The Color of Wounds

by Frank Martorana

  “So you’re up and running?”

  She smiled slyly. “I was up and running a couple of months ago.”

  “Really?”

  “That is why I asked to hire Dr. Tice to assist me.”

  “His specialty. Right?”

  “Correct.”

  “Excellent. Then he’s working out well?”

  “Very well.”

  “I expect good things from the both of you.” He headed for the door. “Keep me posted.”

  He turned to Lucinda. “After you, madam.”

  Lucinda rose and, with one swipe, opened the door and bolted out toward their next stop.

  Kent waved over his shoulder to the laughing observers. “Bye.”

  They circled through Small Animal Med-Surg, where Sally, Kent’s sole employee from the dark days, had things well in hand. Then they headed over to the educational center where preparations for the Simpatico statue dedication were in full swing. They made a quick stop at the lab to see Dr. Edward Holmes, and finished up at Large Animal Med-Surg to visit with Dr. Peter Murphy.

  “Okay, girl,” Kent said to Lucinda, as she opened the door to his office for him. “The ship appears to be on an even keel.”

  Lucinda settled on her bed. Kent glanced at the clock on his desk.

  “Quarter to eight, girl,” he said. “We’re looking good.”

  The sun illuminated Willard Covington to about his belt buckle, and the earliest pigeons were finding perches on the brim of his hat. Through eyes blurred by a night of tears, the young woman glanced at her watch, seven forty-five, time to go. She rose from the bench and walked stiffly to the base of the statue, letting the blood return to her legs.

  She reached up and touched Covington’s foot. The granite that seemed smooth from a distance was really quite rough to the touch. It still felt damp from the night air. She held there a moment, then walked away.

  She took a meandering route home, down quiet streets, past quaint storefronts, and houses with tidy yards through the heart of Jefferson. It was a heart she was going to break.

  Eventually she reached LaMont Place, the side street where she lived. Houses there were small, plain, separated by only the width of a driveway. Hers was gray-blue, one story, and needed painting. She rented it. She slogged wearily up the steps, unlocked the door and went inside.

  In the living room she flung her jacket onto an orange crate that was a make-shift coffee table and flopped onto the couch.

  She looked at the clock set in a piece of lacquered barn plank on the wall over her television and released a deep sigh. Seven fifty-nine. She stared blankly at the clock as its second hand ticked off each hash mark. At the stroke of eight, she closed her eyes, held her breath—and listened.

  Pictures on the wall did not rattle. Plaster did not tumble from the ceiling. The only sensory signal that the bomb had gone off was a low, gentle rumble, like an approaching summer thunderstorm. She knew there would be havoc in Jefferson now. She envisioned the proud figure of Willard Covington, ever vigilant for a century, reduced to a million bits of smoking rubble.

  She began to cry again.

  CHAPTER 10

  Lucinda rolled up onto her belly, cocked her head, ears pricked. She gave Kent a questioning look.

  Kent glanced across his desk at her. “I heard that, too.”

  At that moment, Kent’s secretary, Beverly, burst into his office.

  “Jeezum. A few more hours and this damn statue ceremony will be over. Not soon enough for me,” she said.

  “Did you hear that sound?”

  “I must have talked to Elizabeth St. Pierre five times between yesterday and today. Has she been calling you, too?”

  “Yes. And each time I tell her to call you. Did you hear that sound?”

  “Thank you very much. What sound?”

  “It sounded like thunder.”

  “I didn’t hear anything.” Beverly dropped a pile of mail on Kent’s desk. “She’s a nervous wreck over this thing.”

  “Who?”

  “Elizabeth.”

  Kent let the noise question drop. “Well, Elizabeth likes to stay out of the public eye, even if she is the CVC’s single largest benefactor. Ward and Charles always handled that department at VinChaRo Farm.”

  Bev paused, gliding a fingernail down the edge of a manila folder she was holding. “Too bad neither of them will get to see the statue.”

