Zenith Rising (15 page)

She opened her eyes at the sound of Spencer’s
voice calling 911. After he hung up, he came around her desk, and
sat on the edge of it.

“I don’t think the preacher would do
something like this.”

“Bloody, headless babies? That’s a direct
attack on you. Just like that pamphlet was. Who else could it be,
Doc?”

“I can’t believe that,” she said, shutting
her eyes.

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t shut your eyes and go to sleep, in
case you have concussion or something.”

She smiled wearily. “Who is the doctor here?
I know that. What I don’t know is what I did to deserve this.”

“Don’t. Don’t even think you deserve this for
just doing your job.”

“I don’t think I deserve this. It just makes
me so sick to think that someone, anyone, thinks I would kill a
baby. I don’t see it like that.”

“It should make you feel sick, and scared.
And quit taking the goddamned stairs alone! Haven’t I told you that
before?”

“Were you hoping to tell me you told me so?”
she asked, closing her eyes at the sudden wave of nausea.

“I don’t want to see you hurt, Doc.”

She shook her head and sighed. “I don’t,
either. God, this really hurts.”

“Did you recognize who might have done this?
Anything at all? Height, body weight, posture?”

“You mean, was it the preacher? I don’t think
so. It happened too fast. But I think it was a man, no taller than
me, though. Dressed all in black.”

“A follower of our friendly preacher?”

“Maybe.”

Silence fell between them and Erica glanced
at Spencer. “What were you doing when I called you?”

“Tamira.”

“You were doing Tamira?”

His lips rose in a half smile. “Not
literally. I was talking to her in the parking lot. Getting ready
to leave.”

“That’s why you told me you couldn’t talk
right now for? For Tamira?” Erica couldn’t camouflage the disdain
in her voice.

“I was off the clock.”

Erica fell silent and became annoyed
suddenly.
Tamira.
He almost ignored her for Tamira.

“At least, you finally took my call.”

He waited a beat, then answered, “Yeah, Doc.
Next time, I won’t ignore you.”

“So you did ignore my first two attempts?
Why? Is Tamira that riveting?”

“No. She isn’t riveting at all. But I was
that annoyed with you.”

“About the other night?”

“Yeah, the other night.”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have been so
pushy.”

“You can’t help being pushy. It’s just you.
Whatever. Forget it.”

They heard sirens pulling into the parking
lot of Erica’s building. She sighed, feeling already worn out and
certainly not willing to talk about it right then. Or go to the
hospital. She wanted to go home, and bury her head in a pillow
while pretending it never happened. But it did and she had all the
bumps and bruises to prove it.

There were loud voices and shuffling. Spencer
left her and met the crowd as they came out of the elevator.
Instantly, paramedics and police officers filled her office. They
took her statement and Spencer’s while evaluating her condition,
and gently putting her on a stretcher, which she adamantly
protested. She was outnumbered. She hated the loud, embarrassing
fuss of being a patient. She wasn’t the patient; she was the
caregiver, the person in charge, directing the paramedics, not the
helpless victim of unsolicited violence.

As she was being hoisted into the ambulance,
she spotted Spencer’s gaze in the crowd behind her. She looked into
his eyes, silently begging him to come with her for some reason.
She couldn’t articulate why, other than she felt safer, and more in
control with him present. He felt familiar, whereas all of this
felt like a chaotic, unreal dream. Her mind was receiving broken
fragments, colors and voices of people she didn’t know who kept
asking too many questions. Her addled, dizzy head felt ready to
spin off.

Then she was lying in the ambulance, and as
it took off with sirens blaring, she didn’t have a chance to beg
Spencer to come with her.

****

Later, much later, Erica’s ankle was
diagnosed as sprained and wrapped up in an Ace bandage. Her head
was fine. She was sure of that. But they insisted on keeping her
overnight just in case, and despite all her protests. She talked to
a plain clothes detective, and gave him a complete rundown of the
recent events with Preacher Don. She also told him several times
what happened in the stairwell. Her sleep was fitful and
interrupted regularly to monitor her condition. The morning
sunlight finally crept into her hospital room with welcoming
relief. She was ready to bolt out of there. She liked working in
the hospital, but not staying here.

