Standing and watching. Hannibal hated it. He hated the feeling of frustration and helplessness. He hated not being able to take action. Standing and watching was a role for someone else. But at that moment, it was all he could do.
Dr. Quincy Roberts stepped away from Marquita’s bed, watching her chest rise and fall with deep, slow breaths. He eased out of the room past Hannibal who stood in the doorway and softly closed the door after Roberts passed.
“Thank you again for coming,” Hannibal said, following Roberts to the living room.
“I’m not sure why I did.” Roberts was old enough to be Hannibal’s father, but even through his thick glasses one could still see a youthful gleam in his eye. In fact, his thick gray beard would have given him a Santa Clause look if his cheeks weren’t so pale. He wore a golf shirt and casual slacks with Docksiders. Hannibal wondered if he had called the man from his boat or the golf course.
“You came because you knew I was desperate,” Hannibal said, lowering himself to the sofa, “and because you knew you were needed.”
Roberts fished a pipe out of one pocket and a lighter out of another. “And perhaps because you saved one of my patients from being wrongly convicted of murder not long ago. I gave her a mild sedative to help her rest for a while. But that woman needs an internist as much as a psychiatrist. She’s in bad shape.”
Hannibal threw up his hands. “She was hysterical, man. When she passed out I figured the cause was more emotional than physical. Believe me, she’s been assaulted mentally and emotionally. But that’s not what you meant by her being in bad shape, was it? What kind of physical problems are we talking about?”
Roberts got his pipe lit and sucked on it hard a couple of times before speaking. “Well, for one thing she’s a little dehydrated. I suspect that’s from using alcohol in place of water. And I think she’s malnourished too.”
“There are lots of women that thin around here, doc.” Hannibal relaxed for the first time in an hour. It could have been the cherry scent of Roberts’ tobacco or Roberts’ own calming manner, but whatever the cause, his shoulders lowered and his breathing deepened. “And those problems sound pretty easy to fix. You just check her into a hospital for a day or two…”
“I can’t do that,” Roberts said. “And what did you mean, assaulted mentally? It looked to me like she was alone here.”
“She was when I arrived,” Hannibal said. “But she’s terrified of something, or someone.”
“A typical client of yours, if I remember.”
Hannibal sighed aloud. “She’s not my client, but I think she’s been abused by the same man who practically enslaved a client of mine. I’m looking for this guy, and she might be my best lead when she wakes up. She’s hysterical, and you said she’s in rough shape physically. That part’s probably all self-induced, right? So why can’t you admit her someplace safe?”
Roberts chuckled, pushing puffs of smoke out between his teeth. “She’s not my patient, my friend. She’s an adult and there’s no evidence that she’s in any immediate danger to herself or others. I can help her if she decides to check herself into a facility when she wakes up.”
“That’s not likely. She’s ashamed of what she’s done with this man, or for this man. I don’t think she’ll want to go anywhere. But I sure don’t think she should be here alone, not after this.”
“I agree she would benefit from some looking after,” Roberts said. “Without actually speaking with her, I’d say there’s evidence that she really doesn’t care enough to take care of herself right now.”
Hannibal stood, hands in pockets. “So, we seem to have ourselves a situation here.”
Roberts rose as well, nodding. “No, my friend. I believe you have yourself a situation. You are not responsible for this woman in any way. But I sense that you don’t see it that way.”
“I found her like this,” Hannibal said, waving to take in the whole house. “How can I leave her like this? How can you?”
Roberts was already moving toward the door, as if he was afraid he might get stuck in the house. “Here is what I will do. Give me a call tomorrow and let me know what the situation is. If she is willing, I will stop back out and check up on her, see if she wants my help. And by the way, you’ll receive a bill for this house call.”
“Of course.” Hannibal followed Roberts to the door, and shook his hand as he opened it. “I really do appreciate your responding to my panicked call. And I guarantee you won’t get stuck for a bill. My client has deep pockets, and I consider this part of the expenses on my case. He’ll see that this was necessary for me to follow the trail.”
“Good luck with your new charge,” Roberts said. “Me, I may just get home to the Mrs. in time for dinner. I’ll check on Ms. LaPage in the morning and see if perhaps she does want to be checked into a facility for better rest.”
As the door swung closed, Hannibal muttered, “Dinner” and pulled out his cell phone. After listening to his own answering machine message, he called Cindy’s house and listened to hers. Next, he called her office, still not sure exactly what he was going to tell her. He knew he couldn’t just leave Marquita’s house, but the reasons seemed too complex to put in order.
