You Only Die Twice (21 page)

“But she and Broussard, the second husband, lived together as man and wife for the last nine years in Seattle. They have two little daughters.”

“Then tell me what the hell she's doing dead in Miami.”

“That's what we're trying to figure out.”

“I tell you,” Pearl said, “my heart goes out to the man with the little girls, but from a strictly legal standpoint he's last in line. That marriage was bigamous. The first husband is her legal next of kin, followed by the mother's representative.”

“The one with the children is talking about an injunction,” I said.

“So is the little lady, a senior citizen, who claims to represent the deceased's mother. Should have seen the snit she was in about the first husband getting into the act. I tell you, Britt, a judge is gonna have to rule on this one. And who knows how long that'll take? Meanwhile, she's getting raunchier in the fridge. You should see how that body is deteriorating,” she said, annoyed.

“Eyes drying out and sinking, fingers getting all shriveled and mummified.”

“Oh, for Pete's sake,” I said, my head beginning to ache. “I really didn't need to know that.”

“Well, you called me, I didn't call you. And that's the straight scoop,” Pearl grumbled. “We're probably gonna have to embalm that woman ourselves before her body gets any more—”

“Okay, okay,” I said, wincing. “I'll call tomorrow. There won't be any new developments before then, will there?”

“No way. She's not going anyplace tonight.”

What time was it anyway? I wondered, exhausted. Something throbbed behind my eyes. Did I really want to meet Fitzgerald for that drink? I should have called Myrna Lewis. I called R. J. instead. He answered on the first ring.

“Oh, hey,” he said, his voice thick as though he'd been drinking. “I was expecting someone else.”

“Sorry to disappoint you,” I said. “I understand you're claiming Kaithlin's body.”

“News travels fast.”

“Why are you doing it?”

“I'm her legal next of kin.”

“I guess you knew that her—the father of her children planned on taking her home tomorrow.”

“Miami is her home,” he said. “That's where she was born, raised, and married to me.” Ice tinkled in a glass close to the phone.

“Why not give the guy a break?”

“That son-of-a-bitch was screwing my wife while I was sitting on death row!”

“But he was unaware. He's an innocent victim.”

“
I'm
the victim!” His voice rose. “How do I know he didn't influence Kaithlin to do what she did? They might have planned it together.”

“That's ridiculous,” I said. “They met out west after she left you in Daytona.”

“Nobody has ever even apologized to me!” he shouted.

There was no reasoning with him.

“Why didn't you immediately inform your lawyers when Rothman told you Kaithlin was alive and in Miami?”

He hesitated. “How did I know he was telling the truth? Nobody ever believed me. We had to find her and produce her first. She wasn't at the hotel where the detective said she was. My mother was still looking into it when the body was identified.”

“Why not just hire Rothman?”

“My mother didn't trust him.”

I sighed. “So many people are hurting,” I said. “Why not let him take Kaithlin back to their little girls?”

“Hell, no,” he said emotionally. “In fact, my lawyers say that as surviving spouse I can file claims against any property she holds jointly with Broussard out there.”

“How could you?” I said. “You don't need the money.”

“Listen,” he said, his tone changing. “I want your honest opinion. Why do you think she came back? Do you think it was that news story, that she realized for the first time that I was close to execution and wanted to prevent it?”

“I think that's exactly why she came back,” I said.
“She spent a great deal of money, risked everything, and lost her life. Why do you think she did it?”

“Because she loved me still.” He spoke the words like a prayer, the arrogance in his voice overtaken by something tender and vulnerable. “She always loved me.”

“Will you let him take her home?”

“I'll never let her go again.”

 

Heart-heavy, I reached for the phone to call Broussard with the bad news, but it rang first.

“Britt, thank God you're there!”

“Angel?”

“It's time.” She sounded breathless. “I have to go to the hospital. The baby's coming and I can't find Rooney. His beeper isn't working.”

“He walked by here just a couple of minutes ago,” I said, looking wildly around. “He's here somewhere.”

“Would you please find him, Britt? I know he wants to be there, to do this together. We went through all those Lamaze classes.”

By this time, I thought, Angel was qualified to teach them.

“Don't worry. I'll go find him right now. Hang in there.”

I stepped into the long, dimly lit corridor. No sign of him.

“Rooney! Are you there?” Nothing but my own voice bouncing off the walls. I hurried back to my desk, fumbled for the Acme Thunderer police whistle on the key ring in my purse, then ran to the fifth-floor lobby.

“Rooney Thomas!” I shouted. I took a deep breath, then blasted my brains out on the whistle. I listened but heard only the ringing in my ears.

“For Pete's sake!” I was furious. Normally, the man is lurking around every corner.

