In A Heartbeat (35 page)

“I told her to stay here. I told her to keep the door locked. But did she listen?” His fist ground into the yeasty mass until his knuckles scraped the counter. He had called Stephen the minute he returned home and found Elizabeth’s car missing. Stephen had no answers. That bodyguard he had assigned to Angie never returned. Hank called the police and recited the litany of threats and accidents. They promised to look out for Elizabeth’s car and call him the minute they heard anything.

Pacing hadn’t helped him work out frustrations. He was afraid to go out looking for Angie in case she came back. He was about to start pounding the walls when he thought of dough instead.

Bam! Not that this mess would ever see the inside of an oven. Bam! The pot in the coffeemaker bounced on the hot plate. His fist was in mid-descent when his phone rang.

“Did you find her?”

“Mr. Renard, it’s Mrs. Blake. Angela’s mother.”

His breath caught. The voice on the other end was too calm for someone whose daughter was missing.

“Mr. Renard, are you there?”

“Yes. I’m sorry,” he said. “Did you—”

“The police just called. Angela has been taken to University Hospital. We’re on our way now.”

His heart lurched. “Has she been hurt? What happened?”

“I’ve told you all I know,” Mrs. Blake replied patiently. “I’ll know more once I’m at the hospital. I just thought you should know.”

He didn’t know if he even said goodbye. He ran for his car and sped toward the medical complex. At some point he noticed bits of dough and flour clinging to the steering wheel, then he remembered he hadn’t stopped to wash his hands.

After parking the car, he ran into the hospital and found his way to the Intensive Care Unit. Two sets of eyes turned toward him outside the ICU. One set was weary and tired, the other - furious.

“You’ve got a lot of nerve coming here.” Stephen stood and marched toward him. “If it hadn’t been for you, Angela wouldn’t be fighting for her life right now.”

Hank’s throat squeezed tight, making each breath painful.

“Fighting for her life?” He looked at the two drawn faces in the hallway. “Can someone tell me what happened?”

“They found her at a warehouse with two of your people. She’s been shot,” Stephen said. “One man is dead. The other has a bullet in him. Must have been a real blood bath.”

“Angela’s been shot?” He was stunned. And two of his people? “Is it serious? Do the police know who—”

“There’s more to it.” Mrs. Blake put a restraining hand on Stephen’s arm. “You know of Angela’s prior surgery?”

“You mean her heart?” Hank said, trying to process everything.

Mrs. Blake nodded. “The transplant saved her life but also made her extremely receptive to viruses. She needs to take medications every day, several times a day, to fool her body into accepting the new heart.”

“Yes. I know all this,” Hank said, remembering the night he discovered the pill bottles in her purse.

“Then you must realize how serious it is that she hadn’t taken her medication. She picked up some kind of bug that has quickly escalated into a full viral infection. Those two things alone would land her in a hospital.”

“Her body must have been trying to fight off that infection.” Stephen continued. “Then she was shot. If Angela doesn’t make it. If she can’t pull through, I’m going to –-”

“Mr. Renard?”

They all turned to see a tall man in a brown sports jacket walk toward them. “Mr. Henry P. Renard of Hayden Industries?”

“That’s me.” Hank said.

“I’m Detective Fisher with the Columbus Police.” He quickly flashed a badge. “May I talk to you for a few minutes?”

“I don’t want to leave while Angela—“

“I understand completely. We can just walk down this hallway,” the officer said, extending his arm.

Hank was dubious and hesitant to leave. This was the best place to gather information on Angela’s progress.”

“You’ll still be able to see if the doctor comes out,” the detective said practically reading his mind. Together they walked out of earshot of the others.

“Mr. Renard, are you aware that two of your employees were shot earlier this morning at a warehouse belonging to Timone Industries?” Detective Fisher asked.

“Timone?” Damn, she must have decided to go investigating on her own. “Who was shot?”

The detective glanced at his notes. “Thomas Wilson was found dead on the scene. Pete Burroughs is in surgery with a gunshot wound.” The detective glanced at Hank. “Can you tell me what those two men were doing at Timone Industries, and what specifically they were doing with Ms. Blake?”

“She was right,” Hank muttered under his breath.

“Sir?”

