Scarecrow

by Robin Hathaway

  I slid Becca’s sketchbook into my bureau drawer and tried not to think about her. What could I do? Her aunt—and legal guardian—had taken her on a trip. What was so bad about that? At least she was out of town, and away from that slimeball Milac. The next few days were so busy, I had little time to worry about Becca.

  As soon as I returned from the Sheffield Farm, there was a knock on my door. I opened it to Maria, one of the chambermaids, who was in great distress. Timidly she held up a finger in which a splinter about the size of an ant was lodged. It was so small I didn’t bother taking her down to my official office. “Come on in. I can take care of that right here.” I ushered her into my emergency office, pulled down the toilet lid, and seated her on it. Then I went to get my medical kit. When I reappeared holding a syringe she started to scream. Fortunately I knew no Spanish, so her curses bounced off me like dandelion puffs. Calmly, I dismantled the needle and explained to her that I had no intention of giving her a shot. I only wanted to use the syringe as a probe to get the splinter out. She was quiet for thirty seconds—until I moved toward her with the needle. Then she started up again. You would think I was about to amputate. And the reverberations in that tile bathroom! Inspired by her screams, I removed the splinter with a deftness—one flick—I didn’t know I possessed. When I showed it to Maria, the transformation was magical; her tear-stained face broke into a radiant smile. I swabbed her finger with cotton soaked in alcohol and applied a Band-Aid. She reached into the pocket of her uniform, looking at me inquiringly.

  I shook my head.

  “Gracias!” She hugged me.

  But when I offered her the splinter as a souvenir, she shrieked and ran out of the room.

  I had barely finished cleaning up after Maria when the phone rang. It was Mike, from the garage. He had to identify himself because his voice was unrecognizable. It was the voice of a man thirty years his senior. “I think I have the flu,” he croaked.

  “Don’t move,” I said. “I’m coming over.”

  Mike’s apartment was on top of his garage. It was bright and cheerful, neat and tidy. Why was I surprised that a bachelor’s quarters were not a pigsty? Reverse discrimination? Completely buried beneath a dark blue comforter, he greeted me with a weak moan.

  “When did this begin?” I pulled a chair up to the side of the bed and took out my stethoscope.

  “Thanksgiving.”

  “Too much turkey?”

  “Nah.” He managed to sound indignant.

  I asked him to sit up. He was wearing no pajama top. I wasn’t about to investigate for bottoms. When I pressed the stethoscope to his bare back, he flinched.

  “Why don’t you ever warm those things up?”

  “Shhhh.” I was hearing definite rales. I switched the stethoscope to his chest. More rales. I took out the earplugs. “Why don’t you wear any clothes in November?”

  He grunted and slid back under the comforter.

  I took out a thermometer, shook it down to 96 degrees, popped it under his tongue, and checked my watch. “Now I can read you the riot act without interruption. You have severe bronchitis that could easily become pneumonia. I’m going to give you a strong antibiotic. But that won’t cure you by itself. You must drink lots of fluids and get plenty of bed rest.”

  He sat back up. “I have a garage to run, lady.”

  “Do you want to be out of commission for a month?” I stared him back down under the covers. “Now shut up and do what the doctor tells you.” I took out the thermometer: 103 degrees. “And I’ll need a chest X ray.”

  He groaned.

  “Do you have any help?” I thought I’d seen some boys working around the place.

  “Kids.” He shrugged. “They’re okay when I’m around. But without me they’re worthless.”

  I nodded. “My father had the same problem. But then, he had me.” Memories of late nights working as a printer’s devil came back to me. The smell of ink and freshly cut paper. Not unpleasant memories. I could have been happy as a printer.

  “Would you like to apply for the job?” He croaked and immediately launched into a coughing fit.

  “Seriously.” I glared at him. “Either you get help or you close up until this is over.” I set a bottle of pills on his bedside table. “Two now, and one a day until they’re all gone.”

  He returned my glare.

  “Cheer up.” I clicked my kit shut. “It’s not the end of the world.”

  He started to get out of bed.

  “Hey …” (He was wearing bottoms.)

