Nowhere to Hide (17 page)

Totally drained and exhausted, Ellen left the building. Darkness had fallen while she was inside. The streetlights had come on, casting eerie shadows along the sidewalk. Fewer people were on the street now, their breaths visible in the cold, night air as they hurried to their destinations.

As she stood on the steps, Ellen found herself tensing as each person approached, relaxing again when they passed on by. She felt vulnerable and alone.
And afraid.
Like a child who had scared itself, who had gone too
far.

She felt as she had when she was nine years old, lying in her small bed, hearing Gail’s even breathing from across the room, while she waited for the sound of their parents’ key in the lock which meant they were home from one more party. She would squeeze her eyes shut against the demons that lay in wait in the darkness. She would draw her feet well up under the covers so that no cold hand could find them. When the need to pee betrayed her, she would finally shiver from the bed, jumping at her own reflection in the mirror.

I’m not brave. Dear Jesus, you know I’m not brave at all. I never was.

Hugging her coat more tightly about her, Ellen started down the stairs. She had just stepped onto the sidewalk when a car suddenly lurched to a stop at the curb and a man jumped out—a man wearing dark glasses and a trench coat. He rushed toward Ellen. She froze. There was no time to think. Instinctively, her hands shot out, catching him full in the chest, sending him sprawling backward on the sidewalk with a grunt. She heard his head hit hard, and the groan of pain that followed.

"Jeez, lady, what did you do that for?" The whine that came through the gasping for breath diminished some of her fear. She approached him warily.

"Who are you?"

"Hartley Greenborn," he labored. "I’m with the National Enquirer. Is it okay if I get up now? Or will you hit me again?"

"Yes, you can get up. I’m sorry. Are you all right?"

"Yeah," he grunted, struggling to his feet, readjusting his glasses, brushing himself off. "I think so. I just wanted to ask you a couple of questions, that’s all," he managed, still having a little trouble with his breathing. Obviously, she’d knocked the wind from him.

He was a good four inches shorter than Ellen, and wore a fur cap with ear flaps. Something Mrs. Bloom hadn’t thought to mention.

"I have nothing to say to you," Ellen said, her heartbeat slowly returning to normal. "You shouldn’t rush at people like that, Mr. Greenborn. You could get hurt. You were at my building last night, weren’t you? You spoke to my landlady."

"Yeah," he answered, trying not to look pleased with himself, but failing. "I’ve been tailing you since you got here. My paper can help you find your sister’s killer."

"How do you know me? And how did you find out I was here?"

"C’mon, Mrs. Harris," he smiled, a smile meant to ingratiate
himself
with her, "give me a little credit for being good at my job, okay?"

It was all she gave him.

While Ellen wanted more than anything to have Gail’s killer found, she didn’t want her death exploited, or her life dirtied. She supposed he would write whatever struck his fancy, in the end, but he would do it without her help.

~ * ~

Alvin was sitting in a bar called Papa Bear’s on Evansdale’s west side when the news came on the television set that angled down from high up on the wall. Before that, there’d been a hockey game on. He couldn’t have said who was playing, unlike the other patrons in Papa
Bear’s,
Alvin had no interest in sports.

When the interview with Ellen Harris was over, Alvin ordered another beer. He had to will his hand steady before picking it up. After that, he had several more beers, which was quite unusual for him.

Alvin was quite drunk when he finally left the bar.

Twenty-one

With nothing left to do in New York, Ellen took a late flight home. After securing the house, she went upstairs on leaden legs, undressed, and slipped under the covers. She was asleep almost at once.

She slept soundly. For once, there were no dreams.

The jangling of the telephone woke her. Her hand fumbled for the receiver, found it. "Yes," she muttered thickly, refusing to open her eyes.

"What are you trying to do, Ellen? Get yourself killed? Make yourself his next victim?"

Oh, God, she groaned inwardly.
I don’t need this.
She blinked one eye open. Sun was streaming though the curtains, throwing lacy patterns on the floor. "I’m not dressed yet, Paul," she said. "I’ll talk to you later, okay?"

"The station was irresponsible in running that," he went on, as if she hadn’t spoken. "You were led like the proverbial lamb to the slaughter. Don’t you see what you’re doing, Ellen?"

"No, Paul," she said woodenly, rising up on one elbow in the bed.
Might as well let him have his say.
There seemed to be little chance of stopping him. "What am I doing?"

"You’re casting yourself in the hero role again. But you can’t rescue your little sister this time, dear. It’s too late."

The bitter truth of his words slammed against her heart, bringing her actual, physical pain. She fought back tears. He was right, of course.
About both situations.
It was true she’d always assumed the hero role in the family, dumping booze down the sink in an attempt to get her parents to stop drinking, bringing home straight A’s, taking on the role of mother to Gail. In short, trying through
her own
meager efforts to gain back respect for the family. She could intellectualize and analyze with the best of them. It didn’t change anything. Her story was one variation of many she’d heard from the other side of her desk.

One which, in a moment of weakness, she’d revealed to Paul. And now he was using her words against her. She’d handed him a new button to push.

As if reading her thoughts, Paul’s voice took on a gentler tone. "I know this is terrible for you, Ellen, and I don’t mean to hurt you any more than you’re already hurting. I just want you to see things more clearly, that’s all. And right now, you’re not."

