By Your Side (13 page)

“We’re ready to move folks out of the bank,” Fletcher explained, glad to see additional paramedics coming through the door; the ambulance had been allowed in. “You’ll be sequestered at another site, a restaurant across the street.
Witnesses will be interviewed by detectives and probably the FBI, too. It’s important. Sometimes when you retell an incident, new details come to mind. And that could be very helpful to the investigation.” He caught her gaze. “After all that, when they let you go home, will your roommate be there?”

“Roommates. Two. But one is in Colorado visiting family and the other works weekends in Fresno; she stays over with a friend. I babysit her dog.” Macy rubbed the side of her neck. “I’m comfortable being alone, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I was only going to say that I’m working swings, but I could drop by.” He hoped his shrug was casual. “Check on things and see if you need anything.”

“I’m sure I won’t. Thank you, but no.”

It wasn’t until Macy got home and switched on the TV news that the horror of it really struck her. The full-color, HD reality: aerial footage of the bank and the church parking lot across the street. With a fuzzy, distant image of what was apparently a fresh oil stain on the church asphalt
 
—perhaps, investigators speculated, where the shooter’s vehicle had sat as he lay in wait.

Then came photos of the victims. That young accounts manager, her résumé photo and a candid shot taken on a beach vacation with her husband and two small children. The security guard was a grandfather to eight. He’d survived surgery for the chest wound but would likely live the rest of his life as a paraplegic. One news channel even
showed a photo of the dead police dog and several shots from the initial freeway incident, including a close-up of a cracked windshield that looked a lot like the bullet damage to Elliot’s BMW.

“We should stop meeting like this.”

Fletcher had tried to offer her comfort today. Like he had last night in Old Town. That seemed so long ago now. But his grim cliché had been true. One of the TV reporters implied the same thing when they flashed a publicity photo of Macy taken at the chaplaincy gala. “This Sacramento Hope emergency department nurse offered aid at two of the three sniper incidents. What are the chances of that?”

Macy didn’t believe for a moment that she was some sort of target, though theories on the shooter’s motives were coming fast and furious. FBI profilers would eventually put the puzzle together. Meanwhile, she was left to face the very real fact that she’d come close to death twice in the past ten days. It only served to reinforce what Macy had always believed: there was no certainty in this life. She could only count on herself. And that made it all the more important to
 
—

She reached for her phone, returned by the sheriff’s department. Tapping Leah’s contact listing, she waited while it rang . . . and rang. Then went to voice mail. Again. Macy caught sight of the bank folder she’d set on the table next to the old brass door set. “Hey, sis,” she began after taking a slow breath. “I’m still fine, just like I told you in my message earlier. But give me a call back. I want to tell you something else. Something I know you’re going to like. Love you.”

Macy disconnected. She took a sip of her tea, then hugged her arms around herself as tightly as when she hid in that awful bush today. She tested the words out loud for the first time.

“I’m buying that house, Leah. We’re finally going to have a home.”

F
LETCHER PULLED OFF
F
LORIN
R
OAD
into an empty parking lot and let the patrol car idle as he lowered the driver’s window. The chaplain pulled alongside, angling his SUV so they were as near to face-to-face as they could be
 
—without a couple of Starbucks cups. A much better idea, except Fletcher had no time. Between shift trades and overtime, he’d missed church too.

“Swing shift yesterday and here you are back again.” Seth shook his head, reaching into his pocket for his ever-present antacids. “You’ll be asleep before the Giants’ seventh-inning stretch.”

“Fully caffeinated.” Fletcher lifted his gas station paper cup. “Had to be downtown early for a big multiagency briefing.”

“The shooter.” Seth’s forehead wrinkled. “He’s directing my day too. Taylor and I are doing a debriefing with the
Sacramento Hope ER staff, and then I’ll be talking with the bank employees this afternoon.” He turned his head to glance toward the road. “You notice how light the traffic is? Even for a Sunday. Freeway too. Folks are afraid to go out. Good night to be in the pizza business
 
—unless you’re the nervous delivery guy.”

“That fits the scattered MO as well as everything else: gravel trucks, German shepherds, bank employees . . .”

“I saw a clip of Macy Wynn on the morning news.”

