Always You (11 page)

“That was close,” she whispered. “That was so, so close.” She pressed one hand to her abdomen as if embracing the new life sheltered there. “You just saved our lives, baby.”
And I’m going to do everything I can to make sure they stay saved.

She gunned the engine and raced to the exit, barely stopping to swipe her keycard to activate the mechanical arm barring her way. Her tires squealed as she pulled into traffic on North Michigan Avenue, and zoomed away from USITI, hopefully for the last time.

She reached her apartment building in no time at all and found a good spot on the street. Her doorman greeted her warmly and hurried to retrieve her mail, which he’d collected for her during her absence.

Chiara thanked him with a huge tip, and rather than wait for one of the two elevators to crawl down to the lobby from one of the higher floors, she swept into the stairwell, working her cell phone out of her handbag as she started up the stairs.

She dialed John, hoping to catch him before he boarded his plane and had to turn off his cell. She’d reached the third floor before he finally answered.

“Hey.” She almost moaned at the sound of his voice.

“Hey, baby,” he said. “Are you all right?”

“I had to tell him,” she panted. “He would have fired you and ruined your whole career.”

“There are other jobs. I’m going to start looking for one as soon as I get back to St. Louis.” He quieted for a moment. “Why are you breathing hard?”

“I’m walking up the stairs to my apartment.” She reached her floor and threw open the heavy fire door to her corridor. “I finally made it.”

“Are the elevators busted?”

“No, but they’re slow as cold molasses, and I want to get home and take a long, hot bath.”

“You live on the eighth floor,” John scolded. “You know you shouldn’t be exerting yourself like that.”

“I’m allowed to exercise, John,” she chuckled.

“It’s good to hear you laugh.”

She reached her front door and slipped her key into the knob lock and then the deadbolt. “I finally feel like we have a chance to walk away from all this.” She pushed her door open and instinctively put her hand out to flip the light switch on the wall just inside the door. “We just have to figure out what to do about…that’s funny.”

“What?”

“It’s dark in here.” Keeping her door open with her foot to allow in the light from the corridor, she flipped the hall switch once more, and still nothing happened.

“Then turn on a light.”

“That’s just it,” she said. “I’m trying to. Plus I left my living room and bedroom lights on a timer. They should have come on already.”

“You set the timer, but you probably forgot to plug your lamps into it,” John said. “You’ve been on the forgetful side ever since you found out you were pregnant.”

Chiara let the door close behind her and walked deeper into her apartment, toward the dark living room. “You’re probably right.” She slipped off her coat. She held the phone to her right ear with her shoulder as she groped inside the kitchen to turn on that light with her right hand while she used her left to toss her coat at a chair in the dining room.

The kitchen fluorescents quivered on, washing everything in a flat white light, including the hooded figure in black that lunged at her. The stranger tore the phone from her grip as his hand went to her throat. He forced her through the doorway and slammed her against the wall of her corridor, closing her throat with his vise-like hold.

Her attacker held her phone to her head with his free hand and John’s voice filled her ear. “Chiara? Baby, are you still there?”

Her fingernails raked at the gloved hand denying her air. She brought her knees up to try to push him away, but he used his taller, wider frame to immobilize her.

“Baby?” John said once more, his voice rising.

The word triggered Chiara’s most basic survival instincts.

Rather than clawing at the gloves protecting his hands, she brought her manicured thumbnails to the one vulnerable spot she could still make out through her blurring vision: the eyeholes of his black hood. She dug her thumbs in down to the knuckle, and her attacker growled in pain. He dropped her phone and released her neck. Drawing in long, noisy breaths of air that rasped against her raw windpipe, Chiara bolted for the door. Her shoes weren’t made for speed and she stumbled over her own feet.

The man in black tackled her at the door, throwing her against it as he wrestled her wrists into his hands.

“You’ve got something I want.” His voice was calm, low, almost conversational. Tears of blood dripped from his eyes and onto Chiara’s white jacket. “I don’t want to hurt you to get it. But I will.”

“M-My wallet’s in my h-hand-handbag,” Chiara almost sobbed. “Take it. It’s right by the door.”

He clamped both her wrists in one hand, and when he shifted to reach for her purse, Chiara took that opportunity to throw him further off balance. She twisted her hands out of his grasp, locked her fingers in a double fist and drove it down hard, toward his crotch. She caught him high on his thigh but well off the mark, enraging rather than crippling him. He grabbed a handful of her hair with one fist and pounded the other one into her, his first blow catching her on her collarbone. She curled up on her side, her arms folded over her torso, taking the blows to her shoulders and face.

The man wrenched her head back and forced her knees from her chest as she continued to scream for help. He climbed over her, positioning his knees on her upper arms to hold her down. His gloved left hand clamped over her mouth, stifling her and forcing her to fight for every breath.

