I stopped, taking a drink of the unlabeled juice.

“Did you?” Sister Ann asked.

“Yeah. Yes, I did. I…made up for everything I got out of that day,” I replied bitterly. I had lied to Joanne, maybe just couldn’t tell her the truth, when I had said it hadn’t happened that often. “What a good Catholic boy he was.”

“Not by my standards.” She took my hand and held it. “I am so sorry. I should have seen it. And done something.”

“What? It would have been my word against his. Aunt Greta would never believe me over him. You know that.”

“Yes, I do,” she replied. “And it’s too late for regrets over what I should have done.”

“It’s okay. I survived.”

“Yes, you have. Without becoming like them.”

Something across the street caught my attention. The workers, police, and firemen digging through the rubble had stopped. Then they started again, slowly and carefully, gently even. They had found Sister Fatima.

Sister Ann bowed her head.

I wanted to turn away, not to have a memory of her battered body, but I couldn’t, transfixed as I was by the reverent movements of the workers. I guess they felt that they were uncovering a true victim, one of unimpeachable innocence. We were spared the sight of her, instead seeing only the vaguely human shape in a black body bag.

“I guess it’s time to make funeral arrangements,” Sister Ann said wearily as some of the other nuns joined us. Two of them extended hands to help her up. “You will come by and talk to me, won’t you?” she asked me. “When I have someplace to come to?”

“Sure, Sister,” I agreed.

“I think once a week will do,” she said as she hobbled off. “I’ll call you.”

I started to protest, but she was too far away. Oh, well, I shrugged, then thought indelicately, wait until we start getting into my sex life. It would be interesting to see how far her liberalness went.

I glanced at Bernie, wondering what she thought of my revelations. Suddenly my bravado was gone, the empty feeling of “if only they knew” was back. And she knew.

“Bet you thought I was a tough guy,” I said.

“But, Mick,” Bernie answered, “isn’t it the tough guys who survive?”

I looked at her, embarrassed that it took someone I’d thought of as young and naïve to point out the obvious to me.

“Yeah, you’re right, Bern, it is the tough ones who make it. And, goddamn it, I made it.” I ruffled Bernie’s hair in thanks.

“I hate insurance agents,” Cordelia fumed as she joined us. She reached down and took the apple juice out of my hand. “Thanks,” she said, taking a swig, then handing it back to me. “Label shredding again, I see,” she said.

“Insurance on the building?” I asked.

“Yeah,” she replied, sitting down next to me. “And my car. I parked it in the shade, next to the building.”

“Oh, my car,” Bernie suddenly said. “I’d better check it out.”

“Be careful,” Cordelia cautioned. “I think they’re going to pull down the remaining walls.”

Bernie got up, dusting herself off, and headed across the street.

“What are you looking so serious about?” Cordelia asked me. “Sister Ann playing social worker?”

“I don’t think she was playing,” I commented ruefully. “Just childhood memories.”

“Unpleasant ones, I gather,” she said, pointing to my shredded labels. “Two bottles’ worth.”

“Yeah, fond memories of life with Aunt Greta and…my cousin Bayard.”

“I can imagine.”

“I hope you can’t. I hope…” I trailed off.

“I can guess. Believe it or not, you’re no less transparent than Joanne. Probably more so, since you’re more…expressive,” she finished politely.

“Oh…you’re not…”

“Surprised?”

“Upset?”

“Yes, of course I am. I hate seeing my friends hurt like that.”

I had meant upset with me. At my…weakness, defilement, all the ugly things I still carried.

“Hi, girls,” Millie said, taking Bernie’s spot in the shade. “Great way to spend a summer afternoon, huh? I finally got through to Hutch. He can pick me up after work.”

“Your car, too?” Cordelia asked sympathetically.

“Yeah, same shade, same damage,” Millie answered. “Hey, where’s your car?” she asked me.

I pointed down the street. “If any car deserved to be put out of its misery, it’s mine.”

“Let’s find an air-conditioned bar,” Millie suggested.

“I’m waiting for insurance agents,” Cordelia said.

“I’m no longer a bar girl,” I admitted.

Bernie returned. “I’ve been wanting a new car,” she said with a grimace.

“This has been a hell of a day,” Cordelia remarked.

No one disagreed.

Chapter 25

Hutch arrived a little after six. Joanne was with him.

“Geez,” he said at seeing the destruction.

