Since You've Been Gone (34 page)

Rebecca smiled slightly. “I don't think the Sinclair police department works that fast. No DNA tests yet.”

“Good, because I meet Sonia in that room all the time. It
could
be mine.” Randy looked at her closely. “But you don't think I tried to kill Sonia, do you?”

Rebecca drew a deep breath. She should watch what she said to this young man. But he was too perceptive to fall for subterfuge. She could see it in his eyes. “No, I don't think you hurt her. But I have no way of convincing the police of that. I didn't see the face of the person who attacked her. And in spite of our tussle, I didn't get much of a sense of body size. All I know is that the person was strong.”

“And agile. The back door of the Pioneer Room is at least two feet above the fire escape. Someone had to nearly fly out of that room, make that jump, then take the fire escape fast. And the bottom three stairs are broken. Another jump.”

“You certainly know a lot about the layout,” Rebecca said slowly, fear beginning to ebb through her again.

“Every time I've met Sonia I've come and gone by the fire escape so that prissy ass behind the desk doesn't call her mother. Yeah, I know the layout.”

“Okay. That makes sense. But what are you going to do
now? You can't go home. The police will be looking for you there.”

“I couldn't go home anyway. My old man and I finally had the knock-down-drag-out that's been brewing for years. But I'll be okay. Really. I just don't have any other way to get word to Sonia except Gory. He's sort of a friend. He's also sort of a nerd who talks too much.” Rebecca smiled, thinking of Cory with his octave-jumping voice and chatter about
Planet of the Apes.
“Will you tell Sonia I'm all right and that I love her?”

Rebecca nodded, thinking of what she would have felt like at Sonia's age if someone as gorgeous and as seemingly dangerous had loved her. She might be meddling in things that didn't concern her because she was reliving her own teenage fantasies. Or she could be meddling because her instincts were accurate. “I'll tell her, Randy. I promise.”

“Good. Thanks, Ms. Ryan. You're all right.”

Randy tossed down his cigarette and ground it out with his shoe. As he turned to go, a muted glow from the streetlight fell on his right ear. The lobe was freshly slit and slightly swollen, as if an earring had recently been torn from it.

On her way home, Rebecca suddenly began to shake. She realized she'd taken a foolish chance talking to Randy Messer. She had no tangible proof that he hadn't tried to attack Sonia. True, Sean had been with her for protection, but Sean had never really been put to the test before. She'd never wanted an attack dog—just one who could make a good show. Aside from the possible lawsuits that could result from a dog attacking someone—no matter how justified the attack—she never wanted to put a dog's life in jeopardy. She did know from Sean's behavior with Doug at Esther's pond that the dog would make an attempt to protect her, but a serious attacker could have made quick work of him. No, she had been silly, even though she felt in her heart that Randy was innocent.

But the police had found an earring near where Sonia had been assaulted, and Randy's ear bore the unmistakable slit caused by an earring having been torn from the lobe. Wasn't that too much of a coincidence?
When she pulled onto Lamplight Lane, she became aware of a car following her. Her heart pumped harder. Could this be Randy? No. He'd had the perfect opportunity to harm her outside of Molly's. Why follow her home to attack her in front of her own house? She pulled into the driveway and sat still with the doors locked. In a moment a uniformed policeman tapped on the window. Rebecca looked at him closely, then recognized a young deputy she'd seen briefly at police headquarters. She powered down the window.

“Did I run a stop sign?”

“You talked to a fugitive and let him get away.”

Rebecca stiffened. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Randy Messer. You talked to him outside of Molly Ryan's house.”

“How do you know that?”

“Your uncle assigned me to keep an eye on you since you were involved in the library fracas. Did you think Sonia Ellis is the only one he's been keeping under guard?” His tone was insolent and Rebecca instantly disliked him. “You know the police are searching for Messer. Yet you did nothing when he approached you.”

“What should I have done, Officer? Wrestle him to the ground and handcuff him? I thought
you
were protecting
me.
If you saw me talking to him, why didn't you come forward and arrest him?”

Even in the shadows Rebecca could see his face darken. “I didn't see him until about five seconds before he disappeared into the trees.”

