Secrets to the Grave

20

“I heard that,” Anne said as Vince got out of bed with no announcement other than that he had to go to the hospital because their witness was awake.

Vince scowled and went into the bathroom. Anne threw the covers back, got out of bed, and followed him.

“Do you think if you just ignore me, I’ll lie down and go to sleep?” she asked.

“I don’t want you going,” he said as he turned the shower faucet on.

“Tony thinks I could be helpful—”

“I don’t care what Tony thinks.”

Anne’s temper boiled up as he basically dismissed her by getting in the shower. She pulled the door open and climbed in after him.

“Don’t you dismiss me, Vince Leone,” she snapped, blinking hard as water pellets bounced off her husband and into her face.

“Anne,” he growled, “I won’t have it.”

“And since when are you the boss of me?” she demanded to know.

“Since I’m your husband,” he said, soaping his chest and arms.

“Ha!” She held up her left hand to show him the diamond he had put on her finger not so many months ago. “This is a ring, not a collar and leash. I’m going.”

“I’m not taking you.”

“I’ll drive myself.”

“Not if I get to your car keys before you do.”

“I have a spare set hidden.”

“I don’t. I’ll take my keys and your car.”

Anne narrowed her eyes in frustration. “Why are you being such an ass?”

“I’m protecting you, damn it,” he said. “Could you cooperate, please?”

“Protecting me from what? A four-year-old child who must be scared to death?”

“She’s a witness to a murder.”

“And a victim herself,” Anne pointed out, hastily running a soapy washcloth over herself. “She’s been traumatized. She’s lost her mother. Has anyone found a relative?”

“No,” he said, turning his back to her to rinse the front of him off.

“She has no one.”

“She’ll have someone from Child Services.”

“Seriously?” she said, ducking in front of him to rinse herself off. “You think Child Services should foster out a witness to a murder?”

“Well, I sure as hell don’t think you should do it.”

“I’m only going to see if I can help the little girl through this.”

“Uh-huh,” he said, unimpressed. “Like you were just going to see if you couldn’t help Dennis Farman a little, and now you’re his fucking guardian ad litem?”

“Don’t you curse at me!” Anne said, leaning up toward him, as if she could hope to make herself big enough to intimidate him.

He leaned down over her, water dripping off his nose and mustache. “I’m going to lock you in a closet in a minute.”

Now truly angry, Anne got out of the shower, grabbed a towel and did a half-assed job of drying herself off. The hell if he was going to tell her what she could and couldn’t do. And how dare he throw Dennis Farman up in her face? She was only trying to do something good.

She could see him scowling at her via the wall-to-wall mirror over the long vanity.

“Anne,” he said, climbing out of the shower and reaching for her arm.

Anne twisted out of his reach and went to her closet to find some clothes to pull on. Underwear, a pair of acid-washed jeans, and a big, slouchy black sweater that wanted to fall off one shoulder. Good enough. She pulled on an old pair of once-white Keds and headed for the door.

“Anne,” Vince said again, stepping in front of her, still naked, water droplets glistening in his chest hair.

She looked to the left of his head and past his shoulder, waiting impatiently for him to say what he had to say, then get out of her way.

“Sweetheart,” he said, softening his tone. “You’ve been through so much in the past year. You’re still struggling with it. I don’t want you getting involved in something that’s going to add to your stress level—and mine,” he admitted.

He had a good point. He was only trying to protect her, which was very sweet and chivalrous. Still, now her pride was involved, and her feminist tendencies were offended. She wasn’t going to let Tony Mendez or Cal Dixon or anyone else think that she had to have her husband’s permission to do anything. It was 1986, for God’s sake, not 1956.

“I’m going,” she declared.

Hands jammed at his waist, Vince heaved a big sigh of absolute frustration. Muscles worked at the back of jaw as if he were trying to choke something down.

“Let me get some clothes on,” he said at last. “I’m driving.”

Mercy General was a jewel of a small hospital. One of the benefits of being located in an affluent, educated community was the generosity of its residents.

There was no shortage of bequests and contributions rolling in to fund new wings, new equipment, renovations. Mercy General had up-to-date, state-of-the-art everything and attracted top-notch staff from doctors and nurses to administrators.

Haley Fordham lay in a bed in the ICU, a unit Vince and everyone else involved in the See-No-Evil case had come to know well during the time Karly Vickers had been there. The ambient lighting was soft, the walls painted a honey amber color. The feeling was one of being cocooned in glowing warmth. The rooms were fronted by glass so all patients were visible to the staff at the central desk.

But they heard Marissa Fordham’s daughter before they saw her. As Vince and Anne stepped off the elevator, they were greeted by the piercing shriek of a terrified small child.

Anne tensed instantly. Vince felt her back go rigid beneath his hand as they headed toward the source of the screaming.

Mendez came to meet them, looking grim.

“What’s going on?” Vince asked.

“She woke up screaming and hasn’t stopped. The doctor says it could be a sign of brain damage from being asphyxiated.”

“Or she could be terrified,” Anne said, upset. “Imagine being four years old and waking up in this place, hooked to machines, surrounded by strangers. Poor little thing!”

“Yeah,” Mendez agreed. “There’s that. Thanks for coming, Anne.”

“Of course I would come,” she said, cutting Vince a look. “I’m happy to help. Can I go in the room?”

“I’ll introduce you to the doctor and Mrs. Bordain,” Mendez said, taking her gently by the elbow.

“Mrs. Bordain, Marissa Fordham’s sponsor?” Vince asked, separating his protégé from his wife.

“Yes,” Mendez said, rolling his eyes as he raised his hands clear of Anne. “Bill and I went to talk to her and tell her the news. She demanded we bring her here to see Haley. She’s the girl’s scary godmother or something. The kid woke up and started screaming, but Mrs. Bordain is the closest thing we’ve got to a relative so far.”

“She’s not exactly having a calming effect,” Vince said dryly. Milo Bordain, early- to mid-fifties, tall, blond, dressed to the nines, stood well back from the bed, horrified, one hand pressed to her chest as if to hold her heart in.

Mendez shrugged. “The woman doesn’t know what to do. Like I said: The doc thinks the screaming could be a sign of brain damage. We know the girl was strangled unconscious. Who knows how long her brain was deprived of oxygen.”

“Did you call Child Services?”

“Yeah,” Mendez said, carefully avoiding Vince’s stare. “No sign of them.”

“Maybe you should call again,” he said pointedly.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Anne muttered. She pushed past them both and went into the room.

Vince poked Mendez in the chest with a finger, pissed off. “I don’t want her involved in this.”

Mendez shrugged, feigning innocence. “Then why did you bring her?”

“I ought to kick your ass, Junior.”

“Yeah, maybe Bill will hold your walker for you while you try that, Old Man.”

“Ha-ha. You’re a laugh riot,” Vince said sarcastically. He glanced into the room to see his wife reaching out a hand to Haley Fordham. “You’re not the one holding her after the nightmares,” he said quietly.

Mendez had the grace to look contrite. “Jeez, I’m sorry. I didn’t think of that. She seems okay.”

“She’s not.”

“I’ll call Child Services.”

“You do that.”

Mendez went in search of a phone.

Vince stared into the little girl’s room, thinking it was already too late.

Anne stood close to the bed, her arms around the sobbing child clinging to her for dear life.