  “There’s some cash in the top drawer over there.” He pointed to a bureau on the other side of the room. “Take what I owe you.”

  I opened the drawer and took a ten and a twenty from a greasy pile. I held up the two bills. “Ten for the antibiotic; twenty for the house call.”

  He nodded.

  “Want a receipt?”

  “Yeah. I better. Taxes.”

  I wrote out a receipt, and signed it.

  He sat up to reach for it and fell back exhausted.

  “See what I mean?”

  He managed a faint grin.

  As I started to let myself out, he said hoarsely, “Stop any bullets lately?”

  I paused. “Not lately.”

  “That’s good.” He shut his eyes and rolled himself up in his comforter.

  “Don’t forget that X ray,” I reminded him.

  “Omph.”

  I closed the door softly behind me.

  My next call was quite different. Paul handed me the phone message as I came in the door. The address was a posh motor inn in the heart of Wilmington with ninety-five units. I happened to know they charged $200-plus a night. The message read, “Female guest with possible broken ankle. Refuses X ray.”

  Great. Did she think I was Superman with X ray vision?

  It took almost an hour to get there—over the Delaware Memorial Bridge, down 1-95, into the business center of Wilmington—fighting traffic all the way. But I had no trouble finding it. Its only competition was the regal Hotel du Pont, a few blocks away. RODNEY MOTOR INN, the electric marquee gleamed against the sky. Caesar Rodney had been one of the signers of the Declaration of Independence. I had a vague memory that he had arrived in the final hour and saved the day.

  Pulling into the parking lot, I bypassed the red-coated parking valet, found a space on my own, and locked up my bike. As I trudged toward the entrance, I was suddenly conscious of my jeans, my black leather jacket, and my boots. The outfit had cost me an arm and a leg, but they clashed with the decor. An elegant middle-aged couple in evening togs preceded me through the door. I zipped past the doorman and into the lobby, resisting the impulse to shield my eyes against the glitter. Wall-to-wall brass and glass. I wondered how this place could call itself a motel. Some tax loophole, no doubt. The man behind the desk stared blatantly at me. I marched up to him.

  “Dr. Banks.” I spoke briskly, looking him straight in the eye. “Your manager called me about a guest with a possible ankle fracture.”

  “Oh, yes. A Mrs. Ferguson.” He waved a bellhop over. “Will you escort this lady to room nine-thirteen?”

  “I don’t need an escort. Just point me to the elevators.”

  The bellhop slunk back to his corner.

  “Certainly. Straight ahead and to your right.” He couldn’t resist a disdainful glance at my jeans and boots.

  “And the powder room?” I said. “I’d like to change first.”

  His expression of relief was funny. He pointed to a sign: REST ROOMS.

  Appropriately attired in a skirt, blouse, pantyhose and flats, I returned to the front desk. The desk clerk didn’t recognize me.

  “Can you store this for me?” I pushed my backpack bulging with biking boots, jeans, jacket, and helmet across the counter.

  Recognition dawned. “Oh, certainly.” He whisked my bag under the counter as if it contained an especially virulent strain of Legionnaire’s disease.

  As I headed for the elevators, I h
eard him dial a number and say, “Mrs. Ferguson, Dr. Banks is on her way up.”

  The ride to the ninth floor was swift and silent, reminding me of the Trump Tower on Fifth Avenue. God, that seemed a thousand miles away. Soundlessly, the doors slid open and I stepped into pile like deep snow. But instead of white, it was pale gold. I found Room 913 and knocked.

  An immaculately groomed CEO type in a dark suit opened the door. “Dr. Banks?”

  Who did he think? The chambermaid? I wasn’t carrying sheets or towels. I nodded.

  He stepped aside.

  I had an impression of more pale gold with white accents. Usually, when attending a patient, their surroundings remained a blur until I made my diagnosis. Only then could I focus on unessential details. But this was different. The details hit me over the head.

  Mrs. Ferguson, in a black negligée, was stretched out on a white sofa, her ailing foot elevated by a pillow and wrapped in a gold towel. A tumbler half-filled with a dark liquid stood on a glass table at her side. A lighted cigarette rested in the crystal ashtray. With a guilty look, she crushed it out. An old-fashioned lady.

