Trauma Plan (37 page)

Riley hugged her arms around herself. Jack had said that Abby was a kidnapping victim. Not that he’d been with her when it happened.

Travis continues to insist that he was knocked unconscious by carjackers. Three young men wearing ski masks kidnapped the girl . . . claims he tried to flag down a car on the rural highway . . . Police are trying to locate the owner of a Toyota sedan . . .

There had been guarded statements from the Parrish family, from Jack’s mother, and from a neighbor who’d said, “He’s a good boy. But he’s having a rough time with his daddy’s illness and all . . .” Plus a quote from a Fredericksburg biergarten coworker who threw in, “Dude had a serious anger problem.”

There had been countless photos of Abby. And Jack. And one of Abby and Jack attending a picnic at the Sunshine Center, where Abby had apparently volunteered on a regular basis. Riley’s throat constricted at the memory of her morning there.

There were reports of Jack’s futile attempt to describe the alleged carjackers. A medical description of Jack’s head contusion, his mental state at the ER, and confirmation of a .07 blood alcohol result. There was conjecture that the head injury could have been self-inflicted to cover a murder committed in a drunken rage—with a sidebar containing statistics on underage drinking and violent crime and a statement from MADD Texas. And some speculation that perhaps the victim had rebuffed unwanted physical advances, that Jack had wanted more than she did from the relationship. Motive for his murderous rage. It was followed by a statement from Jack that Abby was a friend, not a girlfriend. They hadn’t fought; he’d been drinking that night because he was upset about his father. And Abby was trying to help him.

But the hardest thing to read was the report from the medical examiner. The beautiful young woman’s body had been burned beyond recognition. Her godfather, a San Antonio dentist, provided the records that confirmed her identity. Mercifully, all that happened to Abby prior to being placed in the trunk of her car would remain a mystery. It was assumed, however—because articles of clothing had been found in nearby shrubbery—that she’d been sexually assaulted. And . . . Riley struggled against a wave of nausea. A bone in Abby’s neck was fractured. An indication that she was . . .
strangled.

Riley closed her eyes against the memory of her Houston assailant’s hands around her throat, then shivered at an overriding image of Jack confronting the purse snatcher—

She jumped, heart pounding, as her TV came on and the news blared. Her automatic security measure at dusk. She reached for the remote to shut it off, then stopped, recognizing the voice.
Jack.
At the library? She held her breath, watching.

“I won’t let you do this to me!” Jack grabbed the collar of a man, shouting at him nose to nose. “I swear, I’ll—” A police officer pulled him back. The camera bobbed and there was a disjointed pan over faces in the crowd: Andrea Nichols, that developer Mr. Payton. Then a shot from the exit, a reporter trying to get statements from folks leaving the library.

The camera closed in on the face of a young man trying to squeeze by. Handsome, big jaw, striking green eyes . . . mass of red hair.

That patient from the ER? The contractor?

“No comment.” The young man frowned at the camera. “I said no. Get out of my face!” The shot went fuzzy black as his hand covered the lens. Then the camera focused again on someone else.

“Well, I sure have a comment,” an older man growled into the lens. “You can quote me: that doctor, Jack Travis, is a dangerous menace!”

* * *

Gretchen stayed for the whole shift; the clinic had been busy. Jack was grateful for her help. After that circus at the library and his conversation with Rob once the meeting broke up, he wasn’t sure he had anything left for anyone. Except Riley. And after what Rob had revealed, there might be some damage control to do there as well.
How do I handle that?

But Riley hadn’t returned his calls. He hoped it was because she’d been busy at the hospital and had her cell phone turned off.

“You made the evening news.” Bandy glanced up from where he stood at the sink washing the coffeepot. “I suppose that’s why Gretchen covered for that first hour? So you could return a library book?”

Jack grimaced. “I had to do it.”

“And how did that work for you?”

“Who are you—Dr. Phil?”

Bandy rubbed a dish towel over the glass pot, stayed quiet. Too quiet.