“One more sound…” He finished his warning by showing her his right hand, which was curled into a fist the approximate size of a small canned ham. “Now let’s try this again.”

Chiara cried out in pain when he shifted his weight to reach past her head for her bag. He emptied the contents onto her chest and took up her wallet. After swiping a smear of blood from his eyes, he removed all of her credit cards, business cards, cash and receipts, letting them rain down on her before he sat back on his knees and shook his head.

“It’s not in the apartment, it’s not in the purse,” he muttered, thinking aloud. “It’s a needle in a damn haystack.”

Chiara vigorously shook her head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she cried. “I don’t know what you want!”

He hooked his fingers inside the lapels of her blouse, taking hold of it along with her jacket. “I think you know perfectly well what I want,” he sneered, and with one fierce tug he ripped open her clothing.

“Help me!” Chiara shrieked as his hands moved roughly under the silk of her white bra. “Somebody help!”

She tried to buck him off, screaming as loud as she could all the while. The man sitting astride her drew back his right fist. It was the last thing Chiara saw before she felt an explosion of pain that ended in silent blackness.

The glow of clean, bright light from the kitchen was the first thing Chiara saw when her eyes dragged open. Her neck and lower back throbbed in pain, but it was no match for the stinging, swelling sensation burning the entire right side of her face. She brought a shaky hand to her right eye, fearful that she’d find it popping from the socket because of the pressure behind it.

Whimpering, she frantically scrambled backwards, terrified that her attacker was still near. Realizing that she was backed up against her front door, she whirled around and pulled the door open, crawling on her hands and knees into the corridor.

“Help!” she screamed, finding her feet and launching herself at her nearest neighbor’s door. “Please, somebody, help!”

Three doors down, the elderly Jefferson Petrie, a retired University of Chicago African-American Studies professor, stepped halfway into the corridor. “Good Lord,” he gasped, clutching his quilted smoking jacket closer about him.

“Please,” Chiara sobbed. “Someone was in my apartment!”

“Dear girl,” Mr. Petrie called to her, catching her as she stumbled into his arms. “Are they gone? Have you called the police?”

“No, I…” Chiara let Mr. Petrie pull her into his apartment. He slammed the door behind them and bolted it, and then took Chiara by her shoulders. “I need to call the police. I-I need…a phone…”

“That, and a shot of brandy.” Mr. Petrie guided her through the foyer, into his living room, and into a short, squatty, overstuffed leather wing chair. Chiara sat stiffly in the chair while Mr. Petrie fussed over her. No matter how hard she hugged herself, she couldn’t stop herself from shaking. Mr. Petrie vanished for a moment but returned with his cordless phone in one hand and a short snifter of brandy in the other.

“Yes, The Sovereign, on West Farwell Avenue,” he said haughtily. “A woman has been attacked in her own home. She’s sheltered here with me, in apartment 814.”

He offered her the brandy, but she declined, softly saying, “I’m pregnant.”

Mr. Petrie’s eyes became dark brown circles of surprise. He tossed back the brandy himself before speaking once more into the phone. “Please, send someone immediately.” He hung up on the 911 dispatcher and sat on an ottoman. He took Chiara’s hand. She gave him credit for not cringing at the blood caked in her nail beds. “Is there anyone else I can call for you, Miss Winters?”

John,
she wanted to cry out. But she couldn’t force herself to speak his name. She wouldn’t let herself drag him into this fresh mess. “I just need the police.”

“You’re covered in blood,” Mr. Petrie said. “Would you like to lie down?”

“It’s not mine,” she told him. “It’s his.”

Mr. Petrie gave her hand a comforting squeeze. “Good for you, darling. I’ll run along and get you a fresh shirt just the same.”

Chiara was suddenly aware of her now buttonless jacket and torn blouse. She ran her hands over her body, taking personal inventory. Her skirt was missing its hook and eye closure, her pockets had been turned out, and the zipper had been ripped open right down into the seam. Her skin still bore the memory of her attacker’s touch, but he hadn’t raped her. She pulled her torn blouse together to cover herself. A fresh fall of tears flooded from her eyes as she thanked heaven for that singular blessing.

Mr. Petrie returned with a folded French blue button-down, breaking the dry cleaner’s tape on it as he neared her. He helped her out of her bloody jacket and into the shirt, buttoning it for her when her hands proved too unsteady.

“Tell me about your latest business trip,” Mr. Petrie said brightly. “You were in Japan, weren’t you?”

Her head bobbed up and down in a nod as she wiped her cheeks dry. “You don’t have to try to distract me, Mr. Petrie. I appreciate it, though.”

