The Crush Part 21

Lozada was watching Wesley. She followed his gaze.

"He's gay."

He looked at her. "What?"

"He's a f.a.g."

Wesley was a family man. It was Lozada's business to know these things. Wesley had a wife and two daughters.

"What makes you think he's gay?"

"This guy I met in the bar? He bought me a drink, and we were getting along pretty good, when that man there comes along. Mad as h.e.l.l. Turns out they're partners."

She had been talking to Threadgill? He had bought her a drink? Was the other guy black too?"

Sally shook her head. "Blond and blue-eyed. A cowboy.

Tough-looking, but cute."

Threadgill.

"I'm not into being a f.a.g hag, I don't care how cute the guy is." She reached across the console and stroked his fly.

"Say, that gun of yours really turns me on. And so does your pistol." She laughed at her own asinine joke.

"What did you talk about?"

"Me and the cowboy? I told him about my dream to become a dancer. And then I told him about this guy I like, who likes me." She winked. "Wonder who?"

Lozada forced himself to smile. "It wouldn't be me, would it?"

She squeezed him playfully. "And he said--"

"The cowboy?"

"Yeah, he said that since there weren't any women com

ing in and out of your place, that I probably didn't have any compet.i.tion. What do you say?"

Lozada reached across and fingered her nipple through the ridiculous T-shirt. "How did he know there were no women coming in and out of my place? Did he ask?"

'Yeah, but I told him--" Suddenly she stopped, looked at him apprehensively, changed course. "I didn't tell him s.h.i.t. You asked me not to talk about you, so I didn't. I

mean, not by name."

"Good girl." He tweaked her, hard enough to make her wince. "You know, you've got me really hot."

"Hmm, I can tell."

"Let's go somewhere more private."

"We can do it here."

"Not what I have in mind we can't."

Rennie looked at her bedside clock. It was after 3 A.M. and she was still awake. She was due at the hospital at 5:45. She fluffed her pillow, straightened the sheet that had become twisted around her restless legs, and closed her eyes, determined to clear her mind long enough to fall asleep.

A halfhour later she gave up. She went into her kitchen, filled her electric kettle with water, and plugged it in. She a.s.sembled the fixings for tea, but her coordination was shot, her motions clumsy. She dropped the lid of the tea canister twice before she was able to replace it properly.

"d.a.m.n him!"

But exactly which "him" she was referring to, even she wasn't sure. Wick Threadgill or Lozada. Take your pick.

They were tied for first place on her s.h.i.t list. Detective Wesley was a close second.

She had every intention of making good the threat she

had issued. Wesley's superior would be hearing from her attorney. Either he could arrest her or he could leave her alone. But she would not live under a cloud of suspicion for a crime she had neither committed nor knew anything about.

The five dozen roses were the returned "favor" to which Lozada had referred. Anything else was unthinkable.

He frightened her. He was a criminal. He was creepy.

He was persistent and, she feared, patient. He would continue the phone calls until she put a stop to them. The problem was, she didn't know how.

Reporting him to the police would be the normal course of action, but she was reluctant to do that now. She had waited too long. Telling Wesley this far after the fact would validate, and could even increase, his suspicion. She would eventually be cleared of any involvement in the crime that had cost Lee his life, but in the meantime . . .

It was that "in the meantime" that she must avoid. The incident in Dalton would be resurrected and-- The kettle screamed. She quickly unplugged it and poured the boiling water over the tea bag. Carrying the steeping cup into her living room, she switched on the television set and sat down in a corner of her sofa, tucking her legs beneath her. She channel surfed, trying to find any programming that would take her mind off her troubles

with Lozada and keep her from thinking about Wick. She had lied about not being mad. She was mad. Furious, in fact. But she also had been hurt by him, and that was the most unsettling part of this whole thing--knowing that she still could be hurt. She had believed herself immune to caring that much. Obviously she'd been wrong. She had discouraged him at every turn, but her rejec tion hadn't deterred him. She had begun to admire his tenacity, and she was flattered by his obstinate pursuit. In all honesty, she had been glad he turned out to be the driver of the racing pickup. When he pushed back his hat and drawled "You are no good for my ego, Dr. Newton," she'd felt an unmistakable flutter of excitement. But he wasn't a dogged suitor at all, only a detective hot on the trail of a suspect. His betrayal had been a wake-up call. Time had eclipsed hurtful memories. Years had dulled the pain of deep emotional wounds. Resolves had begun to diminish in importance. Wick's double-cross had been a cruel reminder of why she had made those resolutions. She was back on track now, more resolute than before. She should thank him for that, she supposed. But she wasn't grateful for his making her experience feelings and sensations she had long denied herself. She hated him for making her miss them, for making her yearn to explore them. With him. She set her half-finished tea on the coffee table and settled more deeply into the cushions. When she closed her eyes, she relived how grand it had felt yesterday afternoon being astride Beade. The sun and wind hot against her skin. The exhilaration of speed. The feeling that she could outrun anything. Freedom. Had she known then that Wick was driving the pickup, she probably would have felt even happier. He made her smile, laugh even. That crooked front tooth-The telephone awakened her.

