Flyin' Solo, page 19
Any news about Charlie?
Nothing.
I never intended anything like this.
I wanted to believe that.
I know.
And then I had to ask.
What did you intend?
Nothing. I waited.
Looking for that sunset.
FIFTY-NINE
I went to work on Thursday, but I didn’t get much done. Lee, Martha and Anna all covered for me. They screened my calls and only passed on ones they thought I had to handle immediately.
The Tennessean was reporting that Marcella had apparently died from natural causes. Al Evanston confirmed that she had indeed been on hypoglycemic medication for years. He had been her personal physician from the days before HealthwaRx when Marcella had managed his practice. The medical examiner confirmed that the results of his examination were consistent with diabetic shock. Evanston’s statement went on to deplore the ‘recent events that had caused stress for Marcella, for all of us. I hold the person responsible for those events,’ he said, ‘responsible for Marcella’s death as well. She didn’t deserve this. And we’re all going to miss her.’
Mark came by at lunchtime. We walked across the street and had sandwiches while he went over the plan again.
‘The main thing,’ he insisted, ‘is for you to be safe. Stay out of sight. Don’t take any chances.’
I nodded.
‘Look,’ he said. ‘You don’t have to go. We can have somebody follow him, check a license plate. We’ll figure out who he is. It may just take a while.’
‘No. I’m going. I may recognize him. I’m going to be there.’
Mark looked glum. ‘I figured you’d say that.’
He made sure I understood the details. He walked back across the street with me and left me at the office door. ‘Just be careful.’
‘Of course.’
Still no word from Sam. I was glad. I knew I should have told him about the photos already, but I didn’t want to say anything until after tonight’s meeting.
SIXTY
Sandy knew something was up. He was waiting for me when I got home, sitting there, watching the front door.
‘Hungry?’ I asked. He didn’t answer. I went to the kitchen and put out fresh food and water. ‘How’s that?’ He had followed me to the kitchen, but he ignored his dinner. ‘What?’
Sandy just drummed the wooden floor with his tail.
‘I’ll be careful. What can go wrong? I’m not going to meet the guy. I’m not even going to talk to him. I’m just going to watch. From afar.’
Sandy turned and walked out of the room.
It might not be a bad idea to have some police backup. I could call Sam, maybe ask him to meet me downtown. I picked up the phone and started to dial his number. Unless I told him why, though, he probably wouldn’t come. He certainly didn’t seem to want to see me these days.
I hung up and went to my room to change clothes. Jeans, I decided, a white T-shirt, a faded denim shirt open over it. Nashville camouflage. Nothing to draw attention. Twisted my hair up in a clasp. I didn’t want to be noticed tonight.
I was at the door and about to leave when I remembered that I still hadn’t said anything to Sam, to the police, about the photos. I really should do that before handing them over to the press. I went to my computer, pulled up sent emails and copied the one I had sent to Doug. I addressed it to Sam, started to send it, then decided to add a little more insurance. I told Sam the name of the file in my computer where I had saved the photos, where I was hiding the CD and the name of the reporter I was going to hand the photos over to. I started to add something personal, but what? I didn’t have time to think of the right thing to say. He probably wouldn’t check his email before tomorrow anyway. By then I would have called to give him the identity of his murderer. I hit send.
SIXTY-ONE
Even on a Thursday night, Second Avenue was packed. It looked like there was a concert at the Arena. Finding a parking place was not going to be easy. I drove up Second, dodging the crowds crossing back and forth across the street, spilling off the sidewalks. I couldn’t circle too many times looking for a spot; there’s a cruising law now for downtown. You can be ticketed if you pass the same spot more than twice. I saw a car pulling out of a lot two blocks north of the Wildhorse. I whipped in and took the space it had left at the back of the lot.