This time the phone only rang three times. When the connection was made it had the hollow echo of a speakerphone, and he wondered if he would even need an explanation.
“Hey honey,” Cindy said. “I’m almost out of here, honest. Just wrapping up some stuff and I know I’ll be a little late but I’ll get there.”
Well, at least she recognized his number on her phone’s caller I.D. screen. Relief and irritation played tug-of-war in Hannibal’s mind. Maybe that’s why his voice came out flat and neutral.
“Listen, sweetheart, maybe it’s just as well you’re still at the office. The case has already produced some odd twists, and, well, this would be a bad time to leave.”
“I understand, baby. That’s the way it goes with two busy professionals, eh? Well, let’s just make it tomorrow, okay?”
Just like that. No questions, not even an expression of disappointment. He could be a hundred miles away with another woman for all she knew. In fact, he was with another woman. It was irritating.
“Yeah, okay, tomorrow,” Hannibal said.
“Okay, hon, let’s both get back to work. Love you.”
Like that, she was gone. Hannibal dropped his phone in a jacket pocket. Whether he liked it or not, at least he understood her dedication. Why, on the other hand, was he still at Marquita’s house? She was not a client, nor had she even asked for help. As Roberts had said, she was an adult who was responsible for herself. Why couldn’t he just walk away and return to his own life?
He turned a slow circle, taking in the undusted furniture, mail piled on a small table and the kitchen cluttered with several days worth of dishes. The dished had clearly been left where they were used, many still holding bits of food. She may be responsible for herself, but he could see that she couldn’t take care of herself right now.
Shaking his head at himself, Hannibal pulled off his gloves and went to the kitchen. The floor was sticky in spots, but he ignored it and started stacking dishes in the sink. One job at a time, he told himself. Scraping food off plates and putting them in the dishwasher, Hannibal wondered if his motivations were just selfish. He had to face it. He didn’t know Marquita LaPage at all, certainly not enough to care about her. But he knew staying there made him feel better, and that leaving would make him feel like crap. He also knew that he wouldn’t think much of a man who could casually walk away from a sick, abused woman.
He turned as a new noise captured his attention. The sound started low, but built up in seconds. It would have been a scream if it weren’t interrupted so often by a panting breath. Hannibal wondered what would happen if Marquita hyperventilated.
He raced to the bedroom but hesitated at the door. When he opened it, the odor pushed him back for a moment. He recoiled from the distinctive smell of unwashed clothes, spilled liquor and something more. Something sour. As he approached the bed he saw the source. Marquita lay face up on a king size bed, eyes on him, her lips barely an inch from a pool of fresh vomit. The shame he had seen in her eyes before was more evident now.
Hannibal walked around to the other side of the bed, placed his hand on her stomach and pulled her toward him, away from the mess. When she turned, she rolled easily into his arms. He sat on the edge of the bed, cradling her like a frightened child.
“Take it easy,” he said. “You’re not alone and you’re not going to be. In fact, I think we’re going to make you well.”
Her skin was clammy, her eyes wild, her voice raspy as she weakly tried to pull away. “Stop it. Stop being so nice to me. Treat me like I deserve. Ain’t you never seen a Cajun whore before?”
Only then did Hannibal register the golden tint beneath the paleness of her skin. It seemed irrelevant at the moment, except perhaps to pinpoint a pattern of behavior for Mr. Rod Mantooth. If Hannibal was right about that, it was just one more reason to hate this man he’d never met.
In the time it took him to form that thought, Hannibal realized that Marquita was asleep. Her head rested on his left forearm and her breasts heaved against his thigh. He knew she might awaken at any moment, and would need watching all night. He also knew he needed to find this Mantooth fast, and that meant being alert tomorrow. While Marquita settled into a soft snore, he pulled out his cell phone and pushed buttons. When he made the connection he could hear the sounds of people working at partying. The club was hopping for a Wednesday night. Under the circumstances, he dispensed with most of the pleasantries.
“Sarge, this is Hannibal.”
“I recognized the voice, man. I’m working you know. What’s up?”
“Listen, can you get someone to cover for you for the rest of the night?”
“Are you kidding?” Sarge asked. “Man, I just got here.”
“I know, but I need your help, brother. Got a job here that’s liable to take all night, but it calls for a man who can be tough and who knows how to go easy too.”
“You mean right now?” Sarge growled into the phone.
“It’s pretty important. Besides, how much can they need a bouncer on a Wednesday night?”