“Rooney!” I shouted down the stairwell, then blasted the whistle so hard that spots appeared before my eyes.

Blinking them away, I dashed down two flights and sprinted down the hall to the cafeteria. It was empty, lights turned low.

“Rooney!” I took another deep breath. As I placed the whistle to my lips, a figure loomed at the coffee machine in the back. “Rooney!”

He glanced up, startled. “Britt?” He squinted across the room. “Something wrong?”

“Your beeper isn't working!” I dashed toward him, babbling. “Angel's trying to reach you. She has to go to the hospital! You're about to become a father!”

His reaction made me smile in spite of myself.

“Oh, my God! It's time! I don't know if I'm ready for this!”

“Too late now, it's happening!”

“The baby!” He directed a wild near-miss kiss to my cheek, fumbled for his keys, and dashed for the door.

“Thanks, Britt!”

“Be careful,” I shouted after him, heart pounding, still out of breath.

I punched the elevator button but gave up and took the stairs, grinning. Rooney and Angel were lucky I happened to work late, I thought, as I trotted up to the
fifth floor. And if Rooney is forced to deliver that baby himself because he didn't check his beeper, it's his own fault. About time those two grew up, I thought righteously.

I caught my breath back at my desk, then called Broussard, who answered immediately. Nobody was sleeping tonight, it seemed.

“It's no mistake,” I said miserably. “In fact, a third party's involved now. A representative of Kaith—Shannon's dead mother.”

“I heard.” He sounded calmer. “I spoke to an attorney here, who was good enough to call me back at this hour. He's going to file something first thing in the morning. He sounds resourceful. His name is Pollack, specializes in probate law.”

“I don't know him,” I said. “Does he think you can win?”

“He said the only way is to present an overwhelming body of evidence showing that Jordan has no legitimate interest. He said we have three things working for us. Jordan has already refused to claim the body. Second, revenge is his only motivation, and, third, we can question his claim of being still legally married to a woman declared dead ten years ago.”

Clever. I thought. Leave it to the lawyers. Win or lose, those arguments would certainly prolong the process and excite the press.

“What do you think?” Broussard asked hopefully.

“He said not to worry. Sounded sure of himself.”

“It might get expensive,” I warned.

“Money doesn't matter,” he said. “How can I leave
her? She was running for her life when we met, running from him. I have to take her home.”

What a story, I thought, regretting that it broke too late for the morning paper. As I cleared my desk, the elevator clanked and the door slowly moaned open. I glanced up, expecting the overnight cleaning crew.

“Angel! What are you doing here!” She hobbled off the elevator, holding her lower back as if in pain. “Why didn't Rooney take you to the hospital?”

She stopped to lean heavily on Ryan's desk.

“He's not here?” she gasped. Her breath came in little puffs and pants.

“No! He left like a bat out of hell, to take you to the hospital!”

She looked confused. “But I thought he'd wait here for me. When he wasn't downstairs, I had to come up.”

“This is the craziest thing I ever heard of,” I muttered angrily. “Angel, if you plan to marry this man, the father of your child, you will have to learn to communicate with him. What's your phone number?” I demanded. She told me and I dialed. A busy signal.

I sighed.

“The kids must be on the phone,” she gasped.

“Sit down,” I said.

“No,” she said, puffing. “It's better if I stand.”

“Should I call nine-one-one?” I reached apprehensively for the phone.

“No,” she panted. “I think I can make it.”

Her use of the word
think
troubled me. I was about to retry her number when my phone rang.

“It's Rooney! He's at your place.” I handed Angel the phone. Would this night ever end? I wondered.

“Honey, the baby is coming. I have to go…” She winced and doubled over.

I snatched the phone back.

“Stay right there!” he was shouting. “I'm on the way!”

Oh, right, I thought. I'd seen his car, a bucket of bolts held together by rust.

“Oh, no, you don't,” I said. “She can't wait. Meet us at the hospital. We're on the way. I'm taking her to the ER right now! If you get there first, start the paperwork.”

He tried to argue, but I hung up.

I turned to Angel. “What's that?” A puddle had formed on the scruffy newsroom carpet.

“My water broke,” she whimpered.

I flashed back to all the women and their war stories on birthing during my last date with McDonald.

“Come on, Angel, let's go. Let's go.” I picked up her little overnight bag, grabbed my purse, and took her arm.

“Aren't we waiting for Rooney?” she panted.

“No! He'll meet us there.” I paused. “He knows the right hospital, doesn't he?”

“Of course,” she said indignantly. “Our Lamaze class is there.”

“Thank God for small favors. Come on!” I charged ahead, punched the
DOWN
button, then returned to lead her to the elevator. She winced, whined, and doubled over.

