Caught in the Middle (17 page)

Don alone still stood there, carnation in hand. He stared at the coffin for a long, unguarded moment. Rarely had I seen such raw pain. A shudder ran through him as he bent down and placed his flower with the others.

Then, instead of straightening, he put out his hand and placed it gently on the coffin in an intensely intimate gesture, as if he were caressing Trudy herself. I felt I was intruding, and I looked away to give him privacy.

So I had been right and Jolene had been wrong. There had been something beyond friendship between Don and Trudy. Poor Don. How ironic that if he did hurt Joan, he lost Trudy in much the same way. An injury left too long untended.

I glanced back at Don just as he straightened. Our eyes met, and I was rocked back on my heels by the emotion I saw there.

Anger. Fierce, white-hot anger.

FIFTEEN

T
rying to swallow the lump in my throat, I slipped into Patrick Marten’s viewing/funeral and took my place at the end of the condolence line slowly moving toward Liz Marten.

Pat’s death is not your fault,
I told myself.

Of course it’s not,
I answered.
I know that.

Then why do you feel so guilty?

It was my car.

And you think that makes it your fault?

I just want to make them hurt less.

It was a good thing Jack couldn’t hear me talking to myself.

“It’s your fix-it complex,” he’d say in that mocking tone he always used whenever I told him how I hurt for people and wanted them to be okay. “It’s your God complex. Why do you think you’re the one who should deal with every crisis? Why do you think you’re the one who should make everything better? Just a bit presumptuous, don’t you think? You’re Merry Kramer, girl reporter, not Mother Teresa.”

Suddenly, standing in line waiting to talk to Liz Marten, I experienced the strong mental zap of profound insight. I felt like a cartoon character with a lightbulb suddenly going off over my head. I had to force myself not to look around to see if others noticed me glowing in an electric halo.

It wasn’t presumptuous to try and help! God made me with the desire to help, and He seemed to give me the ability to comfort people. It was a God-thing, not a me-thing! It was good, and Jack was wrong.

“Merry!” Annie had to say my name several times, I was so lost in thought. She gave me a great hug. “Mom will be so glad you came.”

“Are you sure? I feel like I come equipped with bad associations.”

Annie shook her head. “Truth to tell, Mom thinks you’re pretty nice. And she loved your article on Pat today. It was kind and accurate.”

Liz turned from comforting the man and woman ahead of me. “Merry.” She hugged me.

All I wanted to do was cry, and I blinked like mad to keep from weeping. I wasn’t successful. “I’m so sorry, Liz,” I blubbered.

She smiled crookedly. “Aren’t we all. But what about you? Are you all right? I read about Andy shooting at you.”

“I’m fine,” I said.

She looked skeptical. “I’d feel terrible forever if anything happened to you because of us.”

Guilt. The one emotion there’s always plenty of.

Hannah stood beside Liz, her hair washed and curled today, but the life still gone from her face. Liz reached to the girl and slid an arm around her waist.

“You remember Merry, don’t you, Hannah?” Liz asked.

Hannah shuddered at Liz’s touch, and Liz drew her closer still.

“It’s not your fault, sweetheart,” she said, obviously not for the first time. “It’s not your fault.”

Hannah smiled wanly. Words, even the warm words of Pat’s mother, couldn’t make the guilty feelings stop.

I hugged Hannah. “She’s right, you know,” I said. “I feel guilty, too, because it was my car, but I know I’m not. And neither are you. You aren’t responsible for Andy.”

Hannah looked at me. “I know that in my head, but I can’t believe it in my heart.” She turned and walked over to stand beside Pat’s casket.

Liz watched the girl. “I hope her trust in God is deep enough to handle this. Believe me, that’s the only way to live with the pain.”

I had used untold tissues by the time the service was over, but I left more comforted than I had felt at Trudy’s. When the congregation sang “It Is Well With My Soul,” I knew that here in this little church, in spite of the questions and the pain, God was allowed to be God.

I didn’t go to the cemetery. I had an article to write, and another trip to another cemetery on this gray and dismal day would make the writing impossible. I’d be too spent.