Chapter I5.

Wick got away from Oren with no time to spare. He climbed into his pickup--it seemed to take an hour for the parking-lot attendant to tally his charge--and drove to the edge of downtown. He parked on a deserted side street and then, for the next few minutes, tried to convince himself that he wasn't about to die. Repeatedly he popped the rubber band against his wrist, hard, but it didn't stop the false signals of imminent death from whizzing toward his brain. He'd never had much faith that a rubber band could work that kind of miracle. It would be like using a bull whip to halt a runaway freight train. But the doctor had recommended it, so Wick had humored him and started wearing it. His fingers and toes tingled. Numbness crept up his legs and through his hands into his arms. The first time he experienced that temporary paralysis, he took it as proof positive that he had a brain tumor. He had learned that it was symptomatic of nothing except a shortage of oxygenated blood in his extremities due to hyperventilation. He opened his glove box and took out the brown-paper lunch sack he carried with him. Within seconds of breathing into it, the tingling abated, the numbness receded, and feeling returned. But his heart was pumping as though he had come nose-to-nose with a cobra poised and ready to strike. He was drenched with sweat. Although he knew he wasn't dying, it sure as h.e.l.l felt like he was. For five h.e.l.lish minutes his reason and his body went to war. His reason told him he was suffering a panic attack. His body told him he was dying. Of the two, his body was the more convincing. He had been having dinner out with friends when he was seized by his first. Midway through the meal it had slammed into him. He hadn't seen it coming. There was no warning. He didn't just begin to feel bad and then gradually get worse. One second he was fine, and the next a wave of heat surged through him and left him trembling. Immediately he was dizzy and nauseated. He excused himself from the table, rushed into the men's room, and was stricken with violent diarrhea. He shook like he had a palsy, and his scalp felt like it was crawling off his head. His heart was beating like a son of a b.i.t.c.h, and though he was gasping, he couldn't suck in enough breath. He had believed wholeheartedly that whatever the h.e.l.l had made him suddenly sick was going to kill him. There and then. He was going to die on the floor of that public rest room. He had been convinced of that as he'd never been convinced of anything in his life. Twenty minutes later he was strong enough to stand, to wash his face with cold water, to excuse himself from the group of friends. He felt lucky to be leaving the restaurant alive--as wrung out as a dishcloth, but alive. He'd gone home and slept for twelve hours. The next day he was weak but otherwise fine. He figured he'd been gripped by a vicious strain of flu, or maybe the marinara sauce he'd been eating was toxic.

Forty-eight hours later it had happened again. He woke up in his own bed. No nightmare. Nothing. He'd been sleeping soundly when he abruptly awoke, in abject terror of dying. His heart was hammering. Sweat poured from him. He was gasping for air. Again he'd had the tingling in his extremities, the crawling scalp, and the absolute conviction that his time on earth was ending. This had taken place shortly after all the s.h.i.t with Lozada had gone down. The a.s.sa.s.sin was thumbing his nose at the department in general and at Wick in particular. And now he'd been stricken with a terminal disease. That was his take on the situation when he made an appointment with an internist. "You mean I'm just crazy?" After putting him through a battery of tests--neurological, gastrointestinal, cardiological, you name it--the doctor's diagnosis was that he suffered from acute anxiety disorder. The doctor was quick to tell him he wasn't crazy and to explain the nature of the syndrome. Wick was relieved to learn that his illness wasn't fatal, but the cause was imprecise and that bothered him. He wanted a quick fix and was disheartened to learn that it usually didn't work that way. "You may never experience another one," the doctor told him. "Or you may have them periodically for the rest of your life."

Wick studied the subject, researched it, exhausted the material available. While he hated to think of thousands of others suffering as he did, he was comforted to know that his symptoms were common. For a while, he saw a therapist weekly and took the prophylactic medication that was prescribed. Finally, though, he persuaded both doctors, and himself, that he was cured. "I'm over it," he told the psychologist. "Whatever triggered the attacks--and it was a combination of things--has pa.s.sed. I'm good to go." And for the past ten months he had been. That was how long it had been since his last panic attack. He'd been fine. Until tonight. Thank G.o.d it wasn't a severe one, that it had been short-lived. He'd recognized it for what it was and had talked himself through it. Maybe the rubber band had helped after all. He waited five minutes more to be certain it had pa.s.sed before he began driving again. He took an entrance ramp onto the west freeway and drove with no particular destination in mind. In fact, his mind was empty except for thoughts of Rennie Newton. Surgeon. Equestrian. Lolita. Killer.

