“No.” Pause. “Thank you for asking.”
Terse and civil. That summed up their communications since that night. They’d obviously hurt each other’s feelings. He’d certainly made clear that he thought the idea of even being friends was ludicrous.
So be it, she thought, not acknowledging the hovering depression. Nothing new there. For whatever reason, she hadn’t felt compelled to steal away in the night since he’d caught her. Why bother? She was beginning to believe she couldn’t be killed. Some people would say she’d proved that by hiring a hard-faced, tattooed ex-con who had no references, and all but taken him into her home.
The buzz of the weed whacker drifted around the side of the house. The front yard was down to stubble, although even an optimist wouldn’t call it a lawn. She’d thought about digging up the whole thing, but decided to try using a weed-control fertilizer to encourage the grass and kill everything else.
The sound of the weed whacker stopped just as she was setting down the flat of lavender and delphiniums by one of the cleared beds. The thud of feet coming fast made her straighten.
“Call 911,” Cole snapped, and ran by.
Erin spun to see him tear down the driveway. What—Oh, dear God. The crumpled figure on the sidewalk across the street had to be Mr. Zatloka. A lawn mower sat idle beside him.
Running after Cole, she did as he’d asked.
“An elderly neighbor has collapsed…No, I didn’t see it happen.” She crossed the street. “I don’t know—Wait. It looks like he hit his head when he fell.” She held the phone away. “Is he breathing?”
“Yes.” Cole’s relief was obvious. “Pulse is fast.”
She repeated what he’d said to the dispatcher. “Please hurry.”
The front door of the house opened, an elderly woman appearing. Tiny and hunched, she clung to the iron railing that framed the two concrete steps. “Roy?”
Erin hurried over to her. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Zatloka. He either fell or collapsed, we don’t know. Cole saw him on the ground. I’ve already called 911.” She squeezed the woman’s arthritic hand. “I think I hear a siren.”
She helped Mrs. Zatloka down the steps and across the lawn to where Cole knelt at their elderly neighbor’s side. Mr. Zatloka had a huge bump on his head that was oozing blood, but not so much that they needed to stanch it.
“It might be his heart,” his wife said tremulously. “He’s on so many pills it’s hard to keep track of them.”
“Do you have a list of his medications?” Erin asked. “The medics and emergency room doctor will want one.”
“Yes. Oh, my.” She looked back toward the house. “I carry it in my purse. I always go with Roy to his appointments. He doesn’t hear very well, you know.”
Erin had noticed. “Is your purse somewhere I can find it?”
“Would you? It’s by the phone in the kitchen.”
She ran again. Thank heaven the purse was exactly where Mrs. Zatloka said it was. Erin grabbed a chair, too, and carried it out.
Cole rose at the sight of her and came to take the chair. “Good idea,” he murmured. Erin watched as he set it down on the sidewalk, spoke quietly to Mrs. Zatloka and put an arm around her as she sat. The old woman’s hands shook when she accepted the purse.
The ambulance came around the corner and down the block. When Cole lifted an arm, it lumbered to a stop at the curb, the siren cutting off just before two blue-uniformed medics leaped out.
Erin watched as Mrs. Zatloka fumbled with her purse. She itched to take it from her, but most women—including her—were funny about their purses. At last the old woman produced a many-times folded piece of paper that appeared to be a computer printout with written additions and deletions.
When she handed it over, the medics already had an oxygen mask over Mr. Zatloka’s face and a collar around his neck. One was unloading a stretcher. They paused to study the list, loaded him and the driver ran around the back to jump in. The other medic, a woman, came over to ask if Mrs. Zatloka was okay.
“Can’t I go with him?” she asked, struggling to stand up.