Betrayers(56)

Runyon helped Arletta Madison across the street, walking with his arm around her and her body braced against his as if they were a pair of lovers. Get her off the street and into her house as quickly as possible, to where she’d feel safe, and report the shooting and ask for EMTs from there.

As they started up the front stoop, she drew a shuddering breath and said in a hoarse whisper, “God, he could have killed me,” as if the realization had just struck her. “I could be dead right now.”

“He say anything before he shot you?”

“Say anything? No. He just . . . shot me.” Then, at the door, “Coy was right, damn him.”

“Right about what?”

“He keeps telling me not to go out alone at night, and I keep not listening. I’m so goddamn smart, I am. Nothing ever happened; I thought nothing ever would. . . .”

“You learned a lesson,” he said. “Don’t hurt yourself any more than you already are.”

“I hate it when he’s right.” She opened her purse with her good hand, fumbled inside. “Where the hell did I put the damn keys?”

Runyon found them for her, unlocked the door. Upstairs, she steered him into a big front room full of heavy old furniture and dominated by more of her weird vegetable-like sculptures. She dropped her purse on a brocade couch, let him help her out of her coat. The wound in her arm was still leaking blood; the crimson splotch on the sleeve of a white sweater had grown to the size of a pancake.

“Are you in much pain?”

“No. It’s mostly numb.”

“Where’s the nearest bathroom?”

“Down the hall there.”

He walked her to it. “Better get out of that sweater,” he said then. “Put some peroxide on the wound, then wrap a wet towel around it. That should do until the EMTs get here.”

“Are you going to call the police?”

“Yes.”

“They’ll never catch whoever it was; you know they won’t.”

“I have to report the shooting in any case. And you’re going to need attention for that arm.”

“All right,” she said. Then, in different tones, “Actually, I suppose the publicity will be good for me and my next show.”

He made the call while she was in the bathroom. The 911 dispatcher asked the usual questions, said that EMTs and police would be out ASAP. Which meant half an hour, minimum, for the paramedics; their first responses were Code 3 or Echo priority, the situations in which injuries were life threatening or resuscitation was required, and there were plenty of those every night in the city. The cops wouldn’t be here in a hurry, either: perp long gone, victim not seriously wounded, situation under control. They’d just have to wait their turn.

Pretty soon Arletta Madison reappeared, wearing a sleeveless blouse now, a towel wrapped around her arm. Runyon asked her if the wound was still bleeding. She said, “Yes, but not so badly now.” Then, “Damn Coy. This is his fault, you know.”

“How so?”

“When he pisses me off the way he did tonight, I get so mad I feel the walls start closing in.”

“And then you go out for a walk.”

“To cool off, yes.”

“What’d he do to upset you tonight?”

“The usual crap. Called from some bar on Twenty-fourth Street, drunk, to tell me he’d just picked up a woman. Can you believe it?”

Runyon said nothing.

“I swear he does it just to devil me. He doesn’t give a damn about me; he . . . oh! Shit!” She’d made the mistake of trying to gesture with her wounded arm. “Where the hell are the paramedics?”

“They’ll be here pretty soon.”

“I need a drink. Or don’t you think I should have one?”

“I wouldn’t. They’ll give you something for the pain.”

“Well, they’d better hurry. How about you? Do you want something?”

“No.”

“Suit yourself. But you don’t have to stand there; go ahead and sit down.”

“You’d better do the same.”

“I’m too restless.”

“Sit down, Mrs. Madison. For your own good.”

The command made her narrow her eyes at him, but she didn’t argue. She sank onto the couch, grimaced, and chewed on her lower lip. Runyon waited until her expression told him the pain had eased before he spoke again.

“I need to ask you some questions, if you feel up to it.”

“Questions? About what?”

“A rental property you own or owned.”

“. . . What the hell does that have to do with anything?”

“It’s the reason I came here tonight. I’ve been told you inherited property in the Bay Area.”