Triple Exposure (13 page)

Saturday, March 8

“I heard you’d been in an accident, and I wanted to check on you.” Even on the telephone, Dr. Damien Thomas’s rich baritone reminded Rachel of a grandfatherly James Earl Jones.

But today she wasn’t in the mood for soothing. She turned away from the bright window, resenting the pathologically chipper volunteer who had earlier opened the blinds as a “surefire cure” for her gloom.

“I’m doing a lot better, should be released today. But how did you find out about it?” She couldn’t imagine that her father would have called him.

“Marianne Greenberg, your new attorney, mentioned it while we were discussing that ridiculous lawsuit.”

Rachel’s stomach spasmed. Ten million freaking dollars, and here she was, still in the hospital running up bills after two full days.

“She called you about that?” Rachel had spoken briefly to Greenberg yesterday, but the Philadelphia-based attorney hadn’t brought up Dr. Thomas. Probably, Greenberg planned to call the psychologist as a witness, as had Rachel’s previous lawyer in the criminal case. The psychologist was both well respected in the community and an advocate for violent crime survivors—Thomas wouldn’t tolerate the word “victim.”

“She wanted to discuss this latest set of photos. Rachel, I think we ought to talk about—”

“I told Ms. Greenberg I don’t want to talk about those pictures. They’re fakes just like the others. They have to be.”

“I sincerely hope you’re right about that,” he said gently, in a tone that warned her he meant to once more broach the subject of what had happened after the dinner with her students, an evening she had forgotten. She told herself it must have been the flu, the same illness that had left her sick for days afterward, nauseated with a pounding headache, her muscles aching. So what if those same symptoms corresponded with the side effects he’d mentioned, of a drug sometimes slipped into the drinks of the unsuspecting? Lots of things could cause a person to feel lousy, and anyone could pick up a few unexplained bruises.

Her mouth went dry and a fresh throb hammered at her temples. She didn’t want to think about this.

“But, Rachel, if these turn out to—”

“I’m not feeling well, Dr. Thomas. I appreciate your concern, but I don’t think I should be on the phone now.”

A long pause followed, weighted by almost-paternal disappointment. When finally he spoke again, his voice was firm. “I’m very concerned for you at this point. Your accident—is it possible you were distracted, upset about being forced to face this situation?”

“No. The trial won’t be for months and months. Ms. Greenberg told me that much. And besides, I don’t see what my distraction could have to do with the canopy popping open.”

“What if you didn’t latch it properly? Worry takes a lot of mental energy; it’s fatiguing. And denial, even more so.”

“I’m damned well not in denial, Dr. Thomas,” she said through gritted teeth.

“I’ve seen those photos. Your eyes are never open. Your limbs are—”

“You mean the porno chick’s limbs,” Rachel insisted, though she had refused to look at the photos herself. Bad enough she’d had to face the last lot in the courtroom—to see what others had imagined was her. “I’m telling you, Kyle grafted my face on all those—”

“The arms and legs are slack in every shot. As if you—or I should say, the person photographed—was unconscious.”

Tears threatened, burning her eyes. “I won’t have this conversation. I came out here to get away from what happened in Philadelphia.”
To get away from all of it
.

“And how’s that working for you?” he asked, but the question was infused with kindness.

When she refused to answer, he left her his contact numbers—including his home phone for after hours. She pretended to take them down, then told him she would call him back when she was feeling better….

Or when hell froze over, whichever came first.

She ended the call and turned her frustration to buzzing the nurses’ station and demanding to know why Dr. Franconi hadn’t shown up to discharge her.

“It
is
the weekend, Ms. Copeland.” The woman sounded tired—probably worn down from answering the same
question Rachel had already asked at least four times. “I’m sure he’ll be along soon. Now if you don’t mind, I need to deliver afternoon meds to other patients.”

Rachel fumed, wondering what it would all cost: the hospitalization, the ambulance ride, the visit to the ER. Why would no one tell her the price of things when she asked? Her father had told her she was as bad as her grandmother. “
Quit fussing
,” he’d ordered, “
and help me rest easier
by staying until the doctor gives you the all clear
.”

Whatever her problems with Patsy, Rachel didn’t want her father jeopardizing his marriage to bail her out again, nor did she want to throw up her hands and declare bankruptcy.

You’re running out of other options
. The flurry of interest in her photos had begun to generate some income, but she sensed it would be far too little, too late.

Mrs. Mary Dixon, this morning’s volunteer, knocked, then swept into the room, a Pollyanna smile dimpling her apple cheeks. With her bottle blonde French-braided hair and the arrangement clutched before her, she looked like a sixty-year-old cheerleader or a slightly addled bridesmaid. “Look what I’ve brought for my number-one patient,” she chirped as she set the vase down on the bedside table. “Somebody’s sent flowers. Now where would you like me to put these?”

Though Mrs. Dixon’s voice was worsening Rachel’s headache, she resisted the first answer that sprang to mind. “Are you sure those are for me?”

Earlier, she’d been surprised to receive a huge fruit basket from Antoinette Gallinardi, which included a message expressing her—but not Terri’s—best wishes, and Lili had brought her a hilarious get-well card, which she and Bobby had both signed. Who else would send her anything, especially so soon?

At the volunteer’s nod, Rachel added, “My family’s really not the flower type.”

Her father might be sweet, but he’d be more likely to buy
her a subscription to
Plane & Pilot
than a bouquet, while Grandma thought cut flowers an extravagant waste of money for something doomed to die. And as for Patsy…Rachel eyed the pure white mix of lilies, irises, and roses, but didn’t spot a single stem of poison ivy, though the lack of color
did
put her in mind of funerals.

“Here’s the card with your name.” Mrs. Dixon plucked it from the greenery to pass it to her. “Perhaps you have a gentleman admirer.”

