Tombstone Courage (12 page)

Linda felt a clutch of concern. “What did you do?”

“I told Ivy about Uncle Harold's decision,” Burton said. “I got all tanked up, called Ivy, and breached my lawyer-client privilege. I can't believe I did it. That's why I'm looking for Uncle Harold. I've got to find him, try to make things right.”

“You know Uncle Harold would never disbar you,” Linda said confidently. “Not in a million years.”

“He should,” Burton Kimball replied grimly. “I certainly deserve it.”

“No, you don't.”

Linda reached out to hug him then, wrapping her comforting arms around his chest, ignoring the stench of booze that lingered around him like an ill-smelling cloud.

Gratitude flooded through Burton Kimball. Linda was steady and dependable. Like Uncle Harold, she, too, was salt of the earth. He was lucky to have a woman like her in his life. Leaning against her, he closed his eyes and inhaled the shampoo-clean fragrance of her hair.

He never saw the car coming, not until it was far too late. If it hadn't been for Joanna Brady, Burton and Linda Kimball both would have been smashed flat, just like that, embracing each other and resting against the building.

Without Joanna's timely intervention, not only would the speeding car have flattened Burton and Linda Kimball, it would have done exactly the same thing to Reverend Marianne Maculyea.

W
HEN
M
ARIANNE
and Joanna stepped out of the building, the clear night air was a relief after the crowded, over-heated, and smoky convention-center floor. Still stung by what she regarded as Milo's underhanded actions, Joanna was eager to talk, but she wanted some privacy.

Just outside the entrance near the curb, they encountered an embracing man and woman who seemed in need of some privacy of their own. Joanna led Marianne across the street.

“Don't you think you're overreacting to all this?” Marianne asked after listening to what was on Joanna's mind. “It looks to me as though Milo thought you already had enough on your plate without adding in the complications of helping Lisa study for and pass her insurance exams.”

But Joanna wasn't entirely mollified. “So you think he was being considerate instead of sneaky?”

“That's my opinion,” Marianne replied. “Opinions are just exactly that—not worth the powder it would take to blow them up. But why not give him the benefit of the doubt?”

They had walked through the park as far as the
base of the steps leading up to the Copper Queen Hotel, then they had stood at the bottom of the steps to talk. Now, though, aware of the autumn chill, they started back toward the convention center.

The events of the last few months had instilled a new wariness in Joanna Brady. She observed things about her more; things that before would have passed unnoticed.

While they stood at the base of the steps, Marianne had been standing with her back to Main Street while Joanna faced it. Twice in five minutes' time, she had seen the same red car pass by on the street. Something about it had piqued her interest and attention. Maybe it was the speed, or rather the lack thereof. The car was going exceptionally slowly. Maybe it was the make and model. The Allanté would have been a standout car anywhere. Or maybe it was the color. Under the mercury-vapor halogen lights, the bright-red paint job glowed deep purple.

Chilled and ready to go back inside, Marianne and Joanna headed back toward the building. Marianne was talking, saying something neither of them could remember later. With her face turned toward Joanna, Marianne had just stepped out of the crosswalk and up onto the sidewalk when, with a squeal of tortured rubber, the accelerating car lurched half onto the sidewalk less than half a block away.

Joanna saw the whole thing at once—the oncoming car; the couple, still locked in their embrace and totally unaware of the danger;
Marianne, chatting away in lighthearted unconcern.

With only milliseconds in which to react, Joanna screamed, “Watch out!” Grabbing Marianne by the shoulder, she propelled her forward into the safety of the recessed entryway.

Startled by the warning, the man and woman straightened up and separated. The man stepped backward toward the safety of the building. The woman stayed where she was, directly in the path of the car. Joanna could see that the man was safe. But unless the car swerved back off the curb and into the street, the woman, transfixed by fear, was a goner.

Without even thinking about it, Joanna seized the woman's wrist as she leaped past. There was a whiplash jerk as the woman's arm was wrenched forward. Joanna heard the sickening pop of a dislocating shoulder, heard the shriek of pain, and then the two of them plowed forward into the entryway where a shaken Marianne was just scrambling to her feet. Joanna and the other woman landed on top of Marianne in a muddled heap of flailing arms and legs. Joanna's jawbone smashed into something hard in a skull-cracking explosion of stars.

