To the Grave (26 page)

 

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

1

“You couldn't do anything;” Robbie said.

I just dropped down to him. He grabbed his shoulder, and when he pulled it away there was so much blood. I couldn't stop looking at all the blood.…” Catherine gave Robbie a lost, wandering look. “I thought he was dying or dead. I kept asking him to come back. I didn't think of anything else—not who was shooting—and then I knew someone was standing over us and I tried to raise my head, but before I could, I went blank.”

“The shooter knocked you unconscious. Are you sure you didn't see who it was?”

“I didn't see anyone. I'm sorry.”

“Don't be sorry. If you'd seen his face, he might have killed you.”

Catherine blinked, stiffening.

“Who found them?” Marissa asked.

“A couple going to their car saw them lying in the parking lot. They rushed back into the restaurant and called nine-one-one. They didn't see anyone else in the lot. No one in the restaurant heard anything, so we don't know how many shots were fired.”

“I'm sure the police care how many shots someone fired, but I don't,” Catherine said with startling vehemence. “All I can think of is James.” Her lips began to tremble. “Oh God, I
still
don't know if he's is alive. It's been
so
long.…”

“No, it hasn't,” Marissa said. “It just seems like it's been a long time. I'm sure he's in surgery. You know how long surgery takes.”

“Not long if someone dies quickly.”

“Then the longer it takes, the better.” Marissa hoped that sounded logical. She couldn't think of anything else to say. “James is young and strong and healthy. He's
not
dead. I'd know it.”

Catherine looked at her quizzically. “You'd
know
? How?”

“I just would.” Catherine was opening her mouth to argue. “I think I'll go out to one of those vending machines and get coffee. Catherine, Robbie, either of you brave enough to drink what those awful contraptions pass off as coffee?”

“Not me,” Catherine said dully while Robbie wisely shook her head.

Just as Marissa began scooting off the table, the examining room door opened. Eric looked first at Catherine and then at Marissa, asking, “All right if I come in?”

“More than all right!” Marissa exclaimed. “I didn't think we'd see you here tonight.”

Eric entered slowly, smiling at Catherine. “How are you doing?”

“All right, considering the circumstances.” Her voice sounded thin and falsely calm. “Have you found out anything else about the shooting?”

“No. At least nothing important.” Eric said. Marissa knew he wasn't being completely truthful, but Catherine was in no shape to absorb anything technical about gunshot angles or distances. “We're certainly not finished investigating yet, though. I'll be going back to the restaurant soon. I just wanted to come by and check on James.”

“Well, if he's dead, no one has told me,” Catherine said dully.

Marissa gave her another hug as Eric and Robbie spoke at once, both telling Catherine she was doing fine, James would be fine, she just had to have faith, on and on until Marissa felt like shouting for silence.

And then the doctor walked in.

2

Marissa and Catherine had known the woman since they were teenagers, when she'd joined the staff of the hospital where their father had been a cardiologist for over twenty years. She was tall, slender, and fortyish, with short blond hair and a face pale with fatigue and lack of makeup. On television, female surgeons always wore makeup, Marissa thought distantly, often including false eyelashes they fluttered frequently above their surgical masks.

“Hello, Catherine, Marissa,” she said. “I haven't seen you since your mother's funeral. I'm sorry I haven't seen you again until now, under these circumstances.”

“I'm glad you were here to take care of James,” Marissa managed, although all Catherine did was nod, her eyes huge.

“Mr. Eastman came through surgery well,” the doctor immediately began. “He had a gunshot wound through the left scapula. That's the shoulder blade, as I'm sure you all know. When a bullet hits a bone, the bone may be shattered or may deflect the bullet to another part of the body, causing further problems. This was a perforating wound, meaning the bullet passed through the body. There appears to be no joint involvement and very little soft-tissue involvement. These are good things. The exit of the bullet caused a great deal of blood loss, but we got it under control. Also, he suffered some damage to tendons or ligaments, though not severe.” She finally smiled. “I know it doesn't seem like it now, but considering what he's been through, I'd say Mr. Eastman is a very lucky man.”

“Oh yes, lucky,” Catherine said tremulously. “Lucky.…” She suddenly bent her head and buried her face in her hands. “Oh, thank God.” Her voice was soft and tearful. “Thank God. It could have been so much worse—”

“But it wasn't. So far, he's doing well and I see no reason why he shouldn't keep doing well,” the doctor interrupted. Then she looked at Eric. “You're Chief Deputy Montgomery.”

“Yes.”

“They told me you'd come. I'd like to speak with you in the hall.” Marissa heard the serious note in the doctor's voice before she flashed them another smile, this one more cheerful. “After all, these people need some time to celebrate without listening to me droning on about surgery details.”

There's more, Marissa thought, but she didn't want to hear it and Catherine didn't need to hear it. All Catherine needed to know was that James was not only alive but also holding his own.

Marissa closed her eyes and gave her sister another hug. Although Marissa was not traditionally religious, she surprised herself by saying a short, silent prayer, because she couldn't help thinking that a higher power had been watching over Catherine and James tonight.

3

“First let me start off by reminding you that I'm not a pathologist,” the doctor told Eric as they strolled down the hall with Robbie, who still held her notebook and pen. “However, I can give you some information about the bullet.”

“I knew that's why you wanted to talk to me,” Eric said. “I'd appreciate any information you can give me.”

“As I said, the bullet passed through the body, so I can't give it to you for ballistics. I can tell you that I'm sure the shooter didn't use a shotgun at short range—there wasn't enough tissue damage. In fact, my guess would be that Mr. Eastman was shot with a .22 rifle—even a .22 handgun would have left more of a tattoo pattern on the skin.”

“But aren't most .22 rifles used for shooting small game?” Robbie asked.

“Yes, they are,” Eric said slowly.