She wanted coffee, clean clothes, and to go
home. Cranky hardly could describe her foul mood. Hearing a knock
at her door, and thinking it was her doctor, coming to discharge
her, she yelled for him to enter.

Spencer walked in. She was shocked and… what?
Delighted. Yes! She was elated to see him. The smile that cleared
the fog in her muddled head was big and genuine, coming as a
surprise, even to her.

Spencer came back.
Her relief was
all-consuming and instant. When did she begin relying on him? And
hoping for his company? When did he become the person she most
trusted? And strangely enough, she did. She trusted him like no one
else in her life. He stepped closer to her, seeming somewhat
hesitant. For the first time, it occurred to her what she must look
like. She ran a hand through her hair.

“Hey, Doc.” The long, lazy drawl had become
somehow familiar, and comforting, sending a thrilling shiver down
her back.

She smiled, and replied weakly, “Hey.”

His eyes ran over her, from her face to her
body wrapped in the sheet.

“What’s the damage?”

“Sprained ankle, bad bump on the head.
Nothing to keep me here. But of course, they wouldn’t listen to
me.”

His lips quirked at her grumpy tone. “Now I
see what a good-natured, compliant patient you are.”

“Well, I think I have enough medical
knowledge to determine if I need to stay here or not. I am a
doctor, after all.”

“I don’t think you get to doctor yourself
when you suffer a concussion.”

“You sound like them.”

“So you’re okay then?”

“I’m fine. Or will be soon enough.”

“It was ketchup on those dolls.”

“I know. The detective told me. Plain, old
ketchup and decapitated dolls. Simple enough. But creepier than
anything I’ve ever seen.”

“Sounds like Preacher Don is in the clear. He
was conducting a Bible study with thirty people or more at the time
it happened.”

“How do you know that already?”

“I stayed around last night while the police
investigated the stairwell.”

“It seems like it must have something to do
with the New Trinity Whatever Center, don’t you think? Suddenly, I
have all these nasty pamphlets written about me, and then the
headless dolls, all within a few weeks’ period. I’ve never had any
trouble before.”

“I’m thinking, perhaps someone in his
congregation instigated this. Taking the preacher’s words to some
sick new level.”

“It has to be.”

Spencer looked at her again. “Until that
ankle heals, and things calm down, you need to be much more careful
than you normally are. Like…”

“Like you? Should I be paranoid?”

“There’s a difference between being paranoid
and being careful. Try being careful.”

“Why are you so paranoid?”

He shook his head. “I’m just careful. Shit
happens in life, Doc, so why pretend it doesn’t? Just listen to me
for once, would you?”

She quieted down. Didn’t she listen to him?
She thought so, but maybe she didn’t. “I’ll be careful.”

“Good. Don’t argue then when I drive you to
work and back.”

“I’m not that helpless.”

“Your ankle is.”

She considered him. “Okay maybe it is. But
I’m not paying you to cart me around.”

“Doesn’t matter. I am. Paid or not.”

“You’ll do it anyway?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

He stared at her. “Because you take care of
everyone, but yourself. That’s why.”

“Thank you,” she said, after several long
moments spent trying to avoid his gaze.

“Have you called anyone?”

“Anyone? For what?”

He rolled his eyes. “For what? I don’t know…
help. A ride home. Emotional support.”

“Oh. No. I haven’t.”

“Jesus, Doc. What is it with you? Why don’t
you do anything for yourself?”

Her smile dimmed, then brightened. “Because
you’re here. You’ll take me home, won’t you?”

He shook his head and sighed at her. “Yeah.
I’ll take you home.”

She was glad he was there and taking her
home. Was that why she didn’t call anyone? Somehow, she’d come to
rely on Spencer. She hoped he’d come to the hospital, which was
presumptuous, considering the relationship they had. Then again,
what relationship?

But… there was something undeniable between
them. And
that kiss
. And all those intense, heated,
curling-her-toes looks. There was definitely a mutual attraction
between them.

