The Trouble with Andrew (22 page)

While one of the paramedics took her pulse, the cop asked her if she could answer questions. Drew said she should get to a hospital.

Katie insisted she could talk.

She described what had happened.

“What kind of car was it?” the cop asked Katie.

“I don't know. I didn't see it all. I saw the lights. There was such a glare out here…”

The cop wrote down everything she said. The paramedics brought a stretcher.

“I'm all right—”

“You're going to the hospital,” Drew insisted.

“But—”

The cop, the paramedics, everyone seemed to think she needed to get to an emergency room. She probably had a concussion—how severe, they didn't know.

“But no one can do anything—”

“They can keep you for observation,” Drew said firmly.

“Your husband's right, ma'am,” a paramedic told her. “We need to bring you in.”

“I'm not his wife,” she told the man. “And I don't have to—”

“So you're not my wife. Officer Jenkins can make you go, then,” Drew said, his voice cold.

She didn't get a chance to protest. She found herself rolled onto the stretcher and carried to the waiting ambulance.

“Jordan—”

“I'll go to Reva, and she'll bring him home with her,” Drew said.

Katie leaned back, frustrated, her head pounding. Drew would come with her to the hospital, surely, and she could talk to him, reason with him…

But though he seemed desperately worried about her, he didn't follow her into the ambulance. She heard him speaking to one of the men, but then the door slammed shut, the siren went on and she felt herself being driven onto the road.

They were extremely kind, efficient and quick at the hospital, despite the fact that the building had endured some damage during the storm and there were boards in many places where windows had once been. Katie was checked, poked, prodded, studied, X-rayed and scanned, then put in a little flowered hospital gown with no back. In her pleasant, private room for the night, she was told that she definitely did have a concussion, not too serious, but that she would be watched anyway.

The room had a bed, a television and a comfortable, big chair—and Drew. He had been home—or somewhere—because he had changed. He was wearing clean jeans and a dark knit shirt. His hair was slicked back, leaving the lines of his face striking, sharp—and more haggard than she had ever seen him.

“Hi,” he told her.

“Hi,” she said warily.

“How are you feeling?”

“I have a headache,” she admitted. “What about Jordan?”

“He's with Reva. She's staying at our house tonight with the kids. Tomorrow, when you're released, I'll pick you up, and then swing by Reva's for Jordan and take you both to the airport.”

“Drew, I don't want to go back to Orlando—”

“Katie,” he interrupted, leaning forward, “you're going back.”

She couldn't argue anymore, not that night. They had given her something that was easing the pain in her head, but stealing away her strength to protest.

“This is ridiculous. Some drunk hits me—”

“Katie, it was no drunk.”

“Who could know that I'm interested in whatever is going on at Hunnicunn?”

“I know, my mother knows, my sister knows. Lots of people know about your house, and the entire world knows about construction codes and shoddy materials down here now. You showed up at that party—”

“If everyone knows so much, it must be common knowledge that I'm sleeping with you, as well!” she said. “It was natural for me to be at that party.”

He was silent. “
Were
sleeping with me, Katie. I want you out of here, out of my house, out of my life. Do you understand?”

“I want you out of my hospital room!” she told him, very close to tears.

“I'll be in this chair through the night,” he said.

“I can have you thrown out,” she whispered.

“You can try.”

She turned her back on him. The violent action hurt her head all over again.

Knowing Drew, he probably did have some kind of sway with the hospital. She closed her eyes. They had warned she might feel sick. She didn't feel sick. Just empty. She'd lost her home, and that had been okay. Now she had lost her car. And, hey, that was okay, too.

But suddenly, though he remained near her, she felt the cold distance that seemed to separate her from Drew. She had lost him, as well.

“You keep telling me that you're the responsible person!” she whispered. “And if you are, then I haven't anything to fear. It's foolish for you to assume—”

“Maybe I am responsible,” he said. “I was there awfully quickly, Katie. Maybe I'm guilty of more than you imagine. Maybe you should be just as far away from me as possible. Has that occurred to you?” he asked.

