“Please.”
“Now I lay me down to sleep,” Reverend Maculyea began. “I pray the Lord my soul to keep.”
Joanna found the old, familiar words of the childhood prayer oddly comforting. Somehow they made her want to laugh and cry at the same time.
“If I should die before I wake,” Marianne continued, “I pray the Lord my soul to take.”
The prayer had barely ended when Joanna Brady fell into an exhausted and troubled sleep.
Seven miles away, in his luxurious rented home in the Catalina foothills, Antonio Vargas answered his doorbell. He checked through the peephole to make certain no one was there. Sure enough, there was nothing visible on his front porch but a single briefcase.
Quickly Vargas unbolted the door and hauled the case inside. It was a good one, a Hartmann with a combination lock. He spun the locks to the correct combination and snapped open the lid. There they were, lined out in neatly wrapped bundles of twenties and hundreds-$50,000-blood money, his pay-check for taking out both Lefty O’Toole and Lefty’s pal, Andrew Brady. Killing people was his job, and he was very good at it.
There had been some grumbling over the cost of this particular operation, but those L damned bean-counters didn’t know anything about working out in the field. It had been necessary to convince them what exactly was at stake if preventive measures weren’t taken. They’d come around then, when Tony had shown them in black and white that one of the most lucrative drug routes in the country-the one through Cochise County-was at risk. After that, they’d seen things his way, and money was no object.
Closing the briefcase, Vargas stuck it up on the top shelf in the coat closet next to the door. Fortunately, Angie was either smart enough to stay out of his business or dumb enough not to know what was going on. Either way, she kept out of his way and didn’t ask questions. She could cook, and she was a hell of a lay, one who seldom told him no. What else did a man want? Or need?
Tony felt his growing erection and marveled that his hard-on materialized at the very touch and smell of all that money. He wondered which for him was actually the bigger turn-on-blood or money. As he sauntered back into the bedroom, he switched on the bedside lamp. Angie Kellogg groaned, rolled over on her side, and covered her eyes with a pillow, trying to shut out the light, but Tony was not to be dissuaded. He pulled back the bedding and climbed onto the bed, turning her over onto her back and peeling back her gown.
“Wake up, Angie baby, and see what daddy has for you. He wants you to take him for a little ride.”
“Please, Tony. Not now. It’s the middle of the night. I’m tired. I want to sleep.”
“Sleep hell! Open up!”
And she did, too, because Angie Kellogg was first and foremost a survivor, and she was far too frightened of Tony Vargas to do any-thing else.
FOUR
Joanna’s first visit to the ICU came at three o’clock in the morning. The daunting collection of machines, tubes, and wires took her breath away and left her feeling weak and angry. The person lying there on the bed looked like little more than a pale representation of the man she loved. She touched Andy’s thick strawberry-blonde hair, but his eyes remained closed. There was no response when she sat down beside him and took his warm limp hand in hers. She huddled next to him for the strictly enforced five-minute period while silent tears rolled down her cheeks.
By her fourth visit, just after seven, she was better able to handle the situation. When she emerged that time, Dr. Sanders was waiting for her in the hallway. “Care for a cup of coffee?” he asked.
She glanced at Marianne who waved her away. “Go ahead,” she said. “I’ll come find you if you’re needed.”
“Thanks,” Joanna said. She followed Dr. Sanders down the hall, thinking they were on their way to the cafeteria. Instead, he led her into a tiny conference room, showed her to a chair, and then went out and brought coffee back from somewhere nearby.
“Have you seen him already this morning?” she asked. Seating himself across from her, Dr. Sanders nodded.
“What do you think? Is he going to make it?”
“He’s hanging in there for the time being,” Dr. Sanders replied noncommittally. “That’s about as good as it gets at the moment.”
He leaned closer to her across the small conference table and seemed to study her face. His searching look made Joanna feel self-conscious, and she tried to hide behind her coffee cup.
“How long have you and your husband been married, Mrs. Brady?”
“Call me Joanna. Ten years. Ten years exactly. Yesterday was our tenth anniversary.”
“You love him very much, don’t you.”
Joanna bit her lip. “Yes.”
Dr. Sanders’ face was somber. His was not the look of someone about to deliver good news, and Joanna tried to prepare for it, to steel herself against whatever was coming.
“What is it?” she asked. “What are you trying to tell me?”
“How has he seemed to you lately?” “Seemed? What do you mean?”
Sanders shrugged. “Oh, you know. Has he been despondent about anything, angry, or upset, any of those?”
“We’ve been busy,” Joanna conceded. “We both work. We have a nine-year-old child. Andy’s been running for sheriff…” She paused and examined the doctor’s features warily. “I don’t understand why you’re asking about that.”
“Have you ever read the story about the Little Engine that could? It’s a children’s book.”
“Of course I’ve read it. Hasn’t everybody? It’s one of Jenny’s favorites, but what does that have to do with anything?”
“You remember in the story how the Little Engine says ‘I think I can?’ “
“Yes.”
“That Little Engine thought he could pull the train over the mountain. He wanted to do it, believed he could do it.”
“Yes, but…”
“You asked me if I thought your husband was going to make it, Joanna, and I’m telling you. It’s going to depend in large measure on his attitude, on whether or not Andrew Brady wants to recover, on whether or not he thinks he can.”
“You’re talking about paralysis, aren’t you? You’re telling me that if he’s going to be crippled for the rest of his life, he may not want to live.”
“No,” Dr. Sanders answered slowly. “That’s not what I’m saying at all. This morning I’ve already had two calls from one of the people down there in Bisbee, an investigator. Dick somebody.”
“Dick Voland. He’s the Chief Deputy, Andy’s boss.”
“Voland. That’s right. That’s the name. We talked for some time.”
“What did he say?”
Dr. Sanders rubbed his forehead. “You may find this information disturbing, but I think it’s only fair to warn you, Joanna. The people at the Sheriff’s Department are investigating your husband’s case as an attempted suicide.”
The room seemed to spin around her. The last sip of coffee rose dangerously in her throat. She fought it back down. “No,” she said. “You mean attempted murder.”
“I said exactly what I mean,” Dr. Sanders insisted. “The physical evidence there on the scene and also what we found here in the hospital-the angle of penetration, the powder burns on your husband’s hands-are consistent with a self-inflicted bullet wound, what we call around here a misplaced heart shot.”
He waited for Joanna to speak, but she simply shook her head. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Joanna. I can see it’s a shock to you, but I wanted you to have a chance to compose yourself. There are several reporters down in the lobby waiting to interview you. Once you venture off this floor or try to leave the hospital, they’ll be all over you. I didn’t want you to encounter them without first having some warning, some time to prepare.”