I looked around for help. The newsroom was deserted. Where are people when you need them? I thought, irritated. They're always in front of you in traf
fic, at the post office, on line at the supermarket; where were they now? “Come on, come on,” I said. “Get on the elevator.”

“Britt, I'm scared.” Her face was drawn and pale. The contraction must have passed.

“It'll be all right,” I said soothingly. “It's not like you haven't done this before.”

“I'm scared,” she said, puffing. “I think this baby is coming faster than the others.”

“It's okay,” I reassured her, and smoothed her hair.

“My car is right downstairs. There's no traffic at this hour. We'll be there in ten minutes. Come on,” I implored impatiently. “Get on the elevator!” Shoulders hunched, she took little baby steps as I steered her inside. I sighed with relief and pressed the lobby button.

She leaned heavily against the back wall, eyes shut tight.

“We're on the way,” I said cheerfully.

The elevator groaned, began its descent, then lurched to a sudden stop as the lights went out.

“Oh, my God!” I groped for the control panel, stabbing buttons frantically. One had to be the alarm bell. Nothing.

“Oh, no, no,” Angel groaned in the dark.

“Don't worry.” I tried to sound calm. “This elevator is always sluggish but it never gets stuck. It'll restart in a second.”

“Push the buttons,” she gasped.

“I am,” I said. “I am.” My fingers played them like a piano virtuoso.

Angel hiccuped in pain. “Oh, Britt. I'm having this baby!”

“No, no, Angel.” I fumbled for the cell phone in my purse, reassured by the key pad's familiar green glow.

“I'm calling for help. They'll get us right out of here.”

I hit 911. Nothing. I hit it again and heard a distant ringing.

“Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?” asked a faint, faraway voice.

“Hello,” I said breathlessly, “you've got to help us. We're trapped in an elevator at the
Miami News
building. My friend here is in labor, we were on the way to the hospital. You've got to send—”

“Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?”

“Hello, hello? Can't you hear me?”

The line crackled, alive with static, then went dead.

“What's wrong?” Angel shrieked. “Are they coming?”

“The signal's fading in and out, probably because we're between floors inside the building.”

“Britt, I'm having this baby, now!”

“No, Angel,” I said firmly. “Don't. It's not feasible. You can't do that here. This is not a good time. Just hang on and I'll keep trying. When we don't show up, Rooney will send someone or be here himself in a few—”

She gave a fierce growl of pain. “Son-of-a-bitch!” she screamed. “Get us out of here!”

I joined her hysteria, kicked viciously at the elevator door, then reached for Angel, to hug and reassure her that everything would be all right. My arms flailed in empty space.

“Angel? Where are you?”

“Down here,” she groaned. “On the floor.”

“Oh, no.”

I knelt and found her. Her skin was clammy.

“Good idea.” I tried to sound cheerful as she writhed
in pain. “Try not to move until they come.” Fear in my heart, I redialed 911.

“Don't hang up,” I shouted. “It's an emergency!”

“Are you on a cellular?” a far-off voice asked.

“Yes,” I bellowed.

“Can you move to a better location?”

“No! I can't! We're trapped!” I gave our location time after time until he finally repeated it correctly.

“Who is that screaming?”

“The mother, for God's sake! She's having the baby!”

“Calm down,” the operator said.

“Would you please just send somebody to get us out of here!”

“I have your location. We're sending the paramedics. How do they gain entry to the building?”

“It's locked at this hour, you have to get the security guard to open…”

Oh, no, I thought. Rooney. He's at the hospital.

“Tell them to get in here any way they can! Now! I don't care if they use dynamite!”

“Is this her first pregnancy?”

“No!” I said. “She's had eight prior children. Hurry!”

“We're dispatching a crew. What is the time between contractions?”

“Angel,” I asked her, “how long between contractions?”

“Less,” she panted, “less than two minutes apart.”

I told him.

“Okay,” he said calmly. “You need sterile sheets and towels. Do you have rubber gloves?”

“No, no,” I said. “Don't you understand? We have nothing!”

“Can you wash your hands?”

“We're in an elevator, for God's sake.”

“Okay.” His voice faded, then returned. “…you to stay calm. I'm with you. I want you to examine the mother for crowning, in other words, can you see the baby's head?”

“I can't see anything!” I screamed. “I told you, we're in a goddamn elevator in the dark! Wait, wait a minute.” I fumbled in my purse for my penlight. The weak, pale yellow beam wavered, the batteries nearly dead.

“Use pillows to elevate the mother's head,” he said.

“Here, Angel,” I said. I emptied her little overnight bag and propped it beneath her head.

“I have to go to the bathroom!” she wailed.

