by Archer Mayor
“Oh?”
“What stuck in my craw from the start was, why complicate things with the four-wheeler? If I kill somebody in the heat of the moment, I don’t hitch a ride ten miles to steal a vehicle and then drive back and forth, carrying around a dead body. I grab a shovel and bury the damn thing. And if I do opt for the four-wheeler, I sure as hell don’t then drive it to the top of a mountain, so I can pose for the one video camera I think’ll fit the bill.
“But,” Joe kept going, amazed by how organized he was sounding, “that’s exactly what I’d do if I wasn’t too bright and being forced to conjure up a plan by the real culprit. Mick knew about the four-wheeler, the camera, who to call to hitch a ride, the various bars, and all the rest because they played a part in his everyday life—or he’d heard about them in the news, like that demolition in White River. The question therefore becomes: Why admit to the crime? Nothing in his record indicates that he has a habit of seeking attention. Mick Durocher is like a typical run-of-the-mill, all-American, self-destructive, underachieving loner. He doesn’t have the passion to bash girlfriends on the head. Hell, he doesn’t have the passion to have a girlfriend in the first place.”
“I thought he has a daughter,” Tausha reminded him, tapping on a closed file before her.
“An adult daughter, yes,” he agreed. “I’d love to talk to her, among other people.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know yet,” Joe answered honestly. “That’s the problem. This was wrapped up so neat and tidy, there was no reason to do our usual background digging yet. I guess that’s what I’m here asking for.”
Greenblott seemed completely unperturbed. “Joe, if you’re not happy with things as they are, by all means, go for it. I’d sooner have my own investigator find there’s a bug in the soup than some headline-grabbing defense lawyer later on. And I sure as hell don’t want this poor girl’s real murderer on the loose, thinking he pulled a fast one. Screw that.
“I do have a suggestion that might help,” she added. “One of your missing pieces concerns the fetus. You should round up a nontestimonial identification order and collect Mick’s DNA to match it against Teri’s baby. If you’ve got doubts about Mick’s guilt, I would like to have that question answered. In fact, unless you have a driving need to do that yourself, I’ll be happy to have one of our staff investigators chase it down for you.” She smiled before adding, “Call it a personal show of faith.”
“I’ll take it. Mick’s defense’ll go for that?” Joe asked.
“They won’t have a choice if we state in the application that we’re going for motive. The trick will be to not even bring up the issue of whether you consider the fetus to be a human being or not, thereby implying its death is a homicide. Not that such a tactic would fly in Vermont anyhow.”
The phone on her desk started ringing. She reached out and placed her hand on it, glancing at Joe. “We good? Or should I not answer this?”
Joe stood up. “Knock ’em dead, Counselor. Thanks for the help.”
* * *
Sam was still holding her phone when its urgent vibrating startled her awake. Sue Spinney had parked her in one of the small hospital’s coffin-sized break rooms—barely large enough for a bunk bed, a short ladder, and two reading lamps attached to the wall—where Sam, in denial, had passed out in the middle of writing a text.
She smacked the back of her head against the wall and blinked confusedly, trying to get her bearings. The phone screen revealed that the caller was Beverly Hillstrom—not someone Sam wanted to address raw-edged and sleep-deprived, her brain feeling packed with damp cotton.
Nevertheless, she cleared her throat before answering, “Hello?”
Hillstrom, despite having become an unexpected ally and friend, retained for Sam some of the attributes that a child might see in a powerful and exacting adult.
Something her trademark English teacher’s perfect syntax didn’t help to dispel.
“Samantha? It’s Beverly. Are you all right?”
Sam straightened as best she could, being on the lower bunk without enough head room. “Sure. Sorry. Hi. Nice to hear your voice.”
Hillstrom sounded crestfallen. “I woke you up. I was afraid of that. Joe came home after I’d left for work, and I believe he’s already back at it. You people are making my old medical school hours look like the proverbial walk in the park.”