"She was my sister, Paul. Why can’t you understand? I have no intention of letting him get away with—"

"Has it occurred to you," he cut in, "that maybe Gail was involved with,
well
... you don’t know what she was into, Ellen."

"Into?"
She was fully awake now. It took a moment to understand. A cold anger came over her. "What do you mean, ‘into’, Paul?" Her voice was deceptively calm.

"I’m not saying she was, of course, but you know what the music business is—prostitution, drugs... My God, Ellen, the tabloids are full of... you want to find yourself in the middle of—?"

He was still raving when she said, "Go to hell, Paul," and slammed down the receiver. She was trembling, unable to believe what he’d implied—that Gail was somehow to blame for her own murder.

The phone rang several times over the next hour. Ellen ignored it, finally taking the receiver off the hook. When a little while later she heard the doorbell ring, and looked out the window to see Paul’s car in her drive, she went upstairs to take a shower.

~ * ~

Myra came to the door wearing an oversized, mauve jogging suit. She stared at Ellen standing in her doorway as if she were seeing a ghost. Kenny’s and Dolly’s "Islands in the Stream" drifted from the kitchen, along with the tantalizing aroma of turkey soup.

"I’ve got to get away from here for a while," Ellen said. "Can you come with me? I’ll wait with you till Joey gets home from school. We can all go to McDonald’s for lunch.
My treat.
Big deal, huh?"

The startled expression left Myra’s face as she drew her
inside,
hugging her like she’d been gone for a year instead of the few days it had actually been. "Oh, I’m so damn glad to see you. Are you all right?"

"Fine."

Myra held her at arm’s length. "Like hell you are. You look awful."

"Thanks."

"You’re welcome. I saw you on the news last night, and I don’t mind telling you, I didn’t close my eyes till the sun came up."

"Sorry. I slept like a baby myself. Damned if I know why." She gave a small, nervous laugh.

The boys were staying with Grandma Thompson, Myra told her. "Carl thinks we need a vacation by ourselves. Of course, there’s no way I’m going anywhere. Not after—"

"Don’t be silly. Of course you’re going. Carl’s right. You do need time alone together. It will do you both the world of good. I’ll be fine.
Really, Myra.
You’re not to worry."

"Easy for you to say.
Give me five minutes, okay? I’ll just run a rake through this mop and dab on some lipstick. I’ve got coffee on, help
yourself
. Oh, Ellen, turn the stove off for me, will you?" she called out halfway up the stairs. Then she turned. "When did you get home anyway?"

"Last night.
Too late to call you.
You sure I’m not taking you away from anything?"

"Well, I was feeling a mad compulsion to scrub out the toilet bowl," Myra grinned, "but I think if I really put my mind to it, I can walk away."

They drove in Ellen’s blue Sunbird to the McDonald’s out near Queen’s Park. Passing the clinic, Ellen thought of the clients she’d left in mid-stream and felt a twinge of guilt. But there was nothing she could do about it now—if ever.

Standing at the counter, Myra said, "Paul called me. He wants me to talk to you.
One large fries and a drink, please."
Her voice dropping, she said, "What if he comes after you, Ellen?"

Ellen knew she was no longer talking about Paul. "That’s the general idea. Don’t worry—I’m not without an equalizer."

Myra’s eyes widened.
"Oh, God.
You’ve got a—don’t tell me. I don’t want to know."

"Okay."

The place was deserted but for one man in a business suit and a couple of teenage girls wolfing down Big Macs, exploding into giggles between bites. Ellen smiled to herself, envying them their innocence.
Enjoy it while you can, kids.
A sudden vision of their young faces smiling up at her from a newspaper came unbidden into her mind. A chill went through her and she shook her head to clear the thought.

Setting her tray on the table, Ellen slid into the molded plastic chair. "I’m really sorry about Paul bothering you, Myra. He’s got a lot of nerve." She watched her friend pry the lid off the cup and pop in a straw. Myra liked to see what she was drinking.

"You won’t get an argument from me there," she said quietly.

Outside the window, a yellow school bus rumbled past, a blur of small faces in the row of windows. Across the road in the park, the bare branches of trees looked stark against the winter sky, as did St. George’s church steeple in the distance.

The park benches were empty.
Too cold for sitting, especially if you were afflicted with arthritis or rheumatism.
Ellen often walked over from the clinic and ate her lunch in the park, and she thought now of the man she’d often seen there feeding the pigeons, his crutches propped against the bench, a faraway smile on his weathered face. She thought too of the elderly woman who sat engrossed in her knitting, chatting animatedly to herself.

Ellen wondered if she would live so long. For despite the sometimes unbearable pain, she apparently didn’t really want to die. She’d learned that much standing outside the CBS studio. She must remember to tell Myra about the guy from the National Enquirer. They could both use a laugh. She continued to look over into the park, watching the pigeons waddle about, poking their little beaks at the hard snow, testily competing for whatever scraps could be found.

Hearing Myra’s chant: "Calling Ellen... earth to Ellen," she turned from the window.

"Sorry," she smiled. "Were you saying something?"

"I asked you what happened between you and Paul."

"I’d rather not talk about him, Myra—okay? If he calls you again, just hang up."

"Sure," Myra said, sounding hurt.

Ellen sighed. "Okay. He suggested Gail might have been involved with drugs or prostitution, and maybe that’s why she’s dead."