Not surprisingly, I found Don hard at work at his neat desk before the great window. I knew he’d have to do something to work off the emotional complexities of his loss of Trudy, and what suited him better than getting lost in his beloved paper? A workaholic like him certainly wasn’t going to go calmly to Stanton McGilpin’s for the after-funeral meal. Not for him the chatter and comfort of people who shared his grief. Not with his secret pain and that anger gnawing at him.

I watched him staring at his terminal. I knew why he hurt, but I hadn’t the vaguest idea why he hated, or whom.

I blinked. Hated? Don hated? Where had that come from? I had no idea, but I
knew
I was right.

Don hated.

Poor Don.

As I chewed on that thought, I turned on my terminal and typed my password.
Whiskers.
Not very secret if you’d ever been to my house, but I’d never invited anyone from the paper to my house. Besides, who wanted my work? We’re not talking supersecret documents here. We’re talking reporting on community events open to anyone who cared to go to them. We’re talking adequate writing, not the stuff of Pulitzer prizes.

Two special people were laid to rest today in Amhearst, two people who died violently and before their time.

I wrote about the funerals for a bit, comparing and contrasting them. I mentioned the love obvious at both and the sorrow of the bereaved. I mentioned the endearing simplicity of Pat’s and the affectionate pomp of Trudy’s. And I got more and more melancholy.

I save my text and went to my e-mail. Maybe there’d be a message from Sam to cheer me up. He wrote me regularly from school, and I loved hearing from him. It was great to read his few lines and to respond with a few of my own.

Merry, what in the world are you doing? I talked to Mom last night, and she’s certain you’ll be murdered in your bed. If you are, she’ll blame herself forever for letting you leave Pittsburgh. I recommend you do your utmost to stay alive. It’d probably be best for both of you.

I grinned. He was such a sweet guy.

Sam, not to worry. I plan to stay alive as long as I possibly can—which I think will be until I’m about ninety. They won’t let me go anywhere alone, anyway. Oh, they did let me go to a couple of funerals today without an escort, but they’re keeping a good eye on me. Thanks for caring, though. Just don’t let worrying about me get in the way of your schoolwork. Gag! I sound just like Mom!

I clicked Send, then hit the icon for my next message. Up it flashed, and I began to read.

I didn’t do it! I mean it! I didn’t shoot at you! I didn’t ever do anything to you. I mean, why should I? You don’t know anything about what happened to Pat. That’s what I was trying to tell you last night.

I stared at my screen in disbelief. My heart was racing and my stomach had that funny I-might-throw-up feeling. I checked the sender’s name immediately, though I knew who it was.
Witz.
As in
Gershowitz.

I didn’t do it! I mean it!

He’s good,
I thought.
He knows how to get to me. I know he’s a killer and a liar, and yet I want to know why he claims he’s innocent. I want to understand him and his story.
I read on:

But I do know something you’d like to know. You’re a reporter, right? So you want a great story, right? Well, I got one for you. You won’t believe it.

He was right. I didn’t believe it. Andy Gershowitz was e-mailing me!

The paper printed its e-mail address, Amhearst-News.com, for letters to the editor. Working from that address, he’d probably sent the same message to every permutation of Merrileigh Kramer he could think of. And MKramer wouldn’t have taken much imagination.

Meet me, OK? We need to talk face-to-face. Meet me at Brandywine Steel at 5:45. I won’t hurt you. I promise. But I got to tell someone what I saw before the cops get me. I want to tell you. And believe me, you want to hear.

He was right. I did want to hear. Every reporter wants to hear when the object of a manhunt wants to talk.

I’ll be waiting by the door on the east side. It’s sort of dark there, but don’t be afraid. I’ll protect you.

The irony of that last line made me smile. I could just hear Curt’s response or Sergeant Poole’s.

I’ve only got one rule, and that’s that you’ve got to come alone. I don’t want any big guys with glasses chasing me all over town again. Understand? And don’t tell your boss, either. I mean it. If I see anybody with you, I’m leaving before you even see me.

I could understand his feelings after last night’s chase. He needn’t worry. I’d come alone.