Sam was trying to interrupt her, if timidly. “No, no, no, no. It’s fine. I may have dozed off while I was writing something. It just surprised me, is all. Really, I’m awake. I mean, I was awake.”
“All of you were at that fire where I left Joe last night?” Beverly asked. “In White River Junction? I was wondering if it might be an all-hands-on-deck situation.”
An announcement came over the hospital PA system in the background. UVSS, despite its small footprint, nevertheless had many of the trappings of a traditional hospital.
“Yeah,” Sam said, speaking over it. “It was pretty intense.”
“You’re not at home,” Beverly said. “I know a hospital’s public address system when I hear one. Are you all right? That’s why I called. An instinct told me to contact you, for no reason at all. Was I correct—if I’m not intruding, of course?”
Sam was completely caught off balance—by the faintly parental words, the supportive tone, Beverly’s instinct to reach out at just the right moment. She removed the phone from her ear to fight back a sudden, unexpected surge of emotion, but finished instead by bursting into tears.
“You are not all right,” Beverly stated. “Where are you? Should I come?”
“I’m so sorry,” Sam stammered into the phone, sniffling and wiping her nose with her sleeve. “I don’t know … It’s not me. I promise.”
That did nothing to calm Hillstrom. “Is it Joe?” she asked, alarmed. “Are you in Burlington?”
“It’s Willy,” Sam said quickly. “His arm’s—” She suddenly cut herself off, remembering Willy’s concern about confidentiality.
“What? Did he get hurt?”
Sam tried backtracking. “It’s just a standard tune-up, but we thought we could get Sue Spinney to do the honors this time. She’s at a new place.”
“I remember,” Beverly said, sounding utterly unconvinced and thereby ramping up Sam’s discomfort. “Is he in pain?”
“Oh,” Sam spoke generally. “It comes and goes, but that’s not it. We just wanted to get it looked at.”
After a long and telling pause, during which Sam consciously relaxed her painful grip on the phone, Beverly said, “Let me say something clearly and unequivocally, Samantha: I strongly suspect that you and Willy are in trouble. I also suspect that it’s of a nature you’re not free to divulge. I honor that and will not pry. But hear me out. If at any time, for any reason, you think I may be of value—to either one of you—please do not hesitate to contact me. You two, and your extraordinary child, are doing an exemplary job under trying circumstances—not to mention that you both also practice a profession that by definition isolates you from most of the rest of civilization. Please do not include me in that isolation. And if my relationship with Joe makes you pause, let it go. I would treat any and all communications as strictly between us. You need not worry on that account.”
Sam was speechless, crying again, her weariness only slightly offset by gratitude.
“I shall go,” Beverly concluded. “You are tired and busy and need to keep focused. I only want to know that you heard what I just said.”
“I did, Beverly,” Sam said softly. “I promise, I’ll call if I need you. I won’t forget.”
“It’s not forgetfulness that concerns me, Samantha. It’s false pride. Understood?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Sam said automatically. “Thank you so much.”
“You’re welcome. I’ll speak with you soon. Please take care of yourself, and that hardheaded lunatic you live with.”
“I will,” Sam said before realizing the phone was already dead.
She rested her head against the wall and wiped her face with her open palm, at once embarrassed and happy for the call. She saw Sue Spinney approaching through the narrow glass pane mounted in the door.
“How is he?” she asked as Sue stepped in.
“Sleeping like a log, like you should be, instead of making phone calls.”
Sam waggled the cell in the air. “I was about to contact Louise. I wanted to find out how last night went with Emma. I so miss that girl when I pull an all-nighter. Louise is great and knows the routine inside out, but—”
“You’re her mother,” Sue cut her off, unknowingly mimicking Beverly. “Give yourself a break. Of course you want to know how she’s doing. You can’t be all things to all people. One crisis at a time.”
Sam felt a bit overwhelmed, fresh from her meltdown and acutely aware of the effects of only two catnaps over two days. “How is this a crisis? Truly?”
Susan crooked her finger. “Follow me. Victoria’s in her office. You didn’t get to meet her when I threw you in here and dragged Willy off. It’s time you did.”
