Death By The Riverside Part 46

I cautiously opened my eyes. Cordelia was standing with her back to me, staring out the window. I propped myself up on my elbow, making enough noise for her to hear.

"I'm sorry," she said, "I didn't mean to wake you."

"I was awake," I replied.

"I've got to go." She started for the door.

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"Cordelia."

"Do you need something to help you sleep?" she said, turning back to face me.

"No. Cordelia. Why are you here?"

"I don't want to disturb you," she said, turning again to go.

"You'll disturb me more if you leave."

She turned back, then came and sat down in the chair next to the bed.

"I thought I would wait, so we could have this confrontation when you were better," she said.

"What?"

"I almost finished what my father started, didn't I? Left you there to die," she replied bitterly.

"Cordelia, don't be ridiculous."

"I'm not. Your getting out of there alive had nothing to do with me," she said.

"What could you have done?"

"Come back for you. Gotten you out of there."

"How?" I demanded.

"Somehow. I tell you not to get into any hospital emergency rooms and I'm the person who puts you there." She sat shaking her head, her arms resting dejectedly on her knees. I reached over and took one of her hands.

"Look," I said. "Look at me. There was a man with a gun. He pulled the trigger. If he hadn't pulled the trigger, I would have made it to the car. But he did, and I got shot in the leg. That was it. If you had come back, we would all be dead in that swamp right now. I survived only because they went after you first and didn't follow me right away."

I tightened my hand about hers. "And do you know what kept me alive when they were chasing me through the swamp? Do you know why I fought so hard? Because I knew that you had escaped and that you were alive."

"When we found you, you looked so close... I held you in my arms, praying that you wouldn't die. That I hadn't killed you."

"You didn't. You..."

Her beeper went off.

"I'm sorry, I've got to go."

She stood up, pulling away from me.

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"Cordelia," I stopped her. "I...care a lot about you."

"Don't. I don't deserve it."

She turned and hurriedly left.

It took a very long time for me to fall back asleep.

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CHAPTER 26.

Danny came and picked me up two days later. She and Elly insisted I stay with them for a few days to make sure that I was well-fed and taken care of.

I finally convinced them to let me go back to my own apartment with several promises that I would call them if I needed anything.

Hepplewhite meowed as if she were actually glad to see me. I ruffled her fur in greeting. I took a limping tour of the place, glad to finally be on my home turf. On Sat.u.r.day, I had insisted on going out to the s.h.i.+pyard to get my father's cane. He had used it after being wounded in World War II. Before him, it had belonged to my grandmother. It was hand-carved oak, polished and darkened by long years of use. We'd had dinner with the Claytons, and I had finally shown Danny, with Elly, around where I had grown up.

I sat at my desk, going through all the mail that had acc.u.mulated in my absence. Mostly junk with a few bills thrown in to keep me on my feet.

Torbin had sent me a series of get-well cards, most of them obscene. He had even shown up at the hospital one evening, dressed as, and claiming to be, my grandmother. The nurses couldn't figure out why I almost rolled out of my bed laughing at the sight of that gray-haired woman, with a severe bun, wire-rim gla.s.ses perched halfway down her nose, dressed in a prim and proper black dress, and what we had always called "nun shoes." Torbin never got out of character, telling me to be sure to eat all the vegetables that they served me, to be nice to those hardworking nurses, and to always read my Bible every night before I went to bed.

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But when he had leaned over to kiss me goodbye, he whispered, "Now, that Nurse Jones looks hot to trot. I bet she'd like your tongue running over her c.l.i.t. Nurse Watkins has t.i.ts out to here, you could bury your face in them for a year," and other obscenities. I'm sure it took at least three days off my recovery.

As soon as I got well enough, I was going to fix my bed and put those cards over the headboard. Then I could go to the bars and use as my line, "Hi, want to come back to my place and see my collection of dirty get-well cards?" I couldn't imagine where Torbin had gone to get some of them. But I wasn't interested in going to bars, I realized.

I made a pile of my bills and went through them, writing out checks. Ranson herself had handed me the check from Karen, so I knew it would be good. She had also told me that Karen was paying me half time until my leg was completely healed. That meant I was getting paid to sit here and write bills. By the only woman I had no compunctions whatsoever about taking the money from.

Ranson had also given me a rundown on what had happened to the rest of Korby's gang. They had rounded up a number of the goon squad at One Hundred Oaks. Not all the heroin had been loaded when the police arrived, so those boys would go to jail for a long time. Korby had left them there to take the rap. I recognized two of them as the men who had attacked me. They could add a.s.sault and battery to their drug charges. Enough of them had squealed on the rest of the operation to be able to put Jambalaya Import and Export out of business for good. But with Korby dead, all that was left of the lizard was a useless tail.