Her doctor knocked and came in. Spencer
abruptly stood up and walked out. Why did he do that? Why did he
always assume he had to get out of the way? Did he think other
people were more entitled to be near her than he?

****

Eventually, after a final check-up, and
signing so much paperwork, she wondered if she wasn’t setting up
permanent residence there, Erica was discharged. She awkwardly wore
the clothes from yesterday and had to grimace at seeing her hair in
the mirror, as well as having no makeup on her face. Then she sat
annoyed in the wheelchair as the attendant ignored her scowl and
wheeled her out of her room. A sprain did not constitute such
overbearing treatment.

Spencer was there, waiting. He rose from his
chair and straightened up to his glorious height. God, he was tall
and handsome. Approaching her, he smiled at her scowl and walked
with her to the elevator. When the elevator doors opened, he went
ahead to get the car. Minutes later, her car came to a stop under
the covered parking by the entrance.

Her car.
He’d driven her car. Huh.

Skirting around the hood, he took her hand
and helped her as she hobbled to the passenger seat. He sat her
down gently and his arms felt strong around her.

He started the car and drove towards her
condo, adjusting the air vents until they blew cool air over her
face.

“Found your tunes. Hope you don’t mind I
changed the station.”

“It’s fine, but why do I sense you laughing
at me? What’s wrong with what I listen to?”

“It’s okay, for a nursing home.” He glanced
her way. “You’re not too into it, are you?”

She glared. “You mean, compared to your
taste? No. I’ve heard how you nearly ruined your speakers with bass
beating, earsplitting, high decibel, heavy-metal rock. Once I heard
you pulling into the parking lot from my office! Quite the
musician, aren’t you?”

“At least, no one will mistake me for a
geriatric.”

“It’s called taste, Spencer. Tasteful
music.”

He flashed her a grin. “Tasteful. Yeah, that
about sums you up.”

She shifted. “Why does that sound like an
insult?”

He shook his head. “No insult. Really. You’re
taste and class, and all that. You just have bad taste in music.
Some time, I should let you hear some real music.”

She shifted towards him. “You mean like
playing it for me, real music? You were in a band. You should be
able to do that.”

He shook his head. “You’re good. It’s not
lost on me what you did just then. Don’t hold your breath waiting
for me to play you good music.”

“I would like you to.” No, she would have
loved him to. She stared at his profile and found him breathtaking,
sexy, and familiar. Suddenly, he became everything familiar to her.
Spencer driving her car, and taking her home, felt right. Real.
Almost like a couple. She sat up straight, and wondered where that
thought came from?

Eventually, they pulled into her parking
spot. He came prepared and had crutches for her in the trunk, taken
from the clinic. He thought of everything. She smiled with
appreciation as she awkwardly tried them. He pulled her up to
standing, and she used the crutches to begin her slow clunky,
crippled gait to the elevators.

Spencer opened the door for her, and helped
her get on the couch. He was there, in her space, and it felt...
what? Good. It felt good to have him there. Good in a way that kept
her skin tingling, and her stomach churning with nerves.

She stretched her ankle out on the coffee
table and Spencer left her suddenly, but came back with a pillow
and an ice pack before setting her ankle gently upon it. She smiled
her appreciation and felt him scrutinizing her.

“You need anything else?”

“Food. A banana off the counter would be
fine.”

“How about coffee?”

“Yes, even better.”

She watched him from her couch as he bustled
around her kitchen. Opening cabinets and drawers, finding coffee
filters and coffee, and setting the coffee maker to brew.
Eventually, he brought her a plate with a muffin on it, a banana,
an apple and a cup of coffee. She tried to sit up better.

“Thank you. This is really over the top.”

“It’s just some snacks, Doc. Not critical
care.”

She drank the coffee and almost sighed with
pleasure, it tasted so good. She ate the banana too. Feeling
suddenly self-conscious, she ran a hand through her hair. “I must
look like hell.”

“You were attacked last night.”

“I need a shower.”

“Need some help with that?”

Her attention flew to his eyes. There wasn’t
even a hint of teasing, only a blank stare. She sighed internally,
the man didn’t want her.