“You’ve been such a wonderful neighbor, Miss Winters,” he told her, resuming his seat on the ottoman. “When I think of all the times you’ve helped me with my confounded computer or taken my trash out for me, it sickens me that I can’t do more for you now. One of the reasons I’ve enjoyed residing here at The Sovereign is because of its thick, sturdy walls. If the walls were thinner, and if I were twenty-five years younger, perhaps I could have stopped this from happening to you before it got good and started.”

“You’re helping me now, Mr. Petrie,” she said through a weak smile. “This is what matters now.”

He lightly touched the injured side of her face. “I hope they catch the bastard who did this to you.” He braced his hands on his knees to help push himself up. “I must have a steak or something for that eye.”

Loud, rapid knocking on his door nearly startled Chiara out of her chair. Mr. Petrie veered away from the kitchen and hurried into the foyer. “Who is it?” Chiara heard him call through the door.

“Chicago Police,” came the voice on the other side.

“Please display your badge before the peephole,” Mr. Petrie said.

Mr. Petrie was apparently satisfied because Chiara heard him fiddling with his locks and chains. “She’s right over here in the living room,” he said, directing the pair of officers. “She’s been injured, I’m not sure how badly. She’s quite shaken up.”

Chiara looked up at the officers, both of whom seemed to tower over her. Before they could speak one word to her, a shorter man in a blue polyester suit butted in front of them.

“In my twelve years as manager of The Sovereign, I’ve never had a tenant attacked in my building,” ranted Louis Hopkins, the man who had been almost sickening in his fawning over Chiara when he signed her to a lease seven years ago. “The officers here will be conducting a full investigation of what happened tonight, Miss Winters, and I assure you, they’ll discover where lies the liability for your unfortunate experience this evening. Is there anything you’d like to tell me now, regarding this incident, that might sway my opinion as to whether I allow you to serve out the remainder of your lease?”

“I can enlighten you, Mr. Hopkins,” Mr. Petrie said, thrusting out his barrel chest and standing at his full five and a half feet.

Mr. Hopkins shot Chiara a look of disgust before turning an ingratiating grin on Mr. Petrie. “Yes, Mr. Petrie. What is it?

“Well, if I were Miss Winters, I’d certainly have the officers here investigate how a decent, law-abiding tenant could have been attacked, possibly even killed, in her own apartment. I’d also hire an attorney to represent my interests regarding the remainder of my lease. Miss Winters is the one who should be asking questions of
you
where building security is concerned. I’ve been a tenant here for twenty-two years, and I’d say that ever since you took over its management, security has been lax, if not downright crappy.”

* * *

“Chiara!”

John had begun calling her name the moment the elevator opened on the eighth floor of The Sovereign. He sprinted down the hall to her apartment, his black coat flapping behind him. Fear clawed at his gut when he saw the light of a flash camera bleeding into the corridor through her open front door.

He burst into the apartment to find at least four policemen and five other men, two in suits and one in a smoking jacket. One of the officers used a double-handled camera with a huge flash attachment to take photos of Chiara’s living room. Another man was in the kitchen using a big floppy brush to sweep dark powder on the doorframe. One of the men in suits, his gold badge clipped to his waist, stopped John as he tried to move deeper into the apartment.

“This is a crime scene, sir,” he said, the words issuing from beneath a neat black mustache. He flashed his detective’s badge at John, who barely noticed it. “I’ll have to ask you for some ID. Now what brings you here tonight?”

“I called you.” John fished out his wallet and shoved it into the detective’s hand. His heart jumped into the back of his throat at the sight of Chiara’s apartment. The place looked like Hurricane Katrina had hit it. Her dining room table was a flat disc of blond maple, its legs sawed off and scattered. Her maple bookcases were flat on the floor, her books strewn about with pages littering the floor. The ceiling light fixtures she’d chosen with such care upon moving into the place were broken, the bare bulbs dangling like lost stars. Every drawer had been removed, every piece of furniture overturned. John’s favorite chair, a custom-built recliner, had been flipped over and ripped apart.

“Mr. Mahoney,” the detective said. “Are you a friend of the victim?”

“He’s her boyfriend,” said the man in the smoking jacket, who John vaguely recognized as one of Chiara’s neighbors. “Or her fiancé or something.”

John tore his eyes from the destruction and fixed them on the swarthy detective. “Where is she? Is she all right?” He forced his way past the detective, who followed close on his heels.

“She’s fine,” the detective tried to assure John, who stepped over the wreckage of Chiara’s belongings to reach the living room. “She’s being treated, and then we’re going to collect her statement.”

