by Tim Cockey
Vickie was reading my mind. “The child Helen was carrying. That was Kingman’s?”
I didn’t know. But I knew who would.
“Can I borrow that prescription bottle?” I asked.
Vickie pulled the bottle from her pocket and placed it on the coffee table. I stepped over to take it. Just as I reached for it, Vickie leaned forward and brought her hand down on mine.
“You don’t have to do this. We should take this to the police.”
“I will. But I want to have a talk with the baby doctor first.”
I let my hand linger a fraction longer. Then I slid the bottle from under her fingers and slipped it into my pocket. I straightened. Vickie’s green eyes looked sad and tired. Her lips were slightly parted.
“Do you want to talk?” I said.
She blinked slowly. “About?”
“About the other night.”
Vickie’s glance flickered out of the room. “I’d better go check on Bo. Will you wait a moment?”
She got up from the couch and disappeared into the next room. I heard the faint squeak of the door as she looked in on her nephew. I was still standing in the middle of the living room. A large, large part of me was suggesting that I make a quiet and dignified exit this very minute, while Vickie was off with the boy. That would be, I suppose, the smart thing. Of course, a large, large part of me was also keeping me rooted right where I was. The not-so-smart thing. Or at least, the risky thing. I hate these moments. Decisions like this contain only one guarantee: regret. Either way you go, regret hops on your shoulder and takes a free ride. Deciding which form of regret you’d prefer to contend with has never struck me as a particularly worthwhile means of coming up with a decision.
Vickie came back into the room while my diplomats were still locked in their mad debate. She stopped just past the archway.
“How is he?” I asked.
“He’s fast asleep.”
“I’m going.”
It was the right decision. Good man. Good Hitch. The high road. I could throw myself a victory parade in the morning. Maybe let the marching bands drown out the low throbbing hum of regret. Vickie walked me over to the door.
“Good night.”
It really was the right decision. Leaving. But I had to cancel the parade. If it takes five full minutes to say “good night,” and all you manage to say in all that time is “good night” … well, that’s not exactly the high road we were talking about now, is it?
CHAPTER 23
I had just reached the street and was digging through my pocket for my keys when the lights from a pair of headlights swept over me. Rapidly. Three times.
I looked up to see a car swerving wildly but bearing down on me nonetheless. I had no more than two seconds to leap out of the way, though if the car happened to pitch in the same direction I leaped, I would be throwing myself right into its path. That thought ate up one of my two seconds. The headlights caught me again. In the remaining second I simply threw myself—unthinking—toward the middle of the street. My left leg was clipped by the careening car and I was spun around so that as I hit the pavement, I was facing the collision of the speeding car with my parked one.
The explosion of metal smashing metal ripped the air. Something large and hard—it proved to be a headlight—flew out of the explosion and caught me just above my right eye. One of the cars’ horns went off, a ceaseless and immediately irritating pitch. I had landed hard on my chest, knocking the air completely out of me. I was taking empty gulps of the night air—like a fish out of water—before a fist of oxygen finally slammed its way down my throat and into my lungs. I rolled slowly onto my side. I would later realize that blood from the gash in my forehead was swimming down into my eyes, blurring the scene. Even so, I was able to make out a pair of legs struggling from the front seat of the criminal car—mine was no longer a car, but an accordion—and stagger over to me. Cowboy boots. I recall noting to myself, Is that armadillo? I was trying to find the oxygen to speak when the legs suddenly scissored awkwardly and one of the cowboy boots came flying at my head. That was the last thing I remembered.
“If you wake up, Hitchcock, I promise to perform acts of unspeakable depravity all over your achy-breaky body.”
Before I opened my eyes, I allowed a few seconds to see what my imagination might make of this promise. Mistake. All I conjured was an awareness of the intense pain I was suffering. I doubt I could have borne the pressure of even one chaste kiss to the cheek, let alone the promised depravities my ex-wife was dangling in her attempt to lure me back to consciousness.
“Hell-o? Is anybody home?”
I opened my eyes. Julia had put on a surgical cap for the occasion. This was the first thing that told me I was in a hospital. The second thing was the tube running into my nose. Julia’s eyes were large and dewy.
“How are you feeling, Ralph?”
Despite the pain it caused, I winced a smile. When I was a pup I had been knocked unconscious briefly by a baseball. For about five minutes after I came around, I had been convinced that my name was Ralph. Of course Julia would remember the incident. She had been the one who hit the line drive.
I croaked weakly, “Ralph?”
Julia’s face relaxed. “Yes, dear. You’re still just eight years old. Anything else you think you remember past that has all been a dream.”
“You mean … we never got married?”
Julia put her fingers to her throat. “Moi? Please. I’m still a virgin.”
That was too much for me to comprehend. Or even pretend to. I drifted back into unconsciousness.
When I woke again, Billie and Julia were sitting in chairs across the room, laughing and giggling over God knows what. Billie looked over and saw me stirring.
“The prodigal nephew returns.” She stood up and came over to my bedside, as if on rollers.
“A fine thing, ruining a perfectly good car.” She dropped the act and touched me lightly on the cheek. “Please, don’t do this to your old auntie again. How are you feeling, Hitchcock?”
