Cold Target Part 7

"Why, thank you," the nurse said, then hesitantly added, "If you think it'll be all right with your father?"

Meredith wondered whether her father had bullied her like he bullied so many others. "Of course it is," she said. "I'll ring for a nurse if there's any problem."

"Then I'll do as you suggest. I'll be back within an hour."

"Take longer if you like." Meredith waited until the woman disappeared out the door before she took the chair next to her mother. She needed the time to think, to grieve, even to vent her anger. She had been given a task by a mother who'd barely acknowledged her existence, and then disappeared into a coma without giving her the information she needed.

"Dammit," she said to the still figure. "Don't do this to me. Give me something to go on."

But the figure on the bed did not move.

Meredith wanted to scream at her. 'Why now? Why wait until it's too late'?

"Why didn't you care about me?" That question escaped her lips. She heard the plea in it. One that had echoed in her mind for so many years. The area at the backs of her eyes felt heavy with moisture, tears she was determined not to shed.

"Why?" she asked again. "If you care so much about losing a daughter, why didn't you love the one you had?" The pain was intense, the anger so powerful she could barely contain it. She wanted to shake her mother until she regained consciousness, until she could get some explanation. And yet she felt compelled to do this one last thing for her mother, despite the seeming hopelessness of finding someone lost thirty-three years earlier.

Had her mother agreed to an adoption, only to regret it later? Or had the baby been taken from her? If so, how? There had to be paperwork somewhere. She couldn't imagine her grandfather not making sure his grandchild went to someone safe. He'd always been possessive of everything in his life. He never threw anything out. The attic of her parents' house, which her mother had inherited from her father, was filled with his papers.

Perhaps she could find something there. Meredith decided to search her parents' house on Friday. Her father would be in court, and the housekeeper usually did her shopping then.

Meredith looked at her mother's face. Peaceful now, but thin. And aged. She was only fifty. This shouldn't be happening to her. If only she hadn't waited so long to go to their doctor. But there had been this meeting or that meeting, this project or that charity ball.

Meredith looked at the cards the nurse had handed her. Some had come with flowers. Other people had stopped in the room briefly. The cards included one from the mayor, several from members of the city governing board, one from the president of the symphony guild.

Meredith knew them all. She'd met them at various functions hosted by her mother. She stopped at one card. Judge Samuel Matthews, a member of the Louisiana Supreme Court and one of the state's most distinguished citizens. Some called him a kingmaker. Meredith had seen a photo of his daughter and her husband, a state senator and probable candidate for Congress, in the paper just a few weeks ago.

"You were loved," she whispered to her mother even as she wondered how someone so well-respected could have been so reserved with her own family. Perhaps it had just been her mother's nature to give to strangers. No emotional price that way.

She closed her eyes, trying to think of instances that would give her more insight into her mother. Meredith had known for a long time her parents' marriage was a loveless one. They slept in separate rooms. They were always scrupulously polite to each other. She couldn't remember an affectionate gesture between them.

She knew about abuse. Her father had not been abusive, at least not physically. He just lived in his own world, totally absorbed by his practice. He had given her mother everything she wanted. Unlimited funds. Household help. Contributions to all her favorite projects.

Everything but love. At least Meredith had seen little evidence of love.

And her mother in turn had given her daughter everything, everything but the warmth and affection she'd craved. It had made Meredith tough. She'd built her own sh.e.l.l.

To divert her mind from self-pity, which she hated, she made a mental list of things to do. Search her grandfather's records first. Her mother's room next. There might be a diary or records of a list of the steps her mother had already taken to find her missing daughter.

Then Meredith would try to locate neighbors and friends of her great-aunt. Perhaps she had told them something. And she would try school friends of her mother. Perhaps they might know who the father was. He might know something. 'Someone must'.

Her eyes were trying to close, and she looked at the clock. Midnight. The nurse had returned and quietly taken a chair in the corner. The machines clicked on, one pouring drugs and nutrients into her mother as another recorded her heartbeat. Steady.

