In the Shadow of Evil Page 11

And maybe the break-in would be enough to keep her busy. Keep her from digging. She was the one person who could assemble the details and have it make sense. But if she had other things keeping her occupied . . .

  He liked her. Admired her. Respected her. Appreciated that she was a good contractor and a good businesswoman.

  But if he had to, he'd take more drastic measures. His own future depended on Layla not figuring it out. Not seeing the connection.

  He'd play it by ear. See what she did. Maybe she'd confide in him a little about the investigation. That'd be nice—knowing where the police were in the case.

  It might come down to him having to act further. Do something else to get Layla to lay off the searching. Not for the money, even though that's what he stood to gain. But his own preservation. And a future with his kids.

  He would do everything he could to avoid hurting Layla. She'd always been nice to him. Treated him with respect.

  Her father had been inspiring. Honorable. A good, good man.

  If need be, he'd send Layla another message. But not hurt her. That would only be a last resort.

  Feeling better about the situation and himself, he dumped Layla's computers into the bayou. The dark water bubbled as the machines sank, welcoming them to their new home. They'd never be found, but even if they were, he'd beaten them with a baseball bat earlier. No way could anybody retrieve anything off of them. Not even the FBI tech geeks.

  For now, he was safe.

  MADDOX GROUND HIS TEETH as Houston pulled the cruiser into the parking lot outside the emergency entrance to the hospital. The information pounded against his sanity. His father had come into the ER with chest pains but refused to let anyone call Maddox.

  Stubborn, ornery man.

  Thank goodness Margie had been working. Otherwise Pop could drop dead and Maddox would be none the wiser.

  "I'll go back to Taylor Construction until the crime-scene unit is done. Call in the request for the report on Randy Dean, then I'll be back." Houston paused. "Unless you'd like me to go in with you."

  "No. Thanks." Maddox curbed his emotions as the automatic doors whooshed open. Bypassing the waiting room, he stopped at the triage desk and flashed his badge. "Tyson Bishop?"

  "Examine room 4," the nurse responded without hesitation, pointing in that direction.

  Funny how a badge eliminated the need for explanation.

  He headed down the hallway, noting the numbers outside the doors. The overpowering odor of disinfectant burned his nostrils. His soles squeaked on the waxed-to-a-shine floors.

  Maddox paused outside room 4. He hauled in a deep breath, then exhaled slowly. The door eased open with a gentle push.

  His father's stare locked on to him as soon as he crossed the threshold. Pale, with wires coming off his chest and arm attached to machines, Pop looked sick. "I told them not to call you." He glared at Margie.

  She paid him no attention, nodding to Maddox. "We're waiting on the cardiologist to get here."

  "I can tell him what I want," Pop all but growled. "What about my privacy?"

  Margie rolled her eyes. "I'll be back to check on him." She patted the covers over Tyson's feet, then left.

  Alone in the room with his father, Maddox felt like the air had been vacuumed out. He pulled the guest chair next to the examining bed and slumped into it. "So, want to tell me what's going on, Pop?"

  "Nothing. They're making a fuss over nothing." His father stared at the ceiling.

  "Well, why don't you just humor me anyway?"

  Pop locked his stare on Maddox. "Don't you have murderers or rapists to catch? Something more important than sitting here with me over a case of indigestion?"

  Maddox leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and forcing the anger he felt from his voice. "Not at the moment."

  Silence prevailed, save for the beeps and burps from the machines attached to his father. The room was chilly, almost too sterile. Gave the sensation of isolation. "Tell me what's going on." How could his father be so . . . so . . . frustratingly pompous? The man would rather die than tell his son how he felt. That old, familiar resentment rose in the back of Maddox's throat, burning.

  "I ate too much chili." Pop yanked Maddox from his thoughts. "I was practicing for the church's chili cook-off this weekend and got it a little too hot. Ate too much is all."

  Something else that annoyed Maddox. In the past few months, his father had started attending church. A church, of all things. No telling what was up with that. Pop had casually mentioned going to church but never explained. Maddox hadn't asked. He still wouldn't.