  Kent remembered Elizabeth’s husband, Ward, the one behind breeding and bloodlines that became Simpatico. He died without ever seeing the results of his efforts. Charles, Elizabeth’s son, had been embroiled in Simpatico’s murder and died as a result of it.

  “Elizabeth is a strong woman,” he said. “She’ll do all right today.”

  “Okay, then. If you say so. But you make sure you are ready,” Beverly said, like a mother getting her kid off to school. “Remember, the dedication starts at noon, sharp. You speak first, then Agricultural Commissioner, Wallenstein. After him, we unveil the statue, then Elizabeth speaks.”

  Kent gave her a pleading look. “Any way I can get out of speaking?”

  “Not a chance. Reception is in the educational center lobby right after. Don’t even think of skipping that, either. I already talked to Aubrey. She promised she would have you there.”

  “Great. You are so efficient.”

  “You best believe it.”

  It wasn’t long after that, Sally arrived to fetch Lucinda.

  “Come on, girl,” she said.

  Lucinda sensed what was coming and balked.

  “Come on, Lucy,” Sally said again.

  Lucinda slinked to her bed, tail between her legs, and cast her most pitiful hound dog look.

  “It’s not the gas chamber. It’s a bath. I know you hate it, but you have to look sharp for this shindig, too.”

  “Sorry, girl,” Kent said with a chuckle. “We all have to suffer.”

  He noticed Lucinda did not offer to open the door for Sally as they left. When they were gone, he took a few minutes to review his speech, which he intended to keep very brief. He took a quick shower in the bathroom off of his office and slid into a dark suit.

  Just as he was finishing, Sally entered his office with a freshly tubbed and brushed Lucinda.

  “She looks great, Sally. Thanks.”

  “My pleasure. I gave her a new collar, too.”

  Lucinda gave them both a miffed look, stepped to her bed, and immediately began digging at the collar with her hind foot.

  “Stop that, Lucy,” Sally said. “It doesn’t hurt you to get dressed up once in a while. You act like a little kid wearing a tie.”

  Lucinda flopped down in a pout.

  “Now at least, you’ll be welcome at the party,” Kent said. “And try to keep your feet off the guests, please.”

  Lucinda’s tail flipped deviously at the suggestion.

  Just then Aubrey entered the office, and everything stopped. It never failed to amaze him how Aubrey could take over a room simply by entering. She was beautiful when she was working at VinChaRo Farm in a sweatshirt and jeans, but when she dressed up, an aura seeped to the surface—she was radiant.

  “What are you looking at?” she said to Kent, fishing for a compliment.

  “You. I can’t believe… I mean you look so…”

  Sally interrupted as she indicated toward Kent with a thumb. “Aubrey, while he’s over there stammering, let me say you look fabulous.”

  A cluster of wispy bracelets rattled on Aubrey’s wrist as she stooped to pet Lucinda.

  “Thank you,” she said. “You’re coming to this thing too, aren’t you, Sally?”

  “No way. There is no clause in my nonexistent contract that says I have to endure that kind of event. I’ll tend to the animals while you guys do the dirty work. Which reminds me, I
better get back at it.” She stepped toward the door. As she passed Aubrey, she curled her nose, “And you smell good, too.”

  Aubrey gave her a push out the door. “Get going!”

  “Thanks for doing Lucinda for me,” Kent said.

  The second the door closed, they wrapped in a long embrace.

  “Sally is right. You smell great.”

  “It’s nice to see you all slickered up, too. I forget just how handsome you really are.”

  “Did Elizabeth ride with you?”

  “Yes. She got caught up in a conversation downstairs. I told her we’d catch up with her.”

  Kent stepped to the window. He could see the first arrivals visiting in small clusters. Elizabeth had joined one. Others were checking out the statue, which had been draped in a shroud for the ceremony.

