Fuck it. “Were you two still fucking when the cops came?”
“They were going to arrest me!” Delores snapped.
“You aren't in jail though, are you?”
“No, I'm not. He's seventeen. How could you?”
“How could you screw a boy younger than me in my own kitchen while I was home? You deserve to be arrested for child molesting. And I hate you, you bitch.”
“I'll put your things on the back porch. Maybe you can go live with your father, but he doesn't want you there either. We have given you everything, and you've given nothing but pain in return. You are a self- centered, hateful, evil little troll, and you've never done one unselfish thing in your life. So we got divorced, it happens, and you decided to punish us for the rest of our lives. That's over, Alice, for good.”
“I'm not the reason you got divorced, so don't try to make me feel guilty. You hate me because you think I'm ugly, and you are so friggin’ beautiful.”
“Talking to you is a waste of breath. I can't tell you anything the professionals couldn't tell us. Lawyers and shrinks, all a waste of my time and money. Good- bye, Alice. And I wish you good luck, because you lack any personality or capacity to care about anybody but yourself.”
The phone went dead.
Alice wanted to laugh because the cops had caught her mother screwing a kid in the kitchen. She wished she had a film of it to watch.
I'm an evil monster?
She's the monster.
She never loved me.
I never loved her. Screw her.
I've got money.
I can get an apartment, and I can get a job.
I'll show her.
Alice left the mall, walked to her car, unlocked it, and climbed in. She put the bag on the passenger seat, cranked it, and just sat there, thinking. Her mother was wrong. She'd done lots of unselfish things. Lots. Alice tried to think of one, but nothing came to mind.
“I gave Mr. McCarty his little toy car back when I didn't have to. That was unselfish. Totally unselfish,” she said.
She let her eyes wander to the black carry bag and, reaching in, took out the envelope to count the money. She wouldn't spend any until she got an apartment and cable TV Two grand would be enough.
She counted the bills twice. Though she was, you didn't have to be a math major to know that twenty fifty- dollar bills didn't equal two thousand dollars. Why did people always think they could fuck her over?
SIXTY-THREE
Todd Hartman placed the model car in his glove box, tucking the Colt into the center console. He opened his phone and dialed Ward McCarty, who answered on the second ring. “Hartman,” he said. “You just called?”
“Todd, Natasha remembered something. She knows who Gizmo is. Gizmo was the nickname of a child who died after she operated on him four years ago.”
Todd listened intently as Ward told him the story.
“I'm leaving Concord Mills,” he said. “I'll get what I can on Louis Gismano and we can figure out what to do when I get there. In the meantime, you stay in the house. I'll call Thumper, and I'll get some more people back out there to cover the house. I'm twenty minutes away. Keep the phone lines clear. Load the gun I gave you, keep it with you, and turn out the lights like you're going to bed so, if he's around, he can't see in. I'll call the sheriff's department on the way and get a unit out there. Make sure the house is locked up tight.”
“Okay,” Ward said. “I can do that.”
“Is Natasha all right?”
“She's upset.”
“Tell her to relax. We'll deal with this Gismano. Don't worry. I mean it.”
Todd hung up, cranked the car, and raced out of the parking lot. As soon as he got on Bruton Smith Boulevard, he dialed Thumper.
“Thumper, block the driveway until I get there. The stalker is a vet and I have no idea what his level of competence is, so watch your ass. I'm going to make some calls so real help's on the way.”
As he drove eighty miles an hour, Todd picked up the Colt and clipped the holster onto his belt.
SIXTY-FOUR
Leslie Wilde turned into the McCartys’ driveway and was coming around the first turn when she saw the truck parked across her way. A powerfully built man, dressed entirely in black, stepped from around the truck, his hand resting on a handgun at his side. She had never seen this guard before. As he approached, Leslie fought the urge to roll up the window. This guy was big, and his eyes as intense as a prison guard's in a riot. A film of sweat coated his face, and Leslie's eyes were drawn to the large knife strapped to his left thigh.
“Who are you, and what's your business here?”
“I'm Mr. McCarty's secretary. I came to bring the McCartys a bottle of champagne. To celebrate that he's been cleared.”
The guard leaned down to better see inside. “Wait, you're Mr. Hartman's girlfriend.”
“The McCartys don't know I'm coming. I brought a bottle of champagne to surprise them,” Leslie repeated. She held up the bottle. “I'll just give it to them and go. I thought you guys would be gone.”
“All I know is Mr. Hartman told me there's a stalker around who could be dangerous and to block the driveway. He's sending more guys back here. Not necessary to send me help. I can handle any stalker that shows up around here.”
He chewed his lower lip and nodded. “I'll call the McCartys and let them know you're here. If they say to, I'll move the truck and let you in.” The guard lifted his cell phone and called a number, and said, “Mr. McCarty Leslie Wilde is here. She's got something for you guys.”
The guard listened to Mr. McCarty's response and closed his phone.
“He says to come in,” the guard told her. “Go slow and I'll follow to watch you until you're safely inside.”
SIXTY-FIVE
“Leslie, you shouldn't have,” Ward said, taking the chilled bottle from her.
“Don't be silly. You guys have to celebrate.”
He closed the door and led Leslie back to the den where Natasha was sitting on the couch. A single candle in a holder set in the fireplace offered the sole illumination for the large room.
“Why are all the lights off in here?” Leslie asked. “Looks like you're having a seance. I figured you'd be dancing.”
“Todd told us to keep the lights off so anybody outside would think we were sleeping.”
“Leslie brought champagne,” Ward said. “I'll get some glasses.”
“That was thoughtful of you,” Natasha said, crossing to kiss Leslie on the cheek.
“It's French,” Leslie said, smiling. “That makes it real champagne.”
“Todd's on his way.” Ward said. “He should be here any time now. We think the man who was in the hole out there could be a man who blames Natasha for his son's death.”
Natasha told Leslie about her Google search that found Gizmo, and the story about the child's death.
“Of course you didn't, but if he thinks you murdered his child, that's what matters. Some medical review board says you didn't screw up and kill the boy, but maybe he believes it was a cover- up. Even if a panel of doctors decided you didn't kill his son, everybody thinks doctors cover up for each other the way cops do.”
“That wasn't the case,” Natasha said. “I operated to save his life. I was totally focused. It's what we couldn't have known that killed him. We could have saved him if there had been some way to know about that damage. He was hit by a car. There was a lot going on, besides the ruptured kidney that I removed, and his spleen… I stabilized him. But there was a weakened place in his aorta that blew after surgery. The wall split open and by the time we had him back in the OR, he… I did everything I could.”
“You aren't a heart surgeon, are you?” Leslie said.
“I'm not, but there was no time to get one in, and one of the best testified that nobody could have saved the child given the circumstances. The rip was six or seven centimeters long-”