Chapter 42
Visiting hours had long since passed, but Lindsay hoped that Versa might be upstairs with Buford. The hospital staff had gotten to know the Bullards well during the past weeks. They clearly sympathized with the family’s predicament and Lindsay had observed that they now let Versa come and go as she pleased. Lindsay opened the door to Buford’s room without knocking. As she’d hoped, Versa was stationed next to Buford’s bed. Her hand rested heavily on top of his as she dozed in her chair. A loud-mouthed infomercial salesman exclaimed and extolled from the wall-mounted television. Lindsay shook Versa’s shoulder to awaken her. “Versa, I need to see those pills again.”
Versa jumped in her seat and released her hold on Buford’s hand. She put her hand over her heart and shook her rigidly coiffed head. “Jumping Jehosephat! You scared the sausage stuffing out of me!”
“Sorry. I just need to see your pills. Please.”
Versa wiped the sleep out of her eyes. “Don’t tell me the ones I gave you wore off already.”
Lindsay kept silent and held out her hand. Versa was clearly irritated. She was not a woman who was used to being commanded and she didn’t take kindly to the insistence of the elfin dictator who stood before her. She weighed Lindsay up with a long, hard-eyed stare. Lindsay met her gaze head on, unblinking. After what seemed like an eternity, Versa bent her head and rummaged through her purse for the pill case. When she finally drew it out, Lindsay all but snatched it from her hand, popped open the clear plastic lid of one of the compartments and drew out one of Versa’s diet pills. She turned it over and over, holding it up to the light and examining it like a jeweler assessing the brilliance of a cut diamond. “Do you have the bottle that these came in?”
“No. I threw it away.” She rolled her eyes. “Don’t tell me a skinny little thing like you is worrying about your weight.”
Lindsay’s tone became grave. “Versa, where did you get these?”
“Off the internet,” Versa said. Noting Lindsay’s raised eyebrows, she become defensive. “They’re packed with ancient Chinese herbs that have been proven for thousands of years. It’s a very reputable company.”
“I need this,” Lindsay said, pocketing the pill. She popped open another compartment of the pill holder and grabbed a second pill. “I need one of these, too.” Without another word, she rushed out of the room.
Lindsay used her best powers of persuasion to coax the duty nurse into giving her the cell phone number of the doctor who had been treating Buford. The doctor was at home, sound asleep at this early hour, but when Lindsay explained her theory, he agreed to come over immediately. Lindsay waited near the nurses’ station for thirty restless minutes until he finally appeared. She showed him the pills. The physician was a bald bookish black man named Dr. Peedie. He held the pills in the palm of his hand, scratched his hairless, freckled head, and pursed his lips. He raised them close to his thick-lensed glasses. Understanding lit up his face and he bounced on his heels like an impatient child. Dr. Peedie held the pills before him like they were shards of the True Cross and promised to get them tested as soon as he could.
Lindsay’s cell phone had been vibrating almost constantly since her encounter with Versa. She pulled it out of her pocket now and saw that it registered calls from Rob, Warren, and her father. She prioritized them in her mind. Warren might have some information on Joe’s shooting or on the Young investigation. Her father might have heard from Sarabelle. Rob might be calling with news about Joe. Maybe he had taken a turn for the worse. She decided that she would quickly run downstairs check on Joe to ease her mind before she returned the other calls. It would only take a minute. Lindsay rushed off down a little-used flight of stairs behind the nurses’ station, gritting her teeth as spikes of pain shot through her injured leg with each impact.
The stairwell was lit by the dim green glow of flickering fluorescent lights. The only sounds she could hear were the buzz of the lights and the muted fall of her own footsteps on the rubberized treads of the staircase. She felt like she was in a dream, the kind where you desperately need to get somewhere but your body is stuck in place. The threads of normal life were unwinding—her mother’s reappearance, her love life, Vernon’s murder, Joe’s shooting, Buford’s poisoning—and the pattern that could weave it all together was just beyond her reach.