They walked down a long, white, wide hallway to a flight of stairs, where they arrived before an airy, large-windowed, nicely laid out office. The two-story building, once a small corporate headquarters, had largely kept its former layout: administration upstairs, and operations—literally, in this case—on the ground floor.
The woman who greeted them had arranged her desk so that it didn’t face the door like the broadside of a gunboat, but at a more inviting angle.
She rose as they appeared, her tall and powerful build at odds with the gentleness of her face.
“You must be Sam,” she stated, shaking Sammie’s hand in a firm grip. “I’m Victoria. It’s a pleasure to meet the so-called other half. How’ve you been holding up? I gather you’ve all been burning the candle at both ends recently—on top of what’s ailing Willy.”
“It’s been a little busy,” Sam agreed. “How is he?”
“In trouble,” Victoria said bluntly. “From what I gathered during my interview with him, he’s got an addictive personality and a propensity for going overboard. I’m sparing you the medical jargon because Sue told me you’re both straight shooters. Correct me if I’m wrong, and I’ll assume my best bedside demeanor.”
“No, no,” Sam assured her. “Please. Keep going.”
Victoria indicated a circle of chairs away from her desk and made them comfortable. “He told me,” she resumed, “that he’d dipped into your supply of Oxys and was hunting out others.”
“Right,” Sam confirmed grimly, surprised that Willy had admitted as much—another indicator to her of his level of despair.
Victoria leaned forward and tapped Sam’s knee for emphasis. “I know you’re all tough guys and there’s nothing you haven’t seen or heard, but dependency is not addiction. That’s not just an inspiring phrase on a self-help poster.”
Sam was unsure of what to say.
“Dependency concerns the body’s growing tolerance of a medication and its corresponding need for more. Addiction involves a lifestyle sacrifice dedicated to the goal of getting more. The signs leading to both are similar: stealing meds, slips in neatness and hygiene, sleep disruption, routine becoming erratic.”
Sammie was nodding throughout.
“But,” Victoria stressed, “Willy is solidly in the first category, despite his history with alcohol.”
Sam was trying to absorb all this. “He told you this stuff? He never does that. It took me years.”
Victoria laughed. “I have my methods.” But her face became serious again. “Look, he’s in trouble. He knows it and I know it, but you and your daughter are way more the reason he opened up than I am. He doesn’t want to lose you, and he feels that’s guaranteed if he doesn’t get ahead of this.”
“But I don’t understand what’s happened!” Sam exclaimed. “He’s had this injury for decades. It’s ancient history. What’s changed, all of a sudden? And what did you do just now to make him feel better?”
“Good questions,” Victoria replied. “Last answer first: We talked, I gave him an injection, and Sue administered a session of craniosacral therapy, which almost freaked him out until he tried it. Fortunately, he finally just passed out. I doubt this is late-breaking news to you, but Willy Kunkle has probably the highest pain threshold of any human being I’ve met. So when he crashes, as he did with a little help, he goes all out. That same stoicism means, by the way, that he’s been experiencing various levels of pain throughout the life of his disability, although never to this degree. That’s the nature of such an injury. He just hasn’t told anyone.”
“So why now?” Sam asked.
“Things change over time,” Victoria said simply. “Blood vessels, nerves, tumors, scar tissue, all of it interrelates in passive and active ways. It’s what the body does. In Willy’s case, after I consulted with a few people who know a lot about this, and reading up on it, I’m thinking he suffers from brachial plexus palsy, brought on by that bullet. The resulting scar tissue, or possibly a tumor, is impinging on his radial nerve, which in turn is sending a level-ten, nonstop pain signal directly to his brain.”
“A tumor?” Sam repeated.
“Everyone thinks cancer when you say that,” Victoria explained. “It doesn’t make it so. All this needs to be explored and identified before it’s addressed. The good news is”—she held up her hand and counted off her fingers one by one—“that you’re here; the problem seems isolated to the arm; I’ve been rounding up solid opinions on a solution; and, most important, the science has been steaming ahead all the while. The therapies and treatments available now are much better than they were back when he wasn’t open to them, anyhow.”
