The Guardian (15 page)

       Lydia’s fear gave way to exhaustion and a throbbing pain in both legs.   She panted heavily and doubled over, vomiting and struggling to catch her breath.  She staggered, stumbling into a tin barrel filled with trash.  A discarded metal can clang to the ground from atop the rubble, banging noisily against the asphalt.
       Dawn stopped in her tracks, looked over her shoulder, and noticed Lydia’s inability to keep running.  She stopped and immediately returned to her side.
       “You’re bleeding,” Dawn said, lowering Lydia to the curb.
       Lydia had been shot in the back of her thigh.  The bullet passed straight through, but stricken with horror, she hadn’t felt the impact.
       “Where’s the nearest police station?”  Dawn asked staunchly.
       “We can’t go to the police – “
       “I’ve gotta get you to a hospital!  And we need to go to the police before those men find us!”
       “If you go to the police, you’ll be committing suicide,” she was grimacing and holding her bloodied suit jacket against the front of her thigh.
       “How so?”
       Breathing deeply and writhing with pain, she said, “
Those
people can buy the police.  We need to find a pay phone.  I’ll call a friend -–“
       “What about my parents?  I’ve gotta call them!”
       She glared at her, and in abhorrence, she yelled, “Shut up, goddamnit! Let me think!”
       Lydia mumbled expletives and looked up at the highway overpass.  Interstate 69.  They were seven blocks from the courthouse and a good five block walking distance from The Westin hotel where Edward and Sylvia had checked into a room.
       “I don’t think I can walk any farther.  Minute Maid Park is about three blocks that way, but we’d have to walk around it.   It’s the Astros’ baseball field.  One block further is the Westin.
       A black Mercedes strode by along the adjoining street.   One sharp right around the dilapidated building and they’d be spotted.
       “Oh, my God ---” Dawn’s mouth quivered.  “Lydia, we gotta go –“
       The frigid air became sweltering heat in those interminable seconds as she panted breathlessly, lifting Lydia off the curb by the arm, balancing her on the unwounded leg.
       Pain shot up through Lydia’s thigh and pelvis before spearing into her belly.  Wincing desperately, she gasped for air and prayed she’d remain alert as she roped her arm around Dawn’s neck, holding on for dear life.
       Dawn could feel her heart throbbing wildly in her chest, suddenly aware that her back was an open target.  She could almost feel the impact of a fiery hot bullet tearing through her flesh as she’d pivot to flee with Lydia in her grasp.
       But it wouldn’t be fast enough.
       The crazed gunman would toy with them … entertain himself … allow just a glimpse of safety, then open fire, filling them with lead.  Leave their bodies to rot where they fell.  Terrified at the thought, Dawn wanted to fling Lydia over her shoulder and dart like a gazelle to safety, but Lydia was hurt and writhing with excruciating pain.
       To their relief, the vehicle glided up the on ramp and disappeared onto the overhead freeway as they cleared Hamilton Street to Texas Avenue.  Dawn could see the red letters of The Westin hotel just two blocks away on the one-way street.   They were now eight blocks away from scene of the massacre, yet Dawn could feel death all around her and smell the metallic stench of blood permeating the air.
       By the time they arrived, Lydia’s legs were dripping with blood.  Dawn’s were trembling with fatigue and her back was aching with the added weight.  With every bit of her remaining strength, Dawn waded up the steps and cleared the threshold with Lydia still holding on like a wounded soldier on the battlefield.   As they made it through the glass doors, she heard charging footsteps from every direction, and people were shouting, then distorted figures rushed toward them, sweeping Lydia from her grasp.
       That’s all she remembered before blacking out.

                                                                        ¤     ¤     ¤
       When Dawn opened her eyes, her head and shoulders were in Sylvia’s lap.  A cold wet towel draped across her forehead and another around her neck.  She felt like she’d been hit by a Mack truck.  She sought out Edward who was standing with teary red eyes at the foot of the bed in which she lay.   Her whole body ached especially her legs and ….