  Then, out of nowhere, an avalanche of terrible memories filled his head. The morning at VinChaRo, when they found Simpatico, was happening again—the voices of Aubrey, Elizabeth, and the others, the smell of the barn and horses. He was kneeling in a bed of straw. Just inches away was another shroud. He did not want to touch it, but everyone was watching, waiting for him to lift it. When he extended his hand, it shook so violently he could not believe it was his. He grasped the corner of the shroud and pulled it aside, then bridled back in disgust, as the fetid stench of death arose from Simpatico’s corpse.

  He shuddered and blinked away the image.

  “What’s the matter?” Aubrey asked.

  “Nothing. Just a bad memory. I’m going to enjoy looking at that statue every day.”

  “He looks so real from here.”

  Kent was glad to get his speech over first. The rest of the program was great. Commissioner Wallenstein lauded New York State’s agriculture creativity by retelling how she replaced the state’s flagging dairy industry with a bright-futured horse enterprise. Elizabeth’s words were heartfelt and sensitive without being maudlin. And, of course, there was a chorus of oohs and ahs when, finally, the three speakers plus the sculptress tugged away Simpatico’s cover. For close to an hour they stood in front of the statue for pictures and congratulations before eventually joining the other guests in the atrium of the CVC’s education center.

  At an hors d’oeuvre table Kent crossed paths with Elizabeth long enough to compliment her on her speech and thank her, once again, for donating the statue. Without her, none of this would be happening. He was mingling with the crowd, accepting congratulations and watching Lucinda woo the guests, when he was distracted by a disturbance across the room.

  It was a heavy-set man in a dark blue police uniform. He was bullying his way through the crowd. Merrill Stephenson, Jefferson’s police chief—and coincidently, Kent’s brother. The chief stretched up on his toes, waving, trying to get Kent’s attention. It was obvious that he was not there to socialize.

  When he made it to Kent, he jacked up his gun belt and said, “Can I talk to you a minute?”

  “Sure,” Kent answered and waited for Merrill to begin.

  Merrill glanced at the crowd, then back to Kent. “Alone.”

  Kent scowled at his brother, then apologized to the woman to whom he had been speaking, and escorted Merrill toward an unoccupied alcove.

  “What is so important?”

  “I take it you didn’t hear about ol’ Willard Covington.”

  Merrill could be so irritating with his obtuse style.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The statue. In town. Of Willard Covington.”

  “What about it?”

  Merrill dropped to a monotonous drone as if he was reading a police report. “At oh eight oh five hours this morning half a dozen calls came in to the Jefferson police station. All reported the sound of an explosion in the village. At oh eight two five hours, officer on duty radios in from his cruiser. He’s at the green. Ol’ man Covington has cut one hell of a fart.”

  Kent didn’t laugh. “Look around you, Merrill. I’ve got company. Just tell me what’s on your mind.”

  “He blew himself apart.”

  “Okay. Forget it. If you want to talk to me later, I’m around.” Kent turned to leave.

  Merrill caught his arm. This time Merrill spoke in his normal voice. “The Willard Covington statue got blown up at exactly eight o’clock this morning.”

  Kent stared back at his brother. “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  “What happened?”

  “At this point we haven’t the foggiest. Except that the Covington statue on the village green was totally destroyed. And I mean totally.”

  “Oh, man.”

  “When I got there, it was already cordoned off. Two deputies were taking statements. Basically, nobody saw anything. Which is why I’m here. You’ve got a lot of people around, many of whom probably came through the village early this morning. Maybe you could let the word out to contact me if anyone saw anything.”

  “Of course. Whatever we can do.”

  Merrill said, “Anyway, eight forty-five, I contact the State boys.” He let out a derisive grunt. “And, approximately ten o’clock, having finished their coffee and donuts, they arrive—bomb-sniffing dogs in tow.”

  “What do they figure happened?”