“Angela…Ms. Blake suspected Wilson and someone else, probably Burroughs, were stealing from Hayden Industries. She must have decided to investigate on her own.” Hank shook his head then turned to the detective. “But Angie would never shoot anyone. I don’t understand why Burroughs and Wilson were shot.”

“Is Ms. Blake your girlfriend, sir?”

Hank narrowed his eyes.
Girlfriend
sounded demeaning for all that Angela meant to him. “Why do you ask?”

“Do you own a gun, Mr. Renard?”

The question hit him hard in the stomach. “No! God no! You think I had something to do with this?”

The detective scribbled on a pad. “Easy enough to check.” He glanced up. “I’ve got one gun and three bodies. The man holding the hardware sure didn’t look like he committed suicide. I’m thinking maybe a jealous boyfriend…”

“That’s ridiculous,” Hank snarled. “I haven’t been anywhere near that place.”

A sound caught his attention. The ICU door had opened, and a doctor extended a hand toward Angela’s mother. His stomach clenched. He should be there, learning about Angela’s condition. But he was here with this—

“Where were you around midnight, Mr. Renard?”

“I was home calling the Westerville police every five minutes to see if they’d found Angela. We’re finished here.” He started to return to Angela’s family.

“Easy enough to check. Listen, Mr. Renard?” the detective called to his back. “Don’t go disappearing on us. We’ll have more questions for you later.”

Hank didn’t respond.

“What did the doctor say?” he asked as soon as he reached Stephen and his mother. Stephen had gathered his mother into a hug which could mean good news or bad. Stephen glared at Hank over his mother’s head. “The bullet passed clean through, but the blood loss in her arm is serious. They say the next twenty-four hours are crucial.”

Hank’s knees began to buckle. He slumped against the wall. Cradling his head in his hands, he squeezed his eyes shut to quell the burning. Angie, his angel, could be dying just a few feet away.

“Can I see her?” he asked.

“No.” Stephen replied sharply. “You’re not family. You’re not even wanted here. Haven’t you done enough damage?”

“I need to see her.” He’d get on his knees and beg if he had to.

“She doesn’t need you.” Stephen sneered.

The truth of his words struck Hank in the gut. What did Angie need him for? He’d taken her zest for life, taken her innocence, yet given her nothing in return, all for some sham engagement. He pressed his hands tighter against his face, blotting the moisture that gathered in the corners of his eyes. Stephen was right, who needed a loser like him?

Firm, gentle hands stroked his forearms. He looked over his fingertips. Compassionate blue eyes gazed up at him.

“She’s unconscious now.” Angie’s mother patted his arm. “No one can see her. I know you want to help, but there’s really nothing you can do here. There’s nothing any of us can do, except pray. Angela has to fight this battle on her own.” She took his hands in hers.

“I need to tell her—”

“Later, when she’s stronger,” the kind woman interrupted. She squeezed his hands. He took solace in that small embrace. “It will be a long wait before we know anything. Perhaps you’d like to freshen up?”

Hank glanced at his flour-encrusted hands. He probably left a smeary mess on his face as well. “Yes. I’d like to do that…and maybe get some coffee from the cafeteria. Can I bring you anything?”

She shook her head. Stephen didn’t even acknowledge the offer. Hank walked back toward the elevators, watching for a restroom on the way. It promised to be a long night.

YOU’D THINK A hospital cafeteria would offer something larger than standard cups of coffee.
Hank took a swallow and grimaced. What the cup lacked in volume, the coffee made up in strength.

“Mr. Renard?”

Hank turned to see a petite brown-haired woman clenching and unclenching her hands. She reminded him of a house wren, tiny and fidgity.

“I thought that was you,” she said. “I’m Anita Burroughs, Pete’s wife.” She extended a shaky hand. “We met at your welcoming banquet. Remember?”

“Oh yes,” he said, although he didn’t remember her at all. All of his memories centered on a feisty, elfin chauffeur that caused him to be late for the reception. He shook her hand.

“I’m so sorry about what happened,” she said. “Do you know how the girl is?”

“We’re still waiting to hear,” he said after he realized she was referring to Angela. Hank had never thought of her as
the girl
. “Her condition is not good.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. The doctor said she saved Pete’s life, in a way. If that bullet hadn’t passed through her first, it could have killed my Pete.” She smiled timidly.