A lump caught in Meredith's throat.

She finally rose.

"Good night," she said to the nurse. "You will call me if there is even the slightest change?"

"Of course."

"I know my father is paying you but..."

"I'll call you."

"Thank you." She left the room blindly and leaned against the wall outside. She hated to go. But her mother had asked one thing of her. It was doubtful she would ever wake, but if she did, Meredith wanted her sister next to her.

She left the hospital. A few staffers were visible but nearly all the visitors were gone. She went down the eerily silent corridors, out the door to the covered parking decks a short distance away.

Clouds shrouded any light from the moon and stars. Rain drizzled in the oppressive heat, cloaking the city lights. The covered parking lot had been crowded when she'd arrived earlier, and she'd had to take a place in the third tier near the back.

For some reason she felt a tingling along her backbone. Her mind issued warning signals.

There were no people and few parked cars. An eerie silence magnified the sound of her footsteps on pavement.

She glanced uneasily over her shoulder, then told herself to relax. She'd been on her own too long to frighten easily. She followed all the safety tips. Have keys in hand, walk swiftly and with confidence, be alert. Still, she felt a p.r.i.c.kling at the back of her neck.

The sound of a motor and the squeal of tires broke the silence. A car appeared in the curve leading from the level above where her car was parked. She backed up into an empty s.p.a.ce. Unaccountably, her heart raced faster. She felt like a fool when the driver pa.s.sed her without a look and drove toward the exit.

She was almost to her car when she heard an odd sound, like a m.u.f.fled whistle, followed by the shattering of gla.s.s. An overhead light went out. Before she could react, the sounds were repeated, and the area was plunged into darkness.

Stunned, she didn't move for a second. She heard a different noise, the sound of a car revving up.

Meredith didn't have time to think. She leaped backward just as a car roared toward the spot where she'd been standing. She rolled under a car as the other sped away. She stilled completely, her heart pounding so loudly she thought anyone could hear it.

The sound--it had been like gunshots stifled by a silencer.

A gun? Fear threatened to strangle her, paralyze her.

Who had shot out the lights? Had he been in the car? Or was he still here, waiting to see whether she had been injured?

'Whether she was dead.'

It couldn't have been an accident. Someone had aimed the car at her. She was certain about that. And the shattering of the lights was a deliberate action. A planned, calculated action.

Her blood ran cold and she shivered in the hot humidity. Her arm burned and she realized she had sc.r.a.ped it as she hit the ground. The smell of gasoline nauseated her. She lay still, trying not to even breathe, willing her heart to slow.

After several moments of complete silence, she slid from under the car and hunched at its side. She sneaked a quick look, even as fear crawled up her spine. She'd never known exactly how some of her stalked clients had felt. Not really. No one could unless she'd felt terror herself.

Now she knew.

She remained unmoving for what seemed a lifetime. Listening ... wishing she had a weapon with her.

Then she stood, slowly, painfully. No one in sight. The garage looked empty except for the shadowed cars. Apparently no one had heard the silenced shots that had shattered the lights, nor wondered about the sudden darkness on the third level.

She'd dropped her purse when she had jumped out of the way of the car. She stooped again and felt for it as her eyes gradually became accustomed to the darkness. She finally found it. Her hands shaking, she called hospital security on her cell phone.

She wasn't going to move away from the protection of the car. The shooter could still be out there. Or he--or she-- might have an accomplice.

A robbery? Or something more sinister?

The thought that someone might still be in the parking decks made her skin crawl. But if he were, wouldn't he be hunting for her? If she were the target, why hadn't they made sure they'd hit her?

Or was it a dangerous prank? Meant only to scare, not to kill?

She ran through her mind a list of people who might want to hurt her. Rick Fuller was one. Several other ex-husbands who had lost their wives to the women's shelter or divorce. Criminals she had sent to prison as an a.s.sistant DA. As she waited for security, the list grew uncomfortably long.