“Chiara,” John almost moaned upon seeing her in the dining room. She was standing with a paramedic in the one bare patch of hardwood. Mindless of the paramedic applying a cold pack to her face, John took her in his arms. “Baby,” he sighed. “My baby, my baby.”

“Miss Winters was attacked here earlier this evening, Mr. Mahoney,” the detective said.

“I heard her scream when we were on the phone,” John said, his eyes never leaving Chiara’s face. “When I lost the call, I phoned the police from Midway.” He cradled Chiara’s face in his hands. “I got here as fast as I could. I should have stayed with you tonight.”

“You should have gotten on that plane and gone back to St. Louis,” Chiara told him. She clamped her jaw to stave off new tears. “You shouldn’t be here. I don’t want you here.”

“Ma’am, we really should get you in the wagon and take you to a hospital,” the young paramedic said.

John turned to him. “She’s pregnant. Did she tell you?”

“That’s why I think she should go to the hospital,” the paramedic responded. “She should be checked out in the ER tonight and then see her regular OB/GYN as soon as possible.”

John turned back to Chiara. He reached for her face, but didn’t touch it.

Chiara wanted to look away. John’s eyes told her what his mouth hadn’t, that whatever pain she felt was nothing compared to how he felt at knowing that she’d been assaulted. “I don’t need you here, John,” she insisted in a broken whisper.

“Just like I didn’t need you every time I took a beating,” he murmured near her ear.

“It’s not the same.” Her arms went around him, despite her desire to see him go. “You’re not safe around me.”

“Let me worry about me.”
Let me worry about all of us.

* * *

John was asked to step outside Chiara’s trauma room while a doctor gave her a cursory physical exam and a nurse took scrapings from her fingernails and swabbed her cheeks, chin, forehead and chest. A female crime scene investigator appeared to collect Chiara’s clothing, including Mr. Petrie’s shirt. She then asked Chiara to strip out of her hospital gown and stand on a square of sticky white paper. Chiara’s hair was combed straight down and her entire body was brushed.

“I know this isn’t the most pleasant experience,” the investigator said, “but there’s a good chance that the man who attacked you left evidence of himself behind. You can hide your face and fingerprints, but it’s virtually impossible to hide your DNA. If he has a record, his DNA profile is probably in the system. Finding him will just be a matter of time.”

“I understand,” Chiara said.

“If you’ll just carefully step off the paper now.” The investigator held the paper in place as Chiara peeled her bare feet from it. The waiting nurse helped her back into her gown.

“I’m taking you up to obstetrics now, Miss Winters,” the friendly nurse said. “A technician is waiting to conduct an ultrasound.”

“I want John to come with me,” Chiara said, gingerly seating herself in the wheelchair the nurse held for her.

“Absolutely,” the nurse smiled.

John took over the wheelchair and let the nurse lead him to the elevators. She chattered amiably about the unseasonably cold start to the new year, the renovations the hospital was making to its maternity and oncology wards, the new menu in the cafeteria—whatever popped into her mind to fill the silence.

Chiara knew that the nurse was trying to put her at ease and keep her comfortable, but the harder she tried to be nice, the greater Chiara’s worry grew.

The rest of her injuries had been dressed and treated, and the ultrasound was the last thing left to do. It was the most important thing, and the one that scared her most.

“Here you are, Miss Winters,” the nurse said, ushering her and John into a dimly lit exam room and the waiting hands of an ultrasound technician. “Good luck to you.”

Chiara’s lips formed the words “Thank you,” but her mouth had become so dry that no sound came out. John, his jaw tense, took off his coat and jacket before helping her onto the exam bed. He held one of her hands in both of his.

“How far along are you, Miss Winters?” the technician asked as he rolled up Chiara’s gown.

“About twelve weeks or so,” she answered, keeping her eyes on the speckled ceiling tile.

“Then you’ve had at least one of these already.”

Chiara flinched when a squirt of warm transducing gel landed on her abdomen. “I had one at eight weeks, to confirm the pregnancy and make sure everything was where it was supposed to be.”

“Well, this one will be just like that one,” the technician said. He used a remote to completely douse the lights.

Chiara fixed her gaze on John, who stared, unblinking, at the ultrasound’s viewing monitor.

“Okay,” the technician said, moving the transducer over Chiara’s lower belly as he watched the black-and-white pie-shaped image on the viewing monitor. “Let me find where your little angel is hiding in there…”

Chiara closed her eyes. It seemed to take forever to search the universe inside her. She’d been so nervous about her meeting with Grayson that she hadn’t been able to eat anything for breakfast. The polygraph had literally eaten her lunch hour, and any dinner plans she might have had had been canceled by her assault. There was nothing in her stomach or bladder to aid the discovery of anything residing in her uterus. She was about to ask John to get her a bottle of water, when the technician smiled.