“I’m sorry.” Jack groaned. “You’re right. It didn’t work. It made things worse. But I don’t have any respect for people who—”

“And there’s the problem,” Bandy said, cutting him off. “That’s it. On the nose.” He shook his head, sighed. “I’ve never seen anybody try as hard as you do to show respect—and generosity—to folks who are down on their luck, hurting . . . hungry. You did that for me, too, Doc; as long as I live, I’ll be grateful. But the plain truth is that we can’t pick and choose who deserves good treatment. Those neighbors need it too.”

“Mmm.” Jack squirmed, feeling a do-unto-others moment coming. He was too tired for this. And sick to death of feeling like he was walking into battle alone. Why couldn’t anyone understand—?

Jack’s phone rang. He waved a hang-on-a-minute signal to Bandy and pulled it from the pocket of his scrub jacket. Riley.

“Hey, stranger,” he said, feeling the full impact of how much he’d missed her today.

There was a prolonged silence.

“Riley?”

“Is everyone gone from the clinic?” she asked, her voice sounding strange.

“Bandy’s here.” He had a bad feeling. “Where are you?”

“In the parking lot.”

Jack’s brows scrunched. “At Alamo Grace?”

“No. Here. Right outside. I need to talk with you. Privately.”

“Sure . . . uh, I’ll ask Bandy to give us some privacy. Come to my office in a couple of minutes.” He thought of his conversation with Rob, felt his throat tighten. “Is something wrong?”

“We need to talk.”

Riley disconnected without saying anything more, and Jack slowly lowered his phone, his dread becoming visceral. “Bandy . . .”

“I’m going to take Hobo out to get settled for the night,” Bandy offered before Jack could finish. “Then do some tidying up in the truck—clown noses everywhere. I should be ashamed.” He nodded, gentle concern in his eyes.

“Thanks.”

Jack thought of meeting Riley at the door but changed his mind and walked to his office instead. As if being there would give him more control over what was about to happen. But in his gut, he doubted it. Something was seriously wrong.

30

“No, don’t.” Riley flinched and backed away a step as Jack reached out to her. “Why didn’t you tell me the truth?”

“Truth about . . . ?”

Riley’s heart stalled.
How many lies are there?

“Abby’s death. That you were there when she was kidnapped.” She fought a wave of nausea. “And that you were a . . .”

“Suspect?” Jack met her gaze, his expression somewhere between pain and defensiveness. “Is that the word you’re looking for?” His voice lowered. “Is that what this is about, Riley?”

“You could have told me.” She hugged her elbows, beginning to tremble. “That first night at the River Walk and even after that. I told you . . . everything. You should have—”

“Told you all the ugly details?” His tone was growing bitter. “Just what every woman wants to hear over dinner.”

“Better than hearing it from my mother.”

Oddly, something in Jack’s expression said that he wasn’t surprised.

* * *

Jack stayed quiet for a moment, telling himself not to get angry. And that any blunder on his part could . . .

“Okay,” he said finally. “If that’s what you want, I’ll tell you everything. Right now. Right here.” He glanced around the room at his cluttered desk, a stack of newspapers on the extra chair. “Or we could go someplace more comfortable, and—”

“No,” Riley said quickly. “I don’t want to go anywhere.”

You don’t want to go anywhere . . . with me.

“Wait,” Jack said, beginning to feel sick. “You can’t think that I’m actually capable of something like that?” He reached for her hand, desperate to change what was happening. She took another step back. “C’mon, Riley. You know me.”

“Do I?” Sudden tears shimmered her eyes. “I thought I did. I’d started to think so many good things, but now . . .” She took a breath, met his gaze directly. “It’s not that I believe you were involved in Abby’s death—I don’t. I’ll admit that it scared me. I read those accounts from the newspapers, Jack. All those horrible things. And I’ve seen you get angry.” She swiped at a tear. “Still, I don’t think you could do something like that. Not murder. But . . .”