  "If you thought it was just indigestion, why'd you come to the hospital?"

  "Wasn't my choice. George brought me here. The traitor."

  "George is here?" Why hadn't George called him?

  "I suppose. They wouldn't let him back here. I told him to go home." Pop narrowed his eyes. "How'd you get them to let you?"

  Maddox flashed a sheepish grin. "I badged the triage nurse."

  Pop gave a hearty roar of laughter, then grabbed his chest. His laughter turned to moans. The machine's beeping increased.

  Maddox jumped from the chair, knocking it against the wall with a clang. "Pop?" He reached for his father's hand.

  The door flew open, Margie and another nurse, a flash of motion as they went to his father.

  "What's happening?" Maddox's pulse thrummed through his veins as he was pushed away from his father.

  Margie didn't look at him. "Maddox, you need to go to the waiting room. Now."

  Pop's face contorted with pain.

  "But—"

  "Now." Her tone left no room for argument. "We need the space. I'll come talk to you in just a minute."

  Knowing she was right but hating it, Maddox stepped from the room. He couldn't make himself move away though. Not until another nurse all but knocked him over.

  With his heart in his toes, Maddox trudged down the hallway to the waiting room.

  George was on his feet in a moment. "Maddox. What's going on?"

  "Pop." Maddox dropped to a tattered chair and ran a hand over the stubble of his face. "He was laughing, then . . . I don't know. The machine went crazy. He grabbed his chest like he was in pain. The nurses came in and kicked me out."

  "That's how he was at the house." George sat in the chair beside him and placed a hand on Maddox's shoulder. "Argued with me not to bring him in. Until the pain got the better of him."

  Maddox lifted his head. "Why didn't you call me?"

  "He asked me not to. And if it was just indigestion like Tyson swore, I didn't want to worry you."

  "You should've called," Maddox mumbled.

  "I was going to as soon as someone updated me with news."

  The waiting room reeked of burned coffee. Even worse than at the office at the end of a shift. That stench mixed with the disinfectant smell turned Maddox's stomach. He glanced at the clock on the wall—5:20. Had he really been here so long?

  He pressed his fingers against his forehead, mashing. What if Pop was having a heart attack? What if he was bad sick? What if—?

  "It's going to be okay, son." As always, George was a rock. "No matter what, Tyson's a strong old bird. He'll get through this."

  Words caught in Maddox's throat. Pop was strong. But a heart attack . . .

  "What can I do for you?"

  Maddox lifted his head and stared at George. Over the years he'd noticed his honorary uncle mellowing and changing. He'd always chalked it up to advancing in age. But now . . . well, he appreciated George more than ever.

  Margie burst into the waiting room.

  George and Maddox bolted to their feet. Maddox met her across the floor. "How is he?"

  "Maddox, I'm really sorry—"

  TRYING TO SLEEP WAS futile.

  Layla punched her pillow and stared at the dawn peeking through her curtains. The sky brightened as the rising sun's rays illuminated the clouds.

  Why hadn't Maddox or Detective Wallace called yet? What
was taking so long processing the crime scene . . . her office?

  She had so much to do. Clean up the mess in the office. Order new computers. Call her insurance company to file a claim. All her responsibility. The burden was almost suffocating. She wasn't even sure where to begin. She needed to make a to-do list. That would help her sort things out. Give her a plan of some sort.

  She sat up against the headboard and turned on the bedside lamp. After a few seconds, her eyes adjusted to the light. She glanced at the clock—5:20. Too early to call Alana with the bad news, although she'd have to do that first thing. Her sister would be furious if she heard about the break-in from anybody other than Layla.

  She opened the nightstand drawer for a pen and paper. Her fingers grazed against bonded leather. Her Bible.

  With a pounding heart, she pulled out the Bible and held it close to her chest. The weight and weathered pages seemed to hug her. Sometimes she forgot to go to God first. She forgot she didn't have to be strong and in charge all the time. She didn't have to bear the burdens alone. She closed her eyes, praying and allowing herself to be comforted.