Zeke Pike’s name skated across Rachel’s mind, but she couldn’t picture him sending flowers, either. After pulling out a little card printed subtly with fern leaves, Rachel decided the volunteer’s eager hovering was too much. “Thanks for bringing these, Mrs. Dixon. But I wouldn’t want to keep you from your duties.”

Once the volunteer left, Rachel flipped open the card. And stared, forgetting how to breathe or swallow. “
Looking
forward to seeing you again soon
” was not the problem. It was the “
Love & kisses, Kyle
” that had her climbing from her bed and shouting down the hallway for the woman she’d just sent out.

Concern replaced the cheerfulness of the volunteer’s expression. “Shall I call the nurse? You’re white as paper.”

“No nurse,” said Rachel as Mrs. Dixon escorted her back to bed. “I’m not sick. I just have to know, who gave you that arrangement to bring in here?”

“What’s wrong? Did he forget to sign the card?”

“It’s signed, all right, but…” The volunteer might be annoying, but Rachel didn’t want to scare her half to death by telling her that her “gentleman admirer” was the young man she’d shot, naked, in her bedroom one dark, cold night. The same pervert who’d put her face on some poor, limp woman to stoke his porn-fueled fantasies. “It’s kind of embarrassing, but back home, I—uh—I dated two guys with this same first name, so I’m not quite sure which—Could be pretty awkward to call and thank the wrong one.”

Since she was rumored to be some kind of femme fatale, she might as well use the reputation to her advantage.

Mary Dixon—who clearly had no idea of her past—laughed with delight and clapped her hands together. “Say no more, dear. I’ll look into it for you. The flowers came from a shop right down the street, and I used to be great friends with the gal who owns it.”

Once she’d left, Rachel sat up in the inclined bed and scrutinized the handwritten note more carefully. It was a woman’s script—it had to be, with those loopy little letters and the empty-circle dots. Girlish handwriting, thought Rachel, but that didn’t mean the sender had been female. For all she knew, the flowers had been ordered on the Internet or by phone. But that would require a credit card—a card that could offer her best chance to track the sender.

Was it the same woman who had called from Marfa, the woman whose desperation for revenge had warped both voice and mind? Rachel thought back again to the last threatening call, received so eerily close to the crash that could have killed her. But so far, the National Transportation Safety Board investigators had given no indication that the canopy failure had been anything other than an accident.

It was a stretch to believe the timing to be anything more than a disturbing coincidence. How could someone—especially an unhinged woman freshly arrived from Philadelphia—sneak inside the hangar and commit an undetectable act of sabotage?

Her train of thought was derailed by an authoritative knock that made her think of the deep-voiced, silver-haired doctor who had promised he would come by to spring her hours earlier.

“About time you finally made it,” she said, unable to contain her annoyance. But her visitor was the last person she’d expected. “Zeke Pike. What brings you—”

“Needed a part for one of my tools.” Wearing jeans and a
clean but worn khaki shirt, he looked uncomfortable, too big for the small and antiseptic space. “Would have set me back some, work-wise, to wait for a delivery.”

Her headache ebbed, even if he wanted to let her know he hadn’t made the drive specifically to see her. She inhaled, enjoying the new scents that had entered with him. Of good, clean man and outdoors…and maybe just a whiff of hope.

“I suppose they sell these parts right down in the gift shop?” She gestured toward the plain brown paper bag he was clutching. “That’s handy.”

He glanced down at the bag as if he had forgotten its existence, then colored. “Well, no. They don’t sell drill bits at the hospital, exactly. But the store’s in the neighborhood, so I thought, while I was this close, I might—might as well…”

When he wound down like an old watch, she looked at him, saying nothing. She had the odd sense that if she spoke, he would wheel around and bound off like a startled mule deer. A far cry from the man who had lit up her body like the Vegas Strip at the picnic table two days earlier. Though she’d had no business kissing anybody, she had to admit she’d enjoyed his take-no-prisoners approach.

But this version of Zeke Pike—hesitant, almost shy—touched her on another level. What could have cost this powerful, incredibly attractive man his confidence?

“Aw, hell,” he said. “How are you, Rachel? I’ve been—I guess you could say I’ve been worried. Patsy said you’d be all right, but—that was a hell of a lot of blood, the other day, and—”

“Facial wounds bleed a lot. Looked worse than it was. It just needed a few stitches.”

“But you have a concussion, don’t you?”

Since nodding had unpredictable results—from nausea to dizziness and more pain—she simply said, “So they tell me, but I’m doing a lot better. Besides, as many people would
attest, from my father to my teachers to—first and foremost—my stepmother, I’m the proud owner of one hard head.”

“So they tell
me
.” His smile lifted her spirits.

“I’m glad you stopped by,” she said. “I need the distraction. I’m so irritated that the doctor hasn’t shown up to release me, I was considering tossing the poor volunteer out my window for excessive perkiness.”

He glanced out the window, toward well-tended landscaping. “We’re on the ground floor, Rachel.”

With a shrug, she said, “Causes too much trouble, killing people. From this point forward, I’m settling for minor mayhem. Though if you start getting all perky on me, I can’t make any promises.”

Though her irreverence would have shocked her family, Zeke laughed, a rich, deep sound that set her tingling in places she’d been trying steadfastly to ignore. Her mind flashed to the way he’d touched her, the heat of their mouths as the two of them explored.

What would it be like to feel that heat on her breasts, to let those big hands run free over her body? But the thought took her uncomfortably close to possibilities she didn’t want to contemplate, so she shivered and buried the idea deep in her subconscious.

“Here,” he said, thrusting the bag toward her. “This is—I had some scraps and such around. Odds and ends really, and I—I thought that you might like—Well, you can have it if you…”