“But I just didn't see enough soft-tissue damage to make me think the shooter used a high-velocity rifle. In fact, little as I know about guns, I'm surprised Mr. Eastman sustained as much damage as he did.” She paused. “If I'm right and he used a .22-caliber rifle.”

“Even if he used a .22, he could have shot as bad as he did if he was at very short range,” Eric said.

“We're getting into an area I can't help with, so I'll stop with the gun information and leave that to the experts,” the doctor said pleasantly. “I didn't want to go into a lot of details about Mr. Eastman's condition because Catherine is doing so much better than when they brought her in. I also know you're very close to her sister, Chief Deputy Montgomery, and whatever I tell you, you'll convey to Marissa and she'll tell her sister later.”

Eric nodded. “I will, and I want to tell you again that I appreciate your sensitivity. What else should I tell Marissa?”

“The fracture of Mr. Eastman's scapula is not severe and doesn't look unstable, but the bone
is
fractured and will take quite a while to heal. In the meantime, there's danger of infection or the formation of a
fistula
”—she looked at Robbie's frown—“a pocket of blood or pus, which would have to be drained. I know that look. As my teenage daughter would say, ‘Oh,
gross.
'”

Robbie grinned at her.

“I've heard that Mr. Eastman is a workaholic, but at least he's a lawyer, not a construction worker. I also know he's right-handed. He was shot on the left side. That will make it easier for him to keep his left side still. Nevertheless, he'll have to take it easy and get plenty of rest. You must emphasize this to Catherine. James Eastman needs to lead a less hectic life and get plenty of rest. I'm sure if anyone can make him slow down, she will be the one.”

“I hope so,” Eric said. “James isn't good at taking orders.”

“She doesn't have to give orders,” the doctor returned crisply, then smiled. “As I'm sure you know because of Marissa, beautiful women have other ways of convincing men to do what's good for them, no matter how stubborn they are.”

Robbie burst out laughing and then turned bright red. “Sorry,” she said meekly to a surprised-looking Eric.

“Don't be.” The doctor looked at Eric. “And don't you make her feel bad. It's the only time all day I've made someone laugh. Any other questions, Chief Deputy?”

“No, ma'am, not right now,” he said with a bit less authority in his voice. “Thank you for the information, especially about the gunshot. I have a feeling I'm going to need all the help I can get.”

After she left them, Eric turned to Robbie. “Well, we know someone is fond of .22-caliber guns.”

“Renée and Arcos were killed with handguns. Someone used a rifle on Eastman.”

“But the gun that killed Arcos isn't the one used on Renée. The ballistics don't match.”

“Maybe all three guns being .22 calibers is a coincidence.”

“I don't buy it,” Eric said. “There's a connection.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You don't have to humor me. I'm not mad at you for laughing.”

“I know or you would have said something by now. I truly think there's a connection.”

“Okay. What did Catherine tell you about the actual moments of the shots?”

Robbie flipped back through her notebook. “She said she and James were alone in the parking lot. He was shot and fell immediately. She just stood in shock and then she heard a second shot. That's when she ducked.
After
the second shot. When she hit the ground, she passed out.” Robbie looked up from her notes. “It doesn't appear the shooter was near Mr. Eastman's car.”

“Not during the shooting, but he had been,” Eric said grimly. “Beneath the passenger's door we found three strings of purple Mardi Gras beads.”

 

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

1

“No one can say I don't know how to show a girl a lovely evening.”

“Oh, James, don't be so modest,” Catherine said earnestly as she sat by his hospital bed. “It
was
lovely right up until the sniper opened fire on us.”

James's tired eyes still managed to sparkle. “Talk about looking at the glass half-full! I'd laugh if it didn't hurt.”

“Then definitely don't laugh. I want you well and out of here.”

“I won't be well for a few weeks. I also won't be released for a couple of days. I'll miss Patrice's wedding.”

“I hope you're not worrying about the wedding!” Catherine exclaimed.

“I'm kidding. Patrice will have to get along without both of us.”

“Well, not both of us.”

James gave Catherine a startled look.

“I
have
to go.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“James, I'm the maid of honor. Patrice doesn't have any relatives or close friends who can stand in for me.”

“You're being crazy,” James said grimly. “Did that concussion you got make you forget what happened last night?”

“I'll have surveillance.”

“We had surveillance last night.”

“Eric told me the guy had been on the force for a couple of months and was so inexperienced, when he heard a rear tire blow he jumped out of the patrol car. The tire didn't blow without help, which he didn't think of. Anyway, he's on suspension.”

“Well, boo-hoo for him, but that doesn't change what happened to us or what could happen to you.”

“I'm not going to let Patrice down,” Catherine said stubbornly, then leaned forward and gently kissed James on the cheek. “I'm not worried about going to the wedding—I'm only worried about you.”

“You're talking to me like I'm a kid. You can't act like going to this rehearsal dinner and the wedding isn't dangerous because you don't want me to freak out. I'm already freaked out. Someone followed us to that restaurant and almost killed me.”

“You, not me. I'm not his target.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“He was close enough to bash me on the head last night, but he didn't kill me.”

“Maybe he just wasn't ready to kill you, honey. Maybe he has some twisted reason for waiting to kill you.”

A chill rushed through Catherine, but she didn't think James saw it. “Who could be doing this, James, and why?”

He shook his head. “Someone murdered Renée. Arcos came after you because he thought you'd killed her, but then someone got him instead.”

“If Arcos wanted to kill me because he thought I'd murdered Renée, he didn't kill her. Did someone kill him because they thought
he'd
killed her?”

“Or because he had tried to hurt you. He
would
have hurt you if he hadn't been killed.” He paused. “I think Eric believed I killed Renée because I hated her and then I killed Arcos to protect you.”