Haunting Refrain (15 page)

Checking to be sure the emergency team held Kate's attention, John answered, keeping his voice low, “It's possible there's a connection to a story I'm working on. Check it carefully, will you?” He didn't want to get into any lengthy explanations, and he didn't want to scare Kate unnecessarily.

The fireman frowned, squinting into the darkness above the cage,
then
looked over at Kate, who was still in the chair where John left her. “Does that mean you think this might not have been an accident?”

“Maybe.
It was only a thought.” He too looked at Kate. Her eyes looked like burnt holes in a sheet. He ought to get her out of here. “But I wouldn't want to take any chances, just in case.”

“I'll be sure they check,” the fireman promised.

The paramedics wanted to take Kate to the hospital to check her out and to X-ray her ankles, but she flatly refused, insisting she was fine. Shrugging, they advised her to stay off her feet, watch her ankles. As they picked up their gear, the younger one turned to John. “Keep an eye on her. She's a little
shocky
.”

“Let's get out of here.” He scooped Kate up in his arms and carried her down the hall to the front elevator, the one the Principal Players used. He could feel her tensing up as she realized where they were going.

“Wait! I can walk. Let's use the steps.” She tried to wriggle out of his arms.

He tightened his hold and said, “
Dammit
, Kate, you ought to go on a diet.”

“A diet?”
She stilled, and her voice rose over the two words.

“Right.
You weigh a ton!” He huffed as he punched the elevator button with his elbow, turning Kate away from the door. He squeezed her slightly. “A little pudgy, aren't you?”

“I am not pudgy! Put me down, you pig.”

To the women of his acquaintance, an extra ounce was anathema, and the word 'pudgy' had the power to start a fistfight. As he had hoped, his remarks distracted her long enough to overcome her immediate trepidation. The smooth hydraulic lift arrived quietly behind her.

He stepped into the elevator with her. When she realized where they were, she tightened her arms around his neck and buried her face against his collar.

“John,” she whispered. “I don't want to do this.”

“Hang on, honey. This one's perfectly all right, I promise you.” He pressed his cheek to the top of her head, then grinned and shook his head slightly. She smelled like chemicals again.

Before the elevator stopped they could hear
Venice
. “What do you mean, the elevator fell? Where's Kate? Is she hurt?”

Two of the firemen, trying to get past her, were pointing to the elevator when the doors opened.

Kate sighed gratefully when John stepped out onto the solid floor. “Here I am,
Venice
. I'm fine.”

“Oh, Kate!
I was so afraid!” The old woman, tears running down her cheeks, threw her arms around both of them. “I knew something was wrong. I've been trying to call you for hours.”

John managed to get Kate, with
Venice
clinging to them, to the nearest bench. “If we don't sit down, I'm going to drop you. The two of you are a bit much.”

Despite his good-natured grumbling, he neatly sidestepped
Venice
and placed Kate gently on the seat in the lobby. “Are you sure you don't want to go to the emergency room and let them check you?”

“She doesn't have insurance, and she can't afford it,”
Venice
told him.

“
Venice
!”
Kate admonished, embarrassed.
“If I thought I needed to, I'd go. What I need is to get out of here.”

“How about some
Kentucky
Fried Chicken?
I'll take you home, and we can pick it up on the way.
Venice
, why don't you come, too.
Maybe you could stay with Kate this afternoon. She's not supposed to be on her feet. Later I'll get someone to take her car back to her house.”

“Fine,” Kate said. “Thank you.”

Venice
nodded, taking Kate's bag.

“Okay, here we go again.” He picked her up once more and took the stairs to the basement, while
Venice
followed.

“Kate, didn't you hear your phone ringing? I have felt all morning that you were in danger, and I called several times. You
said
you would call me.”

“I heard it, but I was in the darkroom. A message would have been nice. What, exactly did you see?”

“Malice.
A threat.
I woke up to a feeling of danger. Tell me what happened. Whatever it was, it wasn’t an accident.”

* * *

When they reached Kate’s house, John carried her to the front door. “What the hell is this?”

They all stared at the scarlet letters sprayed across her door: HARLOT.

“That must be what the prophet was doing here. He had a spray can with him. I didn’t notice the door then, but you’d think someone would have seen it. I wonder if he’s been back here.” Kate glanced around, as if expecting him to leap out of the bushes.

“What prophet?
That crazy preacher?”
John asked. He remembered the man’s telephone call after Kate’s name appeared in his article. Had mentioning her name really caused all this?

“He was here when I got home yesterday, but I went in the back. This is the first time I’ve seen the front door.” Tears rolled down her cheeks.

Venice
glared at John. “You did this, young man. I hope you realize what danger you’ve put her in.”

“It’s no one’s fault. It would probably have come out one way or another,” Kate said, wiping her tears away. “Sorry, it just overwhelmed me for a minute.”