I answered truthfully, “Heavily sedated. Not ready to get up and dance.”
“That can wait. The doctor says you were lucky.”
“The doctor is full of shit,” I murmured. “Lucky” would have been getting into my car and driving home to a warm, safe bed. Julia appeared at Billie’s side. She had removed the surgical cap and was now simply beautiful without props.
“You have a concussion,” she said, smiling sadly.
“My leg hurts.” When neither of them responded immediately, I felt a rush of blood flood into my face. “Shit! I do still have a leg, don’t I?”
“Yes, Hitch,” said Julia. “It’s just not as pretty as it used to be. That’s where the car hit you.”
“Is it broken?”
“Mangled, I think, is the medical term.”
“And my head?”
I raised my hand to my face. For the first time since I had woken up, I realized that my head was bandaged. The cowboy boots swam into view. “Why the hell did that guy kick the shit out of me? Wasn’t running me over and wrecking my car enough?”
“He was high,” Julia said.
“I find that to be no excuse,” I murmured, closing my eyes.
“You know it wasn’t an accident.”
My eyes popped back open.
“Hitch, it was Terry Haden. He’s under arrest. All sorts of charges. Including aggravated assault.”
“Aggravated … Jesus Christ, what the hell aggravated him?”
“The police are saying he was pretty hopped up. I gather that the two of you didn’t exactly hit it off when you met?”
“Is that any reason to run a guy down and kick half his brains out?”
“You were coming from Victoria Waggoner’s house.”
“So?”
“So, maybe he was jealous.”
“Of what?” Even the simple act of frowning set the hammers loose on my skull.
“Terry Haden’s very mess
ed up. I really don’t think you can expect to find a fully rational explanation here.”
“Where’s Vickie?” I asked suddenly.
Billie answered, “She’s right down the hall. In the waiting area.”
“What time is it?”
“It’s nearly three in the morning. Would you like to see her now, Hitchcock? She’s been waiting for hours.”
Julia answered for me. “Of course he would.”
Julia and Billie shuffled out of the room. I glanced around, as much as my aching, bandaged head would allow. It wasn’t a private room; there was a second bed, unoccupied. My shades were drawn, though I could see a crack of blackness at the bottom. A small, framed print of a dandelion was on the wall beside the door to the bathroom. Plastic curtains were bunched at the head of my bed. A machine to my left was making a low blipping noise. Next to it was a baggy of goo on a pole. I was enjoying an IV snack.
Vickie came into the room. I guess no one had prepared her. She flinched when she saw me, then came over and landed softly in the chair beside my bed. I know I looked horrible, but she wasn’t looking too swell herself.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, which I shooed away.
“It’s not your fault.”
I realized suddenly how drowsy I was feeling again. My eyelids were starting to droop.
“You should sleep,” she said. She took hold of my hand and squeezed my fingers. I wanted to stay awake, but I had no choice in the matter. I dozed off. At some point later I woke. Briefly. She was still there, still holding my fingers. Her head was down on the edge of my pillow, rising and falling in deep sleep. I turned my battered head and put my nose into her hair and drifted back to sleep. When I woke in the morning—for good—she was gone.
I was kept in the hospital the entire next day with a promise that I would be released the following morning, “pending additional findings.” Julia teased me about that phrase. “They’re going to discover just how maladjusted you are. They’ll never let you go.”
It was far from the best day of my life, but far from the worst either. I went for a series of tests and X rays. As Julia had told me, I hadn’t broken any bones. But I had taken a nifty impression of Terry Haden’s fender with my calf. Nothing that several dozen stitches running this way and that wouldn’t fix up. I also took a few stitches to my face, though mainly the damage had been limited to a couple of kick-ass bruises. I was given a vision test, a hearing test, a memory test. … I passed them all. My head was declared as good as it was ever going to be. I met my doctor twice, once in the morning and once at the very end of the day. I suppose that surgery, or maybe a few sets of indoor tennis, took up the balance of his day. His degree of concern for my condition was so focused and complete that I decided it was completely staged. It was the gang who ran all the tests on me who actually seemed to care. In the late afternoon, after I had been cleared for release the following day, I convinced one of the orderlies to outfit me with a wheelchair so I could travel the highways and byways of the hospital rather than sit in my hydraulic bed staring at Oprah. Bonnie had called from the station to say that she would swing by around four to look in on me. I also got a call from Constance Bell, who had phoned me at the funeral home and had heard from Billie about my mishap.
“I guess we’ll have to postpone our symphony date,” Constance said to me.
“When was that again?”
“Tomorrow, Hitch. I don’t think you’ll—”
“No. Tomorrow should be fine. I’m being discharged in the morning. I could use a little thoughtless recreation. Honestly I’d love to go.”
“If you’re sure.”
I assured her that I was. We agreed to meet at the symphony hall at seven. Constance asked me just what it was that had landed me in the hospital.
“Your aunt intimated that you’ve been sticking your nose into other people’s business. Is that true?”
“Talk to my lawyer.”
She laughed. “Don’t be cute, Hitchcock. Seriously, are you in some sort of trouble? I mean, beside being in the hospital.”
