Catch a Shadow (10 page)

So he hadn't left Atlanta last night. And how had he been so handy?

It didn't matter. She was alive because of him.

A car had screeched to a stop not far from her and a woman ran over to them. “I'm sorry … I'm so sorry. I didn't see you until it was too late. Just suddenly …” She burst into tears.

“It's okay,” Kirke said to the woman. “Someone pushed me …” Her voice trembled. She hated that.

“I called the police and an ambulance,” a bystander said.

“I saw it all,” another said. “I can describe the attacker.”

But Kirke's gaze returned to David Cable and the blood running down his shirt, the same one he'd worn yesterday. “You … you've been hurt,” she said.

He moved closer, knelt beside her. “Never mind me,” he said. “What about you?” His hands ran over her with an expertise that told her he'd had medical training. His fingers barely brushed her injured cheek with a gentleness she hadn't expected.

Her heart pounded harder, and she felt a funny jolt deep inside her stomach. Pain seeped away for the moment.

She struggled to keep that knowledge to herself. “I'm battered but alive, thanks to you.”

“Next time don't hold on to the purse,” he said curtly.

“I've had self-defense training,” she protested.

“And what's the first thing they teach you? I think it's surrendering whatever an assailant wants?”

She knew that, but everything happened so quickly, she'd just reacted. She decided to change the subject. “Are you really okay?”

“Yeah,” he said.

She heard the sound of a siren.

He obviously did, too. He touched her check again and wiped away blood with his fingers. There was an odd tenderness about it, especially after his curt comment about her purse. Then he stood.

He glanced at his watch. “I have to go. I missed the plane last night … can't miss another.”

She tried to stand, but she was too dizzy. Her head hurt. “You should wait—”

“I'm okay. Just a superficial cut, but you've had a blow to your head. Stay where you are. Wait for the ambulance.”

And then he was gone.

She wanted to go after him, but when she tried to stand, her legs buckled under her, and her head felt as if someone was beating it with a stick.

“Maybe you shouldn't try to get up,” one of the bystanders said. It was the person who'd called 911.

He was right—she shouldn't. Kirke knew that better than anyone. You didn't play around with a head injury. Anger filled her … anger and humiliation. Sitting there bleeding with a number of people gathered around, she better understood now how some of her patients must feel. The public display of helplessness, of being a victim, was mortifying.

“You're going to have one heck of a shiner,” another person said helpfully.

She touched her face and felt the cut. Probably a ring from her assailant's finger.

Then a man pushed aside the others and handed her a purse. “I followed the guy,” he said simply. “He threw it down. Probably didn't want to be caught with it.”

“Thanks,” Kirke said.

“Better check it,” he persisted.

She did as he suggested. Cell phone gone. Wallet gone. Lipstick and other stuff still there. Her driver's license, thank God, was still in a special zip pocket in the front. After losing a wallet prior to taking the self-defense course, she now kept her license separate in her purse.

She didn't worry about the money, but the cell phone was her constant companion.

“My cell …”

She stopped. Better her cell phone than her life. She'd come so close …

Before she could say anything else, she heard the familiar wail of an ambulance and turned toward the street as it pulled up in front of her.

She recognized the paramedic who jumped out and ran to her. A police car roared up seconds later.

“It's nothing, Tommy,” she said to the paramedic, echoing the words of David Cable moments earlier.

Tommy sighed. Paramedics were notoriously bad patients. “You know the drill, Kirke. I have to take vitals and put patches on those cuts.”

Kirke waited impatiently until he finished.

“Everything looks all right 'cept for that shiner and those cuts. You'll probably need some stitches and probably should have a doctor look at that head injury.

“Stitches?”

“Shouldn't leave a scar,” he assured her.

“I really should talk to the police first.”

“At the hospital,” he said.

“They're here now.”

“Make it short,” Tom grumbled.

She talked to the two officers. She knew one of them. Pat Harris. She described the purse snatcher, adding her description to that of the witnesses who remained.

“And this guy who rescued you?” Pat asked.

She hesitated. He hadn't wanted to stay, and she didn't think it was because of a plane. He obviously didn't want to be there when the police arrived. He'd just saved her life. She owed him the benefit of the doubt.

She shrugged. “I can't tell you anything. He left almost immediately.”

“If you hear from him, call us. He might have seen something.”

“I don't suppose I can expect an arrest anytime soon,” she said dryly.

“Now that's cynical,” Patrolman Pat Harris said with a grin. “But probably accurate. We don't have that much to go on. Brown hair, brown eyes, medium height, Nikes. Fits half the population of Atlanta.”

“Sorry,” she said, “it was so fast that I just got a brief glimpse.”

“We'll drive around for a while, see if we can't spot someone matching the description. Think you would recognize him?”

“Probably.”

The patrolman turned to the paramedic. “She's all yours.”

She hesitated, tempted to refuse and try to make it home on her own, then realized how foolish that would be.

The headache was worsening. So was the pain in her cheek. Her clothes were stained with blood from the several cuts. She didn't have a car with her, and she wasn't sure she wanted to walk home. She also knew that she could have a slight concussion.

“Going to East Memorial?” she said.

He nodded.

If there weren't really serious cases, they would work her in. “Okay,” she said. She would ask Sam to drive her home. She started to look for her phone in her purse when she remembered it was gone. She borrowed Tom's cell instead.

Sam answered immediately.

“Hi, home yet?” she asked.

“Just got here. Saw your message. What happened yesterday?” His voice was full of worry.

“Burglar, but Merlin scared him away with his siren imitation.”

“Where are you now?”

“In front of our favorite restaurant. Someone snatched my purse and knocked me down. I have to go to the hospital for stitches. Can you meet me there and bring me home?”