His panic attack might have been precipitated by hearing that, at sixteen, she'd been involved with a married man. Her father's business partner no less, probably much older than she. She had been a teenage home wrecker. That jived with Crystal's description of a teenage h.e.l.l-raiser. A girl who would drive around town bare-breasted would also sleep with her father's partner, destroy his marriage, and probably laugh about it later. Dalton's moral majority would be outraged by such behavior. Throw into the mix the fatal shooting of her father's business partner and it was little wonder that her parents had said good riddance when they sent her to boarding school. But all that was incongruous with the woman Wick knew. Granted, he'd been in her company all of two times, but from what he had observed, he believed he had a fair grasp on her character. Far from a party girl, she had the social life of a monk. Rather than flaunting her s.e.xuality, she shrank from being touched, going so far as to say "Don't" when he would have touched her cheek. Now, was this the behavior of a femme fatale? He couldn't reconcile the two Rennie Newtons and it was making him nuts, and for reasons that had nothing to do with the Lozada connection and Howell's murder. His objectivity had flown, and Oren knew it. That's why Oren was monitoring his activities, tracking him like a d.a.m.n bloodhound. But he couldn't really be angry at Oren. Okay, he was p.i.s.sed that he'd hit him so hard, and he was dead wrong about Rennie. But Oren was doing his job. He had recruited Wick to help him do it, and instead he had added a complication. Suddenly he realized that his driving hadn't been as aimless as he had thought. He was on the street where he had grown up. He guessed his subconscious had directed him here. Maybe he needed to touch home base, get grounded again. He pulled the pickup to a stop at the curb in front of his family's house. He had sold it after Joe was killed. It would have seemed like a sacrilege to live there without Joe. He didn't know if the couple who'd bought it from him still lived here or if it had exchanged hands since then, but the pres ent owners were good trustees. Even in the dark he could tell the place was well kept. The Saint Augustine was clipped and neatly edged, the shrubbery pruned. The shutters had been painted a different color, but he thought his mother would approve it.

Her rose bed on the east side still flourished. He could hear his father saying "You boys should be ashamed of yourselves." 'Yes, sir." "Yes, sir." "Your mother prides herself on those roses, you know." "It was an accident," Wick mumbled. "But she had asked you not to play ball near her rose bed, hadn't she?" Wick had been going out for a pa.s.s thrown by his older brother. The football had landed in the rosebushes--and so had Wick. By the time he had thrashed around to extricate himself, he'd broken off the branches of several plants at ground level. His mother had cried when she saw the irreparable damage. When their father got home from work, he had laid into them. "From now on, play football on that vacant lot down the street." "There're fire ants on that lot, Dad," Wick had said. "Will you just shut up," Joe hissed. "Don't tell me to shut up. You're not my boss. You're no Joe Namath either. If you'd hadn't thrown the d.a.m.n ball--" "Wick!" When their dad used that tone of voice he and Joe knew it was wise not to say anything more. "This weekend the two of you will clean out the garage and sc.r.a.pe out the gutters. No friends can come over, and you can't go any where. And if I hear any complaining, quarreling, or cussing," he said, looking directly at Wick, "you'll have it even worse next weekend." Wick smiled at the memory. Even then Joe had shown self-restraint and had known when to keep his mouth shut, lessons Wick had yet to learn. Many memories had been made inside that house. His mom had made major events of holidays and birthdays. A variety of cats and dogs, two hamsters, and one injured mockingbird had been their beloved pets. He'd fallen from the pecan tree in the backyard and broken his arm, and his mom had cried and said it could've been his neck. The day Joe got his first car, he had let Wick sit in the driver's seat while he pointed out its features. Parties had been held for each of their school commencements and then again when they graduated from the police academy. Their parents had been proud of them. Wick figured his dad had bored his Bell Helicopter co-workers with stories of his boys the policemen. There were some sad memories too. Like the day his parents had told them about his father's cancer. By then he and Joe were living separately in apartments, but they came home frequently for family get-togethers. They had been gathered around the kitchen table, eating chocolate cake and regaling Mom and Dad with cop stories, which they always edited so as not to cause them too much worry, when their father had turned serious. His mother had become so upset she had had to leave the room, Wick recalled. Two years into her widowhood, a teenage driver ran a stop sign and hit her broadside. The EMTs said she had died instantly. At the time Wick had railed at the injustice of losing both parents so close together. Later, he was glad his mother hadn't lived to see her firstborn slain. She had thought the sun rose and set in Joe. If that car accident hadn't killed her, having to bury him would have, and it would have been much more painful. His darkest memory was of the night Joe had been taken from him. After their mother's death, they had moved back into the house together. That night he had been entertaining a group of friends. It was a boozy, noisy crowd, and he had barely heard the doorbell above the blaring music. He was surprised to see Oren and Grace standing on his threshold. "Hey, who called the fuzz? Is the music too loud?" He remembered raising his hands in surrender. "We promise to be nice, Officer, just don't haul us off to the poky." But Oren didn't smile, and Grace's eyes were wet. A slam-dunk of realization, then "Where's Joe?" He had known before asking. Wick sighed, gave the house another poignant look, then let his foot off the brake and drove slowly away. "Enough of Memory Lane for one night, Wick ol' boy." The city slept. There were few other vehicles on the streets. He wheeled into the motel parking lot, got out, locked his pickup, trudged to his door, and let himself in. The room smelled musty. Too many cigarettes, too many occupants, too many carry-out meals. Disinfectant couldn't penetrate the layers of odors. He turned on the air conditioner full blast to circulate the stale air. The bed, sad and sagging as it was, looked inviting, but he needed a shower first. Even at this hour of the morning the hot water ran out before he could work up a sufficient lather, but he didn't rush. He let the cold water stream over his face and head for a long time, washing away the aftereffects of the panic attack. Besides, he was beginning to like cold showers, and just as well. It seemed that he and ample hot water were never going to be roommates.