  A few hours later found her showered, dressed, and sipping coffee in her kitchen in front of the bay windows. The sun had risen over the tree line, casting prisms of light over the bayou. A curtain of Spanish moss draped off a cypress tree swayed in the morning breeze. A new day. A new beginning.

  Layla smiled to herself as she finished her java. Maybe Pastor Chaney's messages were especially for her, had she been paying better attention. Perhaps she should've appreciated his sermons a bit more.

  Her phone rang, startling her so that she nearly spilled coffee down the front of her shirt. She set down the mug and grabbed the cordless from the kitchen base. "Hello."

  "I'm sorry to call you so early, but something terrible is going on." Alana sounded distraught.

  So she'd heard. Now Layla would have to reassure her. "It's okay. They didn't get anything but the computers and my records. No big deal. The computers were insured, and I have copies of everything here."

  Alana's breathing sounded faster over the connection. "What are you talking about?"

  "The break-in?"

  "What break-in?"

  Oh. She hadn't heard. Keeping the details as minimal as possible, Layla filled in her sister on the incident at Taylor Construction.

  "Layla, this is awful."

  "No, really. It's okay." And Layla knew it would be. The initial shock had worn off, and she was fine. Ready to keep moving forward. This was nothing but a minor break in her stride. But Alana wouldn't grasp that. Not yet. She was still stunned. "So, if you weren't talking about the break-in, what did you mean about something terrible going on?"

  "It's Mr. James. Ms. Betty had to call for an ambulance to take him to the hospital."

  James Page's image slammed against Layla's mind. The sweet older man who drove the church van and helped with janitorial duties. The one who always had a smile for everyone. "What happened to him?"

  "It's scary." Alana's words spilled out so fast, they almost fell on top of one another. "His symptoms are almost the same as Ms. Ethel's. Trouble breathing. His nose started bleeding and he couldn't get it to stop." She paused. "I'm really worried. Ms. Ethel and now Mr. James. And the EMTs didn't have a clue what was wrong with him."

  Two people of the community having the exact same symptoms . . . getting sick within days of each other. Especially the nosebleeds. Those weren't all that common. What was happening?

  Alana continued, her voice warbling with emotion. "I would go to the hospital to sit with Ms. Betty, but Gavin's probation officer is on his way out, and both Fred and I have to be at this follow-up meeting. His doctor's already on his way over, so I can't just blow it off."

  This could work out. Layla turned and leaned against the granite kitchen counter. "I haven't been cleared to go back to the office yet, so I'll go up to the hospital to be with Ms. Betty." James's wife was a sweet lady who baked cakes and made casseroles for the church shut-ins and sick. She'd been very good to Layla and Alana over the years. "I don't want her to be alone."

  Alana breathed heavily over the phone. "Are you sure? I mean, I know you've been hit with a lot right now. Randy coming back, that break-in . . ."

  "I'm fine. This will give me something to do until I can get back to work. Keep my mind occupied."

  "Really?"

  "I'm positive."

  "That's great. Thanks. Listen, I have to run. Gotta meet with Fred before the probation officer gets here. Call me later and let me know what the doctors find out about Mr. James."

  "I will." Layla hung up the phone and stared back out across the bayou. The landscape was eerily beautiful. Quiet. Serene, even. The breeze rippled the water. Bare branches dipped low. Dried grasses bent in the wind.

  So misleading with what was happening to their little community.

  What was happening with the people of Eternal Springs?

  FOURTEEN

  "Good actions give strength to ourselves and inspire good actions in others."

  —PLATO

  MADDOX'S HEART CLENCHED, THEN plummeted to his toes. He crumbled to the chair in the waiting room. George squeezed his shoulder.

  "No, no! It's not your father. Oh, mercy, I just realized how that sounded. I'm so sorry for my insensitivity." Margie moved closer, her face red. "I was apologizing for being so rude when I asked you to leave the examining room."

  Nausea still roiled in his gut. "When you said you were sorry, I thought—"

  "I apologize." She shook her head. "Let me start again. Your father's EKG shows he was having a minor heart attack earlier. The cardiologist is with him now. He'll be out to speak with you as soon as he's completed his exam."