“You know you need merely to ask, landlady.”

“I'll call you when I get through. I don't think it will be very late.”

She hung up and stepped into the ambulance. Tom came with her. He'd already taken her vitals, but now he put a bandage on her cheek. “Is it deep?” she asked.

“No. Just a stitch or two, but you'll have the black eye for a week.”

Just what she needed.

After they reached the hospital, Kirke waited an hour before a nurse practitioner cleaned the several wounds inflicted when she hit the pavement. Finally, a doctor looked at her. “Doesn't look like a concussion,” he told her after asking several questions, “but take it easy today. Put something cold on that eye. Contact your doctor if you feel any dizziness.” He quickly wrote out two prescriptions, one for an antibiotic and the other for pain.

She called Sam, then tested her legs. They worked. She probably had twenty minutes before Sam arrived. She went up to intensive care and talked to the nurse on duty about her former patient. “I brought him in,” she explained. “Just wondering if there's any change.”

The nurse shook her head. “No. We're still hoping his brother will change his mind and donate Mr. Cable's organs.”

“He said no?” she asked, surprised.

The nurse shook her head. “He refused, and we haven't seen him since.”

That seemed very strange to Kirke. David Cable had flown down but wasn't at his brother's bedside, had apparently refused to take any responsibility for him. Nor had he offered to help others by agreeing to organ donations. Yet he hadn't hesitated to risk his life for hers.

Almost as strange as the gentleness of his fingers when he'd explored her injuries. Nearly as baffling as the shafts of electricity that coursed through her when he was near. She'd never felt that kind of physical awareness of a man before, not even with her ex. It was maddening that she felt it now for an elusive stranger who appeared in and out of her life like a shadow.

“And no one else has been here?” Kirke asked after a moment's pause.

“There's been some queries, but we're not allowed to give out information. Probably shouldn't even be talking to you about it, but we're all frustrated.”

Sam was at the emergency room door by the time she collected her paperwork and prescriptions.

“You look like hell,” he said as they got into his car.

“Thank you very much.”

“You know what I mean. You have one hell of a shiner.”

She could have done without hearing that again. She hadn't had the heart to look in the mirror. She would see soon enough.

She always thought she would be ready for an attack. She knew the rules. Keep purse close, but let go if someone snatched it. It had just been so fast …

“Did you turn on the alarm at the house?” she asked.

The startled look on his face told her he had not.

“I'm sorry, Kirke. I was asleep when you called and just ran out. I locked both doors, though.”

She wasn't going to argue with him about it. They were both creatures of habit. But she did tell him all the details, including about the mysterious David Cable.

“There's something else,” she said. “I don't think it has anything to do with the burglary, but maybe you should know about it.”

“That sounds serious.”

“I broke some rules.”

He glanced quickly at her. “You?”

“I've been known to,” she said defensively.

He shook his head. “You suffer the agonies of hell if you're one day late on a bill.”

“You don't want the utilities turned off,” she objected.

“And you vote in every election.”

“Everyone should.”

“And you would never ever go to the fifteen-item-limit checkout counter if you have sixteen items.”

“That's only courteous.”

“And you would never, ever fudge even one cent on your taxes—”

“Enough,” she said. “You make me sound like—”

“A good citizen,” he interrupted with a mock shiver.

She had to admit a certain amount of guilt. She could be a rebel on behalf of a good cause, but the rest of the time, well, yes, she did have a tendency to toe the line. Sam was a free spirit who often forgot to pay bills, turn off lights, was late for or forgot appointments.

He was conscientious about two things: paying his rent and playing his music.

“Back to those rules,” he said. “Exactly which rule did you break?”

She could tell him. He was her best friend, more like a brother, and she trusted him. She needed to tell someone. The one thing he wouldn't do was judge her.

“One of my patients, a hit-and-run victim, gave me a letter. He asked me to give it to someone named Mitch Edwards and not tell the police.”

He slammed on the brakes as a light turned red. From his face, she suspected he would have done it even without a light.

“He didn't say why?”

“He didn't have time. He lost consciousness. He's on life support now.”

“When did you take the letter?”

“Two days ago.”

“You haven't found this Edwards?”

“No. I haven't had much chance to look, but there's some mystery about the guy who gave me the letter. He doesn't seem to have much of a past. And then his brother showed up, and he doesn't seem to have one, either.”

“Are you playing Sherlock?”

“No, I just wanted to do what he requested. He was dying. It gave him comfort.”

“Why not give it to the police now?”

Why indeed?

Her stubborn streak? “It will mean a lot of messy explanations,” she said. “I could lose my job. All I have to do is find Mitch Edwards.”

“Want my advice?” he said. “Of course not,” he answered himself. “But I think you should open it. See if it's anything important before sweating it.”

“It was obviously meant for only one person. That would be invasion of privacy.” It was what she had been telling herself over and over again, and she heard the lack of conviction in it.

“Do you think it had anything to do with the burglary?” he asked. “Or this purse snatching?”

“No,” she said honestly. “There have been several burglaries in the neighborhood. Since one of us is usually home, we've just been careless about the alarm system.” She paused. “And the cops said there's been a number of purse snatchings.”

“I'll be careful from now on,” he promised. “I'll write myself a note and paste it on the inside of the door.”

“You'll still forget,” she accused him.

He suddenly turned serious. “No, I won't.”

He swung by a drive-through pharmacy, then stopped by a grocery and purchased a small frozen steak. “Better than a cold rag,” he said. “I know.”

She smiled at that. Sam was slight, but he was tough, having grown up in a rough neighborhood. Music had saved him then, and he often said Kirke had provided him with balance, a home he'd never had before. They were an odd couple, she knew, though there had never been a spark of romance, merely a satisfying need for uncomplicated companionship.