Joanne stood silently looking at the rubble, her features set in a hard line. Brusquely, she turned away from it.

“Good to see you’re in one piece,” she said to me. “Two bombs in one day is probably some sort of record.”

“Two?” demanded Cordelia.

“Two?” Elly echoed.

I had, in all the excitement, forgot to mention my morning’s jaunt. So I regaled them with tales of bomb number one. It took a while, with both Joanne and Hutch asking pesky police-type questions, but I finally got through it.

“That’s it?” Millie said when I’d finished. “Some jilted suitor?”

“No, the conjunction of three madmen, with just enough knowledge and fanaticism between them to do what they did,” I replied.

“It’s a miracle only one person was killed,” Hutch said, “with the number of bombs they had.”

Danny arrived, restoring my confidence in the law enforcement grapevine.

“Holy shit!” was her comment on seeing the ruins.

She, Joanne, and Hutch, new on the scene as they were, had to walk around for a bit, viewing the rubble in all its glory. I flopped down at the foot of my favorite oak tree. It would be dark soon. Hopefully the retreating sun would take some of the heat with it.

Our latecomers returned from their amble around the ruins.

“I’m ready to get out of here,” Danny said, still shaking her head at the destruction.

Everyone agreed, but no one wanted to just go home. We decided on dinner together. Danny offered hamburgers in her backyard, while Millie was more in an “air-conditioned restaurant with tall, icy drinks” mood.

Influenced by my wallet, I sided with Danny.

It’s amazing how long it takes to make a simple decision when people’s taste buds are the deciding factor.

“A pitcher of margaritas,” Millie opined.

“Beer, in a cooler submerged in ice,” Danny countered.

“Both,” Joanne said decisively. “We’ll have dinner in some freezing restaurant, then to your place. Somehow I think we’re going to be talking for a while tonight.”

The sun had set, turning the building’s ruins into vague, ominous shapes. The corner street light still hadn’t been fixed, or was re-broken, and without the security lights from the clinic, the street was very dark indeed.

After deciding on which freezing restaurant, Hutch and Millie got into his car.

“You coming with us?” Danny asked Cordelia as she, Elly, and Joanne headed for their cars.

“No, I’ll go with Micky,” she replied. “If it’s all right?” she asked me.

“Be forewarned, it’s a black interior.”

“I’ll manage.”

I waved Bernie along with us, clearly where she wanted to be. We walked toward my car.

“Can you wait a minute?” Cordelia suddenly asked. “I’d like to get some things out of my trunk.”

“Sure,” I agreed, opening my car to air it out.

She crossed the street. Then it occurred to me that she might need some help moving sticks and stones. Perhaps a flashlight. I grabbed mine from under the seat.

“Back in a minute,” I informed Bernie.

I followed Cordelia. I could barely see her, a vague outline at the far end of the lot. I turned on my flashlight to pick my way over the rubble. Too bad the batteries were dead. I clicked it back off. Almost prepared. Good thing she’s wearing a light shirt or I’d never find her, I thought as I again picked up Cordelia’s shape at what I guessed had to be her car.

Then the darkness behind her shifted, coalescing into a tall shadow. It moved toward her.

Why the fuck aren’t you in West Texas, I thought wildly.

“Cordelia!” I shouted as I ran. “Look out!”

My warning saved the blow from landing, the timber he wielded instead ringing hollowly against her car.

I found a use for the flashlight. I threw it at him, hitting him in the shoulder. He ignored it, raising his club to strike again.

I jumped at him, managing to get a hand on his arm, forcing the blow astray.

He threw me off. I landed painfully on the littered asphalt.

“No!” I heard Cordelia scream as she grappled with him. The club was now aimed at me. I forced myself up, grabbing the end of it, trying to pry it from his grasp.

He suddenly let go, throwing me off balance. I stumbled back, landing against a car, the timber swinging into me.

He struck Cordelia with his fist, hitting her squarely in the stomach. She doubled over.

I came at him with the timber, but it was too heavy for me to raise over my head. The best I could do was slam it into his knees, a blow he was able to ignore. He hit Cordelia again, throwing her off into the blackness. I heard her land, then nothing.

I kicked him as hard as I could in the groin.

He grunted. It should have laid him out, but he was still coming for me.

“Help! Joanne, Danny!” I yelled as loudly as I could, hoping that they hadn’t left yet. “Help…”

Suddenly his hands were wrapped around my neck. “You can’t save the devil,” he bellowed. “I’ll send you to hell with her.”

