What She Doesn't Know (8 page)

“I asked you what you’re doing. I’m not sure whether to think you’re just a little nuts or firmly on the psycho side of things. First you don’t tell me everything, and now you’re here telling the cops I’m threatening you because you eavesdropped on a private conversation. Inferring that I had something to do with Brian’s condition. What kind of game are you playing?”

She let go of Brian’s hand and gestured toward the door. “Let’s talk over there, where he can’t hear us.”

Perhaps he’d been told about coma patients hearing what was said around them, because he followed her without argument.

It also bought her a few seconds to figure out how she was going to handle him. Not long enough, unfortunately.
 

He spun her around to face him, his jaw rigid and his eyes an angry blue. “I want answers, Rita Brooks.”

She didn’t know how much to tell him and she certainly didn’t trust him.

“I just asked the police to check into all the possibilities.”

“Why do you think someone pushed him?” he asked. “Was he involved in something? You’re involved in it, too, aren’t you?”

“I don’t have to answer your questions,” she said, walking out of the room. The truth was she had no logical answers. She didn’t want to wait for the eternally slow elevators, so she looked for the fire exit. He was right behind her as she pushed through the doorway and took the stairs at a sprint.

“You’d better damn well tell me what you know,” he said behind her.

She needed to get away from him. He’d pin her down and force her to tell him everything, and then she’d really come off as more than a little nuts. Since he hadn’t mentioned the coma connection, she assumed the detective hadn’t told Christopher about it. She needed time to think this through, to figure out what her next step was and who she could trust.

She pushed through the ground floor doors and headed straight for the entrance. He grabbed her shoulder and spun her around. “Leave me alone,” she said in a strained voice.

“Or what, you’ll call security?”

Of course she couldn’t call security. He hadn’t done anything wrong. The cold air embraced her. She headed to her car where she could lock him out. If he tried to follow her, she’d head straight to the police station.

“Dammit, woman, if you know something, I’m the one to tell it to.”

She spotted her car in the near distance. She was pretty sure he wouldn’t accost her in the parking lot, not with people in the vicinity. She dared a sideways glance back and saw that he was a few feet behind her.
 

Her car wasn’t far away now. Impending relief was only an illusion, as she found out. She heard tires squealing on the pavement first and then spotted the car tearing around the corner. Someone tackled her from behind at the same moment the car veered toward her. She screamed as the strong arms clamped around her pulled her off-balance. They went rolling beneath the back of a truck. She had only a moment to realize it was Christopher wrapped around her, rolling her on top of him as they hit the wet asphalt. The car screeched past them.

He was big and solid, like a shield.

“You all right?” he asked as he disentangled from her.

She could only nod before he crawled out and jumped to his feet. She scrambled out behind him, feeling dazed. He was searching for the car, the muscles in his jaw and neck rigid with concentration. The car was gone.

“Bastard,” he muttered to the absent driver and turned his attention to her. He reached out and rubbed asphalt crumbles from her cheek as he seemed to survey her for injuries. He knelt down, grabbed her cashmere hat and handed it to her, doing another scan of the lot.

She played the scene through her mind. What little she’d seen, anyway. She was shivering as she stared at where the car had been. It seemed unreal to her, but something
was
very real.

She turned to him. “You knew he was going to hit me, didn’t you?”

“I didn’t grab you for the fun of it.” He rubbed the back of his neck and grimaced. “Did you happen to see the license plate?”

“No, but it was a beige sedan, late eighties, I’d guess. Did you see anything else?”

He took the hat she was scrunching in her hands and placed it on her head. “I was too busy trying to figure out where we were going to land. Come on, let’s go inside and call the police. That guy needs to be taken off the road. And you should have someone look you over, make sure you’re okay.”

He guided her toward the entrance with his hand on her back. She fought the urge to move away, considering he’d likely saved her life. “How did you know he was coming at me? When I looked up, he was going fast but straight.”

His expression darkened. “Call it a sixth sense.”