As she rounded the final switchback of the stairwell at full speed, she smacked face-first into a something large and solid. The impact sent her spinning sideways, where she collided violently with the concrete breezeblock wall. With the force of the impact, her injured knee buckled and she hurtled forward down the stairs. With each impact, pain surged over her like tsunami waves, engulfing her and sinking the small ship of her consciousness. The last thing she was aware of before she blacked out was a familiar voice calling her name and a large, dark form bending over her crumpled body.
Chapter 43
“The angle of impact was inconsistent with a self-inflicted wound. Again, I’m no expert, but the entry wound seemed too small and round for a shot at close range.”
“I can’t believe I didn’t catch it. When I worked in Jersey, I saw GSWs almost every day. Here, maybe two or three a month. And some of those are hunting accidents. You haven’t experienced hunting season here yet. A couple of cases of Pabst Blue Ribbon mixed with half a dozen good ole’ boys, add guns and stir. Honestly, you haven’t lived until you’ve tweezed a few dozen pieces of buckshot out of a redneck’s butt.”
“I can hardly wait.”
“Anyway, I’m sure I missed it because it was Joe. That clouded my judgment. The problem with living in this Podunk town and working in this Podunk hospital is that I know half the people who roll through the doors.”
“Look. I think she’s regaining consciousness.”
Lindsay felt her eyelid pried open. She was blinded by the intrusion of a dazzling beam of white light. Her ears had been awake for several minutes, listening without understanding to a conversation about the butts of rednecks. The rest of her, however, seemed to be stubbornly clinging to oblivion. The light flashed in her eyes again. “Hey, Linds. It’s Anna. Can you hear me?” Anna leaned over her, again shining a small flashlight into her eyes. Lindsay struggled to sit upright. Her legs felt like they were encased in concrete. After a brief struggle, she gave up, and slumped back onto the pillows.
“Mount Moriah isn’t Podunk, it’s charming. And get that light out of my face, you Yankee snob,” Lindsay mumbled. Anna smiled and stroked Lindsay fondly on the cheek. Lindsay took in the scene around her. She was seeing the familiar confines of one of the more commodious of Mount Moriah’s hospital rooms, but from the very unaccustomed perspective of a hospital bed. Turning her head, she made out an arc of pink sun cresting just above the low, black hills outside the windows.
“Why am I here?” Lindsay asked.
“You’ve had a minor head trauma,” a familiar voice explained, “and you’re lucky enough to have friends who know how to score you a sweet private room.” Lindsay turned her head toward the door to see who had spoken these last words. Drew was standing a few feet from her bed, looking even more handsome than usual in jeans and a forest green button-down shirt. His shirt sleeves were rolled up to reveal the lithe muscles of his forearm. Her hands instinctively flew to cover the rising blush in her cheeks—the rapid movement ripping the tape that held an IV needle in the top of her hand. “Careful, there.” Drew walked over to her bedside and bent toward her, checking the needle and re-securing it to her hand. “I’m really sorry about the KO.”
“KO?”
“You don’t remember? We collided in the stairwell. You fell into the wall.”
“That was you?”
“Yeah. I had finished talking to the investigators and was on my way out.”
“I don’t remember hearing any footsteps. Were you just standing in the stairwell?”
“I was lost. I was trying to get my bearings and next thing I knew, you crashed into me like a human battering ram
.”
“Sorry.”
“No need to be sorry. I’m just glad all you came away with was a concussion and a black eye.”
“I have a black eye?” Lindsay’s hands rose—more slowly this time—to touch the swollen tender skin around her right eye. Before anyone could answer her question, there was a soft knock on the door.
“Come in,” Anna called.
Warren and Fleet entered the room. Or rather Fleet entered the room, and Warren trailed behind him like a solicitous butler. Fleet acknowledged Drew with a subtle inclination of his head. He turned and sized up Anna, as if deciding she was worthy of whatever question he was set to pose. He opened his small notebook with a sharp flick of his wrist and began to click and unclick a ballpoint pen.
Anna was not one to endure long, deliberative silences. “Who the hell are you?” she said flatly. She was also not one to beat around the bush.