I couldn’t yell anymore. I couldn’t even breathe. I grabbed at his fingers, attempting to pry them loose, backing away, until I could go no further, caught between him and one of the wrecked cars, bent back across the hood while he loomed above me. For a second, I had the pressure off, but it was a losing battle. He was much stronger than I was. I swung wildly at his face, trying to scratch his eyes, but his long arms kept him well out of my reach.

Three strikes and you’re out, I thought as I started to become light-headed.

Then Cordelia was pulling at his arm, trying to get his hands off my throat.

He made a deep, angry, animal sound as he struggled with her. One hand released. He struck her with it, knocking her back down. But it allowed me to take a breath.

My gun.

His hands were back around my throat.

He’ll break your neck if you let go with even one hand, I thought. He’ll choke me even if I don’t.

I fumbled in my jacket for the gun, his hands a circle of intense pain around my throat. I finally managed to get a grip on it, pulling it out of its holster and clicking off the safety.

Dizziness was coming back. I aimed at his thigh and pulled the trigger. The gun roared into the hot summer night. It was hard to hold steady with one hand; I almost lost my grip as it kicked.

Frankenstein bellowed in rage, the bullet doing damage.

But he didn’t let go of me.

Fire again, I told myself, but fog was creeping in. I was only vaguely aware of the metal shape in my hand. I couldn’t be sure where the barrel was pointing. At him? Or out somewhere in the night where Cordelia lay?

The world dimmed to a tiny point of light, only his twisted face at the end of the tunnel.

I thought I was lifting my hand with the gun. I thought I could feel the trigger under my finger, its resistance an almost impossible obstacle.

I wouldn’t have known I’d even pulled the trigger without the sound, the crack ringing in my ears. Then another and another, echoing in my head.

He jerked back, his hands still wrapped around my neck. He twisted again, thumbs digging deeper.

Some hot liquid spurted against my face and throat. His hands seemed to slip in it. Then they loosened. Or I couldn’t feel anymore.

Another convulsion shook him. And another person’s hands were at my throat, prying his away. I couldn’t see who, sinking, as I was, into oblivion.

“Breathe, dammit,” a voice from very far away said.

Cordelia?

I wanted to ask if she was all right, but I couldn’t.

The same hands were at my face, then a touch, and air was forced into my closed throat. I gasped and shuddered, drawing in breath after painful breath, rolling to my side to spit.

It was Cordelia. Air had restored my vision. I glanced at her between breathing and spitting. There was blood on her chin. I tried again to say something, but nothing came out.

“Is she all right?” Joanne asked.

“I think so,” Cordelia responded.

“Are you okay?”

“A few bruises. A split lip. I’ll be fine,” Cordelia answered.

“I hate to ask this,” Joanne continued, “but could you look at him?”

For a moment there was silence. “Stay with her,” was Cordelia’s only reply.

I felt Joanne’s arm lightly around my shoulders while I continued my alternate gasping and spitting up.

“Take it easy,” she said, as I attempted to get up. I made it to my hands and knees.

Frankenstein was sprawled out, his limbs at the impossible angles of the dead or dying. He was illuminated by the harsh beam of a flashlight. Pools of red in its circle of light flowed into dark liquid puddles beyond it.

Cordelia was kneeling beside him, O’Connor holding the flashlight, his gun still in his other hand.

“He says he wants a priest,” Cordelia said, standing up.

“Go to hell,” O’Connor savagely replied, then to Cordelia, “An ambulance is on its way.”

She slowly shook her head.

Then the night was quiet, broken only by my gasps and his heavy, bloody breathing.

I struggled to sit up, unwilling to listen to him die. Joanne helped me until I was sitting propped against the tire of Cordelia’s car.

“Careful,” Joanne told me. “You’re not as tough as you think.”

I tried to tell her I was okay, just a minor sore throat, but it only came out as a wheeze. I had to settle for a half smile and a bare wave of my hand.

Somewhat reassured, Joanne stood up and moved back to Cordelia.

“How many shots did you fire?” O’Connor asked.

“Until he let go,” she replied. “You?”

“Six,” O’Connor replied. “Not enough, not nearly enough,” he added softly.

And again the silence of the night, this time broken only by my rasping breath.

“He’s dead,” Cordelia said.

“I’m not sorry,” O’Connor muttered. “He got an easier death than the women he murdered.”

