by David Stout
“And the other part?”
“That part says I’ve been working sixteen hours a day and need my rest in case I have to make life-or-death decisions. My guess is that one of the kidnappers will find a way to get that bundle and not get caught. That’s off the record.”
“Understood. They have the cards, then. The kidnappers.”
“They have the boy, Will. If I had a chance to grab one of the kidnappers without the other—well, right now I don’t think I’d do it. A day or two from now, especially if things change, or maybe if they don’t change, I might think differently. For now, maybe we can get a glimpse of whoever picks up the bundle. A photograph, too, if we’re lucky.”
Will stretched his legs for the walk back, took one last look through the glasses at the bundle.
“Let’s go,” Graham said, slinging the rifle over his shoulder and turning on a flashlight. Graham checked his compass and charted a more direct route back to the car.
Graham said little on the drive back to Long Creek, and Will wondered whether it would be a good idea to forget about having dinner with him. But once back to town, Graham made a point of driving Will past the laundromat, past the newsstand that sold out-of-town papers, past a restaurant that advertised steaks.
“Not bad food there, Will. Shall we meet there in, what, an hour and a half?”
“Great. Time enough to get a shower and do my laundry.”
Graham swung by the Long Creek Inn to let Will off. “Jerry, thanks for taking me along. I’ll see you in a while.”
Back in Deer County, the woods were completely dark, for the moon was masked by the clouds that shed a rain turning to sleet. The woods were quiet, save for the rain. The birds and animals had all sought cover. Those that slept at night were just trying to stay dry and warm. As for raccoons and other nocturnal creatures, few took notice of the form that appeared by the bundle. It was just about the time that Will and Graham were finishing a steak dinner and getting set to move over to the restaurant bar to compare the stories of their lives.
The deputy who should have seen the form, that of a well-built man of medium height, had been stomping his feet up and down to keep warm while he smoked a cigarette. By the time he trained his scope where the bundle should have been, the bundle wasn’t there.
The deputy immediately began rehearsing his story in his mind. He would say that he caught only a glimpse of the man, not enough for a good description.
The man had easily hoisted the bundle to his shoulder and headed into the woods. He didn’t turn on a flashlight until he was deep in the trees. He knew the way.
Fourteen
It was cold in the car, and Will could only hope he’d guessed right. He figured the nurse would leave the hospital by the main entrance when her shift was done, but he couldn’t be sure. Nor could he be sure she’d leave on time.
Shivering in the dark, Will cursed himself. Why hadn’t he just thought to look her up in the phone book and called her at home? Because you don’t even know if she’s listed, or how she might be listed, he told himself. So wait.
Finally, Will saw her under the light of the arch at the door. His heart rose, then sank just as quickly: She was walking out with another nurse. Damn! Will had to see her alone.
Then the two nurses smiled and waved good-bye to each other. One made a sharp turn away from the hospital, into the darkness. The one Will wanted walked straight toward his car.
Will got out and stood in the street. “Heather Casey?”
“Oh!”
“I’m sorry to startle you. It’s Will Shafer again. Can we talk a minute?”
“Oh, it is Mr. Shafer.”
“Call me Will. I just need a minute of your time. Can I give you a lift?”
“Oh, no thank you. I live just a short way from here, and I usually walk. Why don’t you leave your car here and stroll with me. There’s a little place we can stop for coffee.”
Will was pleasant but evasive as they walked a block and a half. Heather Casey pointed to a narrow door next to a dim and grimy window. “It’s not as bad as it looks,” she said.
The diner was long and narrow, more shadows than light, and it smelled of decades of fried eggs and hamburgers. Heather Casey nodded and smiled at a skinny man of sixty or more who stood behind the counter next to a grill. The man wore an apron that had been white a hundred launderings ago. He frowned at Will, then picked up his spatula and slid some meat patties around the hot metal.
“If you’re hungry, the food in here is not bad, believe it or not,” Casey said.
She led Will to a booth at the back, past a couple of tired old men who sat hunched over their soup.
“Long Creek’s not much to look at, is it?” she said after they were settled in the booth.
She picks up what a person’s thinking, Will thought. “I guess it has some of the same problems Bessemer has,” he said.
“Oh, more. More, I’m afraid. At least Bessemer’s on the lake. Here, we’re not only economically depressed but landlocked. Time-locked, too.”
The man who’d been at the grill was standing by their booth. Now Will saw that he had a bad eye; it was almost opaque, and it seemed to be looking away from Will while the good eye stared right through him.
“How are you tonight, Lewis?” Heather Casey said.
“I’m just fine, Heather. What can I getcha?”
“Just coffee for me,” Will said. He was a little hungry but not sure he wanted to eat in this place.
“Lewis makes great four-alarm chili,” Casey said.
“Okay, I’ll try it,” Will said. “And the coffee.”
The man went away, and the nurse looked at Will as if to say, Well?
“I don’t know how to put this exactly,” Will began. “I’ve been bothered by some things about the accident that killed my friend Fran.”
“Really? What?”
“I don’t know. No, that’s not true. I do know, sort of.”
“What is it?”