It took seconds for Joanna's head and vision to clear. When they did, she was sandwiched between the other two women. Beneath her, Marianne's body was unnaturally still, while above someone moaned, “My arm, my arm! I think it's broken.”

“Linda,” Burton Kimball said, reaching for his
wife. “My God! Are you all right? They tried to kill us! Somebody call the cops.”

By then people were trying to come out through the door, but Marianne and Joanna both blocked the way. With her head still spinning, Joanna managed to roll off. The door opened far enough for some of the people inside to squeeze out onto the sidewalk. Not surprisingly, one of the first people out the door was Jeff Daniels. Right behind him was the television cameraman.

Jeff was kneeling beside his stricken wife when Marianne's eyes fluttered open. “What happened?” she whispered.

Someone, the cameraman most likely, hurried to help Joanna to her feet. Her dress was torn, and three of the four gold buttons were missing.

Undersheriff Richard Voland appeared out of nowhere. “What's going on here?” he asked, turning to Joanna.

“There was a car,” she stammered, pointing in the direction where the speeding vehicle had plunged off the steps at the end of the sidewalk and disappeared. “A red Cadillac. On the sidewalk. It tried to run us down.”

Voland looked where she pointed, but by then no car was visible. “A car on the sidewalk?” he asked disgustedly, as though the story was too farfetched to be given the slightest credence. “Whatever would a car be doing on the sidewalk?”

“Trying to kill us,” Burton Kimball answered. “Somebody call an ambulance. There are people hurt here.”

The sound of Burton Kimball's voice galvanized Dick Voland into action. While he started issuing orders, Joanna knelt beside Jeff. “Is Marianne all right?”

Jeff shook his head. His wife was struggling to sit up, but he forced her back down to the sidewalk and covered her with a jacket someone handed him. “Lie still, Marianne,” he whispered urgently. “You stay right where you are.”

Unable to help Marianne, Joanna turned to Linda and Burton Kimball. Linda sat shivering on the curb, resting her injured arm on her lap while tears streamed down her face. She was trying not to cry, but the pain was too much. Burton attempted to put his jacket across her shoulders, but she ducked away.

“Don't,” she said. “Don't put anything on me. It hurts too much.”

Joanna's stomach turned. The car hadn't hurt Linda Kimball; Joanna Brady had.

“I'm sorry,” she apologized, feeling sick. “I didn't mean…”

Linda Kimball looked up at her through anguished, tear-filled eyes. “My God, Joanna, don't apologize. My arm hurts like hell, but if it weren't for you, we'd all be dead.”

And then something funny happened. Linda Kimball started to laugh. “Did you hear that, Burtie?” she gasped. “Here's Joanna, trying to…apologize…for hurting…for hurting my arm. My God! That's the funniest thing…I ever heard of.”

The laughter was high-pitched and hysterical,
and it echoed eerily in the street even as the canyon walls began to reverberate with the sounds of approaching sirens.

“Be quiet,” Burton Kimball urged. “You'll hurt yourself more.”

But Linda only giggled harder. “I know…” she managed. “It only hurts…when I laugh!”

Jenny somehow pushed her way through the milling throng of adults and threw her arms tightly around Joanna's waist. “Mommy,” she wailed in a small, frightened voice. “Are you okay? You're bleeding.”

Dazed, Joanna reached up and touched a finger to her face. There was a cut on her face where Marianne's head had smacked into her cheekbone—a cut, but not much blood. “It's no big thing,” Joanna assured Jenny. “I'm shook up but okay.”

Looking down at the top of her daughter's head, Joanna was suddenly aware that her double-breasted navy-blue dress, missing three critical buttons from the front, was gaping open to reveal an expanse of white bra to any and all who cared to see. With one hand still on Jenny's shoulder, she tried to hold the dress shut with the other.

People milled around them. Even though inside the city limits it wasn't the county's jurisdiction, Dick Voland had placed himself in charge, issuing orders to the city cops who answered the call, helping direct the arriving ambulance.