“I’ll tell you about it tomorrow.”
We hung up.
Before Bonnie arrived, I wheeled myself out into the hallway and stationed myself near the elevator. Each time the elevator doors opened, I lowered my head. When Bonnie arrived she came off the elevator and walked right past me. I followed, calling out “Boo!” when she reached my room and found nobody there.
“I take it you’re feeling better,” she said.
“Bored out of my gourd.”
“From one day? Boy, you would make a lousy patient.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
We went into the room and Bonnie shut the door. I hoped she didn’t have any funny ideas. I wasn’t feeling that great.
“Your pretty face is a mess,” she said.
“The doctors assure me I’ll be looking like Abe Lincoln in no time.”
“Terry Haden is going back to jail. Parole violation.”
“Trying to kill an undertaker?”
“The drugs they found in his system. And in his car.” Bonnie stepped over to the window and dented the blinds to have a look outside. Nothing but a facing brick wall.
“There’s no way that Haden’s running you down had anything to do with the murder of Helen Waggoner, Hitch.”
“That’s a question or a statement?” I asked.
“Both, I guess.”
I agreed. “As far as I’m concerned, Terry Haden is free to go off and serve jail time for any or all of the many crimes he has no doubt committed. But no, it doesn’t look like the murder of Helen is one of them.” I filled Bonnie in on one of the discoveries of the day before. Her wide eyes went even wider as I told her how I had discovered that it was Richard Kingman who Helen had been seeing.
“Son of a bitch.”
“I’d say that’s a fair assessment.”
“Good Lord, Hitch, that’s amazing. You know, you’re getting good at this. We’re going to have to buy you a magnifying glass and one of those droopy pipes.”
“Elementary.”
“So, have you told any of this to Kruk?”
“I’ve been a little preoccupied or perhaps you haven’t noticed. I’ll get to it.”
“I think so. You should call him right now.”
I wheeled myself over to the bedside table and poured myself a cup of ice water. I held the pitcher up to Bonnie. She shook her head.
“I don’t see the hurry,” I said. “Kruk has put Helen’s murder on the back burner. It can keep.”
“But Hitch, this is important. You’ve got to tell the police.”
“Kingman isn’t the killer. He can’t be. He was already dead.”
“That’s not the point. He’s the reason that Helen was dumped in your lap in the first place. This definitely advances the investigation.”
“I thought you wanted to come up with the killer yourself,” I reminded her. “Where’s your scoop if we hand it off to Kruk at this point?”
“It’s a crime, Hitch, withholding information.”
“Murder is the bigger crime. Look, I’ve just suffered a massive head trauma. I’m supposed to be clearheaded enough to run to the police?”
“So, what are you saying?”
“What I’m saying is that we give ourselves … forty-eight hours. What can that hurt? If we can’t cough up a killer by Christmas Eve, we give Kruk the news about Helen and Kingman. But if we do cough up the killer, you run to management with your scoop and the world becomes a better place. Is there any harm in that?”
Bonnie thought it over. “Okay. Sure. Why not. Forty-eight hours.” She paused. “Hitch … I know you’re going to throw a fit. But let’s bring Jay in on this.”
“Adams? Why?”
“Because it couldn’t hurt, that’s why. He has done this sort of thing before. He might come up with some ideas that you and I haven’t thought of.”
“I came up with Kingman,” I reminded her.
“I’m the one who nearly got killed.”
“Not related to the case. Not technically.”
“I was going over ‘the case’ with Vickie Waggoner. I got run over by Helen’s ex-boyfriend and pimp as I was leaving. I’ll take a merit badge for that one, thank you.”
“Okay. You’re right. I’m sorry.”
A merit badge was also due Vickie Waggoner—Bo, actually—for coming up with the name of Bonnie’s obstetrician. But this was a piece of information I was holding onto for the time being.
“Okay,” I said. “Hand it to Adams on a silver platter. Tell him about Kingman. But is it possible to keep the guy on a leash? He sandbagged me the other day you know, with that photograph, taking it out to Sinbad’s.”
“So what? He saved you the effort.”
She was right. Why not call in a seasoned hound dog like Adams at this point? I was close to the killer. Maybe Adams could help me get even closer. Of course, Bonnie won either way. So long as both Adams and I reported back to her and let her have her scoop, she would come out of this better off than when she went in. I suspected that she and Jay Adams had already reached an agreement that she would be allowed to bring the identity of the murdered waitress’s killer to the public first. Adams had plenty of notches in his belt already.
Bonnie kissed me gingerly on the unbruised portion of my face. She had to get off to work. After she left, I wheeled myself out to the nurses’ station. I thought a little flirting might cheer me up. But my heart wasn’t in it. I wheeled myself back into my room and slept for fourteen hours.
•••
Billie sent Sam to fetch me from the hospital. He picked me up in the hearse. By hospital regulations I was wheeled out the front door in a wheelchair, then allowed to rise up under my own power like a man newly healed at a revival meeting. Sam had brought along a wooden cane that he had used some years back after breaking his ankle in a melee at one of his clubs. He helped me hobble into the passenger seat of the hearse and away we went. And yes, people stopped and stared.