The lot stretched between Second and First with Fort Nashborough and the Cumberland River beyond. It wouldn’t be parking space for long. Sooner or later, a developer would erect a high rent building here. First Avenue ran between the Cumberland River and the back doors of the Second Avenue buildings, the ones that are still there after the Christmas Day bombing. Down where Broadway dead-ended at the river, the city had developed Riverfront Park in the narrow strip between the street and the water. Concrete terraces stepped up from the bank to make seating for summer concerts. North of the park was Fort Nashborough, a replica of the first settlement here, a wooden stockade where docents demonstrated pioneer survival skills for school children and tourists.
Tonight, though, there was just darkness beyond the parking lot. Parking alone downtown was not something I would normally do, and I never liked parking my Spider in out-of-the-way spaces. I locked the door, slipped the shoulder strap of my bag over my head and tried to blend in with the crowd on the street and look like I was walking purposefully back down the street toward the Wildhorse.
I paid the cover charge and headed upstairs. I decided the second level was high enough. I found a table where I could see the entrance and ordered club soda and an appetizer, fried zucchini strips. I ordered for cover, but I realized I was hungry. I went through it pretty fast and asked for a second one for cover.
I was there a full hour early, careful not to risk arriving at the same time as Mark’s reporter friend or his contact. Matte Gray’s band was onstage. It was going to be a long hour, but at least there would be good music.
‘Hey, lady, you alone?’
I jumped. Oh, great. Now some guy tries to pick me up. I looked up. Mark. ‘Hi.’
‘Hey.’ He grinned. ‘You undercover?’
‘Apparently not far enough under.’
‘See the third table from the front, just under the balcony on the other side?’
I looked and saw a man sitting there alone. ‘Yep.’
Mark nodded. ‘That’s the reporter, Tom. You ready to hand over the photos?’
‘Yeah, but I want to know who the guy is. If he doesn’t show or something goes wrong, you all still have to help me find out.’
‘Deal.’
‘OK.’ I pulled the pictures out of my purse and handed them to Mark.
‘Thanks. I’d stay with you, but I’ve got to get these over to the paper. They’re holding space.’
‘Tonight?’
He looked sheepish.
‘It’s going to be in tomorrow’s paper?’
He nodded.
Sam wasn’t going to like that. And it wasn’t going to make him much happier when he opened his email and saw that I’d sent the information to him too late for him to know before the press. I decided I’d call him when I left here. With any luck, that would be less than an hour from now.
I shrugged.
‘See you,’ Mark said. ‘Be careful.’
I nodded.
SIXTY-TWO
I remember when we were eighteen
Everything was out there and waiting
On the top of our world, our very small world
We’d found everything that mattered
You and me, when we were eighteen
Stick Anderson
I watched Mark leave, saw him appear downstairs and walk out the door. I moved so I was in the shadows but could still see the table where the reporter sat.
I waited, growing numb from the noise. Eight o’clock came and went. The reporter sat patiently. A waitress stopped at my table. ‘You need another one?’
I looked up. ‘No, thanks. I’m OK.’ I hoped I wouldn’t be here long enough for another.
I looked back, and saw a man approaching the table. He circled the table to sit down, and my mouth fell open. Al Evanston! Fly’s partner! What had Fly said? We used to be best friends, but things change? Marcella had said Erika was pressuring Al and George for money that wasn’t there. But Marcella was dead now, so she couldn’t confirm that. And where had the money gone? There was no sense of money missing until after Fly was missing. Had Fly really taken it without anyone suspecting, or had Al taken advantage of Fly’s disappearance to embezzle cash and blame it on Fly? Should I call Sam now?
The reporter pulled the color copies out of his jacket and showed them to Evanston. Evanston sat back, looked shocked. Afraid? Afraid that Fly was the one person who could incriminate him? Now that he’d killed Erika and Marcella was dead, too. And Al Evanston was the one who knew all about Marcella’s history of diabetes. Al Evanston had been her physician, had known what medication she was on – and how much.
Enough. I hit Sam’s number on my cell phone speed dial.
‘Sam, this is Campbell.’ This wasn’t going to be easy.
‘Where are you?’