  George cleared his throat. "Thank you."

  Margie grabbed Maddox's hands. "Again, I'm sorry for the way I burst in here. I must be losing my touch in bedside manner."

  "Don't worry about it. As long as Pop's okay." Still alive, anyway.

  A siren wailed just outside the door, followed by the screeching of tires.

  Nodding, Margie released her hold on Maddox. "I'll let the cardiologist know you're waiting." Her shoes squeaked against the floor as she rushed to the entrance where EMTs unloaded an elderly man on a stretcher from the ambulance.

  George sighed heavily into the empty waiting room. "For a minute there . . ."

  "Yeah. Me too." Maddox ran a hand over his face. Every bit of energy he had drained from his body as his muscles relaxed. He leaned back in the chair. "I don't mind telling you, when that pain hit Pops . . ."

  "I know, son. I know." George clapped his back, then straightened. "It was the same way at the house. I wanted to call an ambulance, but Tyson wouldn't hear of it. He didn't even want me to bring him in." He gave a humorless chuckle. "Good thing I ignored him as usual."

  "It scared me, Uncle George. Bad." He couldn't admit that to anyone but George, who knew, understood, and loved him despite a weakness.

  "Me too."

  An elderly woman wearing a robe over a pair of pajamas was escorted in and sat before the desk. She kept glancing down the hallway where the examining rooms were. Her shoulders hunched as she sobbed silently.

  "Son, this is why I keep telling you to talk to your dad." George's wrinkled face scrunched even tighter. "Rebuild your relationship."

  "Rebuild? We never had a relationship. You know he was never around when I was a kid. And then . . . well, he blames me for what happened." Raw pain seared his gut. Just like it always did.

  "He doesn't really blame you."

  Maddox snorted.

  George shook his head. "Maybe at one time he thought he did. But it's in the past. He's had time to grieve and heal. And he's going to church now. Got religion and all that."

  God again. Where was He when someone broke into their house and attacked his mother? Just where was God when Mom lay on the floor dying in his arms?

  "Tyson loves you, Maddox. Always has. But he's stubborn too.
Doesn't know how to reach out to you. Let this be the bridge that brings you two together."

  Maddox bent over, staring at the floor, and rested his elbows on his knees. Why did he have to be the one to make the gesture? What made Pop more excusable? Pop was his father, for pity's sakes. Shouldn't he be the one reaching out to Maddox?

  The elderly woman shuffled into the waiting room. Her housecoat flapped as she slowly lowered herself into a chair. She rested her arthritically gnarled hands holding a tissue in her lap. Her head stayed bowed, but Maddox could see her lips moving.

  George lowered his voice. "You know all too well that life's too short, son. Don't let something happen without at least trying to mend this rift. This should be a wake-up call. To both of you."

  Yeah, but what about—Maddox jerked upright and stared at George. "Is there something about Pop's condition you aren't telling me?"

  "No, nothing like that. At least, not that I know about. Tyson hasn't said a word to me about anything." George stretched out his legs and crossed his ankles. "It's just that human life is so fragile. It can be gone in the blink of an eye. Don't let things go unsaid when you could just as easily say something. That's all I'm sayin'."

  Like he didn't know about the fragility of life? He glanced at the elderly lady across the waiting room. Her lips were no longer moving, but her head was still lowered. She looked so . . . alone.

  George nudged him. "Just consider what I'm telling you, okay?"

  "Yeah. I'll consider it."

  "That's my boy." George slapped Maddox's leg and nodded toward the coffee station in the corner of the room. "Think that's safe to drink?"

  Maddox followed his glance. About two inches sat in the pot. Black sludge. "I wouldn't advise it. Probably puts a lot of people in the hospital."

  George chuckled and hefted to his feet. "I'm going to hunt down something that won't rip up my stomach. Want a cup?"

  "Sure." Not that he'd be able to drink anything, much less coffee, but he understood some people's need to do something instead of just waiting to hear what might be bad news. "Lots of sugar."