Just then, the man returned with their coffee and Will’s chili. Will paused until he was gone.
“Well, to begin with, was there any doubt at all that he was drunk?”
The nurse’s face changed suddenly. “Why, what an odd question.”
“Is it?” Will slowly stirred his chili.
“Yes.” Heather Casey studied her coffee intently. “Why do you ask, Mr. Shafer?”
“Well, the main thing is, I’m trying to be sure that the young woman he injured gets everything she’s entitled to. My company—”
Heather Casey appeared troubled. The look on her face, Will’s memory of how she had greeted him so kindly at the hospital when he’d gone to see Fran Spicer, and something about the way her hand had felt on his shoulder caused him to decide something in an instant.
“Cancel what I just told you,” Will said. “I’m no good at lying. I did, in fact, go to see the young woman who was injured in the crash, and I do want to see that she’s taken care of. But…”
“Try your chili, Mr. Shafer.”
Will did as he’d been told. The chili was spicy and delicious. He waited.
“There is, there is something. Oh, dear. He was all wet, you see.”
“Wet?”
“His clothes were all wet. There was some blood, of course, but his clothes were mostly wet from beer. He reeked of it.”
“Would that be strange?”
“It wouldn’t be, necessarily. Not necessarily.”
Time to gamble a little, Will thought. “I can tell from your voice that something’s bothering you. You’ve been a nurse for a while, right? Seen a lot of things. But something’s bothering you.”
“It was like the beer had gotten spilled all over him a short time before.”
Will noticed that she hadn’t said, “It was like he’d just spilled beer on himself.” What did that mean, if anything? He waited.
“He was wet with it. His clothes were.”
“And that struck you as odd?”
>
At first, Casey sipped her coffee and said nothing. Then she touched her right shoulder with her left hand and her left shoulder with her right hand. “Have you ever spilled beer on yourself?” she asked.
“Not recently, no.”
“Anyway, both shoulders were wet. Both of the shoulders on his coat were soaking wet.”
Will thought about that for a moment, then he caught on. “You mean, even if he had been drinking at the moment of the wreck, the beer probably would have splashed all over his chest, say, or onto his lap. But it would have been less likely to soak both shoulders. Is that it?”
“I’m not saying it couldn’t happen that way, Mr. Shafer—”
“Will.”
“Will. It’s just that there was so much. And it was so fresh.”
“Fresh?”
“Yes. I remember … You see a lot of things as a nurse; you can’t let it get to you. But I was touched by how pathetic this man looked. With the shoulders of his coat, kind of a shabby coat, all wet. And his hair…”
Something lighted in Heather Casey’s eyes and hardened there.
“What is it?” Will pressed. “I can tell there’s something.”
“His hair was wet with the beer, too. On both sides of his head.”
Again, Will heard something tentative in her voice. He knew what his next question would be, but he wanted her to go on.
“My father was an alcoholic. I have to discipline myself mentally not to be too judgmental when I deal with patients who have been drinking.”
Will could tell from her face (a lovely and intelligent face, framed by hair that was a lustrous chestnut in the light of the diner) that she wanted to say more. He waited.
“My husband, too. He was an alcoholic. And abusive, like my father. My husband, he was the real reason that I have to force myself not to be too judgmental about alcohol. As a nurse, I mean.”
“I’m sorry.”
She seemed to blink back the sadness as she shook her head and forced a smile. “I’m the one who should be sorry. I don’t know why I told you that. You must be good at newspaper work. Getting people to talk about themselves.”
Will shrugged. “I try to keep confidences, and I try not to hurt people if I can help it.”
“I know that. I can tell that about you.”
“And I can tell something about you. That you’re a good nurse. You’re too kind not to be.”
“Oh, my. We should have coffee and chili more often.”
“We could do that.” But Will was really wondering what it would be like to meet Heather Casey for a drink, then dinner, then to walk her home. And say good night at the door?
She interrupted his reverie. “Something strikes you as odd about the wreck involving your friend. Something’s not right?”
Will shrugged, then tossed the question he’d been waiting to ask. “How do you suppose he could have been soaked with beer on both sides of his head? His hair wet with it on both sides. Is that possible?”
She just looked at him for a long moment. Will finished his chili.
“Is it possible? I’ve seen terrible things happen to the human body in wrecks. One night when I was a young nurse, three teenage boys were brought in. Two were already dead, it turned out, and the third lived for only part of the night. A sad and familiar story. They’d been drinking, and their car hit a tree, bounced off it, and went into a field, rolling over and over.
“Those boys were wet, with their own blood, for one thing, and yes, their clothes were pretty soaked with beer. All over.”
“Well, it’s possible then,” Will said.
“But those boys had been going very, very fast. There was a lot of beer in the car—a couple of cases of it, I seem to recall—and the beer was in bottles. So that the impact, the rolling over and over, caused the bottles to explode and shower the bodies. With glass as well as beer; their bodies had pieces of glass in them, I remember. It was horrible.”
That jolted Will’s attention. “Fran Spicer wasn’t going that fast, was he?”
“I’m not a policeman, Mr. Shafer. Will.”