  “It blew up.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “The dogs sniffed out some residue. At least that’s what the guys figure it is. They took samples. It’ll take a few days.”

  “Do they think somebody did it on purpose?”

  “Then they brought in the helicopter.”

  “Why?”

  “For aerial photos. Something about projectile trajectory analysis or some such shit. I’m not exactly sure.”

  “At least they are giving it some real attention,” Kent said.

  “Yeah. I guess. They’re understaffed, of course, and have a ton of backlog, but I think they’re trying.” Merrill paused. “They’d put a bigger team on it if someone had been killed.”

  “Then no one was hurt?”

  “Only one fatality.”

  Kent’s mouth went dry as he asked the next question. “Who?”

  “Willard Covington, of course.”

  “Jesus, Merrill.”

  Merrill laughed. “No. No one was even injured. In fact, like I said, no one even saw it, which is amazing, given that it happened at eight in the morning, in the middle of town. Some folks driving by kind of saw it from their cars, but that’s about it so far.”

  The two brothers stood in silence for a long time, mentally filtering facts.

  Finally, Kent turned and fixed his eyes on a miniaturized version of the Simpatico statue that served as a centerpiece for the memorabilia table. “Must be statues are like energy,” he said.

  Merrill gave him a confused look. “What?”

  “Must be they are neither created nor destroyed. They just change form.”

  “Whatever. I gotta run.” Over his shoulder, he said, “Nice party.”

  Kent watched his brother grab a handful of canapés off the hors d’oeuvre table as he passed by it. He bundled them in a napkin and was gone.

  CHAPTER 11

  After Merrill left, Kent tried to refocus on the reception. He spotted his daughter, Emily, and Aubrey’s son, Barry, seated at the periphery of the crowd and moved their way. No sooner had they struck up a conversation when a woman’s voice called his name.

  “Kent Stephenson. You looked right at home up there behind that podium. I think you’ve become a politician after all.”

  He turned to see Loren Summer approaching with arms open, ready to gather him in.

  Emily and Barry gave each other dubious looks as Kent embraced this brassy woman with whom he was obviously familiar.

  “Loren, how are you?” Kent said, at a loss for anything better to say. His expressio
n begged the question, “What are you doing here?’

  “I’m here with the accreditation committee,” Loren said.

  Her reply only further confused Kent. “The vet school committee?”

  “Yes. The vet school accreditation committee. You were told there would be an inspection. Remember?”

  Just as Emily and Barry were beginning to worry, Kent got the picture.

  “Yes, of course. But I didn’t know you were on the committee. And I didn’t know they were coming today. Nobody gave me a date.”

  Loren let out a husky laugh. Kent picked up a faint whiff of Scotch.

  “We prefer to arrive unannounced. Like OCO investigators.”

  Kent turned to Emily and Barry. “I’d like you to meet an old friend of mine, Dr. Loren Summer. We went to vet school together.”

  Emily and Barry relaxed.

  “She’s here with the accreditation committee,” he said, as if they hadn’t heard.

  “Loren, I’d like you to meet my daughter, Emily, and Aubrey’s son, Barry Fairbanks.”

  While she shook their hands, Loren said to Emily, “I remember way back when your dad and I were in Texas, he told me about how the doctors were able to fix your back and that your goal was to make the US Equestrian Team and ride in the Olympics.”

  “That’s right,” Kent said and put his arm around Emily. “She’s a walking, talking, riding miracle. She went from having a hard time even getting on a horse, to becoming an accomplished rider. But that’s a whole other story.”

  “I ride a little, too,” Loren said. “But not at your level, of course. It’s a pleasure to meet someone who can really do all those things the rest of us just dream about.”

  “Thanks,” Emily said. “I owe it to Aubrey. She taught me how to ride. And Elizabeth St. Pierre. She gave me Simpatico’s Gift.”

  “Simpatico’s last colt,” Kent said.

  “That horse can make a monkey look good,” Emily said.