It was over. Frankie's death was avenged. And I had found out how hollow revenge was. What I had wanted was to make things whole again, to bring the world back into balance. But nothing brought Frankie back. Nothing would get rid of the plate in Barbara's skull or straighten her limp. Maybe that was why Ben shot himself. He had lived twenty years of his life for vengeance. When he found out that Holloway was dead-that vengeance was beyond his reach, all he had left was the hollowness that his hatred had burned. And Alma and David were still gone beyond recall.

I finished my bills, stamped them, and left them on a corner of my desk to be mailed. It was hard work getting up and down my three flights of stairs.

I turned and looked out my window at the pale amber light of the * 300 *

late afternoon as it glinted off distant buildings. I had always thought of this as a reflective time of day, with its contrast of low golden light and slanting deep blue shadows.

"You can tell me to go away if you want," a voice said from behind me.

I turned back around. Cordelia was standing in my doorway.

"You deserve something better than sneak attacks in the middle of the night," she said.

"Yes, I do," I replied. "And I won't tell you to go away."

She walked over to my desk and put a check on it.

"What's that for?" I asked.

"Services rendered."

"Karen's paying me."

"For after you got shot. This is for before. When you saved my life."

I didn't pick up the check, but sat at my desk, shaking my head.

"You didn't hire me," I finally said.

"I know. And I know you're too d.a.m.n proud to take money. But it's all I have to give."

"No, it's not," I replied.

We looked at each other across the width of my desk.

"I've got to go," she said, more to herself than to me. She turned to leave.

"Cordelia," I said and got up. She kept going. "I can't run after you. I'll hurt myself trying," I called, limping stiffly around my desk.

She stopped at my doorway and looked back, still poised for flight.

"One question," I said. "And then you can leave if you want." I stopped halfway across the room, leaning on my cane. "Are you still going to marry him?"

She turned to face me. "No," she said softly. "I've learned my lesson. I thought I could put my life in a neat little box, isolated from shock and pain. But that's not possible."

"No, it's not." I knew. I had tried outrunning it.

"It's a nice sunset," she said, looking out my window.

"It is," I replied.

"And you're a hero. You should ride off into it."

"Limp, I'm afraid."

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"Yes. And you should get the girl. That's the way it happens in books. But this is real life and the girl is scared and confused."

"Truth be told, so is the hero. I think real life is spending a lot of time scared and confused," I said.

"I like you, Micky. Beyond that...I don't know. I've run into people's arms before, thinking that they were the solution to my loneliness. It would be very easy to run into yours. But I'm not going to do that. Not this time."

"Just don't run away," I said.

"I need time to think. I'm taking a few weeks' vacation. I'm going to get on my bike and ride. Maybe the Natchez Trace. Somewhere where it's just me and the road. I don't know how long it's going to take me to sort things out. Maybe a long time."

"I'll be here."

"I'm not asking you to wait," she said.

"I know," I replied. "My choice."

"No promises."

"One."

"Yes?"

"Your happiness. Find your happiness," I said, looking at her. "Or as close as you can get. I would like it to include me, but if it doesn't, it doesn't. Just promise me you'll look for it."

"I promise," she said. She crossed the room to me, took my face in her hands, and gently kissed me. "For what it's worth," she said, breaking off, "this isn't easy."

"It's not supposed to be," I replied. She turned to go. "Cordelia, whatever you decide, tell me."

"Of course. It may take time. Take care of yourself, Micky." Then she walked out of my door.

I watched her descend the stairs. A shaft of golden sunlight caught her for a moment. She paused, unaware, in it and glanced back at me, her eyes blazingly blue. Then she was gone.

I stood where I was, listening for the final echoes of her footsteps.

They faded and I limped back to my desk. Waiting is the hardest part. I stood for a moment, watching the deepening shadows.

Don't wait. Don't just wait, Micky. She might not be back. Find your own happiness, with or without her. No one has it for you.

I looked at the check that Cordelia had left on my desk. My first * 302 *

thought was to throw it in the trash, but she would know I did that when it never cleared.

I picked it up. In the lower left hand corner was written, "partial payment of debt." Nothing more. She didn't use her t.i.tle, just Cordelia James. Cordelia Katherine James, I thought. I turned the check over, endorsed it and wrote, "debt paid," under my name. The money was a gift from her. To reject it would be to reject what she chose to offer.

I looked at my forlorn record collection, one of my three versions of Beethoven's Ninth facing me. I needed to listen to the "Ode to Joy,"