“But it’s a little hard to believe, isn’t it? That he would be soaked that way, on both shoulders and all over his hair. Unless someone poured beer on him, wanting to make him look like a common drunk.”
“Instead of what?” she said. “An uncommon drunk?”
God, I’m tactless, he thought. But it was no time for him to ease up. “My friend Fran, when he gave in to temptation, liked to combine beer and peppermint schnapps. That’s sticky stuff—”
“I know what it is, Mr. Shafer. Believe me.”
“Was there any of that on Fran? On his clothes? Any sticky sweetness?”
“No. Why don’t you ask the police about the accident?”
“I did. The police here are less than forthcoming.” He told her about his clash with the police chief. “So I went to see the young woman. She wasn’t a great deal of help, but of course how could she have been? Fran’s car hit her, and she was very dazed afterward.”
“Probably in shock. In which case, she may never know exactly what she saw and heard.”
Something occurred to him. “Did you see the cop who investigated the wreck?”
“No. Wait, maybe that was him. I’m not sure. There was a policeman standing off in the corner, near the emergency room. But I didn’t get a good look at him. Or pay much attention. It’s not unusual to have police in the hospital. Very common, in fact.”
“And would there be a hospital record of which police officers were there at a particular time?”
“Not necessarily. In fact, emphatically no. Our hospital’s not in the best neighborhood, as you probably noticed, and it’s not unusual for police to be there in connection with shootings, stabbings, bar fights, domestic violence—”
Will heard the catch in her voice, saw the momentary hurt in her eyes. He pretended not to.
“Anyhow,” Casey said, “you get the picture.”
“Yes.” He thought of something else. “And who drew the blood from Fran Spicer? For the drunk test?”
“I did.”
“You did? And how does that work?”
“We have these standard kits for testing blood in cases in which drunk driving is suspected. As soon as blood is drawn, the vial is taken to our lab for immediate testing. When the results are in, I initial the vial and sign an affidavit saying that I drew the blood, and that it tested such and such. It’s for the police to use in court.”
“And you did that?”
“Yes, and the lab technician, Carmine…” It was only a short pause, but Will caught it. “Um, Carmine did the test. It seemed all routine.”
“You say it seemed all routine.”
Again, Heather Casey’s face changed, only this time Will could tell that a door had closed. “I’ve said all I can say, Mr. Shafer. I have to be going.”
“Something was on your mind just then, wasn’t it?”
She refused to let her eyes meet his as she fumbled in her purse.
“Please,” Will said. “The coffee was on me. If you ever want to talk, I’m staying at the Long Creek Inn.”
“I have to go,” Heather Casey said. She dropped a dollar bill on the table. Will picked it up. Without thinking, he took one of her hands and gently pressed the bill into it. He held her hand a moment longer than he needed to.
“At least let me walk you home,” he said.
“You don’t have to. It’s not that far.”
“Please.”
Out on the cold, dirty sidewalk, he put his arm over her shoulders. He could tell that she liked it there.
“I didn’t mean to get into all that,” she said. “About … you know.”
“That’s all right. You…” Shut up, he told himself.
“This is where I live.”
“Shall I wait until you’re inside?”
“No need,” she said, chuckling. “I’m quite comfortable and safe here. Have been for some time.”
“Right. Of course.” He never had been good at gallantry.
“Good night, then. You’re a good listener.”
Before he realized what was happening, she leaned toward him and put her hands on his shoulders. He kissed her on the cheek and would have hugged her had she not spun away.
She started up the steps to the apartment building, then stopped. “I don’t know why I told you that. I don’t even know where he is anymore. My husband.” And she went inside.
On the way back to his hotel, Will tried to sort out his feelings. He was drawn to her by—what? She was vulnerable, that was it. She was vulnerable, and she had trusted him. Made him feel strong, even needed. His wife had no such weakness; if anything, Will needed her, too much sometimes. Face it, he told himself. It’s a good thing you’re married to a strong woman.
He knew that was so. But before he fell asleep, his thoughts were about Heather Casey.
Fifteen
He showered and dressed in a hurry and went over to police headquarters. There might or might not be a briefing that morning on the kidnapping, he was told. Will thought that meant there was nothing new to report.
Several reporters were lounging around the briefing room, some drinking coffee, some smoking, all doing their best to look jaded and bored. Will picked up some of the chatter.
“Why don’t they tell us they think the little bastard’s dead already, so we can say it on the air and go home?”
“I’ll drink to that.”
“You’ll drink to anything.”
“Not after last night. I’m sworn off. Until tonight anyhow.”
So full of themselves, he thought. Like they’ve been seeing movies about hard-ass journalists so they know how to act. He left before he was tempted to tell them all to shut up.
Will persuaded the desk sergeant to dial Jerry Graham’s extension. The sergeant let Will through the gate none too cheerfully.
“Will.” Graham nodded, pointed to a chair.
Will sat down.
“Care for coffee, Will?”
“If you are. What’s up, Jerry?”
Graham stared at him, and Will saw that his eyeballs were gray. “You look awful, Jerry.”