“Oh. You were dozing.”

“The light was bad.”

“Chief Garrett will love that excuse.” She turned off the ignition, unlocked the door, took Sean's leash in her hand, and began to exit the car. “Randy Messer didn't threaten me, but if he had, you wouldn't have been one bit of help so don't take that arrogant attitude with me and don't treat me like a criminal. 1 haven't done anything.” She paused. “And neither did you, in spite of your orders. And why the hell didn't you pursue the archcriminal Messer instead of me? Oh yes, Bill will be quite impressed. Now step back. I can't guarantee this dog won't attack you.”

The deputy stepped back, resentment burning in his eyes. Then his gaze shot up as a vehicle careened onto Lamplight Lane, red lights flashing, siren wailing, and pulled up to the house. Emergency technicians exploded from the ambulance.

“What is it?” Rebecca cried.

“You'll have to move, ma'am,” a technician said crisply, maneuvering a gurney past her. “Keep the area clear.”

The double front doors of the house opened and Betty stood with the light behind her, waving madly as if she
stood on the deck of a flight carrier. “In here!” she screamed. “He's in here! Please hurry!”

“Betty!” Rebecca called. “What is it?”

“It's your stepfather,” Betty wailed. “He's having a heart attack!”

They weren't allowed to see Frank. At least,
Rebecca
wasn't allowed to see Frank; her mother had remained in her bedroom. While Rebecca sat in the emergency waiting room by herself, she worked up a ferocious anger toward Suzanne. By the time Clay came out to talk to her, she was thinking of spending the night in a motel rather than go home to face a woman too emotionally weak to face anything herself.

Clay looked tired. He took Rebecca into a small, private waiting room. “Frank has had a cardiac incident.”

“What's that?” Rebecca demanded. “I don't know what that means. Why don't doctors say what they mean?”

“Rebecca, calm down. He had pain in his left arm. He also had elevated heartbeat and blood pressure—those could have resulted from panic over what he thought was a heart attack, but he also had sweating and nausea. His electrocardiogram was slightly erratic as well.”

“Did he arrest?” Rebecca asked in fear, remembering her own four-minute cardiac arrest, the one during which the pretty young nurse had declared she'd “died.”

“No, he didn't. And he remained outwardly calm, considering the circumstances. He hasn't had a second incident. I'm encouraged. We don't have all the lab tests back, but of course he'll have to stay here tonight.”

“I'd throw a fit if you
didn't
keep him.” Rebecca sighed. “Frank is so stoic you have a tendency to think he can handle anything and not consider the strain he's under.”

“The strain of Todd's abduction couldn't be avoided, Rebecca.”

“But I've added to everything with my wreck and my scene at Dormaine's and the library stunt last night.”

“The library stunt, as you call it, saved a girl's life. And you didn't wreck on purpose, you weren't seriously hurt, and the scene at Dormaine's was simply an embarrassment for you, I hardly think it threw Frank into a financial tail-spin. Let up on yourself.”

But I'm not all of the trouble, she thought. There's Mother with her constant drinking. There was no reason to mention this problem to Clay, though. He already knew about it. All of Sinclair did.

“Are you sure I can't see him tonight?”

“He's much calmer than when he came in. He's also drowsy. As soon as he's settled in his room, I think he'll go to sleep.”

“And I would only disturb him.”

Clay took her hand and held it tightly. “Listen, sweetheart, Frank is in excellent health other than this episode, which doesn't seem to have been a heart attack. I don't think there's any real reason to worry. If he doesn't have any more trouble, he'll be home day after tomorrow.”

“Thank God,” Rebecca breathed.

It was only ten minutes later on her way to the car that she realized Clay had called her “sweetheart.” The endearment warmed her to the core.

After Bill Garrett left, Matilda washed the teacups and saucers, straightened the kitchen, then walked straight back to the bathroom and threw up. She was annoyed by her cowardice and by its disgusting manifestation. She was frustrated that after the funeral she'd babbled her head off to Rebecca Ryan. She was distressed that she'd been too nervous to return to the store. No prescriptions could be filled, so she called Lynn and told her to close at five although this was one of Lynn's nights to stay until ten. Matilda
would go in two hours early tomorrow to catch up. Maybe three hours. A good night's sleep would put her on her feet again, she reassured herself. She'd be calm and businesslike and put all this melodrama out of her sensible head.

