The Stranger You Seek - By Amanda Kyle Williams Page 0,60

mood-altering substances on himself, took my complaints so seriously that he disappeared for most of the day and returned with a batch of his homemade hash brownies and some green and white capsules that he swore would make my eyes roll back in my head. I tossed the unidentified pills into the garbage when he wasn’t looking and put the brownies aside.

I was in Piedmont Hospital in Midtown with no memory of the trip here. I had been out cold for four hours before I opened my eyes to a throbbing headache and the men in my life staring down at me—Rauser, Neil, and my dad, all three needing a comb and a fresh shirt and reeking of tobacco smoke. I was quite surprised to be here, to be anywhere, really. I remembered seeing the railing coming at me and in a moment of terrifying clarity thinking I’d been wrong, that it was about more than just watching, the whole thing was a setup, that this person was behind me and wanted to kill me, disable my vehicle, acquire and toy with me, torture me and God only knows what else. In those spinning-out-of-control seconds, I think I flashed on every crime scene and bloody photograph I’d ever seen.

“Am I in heaven?” I whispered weakly, really playing it up.

Rauser rolled his eyes. “She’s normal.”

My father, an earnest man who never really got my sense of humor, kissed my forehead and touched my face with his rough hands. “No, baby, you’re in the hospital.” He said it slowly and very loudly, as if I had been brain-damaged.

Thanks, Dad.

“Your mother’s gone for some coffee. She’ll be right back. Diane’s with her.”

“You let Mother have coffee? Oh, good. That should help my headache.”

“I shoulda had some decent seat belts put in that old car,” my dad went on. “I didn’t even think about it. Those old lap belts just don’t do the job.”

After almost forty years with my mother, my father had learned to accept responsibility for everything. If it went wrong, Dad was to blame. There were rarely exceptions. Guilt was just part of life with Mother.

“This isn’t your fault.” I held his hand—it hurt to move—and looked into his pale, watery blue eyes. “Teaching me to drive like a redneck, now that’s your fault. How’s my car?”

“Beat up bad as you are,” he said, and tilted his head toward Rauser. “Aaron had it towed over to the police station until we send it somewhere for fixin’. Sure is a good thing he saw you on the road.”

Rauser gave me a wink and I realized he had lied to my parents about what had happened out there on the interstate. But what exactly had happened out there? An accident? Or had the Impala been tampered with? Had I been followed? Had they captured a stalker? Was it Wishbone? I wouldn’t get the answers until I had some time alone with Rauser. And that wasn’t going to happen as long as my parents were hanging around. Might as well settle in and let everyone fall all over themselves to care for me.

A muffled ring came from Rauser’s pocket. He pulled out his phone and answered, listened, said “Give me a half hour,” and snapped the phone shut.

He leaned over me and brushed my cheek with his fingertips. “Chief wants to see me,” he said, and rolled his eyes again. Rauser never liked being invited to Chief Connor’s office. He said it was never good news. He respected Connor but their paths had split years ago. Jefferson Connor understood the politics of success, knew instinctively when and where to insert himself. Rauser had done quite the opposite thing, butting his head up against rank and policy a little too often. Connor not only enjoyed the privileges of position, the guy clearly loved the responsibilities of a bureaucracy. Rauser had resisted anything that might prevent him from working a case hands-on. When he had finally accepted the promotion and the responsibility of the Homicide unit, he’d made the chief agree that he wouldn’t be chained to the establishment. Connor had reluctantly agreed. Jeff Connor had not finished his climb, Rauser said. Connor intended to be attorney general one day and Rauser believed he’d get there.

“I’ll check on you later,” Rauser told me. “Howard, you make sure she stays in bed, okay?”

“You bet,” my dad answered as the door opened and my mother walked in balancing coffee cups. Behind her, Diane had a stack of vending-machine