Chapter 25

I did sleep on it, and for the second day in a row woke to Cecelia's shaking. I rolled over while half asleep and found that her hand was now on my back. I flipped the other way, and she was there with the phone. I was prepared to growl, but the expression on her face stopped me. "What is it?" I asked.

"I don't know, but she sounds frantically terrified."

That got my attention. I grabbed the phone and said, "Yeah?"

"Mr. Carpenter, you've got to come down here now!"

"Is this Davey?"

"Yes. Please hurry!"

I found my way out of the sheets and onto my feet. "Slow down," I said, as I hurriedly grabbed a shirt out of the closet. "What's going on?"

"Someone's attacked us!"

I thought of asking what she meant, but I knew I'd find out when I got there, and any sort of attack seemed worth getting there without further talk. "I'm on my way, Davey. It'll take a bit, but I'm coming." I pushed the button with my thumb and tossed the phone on the bed. I yanked on my jeans and shirt. Cecelia had picked up the phone, and now she asked, "Ought I to call the police?"

"I don't know, C – she wasn't in any shape to give me a coherent report. If I need to I'll call from there." I was tucking in my shirt as I spoke, and Cecelia stepped over to the dresser and got out a pair of socks. "All I know is that there's been some sort of attack – which could mean anything from a kid tossing a water balloon to a mob with fire bombs."

"I shall pray for you as you go," she said, "and I hope that the former is closer to the truth than the latter."

"That makes two of us," I said as I snatched the socks from her outstretched hand. It was an abrupt gesture, but I knew she'd understand that I didn't have time for gentleness. I didn't run down the hall, but I didn't dawdle either. I sat down on the sofa to put my socks and boots on, while Cecelia stuck the phone back on its charger. She walked across the living room to the coat rack and took my jacket in one hand and my hat in the other. I got up and walked toward her; she handed me my jacket, which I put on, and then my hat, which I held in my hand for just a moment. "I'll let you know just as soon as I can," I told her.

She put her hands gently on my cheeks. "I shall pray for you," she said again, kissing and then releasing me. I clapped my hat on my head, and went out the door.

The attack turned out to be frightening to the women who worked in the clinic – there were no "patients" there yet – but not physically dangerous. Someone had apparently yanked open the door and tossed a blob of red paint inside. There were some small spatters on the door and the frame, and a thin trail of spatters leading to the big splash in the middle of the carpeted floor. It was paint – I could smell it as soon as I opened the door – but no doubt the intention had been to symbolize blood.

I sympathized with the symbolism. The Planned Pregnancy Center had blood on its hands, the blood of innocent babies. But I didn't sympathize with the method of the protest. Granted that the clinic's location made it difficult to effectively picket – only the public sidewalk was available, for anyone who wanted to go inside could park in the lot, on private property where protestors couldn't set up a verbal gauntlet. For all I knew that was why the clinic was in this particular place.

For now, though, my business was to calm down those who were distraught, and work with Dr. Bernard to determine whether she was going to report the incident. As I stood looking at the paint on the carpet, which was still mostly wet, Davey came down the hall. Panicked she may have been on the phone, but she seemed to be the bravest of the lot. "I'm glad you're here, Mr. Carpenter," she said, her voice wavering.

"I'm Darvin," I said. "And I'm glad you called. I bet this scared you to death. You usually work the front desk?" Out of the three times now that I'd gotten a call from the clinic, she'd twice been the one to make the call.

"Yes. I was there, sitting down." She pointed, though the reception desk was plainly visible. "Someone shouted, and I looked up. And then he threw..."

I put my hand on her shoulder. "It's all right, Davey – he's gone, and I'm here."

She nodded. "I'm so scared..."

"I don't blame you. But you're tough – you're the one who's out here talking to me. The others are all back in there." It might be a little too tough on the rest, but I needed to bolster Davey's courage. "You're here."

She nodded again. "He threw ... that stuff..."

"It's paint, Davey. Sniff."

She did, and though she'd surely smelled it before – paint has a very distinctive odor and it was overwhelming in that small space – she'd been too scared for it to register. "Yes, it is paint!"

"Yep."

"Anyway, he had it in a bucket, you know, one of those big plastic buckets. He swung the bucket and that stuff came flying out..."

"And landed here. What did he look like?"

"He was ... I barely got a glimpse of him..."

"I know – he hollered, you looked, he tossed, he boogied. It's what I'd have done if I was that stupid. Close your eyes and try to remember, and if all you've got is an impression, let me have that."