Her back remained to him. His words seemed to scratch down her spine.

He had arrived at the accident scene first. How, why? She had assumed he had been going back to his party.

She turned to stare at him, heedless of the pain in her head. “It's no good,” she told him huskily. “You left the party to come after me. You were afraid of what I might do, or else you were worried about me. That's why you came upon me so quickly.”

“You haven't the sense to see danger, Katie! Even when your car has been totaled and you're in a hospital bed!”

“You can't just assume my accident had anything to do with you!”

“Rest, Katie,” he said firmly.

“Drew—”

He stood up and walked out of the room. She closed her eyes, then realized that she couldn't fight the medication.

She must have dozed. She awakened when a doctor flicked light in her eyes, telling her that he was sorry, but she was—excuse the term—a head case, and he had to make sure she was doing all right.

Drew was in his chair, a coffee cup in his hand.

She wanted to talk to him, reason with him. But she was too weary and too drugged.

When she opened her eyes again, it was morning. Drew was gone. Breakfast was being set on her table and a cheerful nurse was telling her good morning.

Her head didn't seem to hurt at all anymore.

“Tell, me, please,” Katie asked the nurse, “do you know what happened to Mr. Cunningham?”

“Yes, indeed. He had a few errands to run. The doctor will release you around eleven, and he'll be back for you then,” the nurse assured her. “How're you feeling?” she asked Katie.

“Good,” Katie told her, taking a sip of coffee.

“Honestly,” the nurse said, making a ticking sound, “the accidents since Andrew are just awful! It's such a strange thing, that storm. So many terrible things happening! But then again…”

“What?” Katie said.

The nurse shrugged and smiled. “We've all been trying to put in a few hours in the tent hospitals south of here, looking after all the displaced people. Andrew brought about so many broken bones and gashes and all, some serious, some not so serious. But we've managed to see all kinds of children down there who have never been to a doctor, who have never had even the minimal shots. So, in a way, some good things have happened. And, it's interesting to see how the community has bonded.”

“The rainbow after the storm?” Katie asked.

“Something like that. Well, if you need anything, just hit your call button. The doctor should be in soon, and then, hopefully, you'll be on your way.”

Drew pressed his fingers against his temple and closed his eyes at his desk.

It had happened. He didn't know why he had been so worried, what had given him a premonition that he had to get Katie out of town. Maybe there hadn't been a reason for him to be worried about her looking into things, but somehow, he had just been afraid, and now…

It was common knowledge that Katie owned the house across from his. One of the three that had gone down. But Ted Barlow might have wanted to rip the company apart, just as Seth and Susan might have.

What would have been found? His signature on the work orders…

Except that his signature had been forged, he was certain of it. Half the records had mysteriously disappeared, and Jeannie had been at a loss. But he had found a copy of one of the work orders, misfiled, and he had stared at it for hours. The signature was his—but it wasn't his. He was certain of it.

Who, who, who?

He had to think. Last night…

Katie had come here, Katie had seen all the major players. Andrea, Drew, Reva. Harry Easton and Sam Jaffe. Then, of course, there was Giles…

But Giles hadn't been here last night. Did that make him guilty, or innocent?

Katie had gone. And he had come back to the party, thinking he would stay. But he had known he couldn't stay—not with the way he had sent her from the office. He'd been worried sick even before he'd nearly driven by her smashed car.

He thought she'd driven off the road herself. Until she told him she'd been hit.

Then…

He had wanted to go to the hospital with her. He hadn't, because he wanted to see her car before the police towed it. He stood with the officer, waiting for the tow truck, trying to inspect it in the darkness with his car lights and the cop's powerful flashlight.

She'd been bumped, and hard. Bits of black rubber were stuck to the smashed chrome on her car.

And maybe…

Just a tiny line of yellow paint that didn't belong.