“How long before they get here?” I asked frantically.

“They're already there,” he said, “trying to gain access to the building.”

Thank God, I thought. “Hear that, Angel? They're outside.”

“How's she doing?”

“She has to go to the bathroom.”

“That pressure probably means the baby has moved into the birth canal and is about to arrive.”

“Oh, no, no, not yet,” I told Angel. “They'll be here in a minute.”

“You have any newspapers, plastic sheets?”

“No!”

“If you have a mask or gown, put them on. Make sure the mother's head is turned to one side in case she vomits.”

“Wait!” I used the penlight. Things were happening fast. Too fast.

I spread a bathrobe, a small towel, and a dress from her bag out on the floor. At least they were clean.

“It's okay, it's okay,” I told her, snatching up the phone again. “Take deep breaths. We can do this together.” Can this be happening? Is this really happening? I thought desperately.

“I want you to place one hand under the baby's head as it emerges,” the operator was saying, his voice nearly lost in the crackle of static. “Do
not
pull on the baby. Did you get that?”

“No pulling. I can hardly hear you,” I gasped; my eyes teared. What if something goes wrong, if something happens to the baby or to Angel? How will I know what to do? I quit saving the battery, slid the penlight under my watch band, and prayed. I thought I heard shouts in the building, but too much was happening and I was too busy to respond.

All of a sudden I was cradling the baby's head, horrified, yet thrilled beyond belief as an upper shoulder began to emerge and I somehow guided a tiny new life into this big and scary world.

“A boy! A boy!” I sang out to Angel. “Whoops, he's a slippery little devil.” I fumbled frantically to hang on to him.

I cleared the baby's nose and mouth with my handkerchief, then groped for the phone. Everything was warm, wet, and sticky, the air thick with the strong smell of iron.

“Is he breathing?” Angel cried.

“Is the baby breathing?” the operator echoed.

“I'm not sure,” I said, panic rising.

“Keep the baby on its side,” he said coolly. “Make sure the mouth is clear. Then lightly snap your index finger against the soles of the baby's feet.”

My frantic fingers found his feet. My God, they were so tiny.

“Lightly,” he repeated. “Snap your index finger against the soles.”

That did it. We cried, all three of us: me, Angel, and her baby.

Her shoelaces were all we had to tie off the umbilical cord. While the fire department plotted our rescue, I cut the cord in the middle, using the miniature Swiss Army knife on my key chain. The elevator, like the entire damn
News
building, was as dark and cold as an editor's heart. I gingerly wrapped the baby in my cotton blouse, then my sweater. When none of the firemen's elevator access keys worked and they were unable to access the hatch at the top, the medics decided not to wait for the elevator company's emergency crew. They cut the power, brought in bright lights and a portable generator, and used the jaws of life to peel away the doors between the third and fourth floors.

The noise was earsplitting, bright lights blinding. The first paramedic dropped down four and a half feet to join us. I was happy to see him but reluctant to give up the baby. The husky firefighter had to nearly pry him out of my arms. “Be careful,” I warned tearfully. “Watch his head. He's little, and he's been through a lot.”

 

I rode in the ambulance, a blanket around my shoulders, determined not to allow mother and child out of my sight.

“Look at him,” I told Angel. “He's beautiful. The most beautiful baby I've ever seen.”

She, and everyone else, agreed.

Rooney dashed to meet us as the ambulance arrived at the ER. The baby kicked and gurgled as I watched the little family, eyes brimming.

“Congratulations,” the husky medic said. “Good job.”

“Right.” His partner shook my hand. “Welcome to the Stork Club.” The members, he said, are cops and firefighters who have delivered babies in the field.

He fastened a tiny stork-shaped pin to the paper hospital gown a nurse had given me.

I wore it over my stained slacks two hours later when a still-giddy Rooney drove me back to the
News
, where my car was parked.

“Your life is changed forever now,” I preached, all hyped and on a roll. “He's a huge responsibility.”

“I know,” he said solemnly. “Angel and I won't let him or the other kids down. But we need all the help we can get. That's why Angel and I want you to be little Rooney's godmother. We'd been talking about it even before tonight.”

I accepted, of course.

 

Fitzgerald was seated on my doorstep. “Hey.” He sounded grumpy, got slowly to his feet, then did a double take. “Holy shit! Britt. Are you all right? Whose blood is that? What the hell happened?”

“The most wonderful thing!” I said, euphoric as a
rosy dawn erupted around us. Fluffy white clouds drifted across the horizon, dewdrops sparkled on brilliant pink hibiscus, and songbirds greeted the sun in this beautiful world, the first dawn in the life of little Rooney Thomas Jr.