I could barely hear him. The band was taking a break, but I knew he could hear the noise of the club. ‘I’m at the Wildhorse. Al Evanston killed Erika.’
‘How do you know?’ His voice was level, polite.
‘It’s a long story. I sent you an email that explains part of it. Fly Young is alive.’
‘Yeah?’ He didn’t sound entirely shocked, but I went on.
‘I took a picture of him in Freeport, but I didn’t know it until now, well, until a couple of days ago, and I knew whoever talked to the Tennessean and tried to implicate me had to be the one who killed her. Nobody else had a reason to.’ I took a breath. ‘So I set him up.’
‘You wha—’
‘I traded the photographs of Fly to the reporter in exchange for finding out who he was. They’re meeting right now downstairs. I’m looking at them right now.’
‘Don’t move. Stay right where you are. I’m on my way.’
‘No. I’m fine. He can’t see me. He has no reason to suspect anything. I’ll just wait until they leave and go home.’
‘Campbell! Wait there. I’m sending an officer in to take you home.’
‘No. I’m fine! I just wanted you to know what’s going on. Don’t worry about me. Pick up Al Evanston.’
While I was speaking, Al and the reporter stood. The reporter laid a bill on the table, and the two left.
‘Campbell, don’t be stupid.’
‘I’ve got to go now. Call me after you’ve looked at the email, OK?’ I disconnected.
I tried to get the waitress’s attention. She didn’t look my way, so I left enough cash for the check and tip and made my way downstairs. I wasn’t hurrying. I wanted to make sure I didn’t run into Al. I looked around, making sure he wasn’t in sight. I hesitated again before going out the door, then walked fast. The street was still crowded, so I didn’t feel threatened. Until I got to the parking lot. It was dark, and the space I’d found was at the back of the lot, too far from the walking crowds. I walked straighter, faster.
I was steps from my car when I heard him. Before it registered and my brain could send a message to my body to react, he had me. He’d grabbed both arms and pinned me suddenly. Had Al Evanston seen me after all, or was this a random mugging? I twisted to look and saw George Madison!
He wrapped one arm tightly around me and with his other hand stuffed something in my mouth, jamming it deep into my throat. I choked and gagged.
I had my keys in my hand just like you’re supposed to. If I had a new car instead of my ’65 Alfa Spider, I could hit a panic button on the key fob, make noise.
‘It’s too bad, really, another young woman, drinking too much, out alone on a dangerous city street. A sad statistic. We’ll just step over here, across the street to the river. We’ll look like a couple, a little romantic, a little drunk. No one will notice.’
I couldn’t argue with him, couldn’t try to be logical. I couldn’t speak. I tried to kick. I tried to scream, but only grunts came out, and that choked me more. He was pushing me past my car into the street. My phone rang. It rang until the voicemail kicked in, then started again. Probably Sam. I should have taken him up on the escort. I kept trying to kick Madison, but I wasn’t connecting much, and that kept me more off balance. He kept pushing me across the street toward the riverbank. Where were all the homeless who were supposed to hang out around here? Why could you never find a homeless person when you needed one?
I heard sirens behind me on Second. Did they have anything to do with me? If you get me out of this, God, I will never, ever come downtown alone at night.
‘It’s a shame, really,’ Madison was saying. ‘You’re the best travel agent we’ve had.’
Once he got me across the street and down the bank, no one would see me. There’d be nothing to keep Madison from dumping me in the river. It was getting harder to breathe now, harder to think. My phone kept ringing intermittently.
‘So many sad events.’ He was struggling, trying to hold on to me. ‘First Charlie. It’s just not a safe world anymore. Erika and poor Marcella. Never careful enough about her medicine, her diet.’ He laughed. ‘Lucky thing Young wandered into that storm. He was beginning to be a bother. If he’d just stuck to his little computer programs, we’d all be fine.’