Was that true? Did Angie intentionally sacrifice herself to save another? Hank looked a little closer at the woman. “Do you have any idea what happened in that warehouse, Mrs. Burroughs?”

“You can call me Anita.” She poured herself a cup of the hospital-strength coffee and doctored it with sugar and cream. “According to Pete, he was carrying that poor young girl when Tom Wilson threatened to shoot him. He turned and a gun fired. That’s all he said.”

“Why was he carrying Angela?” Memories of the times he had held Angela in his arms rushed forefront to his mind but he fought them back. He needed to listen without distraction.

“Angela, that’s her name?” Her eyebrows rose as she sipped the hot liquid. “Pete said she was sick, and he was taking her to the hospital.”

“But why was he at that warehouse in the first place? Why was Angela? Did he say?”

“I only spoke with him for a few minutes before they took him for surgery.” Her red-rimmed eyes squinted up at him. “Didn’t you send him there?”

He shook his head.

“Then Pete will have to tell you that himself. I just don’t understand.” She frowned. “I thought Tom Wilson and he were friends. Why would Tom shoot Pete? Just because he wanted to take Angela to the hospital.” She shook her head. “Sometimes you just don’t know people.”

“Did Pete say who shot Tom Wilson?” Hank asked, hoping Pete’s wife could provide some additional information.

Her eyes widened. “Someone shot Tom? Pete didn’t say anything about that. He said he was lucky to have pushed the nine-one-one button on his cell phone before he passed out.”

“Mr. Renard.” Detective Fisher approached the coffee machine. “I was told I might find a Mrs. Burroughs here. I wonder if you could direct me to—”

“This is Mrs. Burroughs.” Hank made the introductions.

“Then, I wonder if Mrs. Burroughs and I might have a few words in private.”

Hank excused himself and left.

He wasn’t anxious to join Stephen in the ICU waiting room, but he couldn’t very well leave the hospital. If there was a chance he could see Angela again, give her some of his strength, let her know he was waiting, then he had to stay. And if that meant putting up with false accusations, so be it. He left the cafeteria and walked the long hallway that led to a bank of elevators. On the way he passed a door with a wooden sign designating the room to be the chapel. A voice whispered in his head.
All we can do now is pray.

On impulse, he opened the door and stepped into the nearly deserted room. One woman knelt in the first wooden pew facing a stained-glass depiction of angels. Angie’s voice resonated in his mind.
My mother put me in the protection of the angels.
He slid into the last pew and sat.

Flickering candles gave inviting warmth to the room, so different from the antiseptic atmosphere of the rest of the hospital. He slipped to his knees and bowed his head.
I don’t know how to do this.
The woman in the front pew turned quickly to look back at him. Had he spoken out loud? Her face softened.

She stood and left the pew. As she passed by, she patted his shoulder. “Listen to your heart,” she said, then continued on her way.

The chapel door closed with a soft click, leaving him all alone with his thoughts. He glanced up at the stained glass.

“God, I’m probably doing this all wrong. I don’t even know if you can hear me. I haven’t been in a church since I was a boy. I’m probably not allowed to ask for anything.” His clenched hands squeezed tighter. “Let Angie live. Don’t let her die.”

I suppose you always want what you can’t have.
Angela’s words used when they had lunch at that restaurant came unbidden in his mind. She’d talked of all the things she’d missed growing up. He remembered his decision to try to give those experiences back to her and in the process discovered a renewed joy in life. He quickly amended his prayer.

“I’m not just asking for me. Naturally, I want Angie to live, but lots of people…even animals…love her, not just me.”

You can’t lie to God. He knows everything.

“Then He knows I love her.” His own words surprised him. Words, he had never admitted, not even to Angie, but in his heart knew to be true. A clarity and strength filled him. Angela had to recover. She had to.

“Make her strong, God. Give her back to us. Give her back to me.” His knuckles whitened. There had to be something more he could do. Something more he could offer. “If you let her live,” he whispered. “I promise to believe.”

It crossed his mind that he must believe already. Otherwise why was he here? Why did a tightness pull at his chest, and his heartbeat pound in his throat?

An awareness pricked at the nape of his neck, someone else was in the chapel. He twisted, checking behind him but whatever he’d felt was gone. A chill rippled down his spine. He was alone.