If you don’t show, I’ll try again tomorrow.

I was struck by the need he felt for contact with a person who would listen. Who better than a woman with a fix-it complex, a woman called by God to listen to the problems of anyone who’d talk?

I hit Reply and typed I’ll see you at 5:45.

After I sent my answer, I reread the original message again and again. The way he worded his comments sounded like he wanted to talk about something other than his own experiences. Maybe I could talk him into surrendering! Now
there
would be a story.

My stomach still felt funny, but now it was the flutter of anticipation. The adrenaline was flowing big-time.

I glanced at the clock. Four-thirty. An hour and fifteen minutes to wait.

“Merry, what are you doing?” Don’s voice cracked like a whip.

I froze, doubtless looking guilty as sin. Don was watching me from across the room, and he looked decidedly unfriendly. When all this death stuff had calmed down, I’d have to ask him what I had done to make him so angry. I couldn’t stand having my boss displeased with me all the time.

I had a terrible thought. Was I the one he was thinking of when he looked up from Trudy’s casket at the cemetery? Was the anger there because he saw me? Was I the one he hated?

I quickly dismissed that thought. You have to have a reason to hate someone. He and I never had enough contact to generate the emotions necessary for hate. He might be unhappy with me as an employee. But hate? No, not hate.

“I’m not doing anything special,” I said, smiling in what I hoped was a friendly fashion. I could feel my face flush, and I knew I looked false and suspicious.

Don got up from his desk and started toward me, his frown firmly in place.

I glanced from him to my monitor. And don’t tell your boss, either. I mean it.

I couldn’t let Don see this letter. He’d want to come with me, or worse still, go in my place. Or he’d strong-arm me into calling the cops.

I hit the Close File icon and sent Andy’s letter from the screen. Then I hit another icon and another until I was at the main menu by the time Don reached my desk. He looked at my screen, then at me.

I’m so lousy at looking innocent when I’m not.

SIXTEEN

D
on and I stared at my inoffensive screen. I assumed that he had seen my hands flashing madly about and knew I had closed out something I didn’t want him to see. But he said nothing about it. Neither did I.

“How’s the funeral article coming?” he finally asked. The tone of voice was genial enough, but when he looked at me, his eyes were hard.

“Pretty well,” I said, hitting the right commands and calling it up. “I’ve been working hard on it.” Which was certainly true.

He leaned over my shoulder, hand resting on my desk, and read for a minute. He nodded. “Just so I have the completed piece on my desk by Monday at nine.”

“Don’t worry. You will.” I hit the Save button. “Well, I think I’ll leave now,” I said. “Enough work for a weekend.”

Don smiled thinly. He was still leaning over me, still resting his hand on my desk, and I was uncomfortably aware of his somehow threatening bulk. Threatening? He was the same man I had run to in my parking lot three nights ago. How had he become threatening?

“Spending the evening with Curt?” There was definitely malice in his voice now.

I looked at him sharply though I kept my voice mild. “Something wrong with that?”

He shrugged but said nothing.

“Why do you dislike Curt so?” I asked.

“Because he dislikes me,” Don said, and I saw the malevolence I’d seen at the cemetery.

Was it Curt he hated? Was his aversion to me because of his abhorrence of Curt?

“Everyone thinks Curt is this wonderful Christian,” Don said suddenly, spite falling like drool from his lips. “If they only knew his nasty, vindictive side, they’d feel differently.” His eyes bored into mine, and I was a butterfly pinned to a board. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he muttered. “Though why I bother, I don’t know. You deserve each other.” He spun crisply on his heel and walked away.

Stung, I stared at his retreating back. What was this
you deserve each other
bit? Where had that come from?

I could understand why he might not like Curt, especially if he was aware that Curt thought he had killed Joan. I had to assume that he knew about Curt’s suspicions.

But what had I ever done to make him dislike me? Again I thought back over the three months I’d been at
The News.
Don and I had done very well together until these past few days. Even the night I found Pat’s body in my trunk, Don had been friendly, supportive, even mildly affectionate in a distant sort of way.