  Without waiting for more introductions, I asked, “How did this happen?” and began unpacking my kit.

  She glanced at her male companion for help. (Mr. Ferguson?)

  “Last night.” Whoever-He-Was spoke for her. “We were coming home from the theater and she tripped on the doorsill in the lobby.”

  Uh-oh. No wonder the desk clerk was nervous. We were talking major lawsuit material.

  “We were both a bit tipsy,” Mrs. Ferguson added with a sheepish smile.

  So much for lawsuits. “Let’s have a look.” I bent to examine the ankle. It was quite swollen. When I applied gentle pressure, the woman jerked away and gave a little yelp.

  “Sorry,” I muttered. Pampered crybaby women did nothing to improve my bedside manner. “This should be X rayed immediately,” I said, happy to tell her what I knew she least wanted to hear. “You could have saved me a trip by just going to the hospital in the first place.”

  The lady cast another look at Mr. Whosis.

  “We’d rather avoid the hospital in a strange place,” he said.

  “The Delaware Medical Center has an excellent reputation.”

  “Could you possibly strap it temporarily so she could get home to her own doctor?”

  “Where is home?”

  “Washington, D.C.”

  I frowned. “It should be X rayed right away. If it’s broken, the longer it’s not in a cast, the more likely …” I stopped. No point scaring her to death. “Did you drive?”

  He nodded.

  “All right,” I shrugged, guessing from his manner and attire that he owned the last word in comfortable vehicles. “It’s against my better judgment, but I’ll strap it for you.”

  The twosome exchanged another look, and I felt their relief balloon around me.

  I worked silently, wrapping the ankle. No small talk to lighten things up. I was too irritated. Except for a wince or two, the woman bore up better than I’d expected. When I had finished, I asked if she’d taken anything for the pain.

  “Only aspirin.”

  I rummaged in my kit for some Motrin. “Take two now, and a third later, if the pain increases.” I was about to write out a bill with a receipt. These types usually had ample insurance. But he stopped me.

  “What is your fee?”

  I blinked, thought briefly of doubling it, decided against it. “Fifty,” I said.

  He had his billfold out and was handing me two crisp twenties and a ten.

  “I’ll give you a receipt so your insurance company can reimburse …”

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  “But—”

  “We appreciate your coming.” He pointed me toward the door.

  As I plowed through the plush carpeting toward the elevator, I mused on the inconvenience of accidents when one is engaged in a clandestine affair.

  CHAPTER 30

  It was nearly midnight as I approached Bayfield. And cold. That last call had left a bad taste in my mouth. Not because of my patient and her boyfriend; I was no prude. It was the setting. All that glitz. And the knowledge that most of my colleagues would think nothing of spending one or two nights there didn’t help my mood. The contrast between the gaudy decor of the Rodney Motor Inn and the scene before me was startling. Bare fields. Empty sky. Clean, cold air sweeping through me like a broom.

  Uh-oh. A barrier of orange cones like witches’ hats blocked the entrance to the little concrete bridge that I usually took over Stow Creek. And there was a new sign: DETOUR. I turned right and peered through the darkness for the next sign. There wasn’t one. After a few miles I turned left, then left again. Logically, this should return me to the direction I wanted to go. Another few miles revealed no familiar landmarks. Don’t tell me, after all these weeks, I had managed to get lost—again?

  I slowed down, searching the landscape. No landmarks. No buildings. No scarecrows. Just field and sky and road. Not even an abandoned barn. Only a vision of Tom Canby with his impudent grin, mocking me. I gave the grip on my right handlebar a twist, throwing open the throttle. Maybe around the next bend …

  A house, buried among tall trees. I slowed and peered up the weedy driveway. Pickup truck parked at an angle. Dark windows. No sign of habitation. Not even a dog barking. Oh, well. I turned in and parked next to the truck. As I got out, I ran my hand over the hood. Still warm. Where was the driver? Inside? My boots cracked like gun shots on the wooden porch. My knocks rang out loudly.

  Silence.