He tried to remember what he had done after he had sent Katie away. He'd come upstairs. He'd talked to his sister, to his secretary. Sean Carson, Giles's assistant, had come in. Giles was still at one of the work sites, Sean had said.

Giles?

That didn't seem possible…

All right, so Giles hadn't been there.

Andrea had. He had heard her voice loud and clear when he had decided he was getting a headache and had to go after Katie, just to make sure she got home all right.

Which she hadn't.

He tapped a pen on his desk. He had seen Andrea. Giles might have been anywhere, and when he'd come back, neither Sam Jaffe nor Harry Easton had been in the area, either.

“Sam? Harry? Impossible!” he said softly.

But it wasn't impossible. That Andrea might be guilty seemed impossible—she had been at the office. He wasn't guilty—he knew that. Nor Reva, nor his mother.

That narrowed down the field. When the truly impossible was eliminated, then the improbable had to be possible.

But…

He suddenly found herself thinking back. Far back. He closed his eyes again, leaning back in his chair. It was amazing how some memories could stay with you, seeming so small yet so clear years and years later.

He could remember that night, crawling out of bed, hearing his father. Stepping into the hallway and seeing his dad and the others. He remembered exactly how they had been seated around the table, so much younger then, of course. Almost thirty years younger…

His dad, at the head of the table. Sam Jaffe sorrowfully at his side, Harry Easton there, as well, and tall, skinny Trent Waite.

Poor Trent. He'd died of cancer within five years.

He'd been so appalled at the building practices he'd seen.

And Sam…

The first big wind,
Sam had said. Shaking his head. He had known.

They couldn't keep building that way, but they had families, they had to keep working…

But A. J. Cunningham had been a fighter. He had made a lot of waves. No one had ever fired him. He'd kept working until the day he died. Why, Harry Easton had told Drew that A.J. had been upset that day, telling Harry that if they weren't given more say, he'd go to the newspapers.

Drew suddenly felt a faint prickling at the back of his neck.

He wondered if…

He stood up and hurried out to Jeannie. “Is everyone in today?”

“Well, one of the secretaries on two is out with the flu—” Jeannie began.

“No, up here. On the executive floors.”

“Your sister hasn't come in. Andrea called to say that she wouldn't be coming in at all. Sam and Harry are both here—I believe they went over to see what was going on with some of the repairs at the end of the hall.”

“Fine,” Drew said. “I'll—I'll be out there myself if anyone needs me.”

He hurried past her.

He was suddenly certain that he knew who had forged his name.

And tried to kill Katie. Kill her…

Oh, God, and if he was given another chance, he did have more to cover up. More than he had imagined…

Ten o'clock, and she was free.

She wasn't waiting for Drew, and she wasn't going to get shipped out of town! Not when she felt as if the truth was just barely eluding her…

She called Drew's house and assured Reva that she was all right, then she talked to Jordan—and worked even harder to assure him that she was truly fine.

Then she asked Reva if she and her family would mind staying just a bit longer to watch Jordan.

Reva hesitated. “Katie, isn't Drew coming for you? He made reservations for you on a flight to Orlando for this afternoon.”

“He shouldn't have,” Katie said. “Listen, Reva, I just want to check one more thing. I'll see you this evening, I promise.”

She hung up before Reva could protest. Then she hurried to the elevators, determined to escape before Reva could call her back—or get Drew.

Katie couldn't imagine running around the city in her cocktail dress. Luckily, the hospital gift shop sold some knit tank tops and shorts with flamingos on them, and rubber sandals. Not an outfit she was crazy about, but for the time being, it was just fine.

Once she had changed, she hurried outside and caught a cab. “Downtown,” she told the driver. “The main library.”

“All right, lady!” It was a good fare from the hospital. He was naturally pleased.

She knew what she wanted. She went to the microfilm machine and drew up the pictures and stories from the day A. J. Cunningham had died. She read through the articles again, and the interviews with both Harry Easton and Sam Jaffe.