“Are the Rosettis really your friends?” Fern asked quietly.
Hannah used two small metal hooks to clip the gauze dressing around Fern’s elbow in place.
“My pop’s known them for a long time. Since they were boys.” She stood up. “They were different back then. At least, that’s what my mother says.”
A telephone rang clamorously in the front hall, startling Fern out of her chair.
“Sit, it’s okay.” Hannah gently put her hands on Fern’s shoulders and eased her back down into the chair. Then she dashed from the kitchen.
“Hello?” came her voice a moment later. “He’s here…Shot, though I don’t know details… He’s trying to—oh? All right.”
The receiver slammed back onto the hook. The pocket doors rolled open. Hushed murmuring. Fern leaned forward but couldn’t make out the words. Hannah reappeared in the kitchen, though her calm was visibly shaken.
“I think you should leave,” she said abruptly.
Fern stood. “What’s happening?”
Hannah guided her toward the back door. “That was Rod on the telephone. He heard about the chopper squad. He’s on his way.”
He was coming, and somehow, Hannah knew Fern didn’t want to be here when he arrived. Trepidation jittered through her as Hannah opened the back door. It led to a small, closed-in backyard about the size of Fern’s turret room.
“Is there a cabstand nearby?” she asked. But then, she realized with dismay that her hands were empty. She groaned and gritted her teeth in frustration. “My purse. I must have dropped it when…the shooting happened.”
Fern could still feel it: the breath driven from her lungs as Cal tackled her to the sidewalk, shielding her with his body. And she could still hear the sound of bullets striking metal and shattering glass.
“There’s a stand up the road, first left,” Hannah said, then opened a kitchen drawer and drew out a few dollar bills. “Here, take this.”
“Oh, no, I couldn’t?—”
“Nonsense. It’s nothing. Just…leave before Rod gets here. He’s in a mood, and if, as you say, you’re not his friend, it’s better that you go.”
Fern understood her perfectly. She accepted the dollar bills from Hannah and started down the back steps into the fenced-in yard. But then, she stopped and turned back.
“Cal…”
Hannah nodded and pulled on a reassuring grin. “My father will take care of him. I can promise you that.”
Fern wanted to believe her. She didn’t want Cal to die.
The gate between the backyard and the front lawn creaked open on hinges in need of oil. Halfway down the street, Fern realized that she must look a fright from the blood on her dress and hands, and without her cloche, she had nothing to help conceal her face. She worried Rodney would see her if he drove by and recognize her. Heart pounding, she hurried along the streets, following the instructions Hannah had given her, and reached the cabstand where a pair of Checker taxis were waiting for customers. The two drivers were standing outside their cars, talking. She slowed, remembering her last taxi driver, and her stomach rolled. Whether it was her banged-up face, the blood on her dress, or her scars, these two drivers went silent as she approached.
Fern gave her address on South Woodlawn to the closest one and then quickly got into the back of the cab. She stared at the dark red stains on her sleeves. This was his blood. Closing her eyes, she saw again the inside of Cal’s office. The diploma. The chair behind his desk, spinning from when he’d realized Fern was there, waiting to see him, and launched himself toward the door.
Who had shot at them and why had yet to settle into her mind, but as the taxi rolled up to her house, turning into the drive, she wondered why they’d chosen to launch their attack on Harris Looms, right then, at that moment. Had they only planned to shoot up the front ofthe building? How had they known Cal was standing outside? Had they been waiting for him to show himself?
“This is it, I said.” The driver had twisted around in the front seat to look at her, annoyed. Like he’d already said it once. She hadn’t heard him.
Fern shoved the few dollars at him over the front seat. He caught the bills as she opened the door.
“You want your change, lady?” he called.
She kept walking toward the front door, knowing she wouldn’t go unnoticed inside at this time of evening. Margie appeared, her heels clicking against the parquet floor as she came into the foyer.
“Tate said he saw a Checker in the—” Her voice cut off, garbled by a gasp. Her hand flew to her lips. “Miss Fern! Are you injured? Should I call for a doctor?”
“No, no, I’m…” Her voice cracked in her dry throat. “Where is my mother?”
Margie seemed to understand that Fern wished to avoid her mother. She spun around, looking toward the corridor that led to Mrs. Adair’s study.