       “Lydia!” she shot up, but the ensuing migraine and throbbing pain in her legs and feet reeled her back into her mother’s lap.  “Where’s Lydia?”
       “She’s at the hospital.   Y’all were so lucky.  Daddy and I were worried sick.”  Sylvia said softly.
       Anger burned in Edward’s eyes.  “You sure you didn’t have anything to do with that drug deal?  Those men apparently want you dead.”
       “Edward!  Don’t you think she’s been through enough?” Sylvia’s back steeled.
       Dawn stared at Edward with narrowing eyes, appalled by her father’s accusatory tone.  She felt imprisoned by his merciless scrutiny.  All at once she recognized that what she saw in his teary eyes was fear.
       Ignoring Sylvia, he asked: “Well?  Do you?”
       Sylvia sulked and lowered her gaze scornfully.  No use arguing with her husband -- a man who secretly believed their daughter was guilty of drug trafficking.  He would never admit it to Dawn, but he had to Sylvia.  He couldn’t keep it to himself any longer.  Tossing and turning, night after night, trying to put the pieces of the puzzle together.  Nothing she’d said seemed to fit.
       “The cartel wants me dead.  But I don’t know anything.  I swear.”
       “From what we saw on the news, the shooter had every opportunity to kill you.”
       “But Lydia and I ran before the shooting started,” Tears were pouring down her face now.  “George … they ran right over him … he was lying helpless in the middle of the street.  No one tried to help him.  I should’a tried to help him!”  she buried her face in a pillow and wailed loudly.
       A knock at the door.
       And it wasn’t just any knock, but a hard thunderous pounding as if the butt of a pistol was banging against it.  The walls rattled noisily.
       Dawn gasped.  Her wailing ceased.  She recoiled in Sylvia’s embrace.
       Edward’s forehead wrinkled with bewilderment.  “It’s just room service.”

Chapter Thirteen

The winter sky was dark and cloudy and threatening a downpour when Edward Miles steered his 1985 Lincoln Town car into the parking lot of the St. James Medical Center.  He hadn’t considered purchasing an umbrella at the supermarket buying flowers for Lydia nor had he bought himself anything to eat when Sylvia and Dawn asked for croissants from the fast food chain.  And now he wished he had both.  His stomach grumbled with hunger pains and his mouth whispered expletives at the onslaught of rain.
       The frigid January wind chilled Sylvia's bones through her overcoat
even before she'd unbuckled her seat belt.  Sylvia had the reputation of a classy lady -- well-proportioned, lovely fresh makeup, hair tastefully styled and colored reddish blond, and dressed in fashionable, yet comfortable clothing:  emerald-green silk blouse, navy slacks, a coordinating blazer, and stylish leather walking shoes.
       Dawn was sitting quietly in the backseat when Edward pulled into a handicap stall just ten feet from the entrance of the hospital.  He’d removed the handicap placard beneath his seat and was securing it around the rearview mirror when Dawn stared at him and thought:   Why does he even hide that handicap placard?  Why not allow it to be readily visible at all times?  She wondered if it was even legitimate.  Or if it was just another scam like the time when he and his brother swindled the former owner of the Lincoln she was sitting in?  Edward’s oldest brother, Freddie (Frank and Oscar’s father – Frank and Oscar were the filthy bastards who molested Dawn when she was just a child) bought the vehicle from a lawnmower repair customer; Freddie had done such good work on his equipment, the man thought selling his deceased wife’s prized possession at a steal-of-a-deal was his way of saying ‘thank you’.  But Freddie wasn’t in the market for a vehicle, and Edward was.  Fifteen hundred dollars was all the man was asking for the twenty-year-old car with thirty thousand miles and when Freddie alerted his youngest brother of the deal, the two swam like sharks.