“Come on, Cordelia,” Joanne said. “It’s over.”

“Yeah, for you, Dr. James, it’s finally over,” O’Connor added.

Using the car for support, I slowly stood up. I was okay, I told myself. No sense having people worry about me for no reason.

“How are you?” Cordelia asked, returning to me.

I tried to reply, but my larynx rebelled. I let go of the car to show I was fine and could stand by myself. Too bad I was wrong. I pitched forward and would have hit the ground if Cordelia hadn’t caught me.

She wasn’t content to merely catch me, instead, putting one arm around my back and the other one under my knees, she picked me up.

I tried to tell her I was all right and this fuss wasn’t necessary, but my vocal cords weren’t at home.

“I’m taking her to the emergency room,” Cordelia informed Joanne and O’Connor. She proceeded to carry me across the parking lot. “Put your arm around my shoulders. It’ll make it easier to carry you.”

It’s hard to argue when you can’t talk. I did as I was told.

The gunshots had evidently drawn a crowd. Danny was keeping people out of the parking lot. Elly was off to one side, doing her best to reassure Bernie.

“Micky!” Danny called, running over to us.

I waved to show her I was okay. It was a half-hearted effort because I was very tired, I suddenly realized. Maybe the fight took more out of me than I thought.

“She’ll be okay, I think,” Cordelia said. “But a trip to the hospital won’t hurt.”

Bernie and Elly arrived in time to hear this.

“What happened?” Bernie asked, her voice wavering.

“Joanne will tell you,” Cordelia replied as she crossed the street to my car.

“You want me to drive?” asked Danny, who was trailing us.

“Could you open the door?”

Danny did and the two of them situated me in the passenger seat of my car. Cordelia got in the driver’s side.

“You got some bruises, too, lady,” Danny told Cordelia.

“I’ll be okay.” She shrugged. “I’ll call you later.”

“I’ll see you there,” Danny said, “as soon as I’m through here.”

“Okay.” Cordelia nodded.

She fished the car keys out of my pocket, started the car, and pulled away.

At the hospital, I tried to get out of the car and stand up to prevent the “me Jane” approach to transportation.

Cordelia was still in Tarzan mode, however, and picked me up, saying, “You’ll get more attention this way.”

She carried me into the emergency room.

I don’t know whether it was her carrying me or that I was still splattered with Frankenstein’s blood or the familiarity with which she said, “Hi, Albert, I’ve got a strangulation victim here,” to the man behind the desk, but we got attention. First from a nervous intern who, after a few pointed questions from Cordelia, gave way to the head of the emergency room.

After a painful exam (I guess I reacted to the pain in a lively enough manner that they were assured I wouldn’t die) I was taken to a room. I gathered that I was not to be released tonight. Cordelia was with me most of the time, only disappearing briefly to wash the blood off her face.

She would behave the same way if it were Danny or Joanne, I told myself. Don’t let her concern get your hopes up too high. But, of course, I did.

She sat on the side on my bed, absentmindedly drying her face with a paper towel.

“Excuse me, it’s after visiting hours,” an official voice said from out in the hallway. “Are you related?”

“Yes, I am. That’s my sister in there,” came the reply.

Danny entered. I think the hallway monitor was more impressed by the D.A.’s office identification she was putting away than her claim to be my sister.

“Elly’s taking Bernie home,” Danny explained. “Ms. Knight, I must say, you’ve had a busy day.” She sat on the other side of the bed. “How are you feeling?”

“Not very talkative,” Cordelia answered.

“No? I still want to hear about this morning.” When I didn’t reply, Danny caught on. “You mean she can’t talk?”

Cordelia nodded.

“Any chance it’s permanent?” Danny asked, a slow smile spreading over her face.

Cordelia started giving her the technical answer, until she noticed Danny’s glee.

“This is definitely the most novel position I’ve ever found Mick in,” Danny said cheerfully. “Silent and in bed all by herself.”

Fortunately there are other means of communication besides verbal. I made the appropriate hand gesture.

Danny was still chortling much too happily when the official voice again inquired, “Are you related?”

“Of course I am. That’s my dear, sainted mother in there,” followed by a familiar grunt. O’Connor entered.

“I have a few questions,” he said.

“She can’t talk,” Cordelia told him.

“Yes or no will do,” he replied. “Was the man who attacked you in the parking lot the same one who abducted you earlier?”