“I am Special Agent Fleet of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. This is Sergeant Satterwhite from the New Albany Police. I take it you’re a doctor of some kind? Is this woman available to give her statement about the Tatum shooting? It is imperative that we speak to her as soon as possible.” Interesting, thought Lindsay. Just a few hours ago, I was gum stuck to his shoe. But now that he wants information from me, I am suddenly on the VIP list.
“Why are you asking me if she’s available? She’s right there.” Anna said.
Fleet turned reluctantly toward Lindsay. “If you’re ready to speak now, Miss Harding, I would like to take your statement. For the purposes of this enquiry, Sergeant Satterwhite has asked to be present to lend moral support, should you require it. Considering your personal relationship with him, I don’t think it would be appropriate for him to participate in any official capacity.”
“Personal relationship?” Anna raised her eyebrows at Lindsay.
As Lindsay opened her mouth to speak, there was another knock on the door. Cynthia, the pretty nurse Lindsay had met on the night she prayed with the Peechums, entered the room. “Well if it isn’t Lindsay Harding, the famous voodoo priestess of Mount Moriah! Talk to any angels lately?” She smiled brightly. “I didn’t realize you had a roomful of visitors. I was just going to check your vitals, but I can come back later.” She turned to leave, but stopped when she caught sight of Warren. “Warren, honey? Is that you?”
“Cynthia? What are you doing here?”
“I work here, silly. Remember?” She let out a peal of laughter and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. “Who’d have thought that I’d run into my own darling husband!”
“Husband?” Fleet asked Cynthia, shooting a sharp-eyed glance toward Lindsay. Anna looked from Cynthia to Warren to Lindsay and back. Drew looked at Lindsay and then at the floor. Warren just plain looked like he wanted to evaporate.
“Yep. I’m Warren’s missus. Isn’t that right, Warren?” Cynthia laughed.
“And you know Miss Harding as well?” Fleet asked.
“Sure. If you need an expert snake-handler or tongue-talker in this hospital, Lindsay is your gal,” Cynthia said. “Well, I’ll come back later to check on the patient.” With that, she turned around and left.
A mile-deep cavern of silence opened in the middle of the room. Everyone seemed to be either attempting to make or avoid eye contact with everyone else. Finally, Drew raised his wrist and glanced theatrically at his watch. “Well, I’d better be going. I’m very, very late,” he said. He made no further explanation; none was needed. He beat a hasty retreat.
Lindsay tried to sit up again, but she couldn’t get her body to cooperate. She groaned in pain. “Oh. I forgot to tell you. I had the orthopedist put casts on your foot and ankle,” Anna said.
“I broke my foot and ankle?!” Lindsay threw aside the blankets that covered the lower half of her body.
“No, but you need to stay off of your knee for a few weeks and let it heal. Drew said he told you that already. Even Dr. Jesper—yeah, you thought I wouldn’t find out—thought that it was in bad shape. Clearly you are what we call a non-compliant patient. Desperate measures were called for.”
“Is this even legal?”
“Read the cast.” A heart was scrawled in thick black Sharpie. She traced her finger along and read: Anna + Lindsay = BFF. Lindsay sighed deeply and slumped back onto the pillow. “I’ve also hidden the scrubs you borrowed and your shoes, so don’t try to leave before they discharge you. Drew says you should stay in at least one full day because of the severity of your concussion,” Anna said. She rubbed her hands together and surveyed the room. “Well, I’d better be on my way, too. We should talk later, Lindsay.” She stood where the door blocked her from the view of the men and pointed toward Warren. “Because I’d really love to know what you’ve been doing in your spare time.”
Chapter 44
Lindsay’s interview with Fleet was about as relaxing as a carpet bombing. As Fleet asked her again and again to recount the moments surrounding Joe’s shooting, Lindsay imagined that he was writing “useless witness” in his little spiral-bound notebook, perhaps adding it to the end of a long list of damning assessments. Despite her dislike of Fleet, she genuinely tried to be helpful, and grew increasingly frustrated with her own inability to shed any light on the shooting. “You were inside the house?” Fleet asked for the third or fourth time.
“I was inside. John was outside. We were on opposite sides of the window.”
“And you heard two loud bangs?”