Once they got to the lobby, Rita instructed one of the women behind the desk to call the police and ask for Detective Connard. Then Christopher insisted she be checked out by one of the emergency room doctors.

“You should be checked, too. You took a harder fall than I did.” He’d pulled her on top of him so he’d take the brunt of the fall. She needed to thank him, as soon as she got her bearings.
 

A doctor checked both of them over, though Rita had to insist Christopher remain for his examination. Her elbow was sore, and she suspected she’d have a nice bruise before long. He had a scrape on the back of his hand and fingers. His jacket and jeans took most of the scrapes. He let them clean and put salve on him but not a bandage. By the time they were cleared, Connard was waiting for them in the lobby. He was clearly surprised to see the two of them together, but she didn’t give him a chance to ask.
 

She walked over to him. “Now you’ve
got
to investigate Brian’s fall. Someone tried to run me down—again. I didn’t see the driver, but it has to be the same person who came to Boston. Christopher was there, he can tell you what happened.”

Connard’s normally neutral expression was tainted with skepticism, but he turned to Christopher.
 

“I don’t think it was intentional. The driver was probably stoned.”

Rita’s mouth dropped open. “What? How can you say that? You were there!”

He held up his hand as though to ward her off. “What I saw was a car veering toward you. I heard squealing tires as he took the corner too fast. I don’t think he had control of the car.”

“He drove right at me! Oh, this is ridiculous.” She waved him away and faced Connard. “It was intentional, the same way the car hitting me in Boston was intentional.”

“A car hit you in Boston?” Christopher asked.

She ignored him, which was much better than grabbing his coat and shaking sense into him. “Can’t you see, there’s a pattern here?”

Connard said, “The officer I spoke with in Boston said he thought the driver was a teen who had stolen the vehicle for a joyride.”

“Why would a joy-rider purposely try to hit another car?” she asked.

“Why do joy-riders shoot paint guns at pedestrians? Why do they run up on curbs and lay out people on the sidewalk? Drugs can make people do crazy things.” He glanced at Christopher, and then pulled Rita a short distance away and spoke in a low, calming voice. “Brain injuries can make people do crazy things, too. Being in a coma could make a person paranoid, maybe think that people are trying to kill her.”

She had to reign in her anger. “I’m not crazy, and this has nothing to do with my being in a coma. Well, it does, but not because I’m brain damaged.”

His hand was still on her shoulder. “Here’s what I suggest: you get on your flight tomorrow and forget about New Orleans. Forget about that guy in the coma. Be safe.”

She pulled out of his grasp. “Am I being paranoid when someone has tried to run me down twice in a six week period of time?”

“I think you’re just unlucky. We’re talking two different states and two different types of accidents.”

“Using a car as a weapon both times. I know you have to look at things objectively. That’s your job. But you”—she turned to Christopher—”you were there. Why can’t you see that it was intentional?”

“I stopped seeing demons in every shadow a long time ago,” he said, one of those shadows in his eyes.

Rita wanted to scream in her frustration. Since that would only contribute to Connard’s view of her, and Christopher’s as well, she simply stalked away. This time she kept a careful eye on what was going on around her as she made her way to her car. Once inside, she warmed up the engine and let the adrenaline and frustration drain from her body. She felt an overwhelming urge to cry, which seemed weak and ineffective. She heaved great gulps of air to keep it at bay.

Was Christopher’s denial a way of protecting someone? She had to admit, as much as she wanted to see him as a bad guy, he had saved her life. She grimaced when she reached to put the car into gear. Her elbow ached.

“Breakfast,” she said, heading out of the parking lot. She spotted a beige sedan in a spot near the exit that looked like the car that had tried to run her down. “It was on purpose,” she said. She was sure that the driver wouldn’t have left the car in the lot even if he had stolen it, so she continued on, keeping an eye on her rear view mirror…looking for evil in every shadow.
 