Matilda had always been contemptuous of what she considered “silly” women. Her mother had been a dear, sweet ninny afraid to stay alone at night, afraid of scary television shows, afraid of crowds, afraid of animals, afraid of business, basically afraid of life outside her home. The idea of turning out like her mother had frightened Matilda above all things, and she'd therefore determined at age twelve to be independent and strong although her mother had desperately tried to turn her into a carbon copy. Matilda had followed her father's lead, though, and made him proud of her. She hadn't necessarily meant to end up alone, but throughout the years she'd considered it the price she had to pay for her hard-won self-sufficiency and meeting her father's expectations.

Now it all seemed to be slipping away from her. She was as jittery and excitable as her mother and it depressed her, no matter how sound her reason for feeling fear. So after her bout of nausea, she decided to act as if nothing were wrong in her world. She would go on just as she had for the last sixty-two years—-self-possessed, competent, a bit autocratic to hide the lingering insecurities.

She decided to put the rest of the day to good use. She did two loads of laundry. She ran the vacuum cleaner all over the house, even though she'd just vacuumed three days ago. She organized her already organized dresser drawers. She carefully copied four recipes that had been given to her by her church group.

At ten o'clock she watched a law drama although she had trouble concentrating. Afterward she washed and creamed her pale face, slipped on a cotton nightgown, read a chapter of
My Antonia,
took a melatonin pill, and finally began to doze. She was dreaming of a store full of people furious because she'd filled every prescription incorrectly when the phone beside her bed rang. At first, still lost in
her dream, she thought it was a police siren. They'd come to haul her off to prison for incompetence. Not until the third jingle did she realize she was hearing the phone. Her hand shot out for the receiver. “Matilda Vinson here.”

“Miss Vinson?” A weak female voice with a terrific twang jittered over the wires. “Is this Miss Matilda Vinson?”

“I just said so. What is it?”

“Oh. It's your father. He's… well, he's not doin' so well.”

“What! My father? What's wrong with him?”

“He's not doin' so well.”

“You said that. Could you be more specific? Is it his Alzheimer's? His heart?”

“Yes.”

“Which?”

“Well, both.” The woman paused. “See, his heart's act-in' up and it's got him scared.” She paused again. “He thinks it's World War II and he's going out to kill Japanese in his plane.”

“He didn't fight in the Pacific theater.”

“You don't understand. He's not talkin' about a movie, he's talkin' about a war.”

Oh God, the ignorance of the young, Matilda thought. Did they ignore World War II at Sinclair High?

“He's just plain out of control and he's yellin' for you. The head nurse thinks you should come.”

“Where's his doctor?”

“We can't reach him right now. But we're all doin' our best with your daddy. Maybe you can do more.” She paused again.
“Please,
Miss Vinton, it's awful important.”

“Vinson,”
Matilda said automatically. “I'll be there immediately. And don't put him in restraints. That sets him crazy.”

But then he's already crazy, she thought, filled with guilt and despair. What a handsome, intelligent, kind man he'd been, full of more quiet common sense than anyone she'd ever known. And now, in his eighties, he was ready to wage
World War II again, only this time as a pilot when he'd never flown a plane in his life. Matilda hoped in twenty years she would simply have a huge, catastrophic brain aneurysm. It would be painful and terrifying for a moment, but far more dignified and compassionate than this slow disintegration of the mind.

Matilda pulled on slacks, a bulky sweater, and combed her thick salt-and-pepper hair. She never wore jewelry or cologne, not that she would have bothered with them in an emergency. She turned on a lamp in the front window so whoever might be watching her would think she was home. Then she grabbed her purse, which was always set on a metal cart beside the door leading from the house to the garage. In a moment the automatic opener sent the garage door humming up, and Matilda pulled out onto the alley that ran behind her house. Her father had always hated garage doors that faced the street. The cop stationed in a car parallel with the front of her house never saw her leave.