I suddenly remembered the last time I’d been with my toddler nephew. It was time to leave the playground, and he didn’t want to go. He had gone limp, just dropped, a dead weight, and I couldn’t move this three-year-old. I was at the far side of First Avenue now, and it was my last chance. I dropped, going as limp as I could.
It almost worked. It did throw him off balance for a second. There were more sirens now. I could see blue lights flashing off cars and buildings a block away on Second. Madison was already grunting and out of breath from pushing and dragging me. When he realized what I was doing, he cursed, freed one hand and hit me. His fist hit the side of my head, and I saw light. Seeing stars, that’s what they meant. You really do see stars. It made me feel dizzy. And he was still moving me toward the riverbank.
Sam, Sam, where are you? You always show up to rescue me, but I’m running out of time. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Madison’s hand coming toward me again as he bent over me, and this time he held a brick.
This time the light was brighter; the pain was blinding, and everything went black. I heard a splash before I felt the water, breathed in the dirty Cumberland water, and that was all.
SIXTY-THREE
Do you remember …
The stars in the sky …
Our dreams for tomorrow …
A faith in forever …
The night’s last goodbye …
Do you remember?
Stick Anderson
The next thing I knew – and I remember being immediately and profoundly grateful there was a next thing – I was coughing, choking and throwing up all over a white-shirted paramedic. Oh, man. This was happening way too often.
Lights were flashing, blue, red, yellow, white; sirens were blasting, and my head was killing me. And I felt my eyes go wide in panic. Fire engines?
‘Ma’am, you’re OK. We’re going to give you a little oxygen. You’re OK.’ He was putting a brace around my neck. I realized I was on a back board. Another hand was attaching EKG stickers.
Another EMS was tucking a blanket around me. I was shivering.
‘Can I talk to her yet?’ I couldn’t see a face behind the voice. The lights around me and in my head were blinding me.
‘Give her a minute. You catch the guy?’
I felt a sudden sharp pain on the back of my hand and looked to find an IV tube extending from it.
‘Not yet.’
‘Madison.’ I choked it out.
‘What?’ The paramedic and a uniformed police officer leaned close.
I put a lot of effort into speaking. It came out barely understandable. ‘George Madison.’
The policeman stepped away, spoke into the microphone clipped to his uniform, then returned.
‘This the woman who was in the paper last week?’ the paramedic asked.
I didn’t hear an answer.
‘You make her for the Young woman’s killer? My wife did that Balance thing. She was ready to string her up.’
Great. Just what you want to hear from the paramedic who holds your life in his hands.
The other voice answered. ‘Doubt it. We think that’s why she ended up in the river.’
The voice with the blanket was softer, a woman. ‘OK, now, we’re going to get you in the ambulance.’
Nausea swept through me with the motion.
‘Let me look in your eyes, hon.’ Another light. In one eye, then the other. ‘It may not just be the water. She may have a concussion.’
I closed my eyes. And that made me feel sick, too.
SIXTY-FOUR
I don’t want to think about the rest of that night. They put me in an ambulance, and the noise just got worse. It’s not far from Second Avenue to St Thomas Hospital Midtown: eighteen, nineteen blocks to the emergency entrance. But between the noise and the pain in my head, the trip seemed to take forever. It felt so safe to be there in the emergency room, being wheeled in the automatic doors to welcoming, smiling nurses. It felt almost like coming home.
‘OK, honey, let’s just get your vitals here. Then we’ll get you out of those wet clothes. We’ve got this nice, dry hospital gown. Designer label, it’s got St Thomas Hospital stamped on it.’ She laughed. I tried to smile.
I had tried to call MaryNell on my cell phone on the way, but I couldn’t seem to remember her number. Or how to use the phone. Somebody else must have called her, though. I’d lost all sense of time, but at some point she was there. Shaking her head and working really hard at holding the lecture in, saving it for later. A uniformed police officer was visible just outside every time the door opened. And it opened a lot: nurses, aides, checking, peering, patting and reassuring. A doctor came in, asked me a few questions, shone his tiny light into my eyes, asked about the pain.