CHAPTER 7

After breakfast, Rita felt the emotional effects of nearly dying and the physical effects of being tackled. She went back to her hotel room, promptly heaved up the three pancakes she’d managed to eat, and fell into a fitful, achy sleep for two hours. The images Brian had showed her saturated her sleep with feelings of fear. Finally she dragged herself to full wakefulness, wrapped her wool coat around her and found a cozy table down in the courtyard. The air was warming up some, and it helped to clear her head.
 

She had brought her cell phone and called Officer Potter in Boston. When he got on the line, she asked him about the feather.

He paused, as though he wasn’t sure he should tell her. Finally he said, “Yes, we found a black feather. And a red feather. And two painted macaroni noodles. Detective Connard told me what you’re thinking, and I have to tell you, this feather doesn’t mean anything. Not unless you can produce the mask it came from, prove who owns the mask, and that the person was in Boston at the time of your accident…you get the drift?”

Yeah, she got it. She thanked him for nothing and hung up. She might not have tangible proof, but that black feather was proof enough for her. She tucked her legs beneath her in the wrought iron chair and tried to figure out what to do.

She kneaded her forehead, fighting off a headache. Her gaze drifted to room 315 where the woman had died in her sleep. Was that why she felt unsettled in the serenity of the beautiful courtyard?

It was everything, she decided. She wanted to call Marty and ask her advice. The problem was she hadn’t exactly told Marty she’d come here. She’d said she was taking a couple of days off. She hadn’t mentioned the trip at all to her mother, who was making a habit of calling once a week to check on her. She felt a prick of guilt that she hadn’t initiated one call.

“Tomorrow I go home, and I know nothing more than when I came, other than I’m not crazy. Brian did come to me and he didn’t try to kill himself.” How could she leave without getting someone to believe her, to check into it? To protect him?

She couldn’t.

Turning away from conflict was her weakness. She had justified it all her life. The roots went back to her childhood, and any therapist worth his or her salt would advise her to face those issues first and then begin to face bigger crises. If only she’d taken her own advice, she’d be better prepared for this situation. There wasn’t time to backtrack now, though, or shore up her foundation.

She pulled the coat tighter and leaned her head back against the cushion, ignoring the throbbing ache in her elbow and the dull pain in the rest of her body. She needed more time, and she needed access to Brian’s life. There was more to the man than what was on the surface.

That was true of Christopher, too. She couldn’t trust him, but she was pretty sure he had nothing to do with the attempts on her life. Unfortunately, he was her only way into Brian’s home. All she needed to do was get him to believe her.

She’d start by thanking him for saving her life.
 

Rita stared at the business card. The printed side hailed Christopher as owner of Web-Tekk, an Atlanta-based company that created and maintained websites…and did specialty information retrieval. Like tracking her down, and finding out where she worked. “Hmph.”

She started the car, glanced at her map once more, and headed out. The address scrawled in his bold handwriting on the back was in the Garden District. Once she reached the area, she envisioned herself on a stage set: plantation-style homes, cottages trimmed in latticework, a dull green streetcar moving between the two lanes of traffic, ornate iron fences, and…rooftops.
 

She took St. Charles Street east, wishing the serenity of the stately old homes would chase away her growing anxiety.
Run the other way!
the little girl inside her screamed. But her peace of mind wasn’t at stake now. No, so much more rode on her being able to face this—and to face Christopher.
 

After two wrong turns, she stared at the pale yellow house with the deep porch along the entire front, the iron fence topped with uninviting spikes. Ornate columns supported the expanse of roof, and the porch itself was bordered with a low-spindled railing.

She stepped out of the car, hearing the crunch of cheap gold beads beneath her sensible pumps. The parades hadn’t even started yet, but she’d already seen people wearing beads. A spicy scent filtered through the cool late-afternoon air, tweaking her trembling stomach.
 

A Mitsubishi Eclipse was parked in front of the open gate, and the Georgia license plate further churned her stomach. He was there. Hard to picture him in this ornate home; she assumed it belonged to Brian. The white door was framed with sidelights and a fan light, all shrouded in white curtains. She smoothed her hair, her pants, made sure her collar was turned down.