“But what?” Jack watched the expressions flickering across her face. Hurt, doubt . . . anger? “Tell me what’s going on.”

“You applied for a grant from the Hale Foundation?”

It’s about that?

Riley watched his eyes. “She said you did.”

Jack told himself to chill, be careful. “I probably did. Okay. Sure. I did.” He shook his head. “I’ve gone everywhere for funding. I’d go to the man in the moon if that’s what it took to keep the clinic going. You know how important that is to me.”

“Yes. I do.” She narrowed her eyes. “Important enough to recruit a crippled volunteer who just happens to have connections to a medical foundation.”

“I . . .” Guilt snagged his words. “Riley, wait . . .”

“Why? So you can deny it?” Her lips twisted. “And tell me that you would have wanted me here, offered to help me, if my name were something other than Hale? What if I were . . . Jane Doe?”

“No, Riley—”

“I didn’t want to believe my mother,” she continued. “But it all makes sense now. You waved my name like a flag. Even before my first shift here. And then you practically rolled out the red carpet when my mother stopped by that day. You
used
me, Jack. Now I can’t be sure anything between us was real.” Her tears returned, but she pushed on. “But that’s not even the worst of it. The saddest part is that you’ve made this clinic all about you. Not about the patients—about
you
. And your insatiable need to be—” her gaze drifted to Jack’s photo wall—“some sort of invincible warrior. That ugly, angry need makes things chaotic and unstable . . . and unsafe.” A tear slid down her cheek. “It proves over and over that the action committee is right—they’re
right
about you! And I can’t—” Her phone’s text tone sounded in her pocket. She swiped at her eyes and then reached for it.

Jack struggled for words. There had to be some way to—

“Stacy Paulson died,” she announced in a monotone. “I’m going.”

“Riley . . .”

She walked out without looking back.

It wasn’t until several minutes after she left that Jack realized he’d never told Riley what he learned from Rob Melton. That it was the Hales who’d hired the private investigator to snoop around in his past. Jack had been furious. And he fully expected them to tell Riley what they’d learned. Maybe they’d even whisper it to the newspapers, get the whole ugly mess stirred up again. The timing couldn’t be worse; the city council meeting was next week.

Jack sank into his office chair. It wasn’t likely that Riley would be standing beside him at that meeting. Blast it; she was wrong about him. And was being completely unfair. He’d applied for the Hale Foundation grant long before they had met. Not that Riley let him defend himself on that point. And even if Jack had considered what her name could lend to the clinic, it had nothing at all to do with how he’d begun to feel about—

There was a sudden frenzy of barking, then a horn blast and a shout.

Jack jogged to the rear parking lot, squinted as the security lights snapped on. Then saw Bandy. Wielding a hose nozzle like a weapon.

“Fool . . . kids,” he gasped, soaking wet and struggling to shut off the water. He stopped the flow, then shushed Hobo. “Chased ’em down.” He drew a ragged breath. “Scared ’em off.”

“What happened?”

Bandy pointed. “Sorry, Doc.”

The Hummer. Spray-painted with
GET OUT QUAC—

Quack.

Bandy handed Jack a soggy stack of papers. “They dropped these.”

Action committee flyers announcing the city council meeting.

* * *

Kate crossed her legs, uncrossed them, then glanced anxiously at her cell phone lying on the crisp linen tablecloth. Time: 7:47. No messages. She poked her straw at the lime wedge in her third glass of ice water.

“Still waiting?” the silver-haired waiter asked, doing his best to be discreet despite the fact that she’d taken up an undoubtedly valuable Bohanan’s table for nearly an hour.

“Unfortunately, yes.” Kate pretended she couldn’t feel patrons’ eyes sneaking curious glances at her. “And now I’m wondering if I misunderstood.” Heat crept up her neck. She took a slow breath of air scented with ninety-dollar steaks. “Perhaps I was supposed to meet him at the theater. We have tickets for
Wicked
.”