  Did I mention the winter silence? Complete absence of sound. In the fall, there were the geese. And sometimes, even now, there was a wind. But usually there was nothing. Like tonight. Except for whatever noise I made—with my feet, hands, or breath. I knocked again. The knocks dropped into the stillness like stones into a well.

  I moved away from the door, treading as softly as possible on the wooden steps. As I started for my bike, I heard someone slide out of the cab of the truck behind me.

  I got on the bike and fumbled for the ignition. He jumped on me and tried to wrestle me to the ground. I found the ignition. He was on the back of my bike. My motor started up. He clamped his arms around my waist, trying to rock me loose. His hands moved up my arms, to my shoulders—reaching for my neck. His fingers tightened around my throat. I twisted the handlebar grip and popped a wheelie. The nose of my bike surged through the air.

  His fingers slipped. He hit the ground a little before my front wheel did. Without looking back, I gave the grip a vicious twist, accelerating to the highest possible speed—over a hundred miles per hour. The noise of the bike ripped the winter silence to shreds.

  Fear, like a vacuum cleaner, sucked my brain clean of everything except what I needed to find my way home. The glowing orange sign—OAKVIEW MOTOR LODGE—showed up by the side of the road like a jack-in-the-box. I had no idea how it got there. How I got there. But it wasn’t until I parked my bike and dismounted that I realized the full extent of my fear. My legs wouldn’t work. I tottered like a drunk to the door of the motel and had to steady myself against the doorjamb before I went in.

  I could have gone straight to my room, but I needed to hear a human voice. A friendly human voice. I’ll just pop in and say good night to Jack, I thought.

  What met my eyes was completely unexpected. Instead of finding Jack hunched over the desk, keeping his lonely vigil in a solitary pool of light, the lobby was full of people, lights blazed, and Jack was nowhere to be seen. Paul and Maggie, their backs to me, were hovering above a third person who was seated. When they heard me come in, they both whipped around. “Thank God!” Paul said.

  How could he possibly have known about my attack?

  “Come quick. This boy’s cut himself bad.” Stepping aside, Paul allowed me a view of the third person—a boy, around nine or ten—slumped on the vinyl sofa. Grimly, Maggie held a towel to his wrist with both hands. The towel was sca
rlet. So was the boy’s T-shirt, pants, and the carpet under his feet.

  I can’t do this, I thought. Then I sprinted forward and tore open my kit. “Did you call nine-one-one?”

  “They’re on their way,” Paul said.

  I yanked out a rubber tourniquet and wrapped it tightly around the boy’s arm, just below the elbow. “Can you hold on a little longer, Maggie?”

  She nodded.

  “I’d switch with you, but it would be risky.”

  She shook her head and increased her grip on the boy’s wrist.

  “How did it happen?” I asked the boy.

  “Piece of glass in the parking lot.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Bryan.”

  “Where are your parents, Bryan?”

  “In their room.” For the first time he looked scared. “Don’t wake them—please. They told me to get lost.”

  “At midnight? In the parking lot?”

  He looked sheepish. “No. That was my idea.”

  Where is that G.D. ambulance? “What’s your room number?”

  “I … forget.”

  I glanced at Paul. He went to the desk, rummaged a minute, and disappeared.

  “Are you okay?” I asked Maggie, quietly.

  Her nod was slower this time.

  I moved my hands under hers. “When I say ‘now,’ let go.”

  I could feel her hands trembling above mine.

  “Now!”

  She let go, and my hands moved swiftly to replace hers. There was very little loss of blood.

  The motel door opened. All eyes swung toward it, expecting paramedics. In walked Tom Canby. “I was driving by and saw all the lights … whoa,” he stopped. “Am I interrupting something?”

  “Just a little emergency medicine.” I turned back to the boy. “The ambulance will be here soon,” I said. (It better be.) “Does it hurt much?”

  “Naw,” he said with the stoic mannerisms of your typical macho male.

  The wait was interminable. Could the ambulances in Bayfield be horsedrawn?

  “Can I help?” Tom came close.

  “Yes. Bug nine-one-one.”

  He went to the phone.