“That photo from the gala.” Fletcher had seen it too. Macy with Elliot Rush. Probably the only photo they could get; she wasn’t posing for the media.

“And a new video clip
 
—short one. Some eager-beaver reporter caught her on a bike trail this morning and tried to get an eyewitness statement.” Seth smiled. “What he almost got was tire marks on his back.”

“Can’t say I’m surprised.”

“I’m glad to see she’s out there riding. Physical exercise, resuming normal routines, eating right . . . it’s all helpful after a traumatic incident.”

“Sounds like you’re practicing your debriefing spiel.”

“Maybe. And that goes for you too, pal. It wasn’t only Macy who’s been on scene at two of these shooting episodes. But then I’m sure Charly has offered you a full list of the signs of critical stress.”

Fletcher smiled. “Enough to know that if I try the ‘It’s my job; I’m fine’ line, you’ll come over here and lay hands on me.”

“Count on it. Too many folks need you healthy and happy.” Seth lifted a brow. “How’s that young woman in Houston?”

“She’s . . .” Fletcher realized he hadn’t thought of Jessica since his dinner with Macy. Maybe there was an upside to critical stress. “Jessica’s fine. Busy. We both are, I guess.”

Seth regarded him for a moment, then put the SUV in gear. “I’m outta here. Promised Taylor I’d do a follow-up on one of her chaplain visits. One she did with your mom, as a matter of fact. A no-contact situation with a death notification. He’d moved away. And then this same guy went AWOL from the ER a couple of days ago without his tetanus injection. Phone number didn’t work. Since we’re involved already, I said I’d try to get new contact information from the neighbor.”

“Maybe this guy doesn’t like shots. I’m not exactly excited about a stranger coming at me with a needle.”

“I hear you.” Seth stroked his chin, his tell that he was about to philosophize. “Hard to find somewhere to put your trust these days, with all that’s going on in the world, in the government, and right here in our community. Who are you gonna believe, some politician stumping for office? A 24-7 news channel trying to boost ratings? Or maybe that infomercial guy selling the stuff that cleans the pet stains off my carpet . . . and leaves me with six-pack abs.”

Fletcher smiled, shaking his head. Seth on his soapbox.

“Everybody’s looking for something they can trust,” the chaplain continued. “In all the wrong places. Sometimes I just tell them to pull a buck from their wallets. Turn it over and read the line that’s printed right there between the eyeball pyramid and the eagle.” He smiled at Fletcher. “You know what I mean.”

“‘In God we trust.’”

“Absolutely. ‘Knock and the door will be opened . . .’ I learned it the hard way.” Seth glanced at his watch. “And now I’d better go see if I can hook a man up with a tetanus booster.”

“Catch you later.”

Fletcher watched as the chaplain popped his antacids and drove away. Then he thought about what the man had said. And about what Macy told Fletcher at the bank when he offered to come by and check on her.
“I’m comfortable being alone.”

He’d bet it was because she’d never found someone she trusted.
Including me.

Macy glanced up as Taylor joined her at the table she’d chosen. Back of the Starbucks, away from the window. “I’m glad you could meet me.”

“I almost didn’t recognize you. Sunglasses, hair tucked up in that ball cap
 
—all your disguise needs is one of those fake mustaches.” Taylor slid onto her chair and regarded Macy over her latte. There was concern on her face. “Those reporters can be a pain.”

Macy warmed her fingers on her mug of Calm brewed tea. “I’ll trade you one special agent for three reporters. The Feds kept me for three hours.”

“To see if you could recall any details that might identify the shooter?”

Macy’s short silence was filled with the steamy hiss of the cappuccino machine and baristas calling out orders. “Yes.
That and making sure I have no connection to him. Three shootings and I’m lucky enough to be at two.”

Taylor’s eyes widened. “They don’t really believe these incidents have something to do with you?”

“I don’t think so. Even if the media vampires seem to.” Macy lifted her sunglasses, met Taylor’s gaze. She had to ask. It was one of the reasons she’d asked Taylor to meet her here. “Does the Sacramento Hope staff think that? Is that why they ‘strongly suggested’ I take a few days off? Afraid I’m making the hospital a target?”