       Staring out across the parking lot, as if she were outside her own body, Dawn watched herself carry Lydia, shot and bloodied, across the pavement, then disappear into thin air just as they reached her side of the car.  She recalled the anguish she felt, the metallic stench of blood, and the billowing cries of pain and terror that filled the air from eight blocks away.  All of those innocent bystanders.   She wondered how many of those people died.  How many were parents?  Single mothers with young children waiting for them?  And, of course, she thought about George.  She’d never forget the look in his eyes as he begged for help or the popping sound his head made when the car’s tire ran over it, and that so many people had lost their lives over her careless decision to associate with people like Amos Jones.
       She’d live with the guilt for the rest of her life.
       Dawn was looking down at her attorney’s sleeping face when Lydia finally opened her eyes and gazed back at her.
       “How are you feeling?” Dawn asked, bursting at the seams with regret and self-pity. 
       “About as good as any woman who’s been shot,” she grinned.  “Why are you crying?”
       Dawn wiped the tears streaming down her own face.  “I’m so sorry.  This is all my fault. “she said, cautiously placing her hand on Lydia’s.
       “It’s not your fault.  You can’t blame yourself for what happened --” She smiled when Edward and Sylvia stood beside Dawn.
       “The sooner you get out of here, the sooner you can eat some more of my cooking," Edward said with bright eyes, slicing the tension.    "When I’m done with you, you won't be able to 
sit in
 that lil' car."

       Everyone laughed except for Dawn.  No matter what Lydia or anyone else said, she’d always feel to blame.
       "Won't be much driving of
anything
--" Lydia pulled back the blanket.  The lower half of her left leg was gone.  "Doctor said infection set in quick since I'm diabetic.  My leg had to be removed or I could've died.   Had this not happened, I would've never known I was diabetic." She looked at Dawn.
       "You didn't know?" Dawn asked.  Regret quickly turned to relief.
       "No.  Explains my fatigue, though, and my unquenchable thirst.”
       Sylvia took a seat in a chair.  “I’ve been having the same problem, but it’s not diabetes.  My doctor isn’t sure what it is.  I need to get another opinion.   Just haven’t had the time.”
       “I thought it was the case load that had me so tired.  Don’t put it off, Mrs.  Miles.  It’s important to know what’s wrong.” She paused as if a dark shadow of grief had come over her.  “George … he used to complain about how much water I-I

… I drank.  How tired I looked all the time.  I used to curse him under my breath when all he was doing was telling me I should go see a doctor --”
       Someone was knocking at the door.
       Edward allowed two men in suits to enter.
       “Detective Julio Quinones,” the man said to Edward and presented his badge.  “And this is Detective Moore.  Houston Police.”  They shook Edward’s hand, but wasted no time with formalities.   Quinones moved toward Lydia’s hospital bed.  “Ms. Hall, may we have a few minutes of your time please?”
       “Sure.” She gestured at Dawn.  “This is my client Dawn Miles and her parents.  Mr. and Mrs. Miles from Louisiana.  Dawn and I were at the scene together when Mr. Nielson was murdered.  We were headed to lunch.”
       “Did you see anyone?  Get a glimpse of the driver’s face?” Moore asked.
       “The windows of the car were too dark.  Everything was black.  Even the front windshield.”
       “Like the car was meant to obscure their identity.”  Detective Moore was a handsome African-American man from Birmingham, Alabama.  The tone of his voice and his mannerisms spoke volumes about his upbringing; he’d been raised by his grandmother.  He was polite and respectful, unlike Quinones who had the personality of a bull – direct and pungent.
       Detective Quinones looked at Dawn blearily.  She could see he hadn’t slept much and his face was unshaven, but his starched shirt was open down to the second button giving a glimpse of the white tee shirt and all of the strength hidden underneath under his dark navy blazer.   He was a large man in his late fifties with a rock hard physique who’d worked out most of his life.
       “Mr. Nielson and the bystanders weren’t the only ones who perished.”  Quinones paused.  “The prosecutor was found in her office.  She’d been strangled.”
       “Connie?”  Lydia whispered her disbelief in a hoarse whisper.