“And he is now?” Sam asked skeptically.
“That’s where you and Emma come in,” Victoria comforted her. “He’s here for your sake. He told me so just before I knocked him out.”
“One reason we’re here,” Sam emphasized, casting a look at Sue, “is because he wanted to be seen under the radar. He’s afraid they’ll fire him as unfit for duty, since he’s only employed now ’cause of a deal Joe worked out with the bigwigs. We’re willing to pay for everything up front, even if it means taking out loans.”
But Victoria was already shaking her head sympathetically. “I got that. He made it all perfectly clear. The first thing, right out of the gate, is actually to bring Gunther into the conversation. My counterargument, and Willy saw the logic after I talked myself blue in the face, is that the original injury is work related. Any cause for termination would have to have been made when Gunther struck the original deal about keeping him on the payroll. It’s too late for anyone to reverse history—that would be grounds for a lawsuit. What I’m proposing medically is just an extension of everything that was done when the injury occurred, which includes the coverage.”
She held up her hand again, lampooning the making of an oath. “I promise you, Sam. Nothing will be done without each of you signing off on it. I know what this means to you. But by the same token, you need to realize that Willy’s facing a life-threatening crisis. One way or the other, this pain will do him in if we don’t create a plan to combat it.”
There was a reflective silence in the room, during which Victoria blinked a couple of times, reached for a small bottle on her desk, and administered a couple of drops of its contents into each of her eyes.
“Sorry,” she said. “Dry eyes.”
“What’re you planning to do for him?” Sammie asked her.
There was a knock at the door, and a hard-faced, older nurse stuck her head in uninvited and asked, “I see you for a sec?”
Victoria frowned at the breach in manners, putting the bottle back down. “In a few, Lillian. This a crisis?”
“Depends on your interpretation.”
“I’ll be right there. I’ll find you.”
Lillian made a discontented face, muttered, “Whatever,” and closed the door without apology.
> Sam could tell from Sue’s and Victoria’s expressions that the unpleasant tone of the encounter hadn’t been unexpected.
Sue rolled her eyes in partial explanation, adding softly, “Our token resident Oscar the Grouch. Seems like a workplace requirement, wherever you go.”
“You asked what I was planning to do,” Victoria resumed without comment. “Not much. I’m the go-between here. What I did for Willy just now is about all I can do. Sue and I got him off the ledge, for a few hours, and only because he was exhausted and desperate. But I can and will advise and guide you through the necessary layers to maybe get this permanently addressed. I’m talking about a neurosurgeon here, probably with orthopedic assistance—a complicated, touch-and-go operation. The works. Fortunately, you came to the right place, for whatever reasons. We have the people, the expertise, and the equipment right here. If I’m right, this thing is definitely feasible. But it is by no means guaranteed. There are a lot of people walking around with similar injuries who tried what I’m suggesting and got little to nothing out of it.”
Sue reached out and squeezed Sam’s wrist as the latter said, “So much for sugarcoating.”
Victoria smiled thinly. “Speaking of that, I mentioned craniosacral therapy. That’s Sue’s department. Some people call it pseudoscience or quackery; others swear by it. It’s a form of gentle touch manipulation of the cranium and skeleton—right on the border of hands-off therapy, but not quite. I’m not a believer in the science end of it, but I like the temporary results I’ve seen, like today. If the least we hope for is to do no harm, it certainly meets the standard, so why not? But if you want my opinion, and Sue told me earlier she agreed with me, it worked today largely because Willy was exhausted. Given his condition, it’s a finger stuck in the dam, however, assuming it ever works again.”
Victoria rose, indicating she was done. “You’re more than welcome to hang around until Willy returns from Never Land, but I would urge you to go home and catch some sleep yourself.”
She stuck out her hand, adding, “I’ll try never to bullshit you. I’m hoping that’s one reason Sue brought you here.”