“No.” Taylor sighed. “At least no one said it openly. And several people expressed concern for you, Macy. They love you. We’re like a family. You know that.”

Macy’s throat tightened. She raised her tea to her lips.

“Everyone’s edgy. Anxious. It’s understandable. After what happened to Andi and now this. All of the shootings happened within a five-mile radius. The hospital’s in there too.” Taylor nodded. “Seth and I had that debriefing with the staff. I was hoping you’d come.”

“I’m banished, and I’m not big on those kinds of things. I do better dealing with stuff on my own. It’s nothing personal against you. Really. How’d it go?”

Taylor frowned. “It turned into a major gripe session about hospital security or the chronic lack of it. Nobody feels safe. Seth and I tried to offer coping tips for stress but finally walked away thinking what would help most right now is a thick perimeter of cops.” She raised her brows. “Charly mentioned you had dinner with Fletcher.”

Heat crept up Macy’s neck
 
—she blamed it on the hot tea. “You know I never turn down a free meal. I promise it’s
not my personal attempt at a law enforcement perimeter.” She smirked. “I’d be smarter than to choose a cop who’s also been at two of those shootings.”

“True.” Taylor’s expression said she hadn’t bought the whole story. “I won’t say another thing
 
—except I like him. What are you going to do with three days off?”

“I’m getting some paperwork together.” Macy’s stomach did a flip-flop. “To buy a house.” She’d expected Taylor’s surprise. “That’s why I was at the bank. I know it doesn’t sound like me. The girl who can’t even commit to a cell phone plan. I’m not doing it for myself
 
—you know I’m not choosy about where I live. I’m doing it for Leah. So she’ll finally have some stability in her life. I want that for her.”

Taylor pressed her fingers to her chest. “That’s so wonderful.”

“We haven’t worked out the details yet.” Hard to do when Leah didn’t answer her messages. “But Elliot works with a Realtor, and they’re getting the ball rolling. We should have an offer in by Tuesday. It’s . . . it’s a great little place. I haven’t even seen the inside yet, but I can tell that it’s right.”

Taylor smiled. “I know the feeling.”

“So anyway . . .” Macy slid her sunglasses back into place and glanced toward the door. “I thought I’d do another drive-by. Want to see it?”

Taylor reached for her coffee cup. “Let’s go.”

He crumpled more pages of the newspaper and fed them into the campfire, making certain the front pages had been totally consumed. People might come snooping, find the
ashes, and wonder if this homeless person had more than an ordinary interest in the freeway sniper. He frowned; he wasn’t sure if he was okay with that name. But maybe it was better than dog murderer or . . . woman killer. His gut roiled. Partly from those frozen burritos he’d tried to cook over the fire and also because this was about so much more than killing a dog or some woman with two kids. No one got that.

He poked at the fire with a piece of river driftwood, remembering what he’d read in the newspaper articles. Those government agents were trying to put it together. But it wouldn’t happen. He’d be safe as long as he kept a low profile and didn’t do anything dumb again. Like dropping that bullet casing at the freeway.

He lifted a newspaper sheet, saw the photo of that nurse again. It was hard to tell for sure, but she looked Asian . . . or partly. Wynn wasn’t a Chinese name. But it didn’t mean she didn’t have connections overseas. Everybody had connections these days. Everybody was watching. He’d be a fool to trust anyone.

He’d seen the nurse at the bank
 
—through his rifle scope. They said she was at the freeway, too. Speculated that he was stalking her. Only maybe . . . maybe Macy Wynn was following
him
. Knew what he was doing. She worked at Sacramento Hope.

Idiot! This isn’t about hospitals . . .

He dropped the stick, cursed. Then pressed his fingers hard against his temples to stop the hissing whispers. And those electric hums that sliced through his brain . . . like his bullet hitting that bank woman. A kill shot. The same as
deer hunting.
“Hit him just below the ear, Son; you’ll drop him in one shot.”
He’d missed with the guard because that Chinese nurse distracted him.

He pressed harder to try to stop the whispers, in a foreign language now. Cursing him? Yes. Branding him a failure. He deserved it.

“I’m sorry, Dad,” he whispered into the smoky darkness. “I’ll do better next time.”