While Justice Sleeps(6)
“You can’t do what?”
“I can’t do nothing. It’s not right.”
A long silence, then: “Leave the house, Nurse Lewis. At once.”
“I said I can’t. An ambulance is on the way,” Jamie confessed. “I had no choice.”
“This is a national security matter. You were told not to contact anyone except for me. Not to take heroic measures to prolong his life. Did you misunderstand?”
“No. But I had to help him. He needs a doctor.”
The admission of the former Army nurse told the man on the line that her usefulness was at an end. “Understood.”
Nonplussed by the response, she asked, “What happens now?”
“Take him to the hospital, and then you are relieved of duty. You’ll receive your payment tomorrow.” The line disconnected.
Jamie stared at the phone. She was free? Relief snaked through her, and her knees gave way. She sank onto the bed, her hip against the limp hand that had grabbed her only minutes ago.
A dying man had made a request of her. A last request. Her eyes fell on Justice Wynn, a man who’d served his country well. All he’d asked in his last moments of lucidity was for her to deliver a message. Save us.
Smoothing down the wrinkles in her uniform, Jamie dialed the cell phone again. In for a penny…
This time, it was the number she’d learned after months in his office. The rings gave way to a short greeting and then a tone. Jamie repeated the message the dying man had offered. She spoke quickly, her eyes on his. Then she finished: “Avery, his last words were Forgive me.”
ONE
Sirens shrilled outside the dingy casement window. The high whines seeped in, piercing sleep with pinpricks of sound. Avery Keene rolled to her side and tugged the lumpy pillow over her head. She continued to drift along the Danube, serenaded by the lead singer of some innocuous boy band clad only in his Calvin Klein finest. The sounds jangled louder, transforming into the insistent chime of a phone ring. Avery flung out a searching hand and fumbled blindly for the cell phone. Green eyes shut tight, she grabbed the device.
“What?”
“Avery, baby.” A rasping cough. A sullen giggle. “It’s Momma.”
The sirens dropped away, leaving a more jarring reality. Wearily, Avery slid up to lean against the wall, braced against a raft of pillows. She hadn’t been able to justify the expense of a headboard yet. One more year. Peeling open tired lids, she tracked the neon flickers against rain-spattered glass. “Rita. Where are you?”
Another giggle. “Adams Monathalan.”
“Adams Morgan?” With her free hand, she shoved the heavy fall of black away from a smooth, caramel-toned forehead, the kinky-curly mass tumbling down bare shoulders squared with tension. Sleep cleared quickly, and she checked the bedside clock. Nearly three on Sunday, no, Monday morning. Figured. Nothing good would be happening for her mother in the Adams Morgan neighborhood at this time of night. After the well-to-do retired to their neat row houses, the clubs spewed out partyers looking for hotter action. “Are you in Adams Morgan, Rita?”
Rita Keene harrumphed. “Absolutely. I said so. Adams Morahan.”
Recognizing the rise of belligerence, Avery spoke quickly, tightly. “Are you in jail?”
“Won’t be if you come and give this cutie pie some money.”
Cutie pie? Brows furrowed, Avery puzzled over the statement. If Rita was in jail, arraignment wouldn’t come until morning. Sunday-night busts had to wait until the judges arrived for Monday-morning calls. But just in case, she asked, “They’ve set your bail? Already?”
A sudden shout forced Rita to raise her voice. “No bail, baby. No jail. Friend’s house. He’s a good friend. I just need to settle up. Can you come by?”
“I’ve told you before, Rita. No more.” For God’s sake, no more.
There was momentary silence. “I’m not getting wasted. I promise. But I have to be good for my word,” her mother wheedled. “I know you can spare a hundred dollars for your mother? That’s all I’m asking. If not, he might get mad.”
“I can’t.”
“Won’t,” Rita corrected. “Stuck-up bitch. Too good to help your mother out of a jam.” The cajoling tone slid into a string of expletives.
“Rita.” Avery had heard it all before, and she silently recited the Al-Anon mantra, but serenity was a slippery commodity when your mother was holed up in a crack house cursing your birth like a drunken sailor. Hearing a break in the rant, she asked quietly, “Give me an address, and I’ll pick you up.” Hell, she was going to get only four more hours of sleep anyway. Might as well kick off the week with the great whirligig of fun that was her mother. “Momma, where are you?”
“Not gonna tell.”
“Why not?”
“I’m not going to another goddamned rehab. All I need is a hundred. That’s it. Maybe if you took the stick out your ass, you would help your mother out. Just this once.” In the background, a man asked if the daughter was pretty. “Not ugly,” came Rita’s stage-whisper reply. “But you want the original, honey, not a secondhand copy. Especially when I can trade you—” The rest ended on a high, desperate laugh.