Joanna was well aware that Dick Voland had been all over the county campaigning on Al Freeman's behalf. Andrew Brady and the undersheriff
had never seen eye-to-eye. There was even less love lost between him and Joanna. It annoyed her that his very first reaction to something she said had been outright disbelief. When Burton Kimball had said the exact same thing, he had automatically accepted it at face value. If that was the way he acted, what would happen if they ended up having to work together?

Despite Marianne's plaintive insistence that she was perfectly fine, the attendants and Jeff quietly overruled her and loaded her onto a gurney. With the city's single ambulance loaded and headed for the hospital, the ambulatory Linda Kimball and her husband climbed into the back of a waiting police car.

“Joanna,” Eleanor Lathrop hissed from the sidelines, gesturing desperately. “Come here. Hurry.”

The look on Eleanor's face was so pained that for a moment Joanna feared that her mother had been somewhere near the melee and that she, too, had been hurt in the scuffle.

“What's the matter?” Joanna asked worriedly as she and Jenny hurried to her mother's side. “You're not hurt, are you?”

Eleanor Lathrop shook her head. “For heaven's sake, Joanna. Can't you see those cameras are running?”

Joanna glanced back over her shoulder. Sure enough, three television cameramen were lined up, shoulder to shoulder, with their video cams humming away. “What about them?”

“Your dress, for one thing!” Eleanor wailed tearfully. “Your bra is sticking out. I've looked all
over for your buttons, and I can't find them anywhere. The only thing I have in my purse is this. Now go in the rest room and use it.”

Desperately Eleanor pressed a huge safety pin into Joanna's hand. Looking down at it, Joanna was tempted to burst into her own storm of semi-hysterical laughter. But she didn't.

Because it really wasn't a laughing matter. That safety pin encapsulated the difference between Joanna and her mother: between the active participant and the bystander. With the car screaming down on them, Joanna's prime concern had been to keep people from harm. Eleanor's prime consideration, on the other hand, was always and forever the maintaining of appearances.

With a sudden flash of insight, Joanna realized that same difference had always separated her parents from one another as well. That was why her father was dead. He had been physically incapable of driving past a stranded woman and her worn-out tire, and changing that tire had killed him.

D. H. Lathrop had offered to help because that was the kind of man he was. It was his nature—a part of him he was helpless to change. And when he died as a direct result of his own kindness, people had called Big Hank Lathrop a hero. No one tried to change him or make him anything other than what he was.

To be fair, if it was all right for someone to be a doer and a hero, wasn't it equally all right to be a bystander? Yes, Eleanor was concerned about appearances, but was that wrong? And if it was
wrong, was it more or less wrong than changing a tire and being killed for it?

Slowly, Joanna closed her cupped hand around the safety pin. She looked at Eleanor, whose eyes were still scanning the nearby sidewalk in search of the missing buttons. Joanna's heart squeezed tight with a sudden quickening of understanding, like the first sensed movement of a baby within her womb.

At twenty-nine years of age, with emergency lights pulsing all around her, with video cameras rolling, and with only incomplete election results starting to trickle in, Joanna Brady had just learned something important about her mother. She had also learned something important about herself. She was a chip off the old block. She was definitely her father's daughter. But she was also her mother's.

“Jenny,” she said, looking down at her own daughter and holding her torn dress shut at the same time. “Would you please see if you can help Grandma find my buttons?”

“Where are you going?” Jenny asked.

“Into the women's rest room to try to fix my dress. As soon as you find a button, bring it in there. And bring along a sewing kit as well. Ask Grandma Brady. I'm sure she has one in her purse.”

As soon as Joanna started into the building, Dick Voland came charging after her. “Just a minute. Where do you think you're going?”

“To the rest room,” Joanna answered evenly.

“Everybody else went to the hospital. I need
someone to give a preliminary statement to one of the officers here, to explain exactly what went on.”

“I can do that,” Joanna said, “but it'll have to wait.”

Dick Voland was old school—male, stubborn, and used to having people snap to whenever he gave an order. “Wait for what?” he demanded.

“For me to fix my dress,” Joanna replied. Then she turned her back on him and walked into the rest room where no old-school male in his right mind would dare to follow.