got?”

Sally was a cheerful brown-eyed brunette of forty-something. Perennially dressed in her own personal uniform of white sneakers, blue jeans, and a white knit top under a floral lab coat, she was a terrific nurse with a sweet nature.

“Second bed,” she said. “Thad Kleinman, age twenty-two. Was in a fight a couple of days ago. Thought it was just a bruise, but he decided to come into the ER in case it’s a cracked rib.”

Claire flipped to the next page in the chart. Nodding absently as she read, she said, “Okay, I’ll check him out, probably send him down to X-ray.”

As she slid back the drape, she recognized Thad Kleinman as the waiter they’d had at Vittorio’s, the one who’d accidentally spilled wine on Adam.

“Well, hello again,” she said with a smile. “What happened to you?”

He sat on the edge of the bed, one arm wrapped around his middle. When he saw her, his eyes narrowed and his mouth flattened. Anger flaring from his hazel eyes, he said, “You were with him. Don’t you know?”

What did that mean?
“Know what?”

“Your boyfriend,” he sneered. “Trapped me in the john. Sucker-punched me in the gut. Told me if I said anything, he’d cut off my dick.”

Two thoughts collided inside Claire’s brain. The first was . . .
Adam? Adam attacked a kid in the restroom? That’s not possible
. But the second was . . .
Adam. Adam attacked a kid in the restroom. Yes. He did.

A week ago, she wouldn’t have thought so, but now . . .

Her mind went to the scrapes and bruises on Adam’s hand after he’d returned from the men’s room. Dear God, was he capable of such brutality, simply because a waiter spilled wine on his shirt? The accident hadn’t even been the boy’s fault.

“I’m . . . I’m so sorry,” she said with what little breath she had in her lungs. “Please believe me, I had no idea. Listen, you need to report this to the police. He shouldn’t be allowed—”

“No way, Doc,” the boy said, shaking his head, bending over the arm that still clutched his gut. “He’s a big guy and he meant business. I like my dick right where it is, thanks.”

“Thad,” she argued. “If Adam assaulted you, you have every right to press charges. Think about it while I examine you and get X-rays, okay?”

While the young waiter was in X-ray, Claire tried to contact Taylor, but only got his voice mail. “Call me or come by the hospital when you get a chance, please.” Then quickly added, “Police business.”

As she slid her cell phone into the pocket of her white lab coat, she tried to fit the pieces of the puzzle that was Adam Thursby into some kind of picture that made sense. He’d always been considerate and solicitous of her, but since she’d refused his proposal, his demeanor had darkened considerably. And now this. Assaulting a mere boy, punching him in the abdomen, and then lying about it.

He said he’d scraped his hand on the bathroom door. An outright lie, if Thad Kleinman was to be believed, and why would
he
lie?

When Sally approached her with another file, she decided to set the matter aside until she saw the results of Thad’s X-rays. If he went ahead and pressed charges, he might possibly need police protection. She wanted to talk to Taylor before anybody did anything.

Handing Claire the file, Sally said, “Ramon Sierra. Complaining of chest pains. I checked his vitals. Pulse is seventy, BP one-twenty over sixty. No fever.” She gave a small shrug. “Seems basically healthy. Oh, and he speaks very little English.”

Ramon Sierra raised his head and gave Claire a shaky smile when she entered the room. According to his chart, he was thirty-two, single, a migrant farm worker with no family in the area, no job at the moment, and no insurance. Sally was right, he looked fit and healthy, and since people who were sick generally looked sick, she took it as a good sign.

“
Hola
, Mr. Sierra,” she said with a smile.

His head bobbed. “
Hola, Doctor
.”

She went to the sink and washed her hands. When she turned to him again, she placed her hand on her own chest. “You have pain here?
Dolor
?”

“Si, si.”
He nodded enthusiastically, placed his fist against his chest and spoke in rapid Spanish. Claire’s own hit-and-miss Spanish wasn’t nearly good enough to follow everything he said, but she got the gist of it.

“Okay,” she said, reaching for her stethoscope. “
Intente relajar
. Let’s take a listen.”

From the corner chair in the waiting room, Taylor watched Claire walk with a patient toward the reception desk. She was talking softly to him, while he nodded and flicked worried glances at her face.

Next to Taylor, a little girl coughed, and her mother helped her blow her nose. Near the front window, an elderly couple held hands and discussed the man’s prostate problem in voices loud enough to reach the nosebleed section of Safeco Field from the pitcher’s mound. Classical music played in the background, and a woman standing at the front desk, filling out paperwork, tapped her heavily ringed finger in time. The small waiting room was filled to near capacity, and Taylor wondered how long it would be until Claire was free.