“You may be right,
Venice
. I’ll find out more about the prophet.” John quietly accepted blame and didn’t remind
Venice
of her role as catalyst. He was much more concerned about the danger to Kate.

“Hello?” Kate mumbled into the phone, her eyes still closed.

“What the hell are you up to now?”

The voice in her ear registered immediately, jerking her fully awake. She sat up. “J. B.? Is that you?”

“Of course it's me! And how did you get involved in a murder? You're no damned psychic.”

“I'm not involved. And how did you know?” she asked, shoving her hair out of her face as she kicked off the covers.

“The Sunday
Times Herald
, Kate.
The front page.
John Gerrard, that's how. He called yesterday to ask some stupid questions, like did I have anything to say about your involvement in that coed's murder. He even asked if I had ever met her! Now I'm involved, just because I was married to you.”

“Oh no!
J. B., I'm really sorry.” Kate reached for the clothes she had dropped on the floor last night, pulling them on as she talked. “I didn't know he'd use your name. I hoped he wouldn't use mine again.”

“I tried to get you last night, but you didn't answer.” His rhythmic footsteps echoed through the line as he paced the length of the phone cord. “Why the hell did you tell him about me? I’ve warned you about the press before. Is this some sort of revenge?”

“Of course not!
And I didn't tell him about you. Well, not exactly. We were just talking. He wasn't supposed to use it.” Temper shot through her like an electrical spike.
You're dead, Gerrard.

“Kate, why are you even talking to him? Do you know who he is?”

“What do you mean, who he is?”

“
Gerrard's
the reporter who broke the statehouse scandal last year. And before that the padded contracts for county roads. He wins prizes. He's a crusader.” J. B. was livid now; she knew that crisp, controlled tone.

He continued, “Once he gets his teeth in something, he never lets go. You stay away from him, and keep my name out of whatever it is you're doing. You're going to ruin me yet.”

“I'm
sorry,
J. B. Things have just, just gotten out of control.”

“You're out of control, Kate. You have been for the last year.” He hung up.

She fell back on the bed, thoroughly dejected. Nothing she did with J. B. was ever right. Her mother would probably call next, all because she had mentioned J.
B.'s
name in a private conversation. Damn reporters! She’d spent eight years under their watchful eye, and she didn’t deserve their attention now. Her anger surged again. She snapped upright on the bed and snatched the telephone directory out from under a stack of books, knocking them over. Fanning the pages to G, she found John's number and punched it into the phone.

On the third ring, the mechanical sound of his answering machine kicked in. She could hardly hold back her words through his brief message. Her temperature reached flashpoint. The tone was still sounding when she started.
“You bastard!
What are you trying to do to me? Don't you ever use my name again, and don't come near me.”

She slammed the receiver down, hoping that somehow the sound would be recorded and hurt his ears when he got the message.

The throbbing in her temples increased as she told herself John hadn’t done anything special yesterday, didn’t deserve her gratitude. After spending most of the afternoon propped up on a pile of pillows on her friend Gwen Gordon's couch, she had come in late last night. Gwen had wanted her to spend the night, but Kate wanted to be in her own bed. Aspirin had eased the ache in her ankles and sent her into a deep sleep. At least until the phone rang. She hadn't lost her temper like this in years—probably not since she had met J. B.
 
He had a way of squelching her “tantrums,” leaving her feeling embarrassed and immature.

She hobbled down the stairs. Perhaps after coffee she would go get a paper. Maybe that would clear her head. She stopped at the answering machine in the kitchen and, smiling nastily, turned it on. She would disappear for the day. Then she wouldn't have to deal with John or her mother, whom J. B. would surely call.

J. B. and her mother had long ago formed a conspiracy to keep Kate in line. Her mother saw him as an ideal mate for her difficult daughter.
 
Kate had met J. B. at a political debate when she was in college, the year after her father died. J. B. was twelve years older than she, a handsome attorney with political ambitions. Her mother thought his conservative outlook and traditional lifestyle would curb Kate's “Bohemian” impulses, his calm and reasonable manner would overcome her quick temper.

Kate had spent eight years trying to please the pair of them. She had juggled the demands of a job she hated in J.
B.'s
family business with his heavy social schedule. She must always be at his side, supportive, loving, and above all, inoffensive, and let’s not forget ready to entertain at the drop of vote.
Naughty, naughty, Kate.
Sarcasm is such a petty weapon.

At a dinner party one night,
Venice
, recently returned from
Europe
, had waltzed in. She had known Kate's father and years before had met Kate, whom she described as an undisciplined teenager with a camera hanging around her neck. “You've let your mother and that prancing goat you call a husband leach all the life out of you,” Venice told her after they had run into each other a few times.