When they met, Sarge was homeless, hanging at the shelter where Hannibal volunteered. Sarge had stood with him, fought with him against junkies, winos, and in he end, the drug dealer whose living depended on a crack house. Today Sarge had both a home and a steady job, but Hannibal knew the risks they faced together bonded them in a way that made Sarge’s answer absolutely predictable.
“Where you at?”
After sharing Marquita’s address, Hannibal considered the present challenge of cleaning her up. He decided it had to be a multi-step process. First, he lowered her head to the relatively clean pillow. He pulled the down comforter from her bed and folded it twice lengthwise on the floor. Next, he lifted her from the bed, startled at how light she was, and lowered her sleeping form onto the comforter. Then he pulled the sheets from the bed. In the fully finished basement he found both a laundry area and a linen closet. After shoving the soiled sheets into the washer he went back upstairs, made the bed and transferred his charge to the fresh, crisp sheets. Her faint moan implied that even in her sleep she appreciated the difference.
The next step was to clean out the available poisons. Starting with a sweep of the bedroom and progressing to a full circuit of the house, Hannibal picked up a veritable saloon’s worth of bottles, most of which had been opened but only one or two already empty. The woman was partial to serious whiskey — Jack Daniels, Yukon Jack, Jim Beam, Chivas Regal, and Courvoisier. He found a trash bag under the kitchen sink and filled it with the bottles.
As he opened the medicine cabinet in the master bathroom, Hannibal wondered if his actions would meet Dr. Roberts’ definition of compulsive behavior. Here he was, scanning a total stranger’s shelves for drugs that might offer themselves to abuse. He supposed she could sue him for emptying prescription bottles into her toilet. Had she asked for a guardian angel? The truth was that he had shoved himself into her life without invitation, or even permission. His internal monologue halted when his fingers wrapped around an unmarked vial. It contained white pills, marked “Roche” on one side with a small number “2” under the word.
The doorbell jerked his head around.
“Sarge,” he said, pocketing the bottle as he jogged down the stairs. A grim face greeted him when he opened the door. Sarge stood in a black, sleeveless tee shirt and jeans, a baseball bat in his right fist.
“All right, what’s the problem here?”
Movement spotted over Sarge’s shoulder froze Hannibal’s answer in his throat. Was someone actually crouching behind the car parked across the street? Hannibal pulled Sarge inside while his left hand eased toward the holster under is right arm. The world became very still, except for the stuttering crackle of crickets. He slipped his sunglasses from his face, staring hard at the BMW across the street. After a full minute of staring his eyes ached, but he saw no signs of life. Irritated with himself, he drew Sarge inside and closed the door.
“Man, something’s sure got you jumpy,” Sarge said. “What the hell is going on?”
“I’m sorry,” Hannibal said, heading for the kitchen. “I thought I saw something. Been thinking I was being followed, but not really sure.”
Hannibal pulled a glass out of a cabinet and rinsed it several times before filling it with water. It carried the sharp taste of chlorine and fluoride and all the other things they add to city water to kill germs and discourage human consumption. While he drank, Sarge looked around the kitchen, and then glanced into the living room.
“Maid’s day off?”
“Maid’s month off I think,” Hannibal said after his drink. “The woman who lives here, she’s in bad shape. She needs looking after, and I needed somebody who’d stay here all night and baby-sit. Somebody I could trust to stay alert, and could also trust to not do anything to harm her.”
Sarge nodded his comprehension. “Bad shape? In what way?”
To answer, Hannibal waved Sarge to follow him. They mounted the spiraling staircase in silence, as if they were walking through a library, or a morgue. At the bedroom, Hannibal eased the door open. A narrow shaft of light fell across Marquita’s bed. Now that she was finally resting, her features appeared delicate, frail, the way Hannibal imagined Snow White when he was a child.
“She’s been abused, buddy,” Hannibal whispered. “Physically. Emotionally. Sexually if I understand the story. The man responsible is the man I’ve got to find to help my client. Can you watch over her for the night?”
“God, she looks so helpless. Fragile, like a doll, you know?”
As if she sensed that she was being talked about, Marquita’s eyes fluttered open for a moment. Hannibal watched Sarge’s rough face soften as he stared into Marquita’s fawn colored eyes. He seemed to make a connection there. Perhaps it was the empathy of a man, homeless not long ago, who could see this woman as downtrodden despite her apparent financial status. While they watched, the ghost of a smile touched the edge of Marquita’s lips and she slipped back into sleep.
“Don’t you worry,” Sarge said. “I’ll take care of her.”