“Yes.”
“And you and John Tatum found Mr. Tatum unconscious on the porch?”
“Yes. Like I said, he was bleeding from the head. Just laying still. With the gun in his hands.”
Fleet paused a moment before asking the next question. “Do you have any enemies, Miss Harding? Any reason to believe that you might have been the real target of the shooter?”
“Enemies?” Lindsay had been lulled by Fleet’s repetition, but this new line of questioning snapped her back to attention.
“I understand that you were recently the victim of a home invasion?” Fleet continued.
Lindsay shot a deadly look at Warren, whose eyes were glued firmly to the ground. “That is a private, family matter.”
“Oh?” Fleet raised his eyebrows. “I’m not sure I understand how a home invasion could be a private, family matter.” He leaned closer, his tone shifting from patronizing to severe. “It seems to me, that if my home was broken into and my property was stolen, I would want to report it to the police. Maybe you can explain why you didn’t see fit to do that?”
“I think I can guess which one you get to be when you boys play Good Cop, Bad Cop down at the station,” Lindsay countered irritably.
“Is this a joke to you?” Fleet said, feigning surprise. “I am trying to solve an attempted murder, and see if it links in any way to a shooting and a poisoning. I thought, as a good citizen, a good Christian, you might want to help me out with that. And if I’m not mistaken, I thought that the victims involved were all friends of yours. I guess the humor of the situation eludes me.” He hadn’t made eye contact with her as he spoke, instead lowering his head and jotting something in his notebook. Lindsay imagined a new line below her name saying: Uses humor as a defense mechanism. Or worse. He had snatched the moral high ground so effortlessly that Lindsay could only marvel at him from her position down in the dust. It was an old trick of her father’s that she still hadn’t learned how to avoid—back her into a corner, wait for her glib response, and go in for the kill with sanctimony.
Lindsay tried to move further away from Fleet, but the tug of the IV line and the tangle of the bed sheets around her cast rooted her in place. She was now even more impressed that Kimberlee had stood up under Fleet’s withering interrogation tactics. “Miss Harding, if you know something that might assist our investigation, it would be in your best interest to reveal that now.” He looked up from his notebook, his gaze locking with hers. “Not doing so would be…criminal.” Fleet selected the last word carefully, allowi
ng its implied threat to hang in the air. “It would be a terrible tragedy, a crime, if your friend was shot in the head for something that you did. Or because of someone that you are involved with.” Fleet’s face was now so close that Lindsay could feel his hot breath on her cheek. It smelled sharply antiseptic, a mix of menthol and bleach. A flood of frightening questions deluged her mind. Did Fleet know something that she didn’t? Was there some connection between Joe’s shooting and her mother? That would mean that not only had her mother swindled and robbed her, but also tried to kill her. Angry tears pooled in the corners of her eyes.
“Look, I don’t know anything,” Lindsay said, the tears beginning to stream down her cheeks. She hadn’t cried unrestrainedly in years—instead, she scheduled regular “purging” sessions. She would watch Beaches or Love Story alone on a Saturday night and sob until she had emptied the well of emotion that built up during the week. Now, however, she felt tired and hungry, and the possibility that her mother was somehow involved in shooting Joe was almost too terrible to contemplate.
“Don’t play dumb with me, Miss Harding,” Fleet said, standing over her and pointing an accusing finger in her face.
“Leave me alone,” Lindsay whimpered helplessly, pulling the thin blanket up to her chin. She was defeated. She was a small, dispirited child with a criminal for a mother and a broken heart. The ruins of her life smoldered white-hot in her mind. Suddenly, Fleet’s body jerked backward away from her. Warren stood behind Fleet with his hand clamped down on Fleet’s shoulder, like a club bouncer ready to eject a rowdy patron. “You’re going to need to leave now,” Warren said. His voice was both matter-of-fact and menacing.
Fleet brushed off Warren’s grip with an agitated flick of his hand. He spun around, squaring off with Warren. The two men locked eyes. “Sergeant Satterwhite, I am questioning this witness. Please remember that you are not here in an official capacity.”
A Murder in Mount Moriah Page 21