       “His name is William Bachmaier.”
       Quinones and Moore swung around to find Bernard Delacroix standing in the doorway.  A tan trench coat draped over his arm.
       “Excuse me?” Quinones asked.
       “William Bachmaier was the driver of the car that killed George Nielson.”  His frame backlit by the bright light from the hallway, he stood in the gaping doorway, peered at Lydia and gave a stoic sigh.  “
He
is the man responsible for this mayhem.”  He moved into the room, nodded at Edward and Sylvia Miles, and laid a gentle palm on Dawn’s shoulder.  “I am probably the last person you were expecting.  I am not the monster you think I am.” He was now standing five feet away from Lydia’s bed as everyone waited patiently for what he would say next.  “Mr. Bachmaier is the man who bailed Amos Jones out of jail and the same man who paid me five hundred thousand dollars to defend him.   It is believed he works for Emilio Sal Chavez, but I have no proof of that.”
       “Why would you defend people like that?”  Dawn asked until she was abruptly cut off by Edward’s disapproving and fiery eyes.
       “Would you come to the station and answer a few questions, Mr. Delacroix?”  Moore asked.
       Delacroix turned and looked over his shoulder.  “Yes, of course.  After I speak with Ms. Hall in private.”
       “Sure.”
       Everyone exited the room and Delacroix slid Sylvia’s empty chair at Lydia’s bedside, far enough to drape his coat over his lap and cross his legs at the knee.
       He pursed his lips as if to gather the information he wanted to relinquish … or not.  “George was a great man, Ms. Hall.  I will forever hold him in highest regard,” he said acquiescently as he folded his arms.
       In her hospital gown, with her hair pinned in a bun atop her head, she looked more like a woman who’d given birth than someone whose leg had been amputated.   Lydia's skin radiated with a bronze glow and she looked refreshed as she sat upright in bed, although the car’s impact with George’s body played over and over in her head. Connie. George.  Both murdered.  Y’all were lucky, Sylvia had said.  And they were.  More blessed than luck.
       Luck doesn't shield people from bullets.
       When at last she spoke, it was with acceptance of the apology in his visit, even a request for forgiveness.
       “George was like a father to me … and I never told him.  We had our moments over the years ... He didn't deserve to die like that.”  She paused, then added.  “No one deserves to die like that.”
       "We had our differences too." He searched deep for the words to explain the emptiness he felt, but how could he tell this woman what no one knew about him and George.  He needed to confess what he'd held bottled up for so many years.  Decades. "George was ...." He couldn't look at Lydia in the eye.   "He was my brother."
       The news hit Lydia like a ton of bricks.   She would've never guessed the two were related much less brothers.  George looked nothing like Bernard Delacroix.   The men were different like day and night.
       "My father had an affair with George's mother when my mother was pregnant with me.  And when George was born, my father refused to accept him as his son.”
       “So, George knew?"
       Delacroix shook his head 'yes'.
       "I'm so sorry."
       "So am I."  He gave a resigned sigh.  "So am I."   He stared at the window and Lydia thought she saw tears forming in the man's eyes as his face reddened with guilt but she could also see that revealing such a deep rooted secret to someone close to George relieved at least some of the anguish he was feeling.   The old prude had a heart after all.
       He uncrossed his legs, leaned forward and grasped her hand.  "I know you will keep this between us."
       "Of course."
       "If you need anything, anything at all, give me a call." He slipped a card in her hand, rose from his chair and started for the door, then turned around.   There was something else he wanted to say, but the look he gave admitted his fear:    "I'm resigning as Mr. Jones' counsel effective immediately."
       It was the final strike of the chisel and with a rasp, his words became a sculptor enhancing the final form.  The guilt he'd been carrying for decades seemed to tumble off his shoulders like chips of jettisoned stone and at his feet, the discarded pile of rubble billowed up in dust.  At last, he was free.
       Delacroix exited without another word.
       Lydia never saw him again.
       And neither did anyone else.