Shouts and flashlights. Finally. She released a deep breath she hadn't realized was bottled in her throat. "Over here."

In seconds she was surrounded by uniformed men. One stepped closer. "Ms. Rawson?"

She nodded, afraid her voice might come out as timorous. 'Never show weakness'. Something drummed into her by her father.

"The police are on their way." He aimed the flashlights at the broken lights. "What happened here?"

"I'm not sure. I heard the shattering of gla.s.s and the lights went out. I think it might have been a silenced pistol. As soon as the lights went out, I heard a car tearing toward me. I just managed to jump out of the way."

"You think the driver was trying to run you down?"

"If not, he was giving a good imitation of it," she said. "He couldn't have missed seeing me."

"What were you doing here so late?"

"My mother is a patient. She's very ill."

"Next time, call for a security guard to accompany you," he said briskly but with a hint of sympathy. "Can you tell us anything about the car?"

"Big and dark."

"Not much help."

"Sorry, I was busy rolling under a car."

He flashed his light over her. She'd left her suit jacket in the car, and her plain white short-sleeved blouse was stained and torn. Her arm had sc.r.a.ped along the pavement and blood trickled from it.

"I need to get you inside to Emergency."

"It's a scratch," she said.

"But it's a scratch on hospital property," he said with a wry expression. "Lawsuits, you know."

"You know I'm an attorney?"

"I recognize the name."

"Don't worry, Mr...."

"Adc.o.c.k. Head of security."

"Mr. Adc.o.c.k. Right now I just want to get home. I have no intention of filing a lawsuit."

A police car arrived, then a second.

She repeated everything she'd said to Adc.o.c.k, then reluctantly went into the emergency room with him. The wound was cleaned, swabbed, then bandaged. She was even given several pills "for pain," though she said they weren't necessary.

Police reports were taken. A detective--Cliff Morris-- arrived, and she told the story for the third time.

He offered to follow her home and check out her house, and she accepted. She didn't like being frightened. She didn't like asking for help, either, but she wasn't a fool. If the attack 'had' been aimed at her personally, then there might be another attempt.

From now on, she vowed to herself, she would carry a weapon with her.

It was nearly four in the morning before they arrived at her house, a small historic home near the French Quarter. It had been her inheritance from her grandmother. Both her parents came from old New Orleans families.

Morris took her key from her but tried the door first. It was unlocked. She knew she'd locked it.

He looked at her.

"I locked it," she said.

"Get back," Morris said. His gun was immediately in his hand and he slowly opened the door.

"What can I do?" she asked.

He hesitated. "Do you know how to use the police radio?"

She nodded.

"Go to the car and call headquarters. Ask for backup." He stepped inside, holding his gun in both hands.

She ran to the car. It took her thirty seconds to make the call and give directions. Heart thumping, she went back to the front door of her home. Listened. Once again, she knew what terror truly was.

It made her d.a.m.ned angry.

The sound of wailing sirens rent the air, then flashing blue lights were visible through the rain.

Two uniformed officers sprinted out of the car and up on the porch. "Ms. Rawson?"

"Detective Morris is inside. The door to the house was open when we arrived. It was locked when I left. I was attacked just hours ago in a hospital parking area."

The officers already had guns in their hands. One man yelled out, "Police." Then the two went inside.

She waited, then heard voices, and all three came out. Morris holstered his gun. "All clear." He stepped in front of her before she could go in. "It's a mess in there. The whole place has been tossed."

He moved aside, and she entered, only to stop in astonishment and outrage. Sofa cushions had been slit open and tossed on the floor. Volumes from the bookcases lay strewn around the floor, spines broken in some cases. A vase was shattered. Tables upturned. It wasn't just a simple burglary. It was damage for damage's sake.

"All the rooms are like this," Morris said grimly. "It appears that someone doesn't like you."

"I've concluded that," she said, barely holding back tears. But she had learned never to cry in public. Tears were strictly private.