The moment he switched off the faucets, he heard the noise in the bedroom. "G.o.ddammit," he muttered. That maid must have radar. But this was ridiculous. It was . . .

He checked his wrist.w.a.tch. Four-twenty-three. The manager was going to hear about this.

Angrily he s.n.a.t.c.hed a towel off the bar and wrapped it around his waist, then yanked open the door and barged through.

She was lying on his bed, faceup. The silver letters on her T-shirt glittered in the glare of the nightstand lamp. It also reflected in her open eyes and shone garishly on the two neat holes in her forehead.

He sensed movement behind him but didn't have time to react before an iron forearm was clamped down on his Adam's apple. He was punched hard in the back just above his waist. It caused his ears to ring and the room to tilt.

'You can blame yourself for her, Threadgill. Think about that as you die."

The punch started hurting like h.e.l.l, but it jump-started his conditioned reflexes. He tried to throw off the arm across his throat. At the same time he jabbed his elbow backward. It connected with ribs, but not with any significant thrust. He repeated the movements and aimed for his a.s.sailant's kneecap with his heel. Or thought he did. He wanted to. He tried, wasn't sure he did.

Jesus, he hadn't realized he was so out of shape. Or had the panic attack been worse than he thought? It had left him as weak as a newborn kitten.

"Mr. Threadgill?"

His name echoed out of a hollow distance. It was followed by repeated knocking.

"f.u.c.k!"

The arm across his neck let go. When it did, his knees buckled and he went down, landing hard on the smelly carpet. Pain rocketed through his skull. Jesus Christ that hurt!

Oblivion rolled in like a dense fog. He saw it coming, welcomed it.

Rennie rushed from the doctors' parking lot into the emergency room.

"Number Three, Dr. Newton."

She tossed her shoulder bag to the desk attendant.

"Watch this for me, please." She ran down the corridor.

There was a lot of activity in Room Three, numerous personnel, all busy. A nurse was standing ready with a paper gown for her. She pushed her arms through the sleeves

and pulled on a pair of latex gloves. As she adjusted a pair of clear goggles to cover her eyes, she said, "Tell me."

The ER resident said, "Forty-one-year-old male, stab wound in the back, lower right side. Object still buried to the hilt."

"Kidney?"

"Almost certain."

"Pressure's down to eighty," a nurse said.

Other nurses and an intern called out other vital information.

The patient had been intubated. He was being transfused with O-negative blood and was getting Ringer lactate solution through an IV. He'd been rolled onto his side so she could inspect the wound. The handle of what looked like a screwdriver extended from it.

"His abdomen's swelling. He's got a bellyful of blood."

She looked for herself and determined there was no need to do a peritoneal lavage or CAT scan. The patient was bleeding out internally.

"Pressure's dropping, Doctor."

Rennie a.s.similated the barrage of information within thirty seconds of her arrival. A nurse hung up a wall phone and shouted above the confusion, "OR is ready."

Rennie said, "Let's go."

As she turned away she happened to glance at the patient's face. Her wordless cry momentarily halted everyone surrounding the gurney.

"Dr. Newton?"

"You okay?"

She nodding, saying gruffly, "Let's move." But n.o.body did. "Stat!" That galvanized them. The gurney was wheeled into the corridor. She ran alongside. The elevator was being held open for them. They had almost reached it when someone shouted her name.

"Wait up!"

She stopped, turned. Detective Wesley was running toward her.

"Not now, Detective. I've got an emergency on my hands."

"You're not operating on Wick."

"Like h.e.l.l I'm not."

"Not you."

"This is what I do."