Clouds Without Rain

by Gaus, P. L.

  “Not unless we get another lead.”

  “You know about the kid who shot J. R. Weaver’s horse?”

  “You’ve got that nailed down?”

  “Just last night. They weren’t certain, but Larry Yoder’s parents told me they think he was trying to tell them that he shot Weaver’s horse.”

  “Where’s Yoder now?” Wilsher asked.

  “The psych ward at Aultman Hospital,” Branden said.

  “Now, that’s just great.”

  “Maybe you could get a warrant for his home,” Branden offered.

  “With him in a hospital and only his parents’ word? I doubt it.”

  “It wouldn’t hurt to try.”

  “That much I’ll do.”

  “Let me know what you find?”

  “Better than that,” Wilsher said. “I’ll ask you to go on the search, when we get the warrant.”

  20

  Saturday, August 12

  12:10 P.M.

  THE psychiatric ward at Canton’s Aultman Hospital was located on the fourth floor. Branden stepped off the elevator and found himself in a small waiting room with several chairs, magazine racks on the wall, and a single floor lamp. The door to the psychiatric ward was made of polished aluminum with a small reinforced Plexiglas window. He tried the door and found it locked.

  Beyond the door, he could see a nurses’ station set back from a long corridor with doors to patients’ rooms on either side. When he rang in at the intercom beside the door, a nurse poked her head out into the hall. She looked him over skeptically from her desk and sat back to use the intercom, saying only, “Yes?”

  Branden considered the range of official and unofficial pretexts he could give and settled for, “I’d like to talk to Larry Yoder.”

  In a weary tone, the nurse said, “Mr. Yoder can’t have any visitors.”

  Branden thought about a response for a moment, with his finger resting lightly over the intercom button. “I just need a few minutes,” he said.

  “Mr. Yoder is heavily sedated and can’t have visitors.”

  “I’ve come from his family,” Branden explained. “They’re worried about him and have asked me to inquire.”

  “Even his family couldn’t get in to see him now,” the nurse said impatiently.

  Branden’s hand slipped to his front jeans pocket, and he felt the reserve deputy sheriff’s badge there, wondering if a more official approach might open doors. He decided it wouldn’t.

  “Then can you come out to talk with me?” Branden asked. He watched the nurses’ station and saw the nurse lean out over the counter and peer at him from behind the wall.

  She studied him a moment and said, “I can’t leave the ward. We’re doing bed checks.”

  “If I were to wait?” Branden asked, face close to the speaker.

  “It’d be a while,” still leaning out over the counter.

  “I’ll wait,” he said.

  “Suit yourself, but like I said, it’ll be a while, and you still can’t see Mr. Yoder.”

  “When you can, I’d appreciate it,” Branden said.

  In the long hall behind the locked door, nurses and orderlies moved from room to room with clipboards. A nurse in a blue coat carried a tray of medicines in little white paper cups into the room nearest him.

  He took a chair beside an end table piled with magazines. He waited there for nearly an hour and was idly turning the pages on his second issue of Southern Living when the nurse came out and repeated, “Mr. Yoder can’t have visitors.”

  As he rose from the chair, Branden held out his hand and said, “I’m Dr. Michael Branden. From Millersburg. And I’m making a courtesy call on behalf of the family.”

  The nurse, a tall, slender woman dressed in a sagging white coat, pockets bulging with pens, paper, tissues, rubber gloves, and a stethoscope, said, “I’m sorry, Dr. Branden. You know how it works.”

  “Can you tell me anything about Mr. Yoder, then?” he asked.

  “I can only say that his doctor has ordered no visitors. It’d be useless to try talking to Mr. Yoder, anyway, as heavily medicated as he is.”

  “Can you tell me when he might be able to have visitors?”

  “I couldn’t even guess when we’ll take his restraints off,” the nurse said and turned to key herself back onto the ward.

  “Then can I speak with his doctor?” Branden asked.

  “He’s not here now,” the nurse said, turning back to Branden with her hand on the latch.

  “While he makes his rounds?” Branden suggested.

  “Possibly,” the nurse said, as she swiped her magnetic key through the lock box. “That’s usually about 2:00 P.M.”

  Branden checked his watch, saw the nurse retreating down the hall, took the elevator to the ground floor, and bought coffee and a sandwich in the hospital’s cafeteria. As he sat at one of the metal tables near a window, the insurance agent, Robert Cravely, approached Branden’s table, introduced himself, and sat down on the other side, saying, “Professor Branden. Are you here to see Larry Yoder?”

  Cravely was a weary-looking man, with a pudgy build and no remarkable features other than what appeared to be a permanent haphazard look about him. His plain gray suit was rumpled and worn nearly threadbare at the elbows. His unstylish, narrow blue tie was loosened at the neck. He set a battered briefcase on the table, snapped the worn metal latches open, and rummaged through an assortment of papers. He brought out a small notebook and an ornate fountain pen.

  Branden said, “If you’re here to see Larry Yoder, they’re not letting anyone in.”

  “Tried earlier,” Cravely said. “So you tried to see him, too?”

  Branden nodded. “The nurses won’t let me in. Why are you interested in Yoder?”

  “The way I hear things,” Cravely said, “you figure Yoder shot Weaver’s horse.”

  Branden was surprised. “You seem to know a lot about the case,” he said.

  “I’ve got to,” Cravely said. “Like I said Tuesday, I work for the insurance carrier for the furniture company whose truck jackknifed on 515 last Monday. We’re not going to pay off with so many fatalities. Not until I understand all of the facts.”

  Branden argued, “Your driver dumped his rig on top of a car and a buggy, and caused the deaths of four people. I should think you’ll be paying out a great deal of money before this is all over.”

  Cravely gave a snide laugh and said, “And I suppose it’s a coincidence that you’ve got the coroner looking at a bullet they pulled out of the horse.”

  Branden withheld comment.

  “And I suppose you don’t think Larry Yoder, here, fired that shot,” Cravely pushed.

  “I’m paying a visit on behalf of the family,” Branden said dryly.

  “Right,” Cravely said with practiced sarcasm.

  Branden took a slow drink of coffee and wondered what Cravely would do once he learned that Brad Smith’s parents had hired a P.I. out of Chicago. “Your driver had been drinking, and he came over that hill too fast. Yoder’s shooting the horse, if he did in fact do that, has no bearing on what caused your truck to wreck.”

  Cravely put his notebook and pen back into the briefcase, closed the lid, pushed his chair back slowly, and stood up. With his wrist twisting the briefcase nervously at his side, Cravely said, “That was a new driver out there that day. The regular driver had taken sick. He normally makes two trips a week, year ’round, hauling Amish-made furniture to the stores in Chicago. But this new guy didn’t know the roads, and I doubt any jury’s going to blame my company for that crash, especially once it’s clear what Larry Yoder did to Weaver’s horse. He actually killed everybody out there, mind you, and our driver is to blame? I don’t think so.”

  “Your man was drunk, Cravely.”

  “Under the legal limit.”

  “Not for a commercial driver.”

  Cravely frowned thinly.

  Branden added, “And it’s not at all certain that Larry Yoder killed any horse
at all.”

  Cravely snorted skeptically, turned, and walked out. Branden finished his coffee and rode the elevators to the fourth floor. When he pushed the buzzer at the door to the psychiatric floor, another nurse answered him at the intercom.

  “Dr. Michael Branden,” the professor said. “To see Mr. Larry Yoder’s psychiatrist.”

  The nurse replied, “One moment please,” and the speaker fell silent. After about a minute, the nurse asked, “Do you have an appointment?”

  “Not really,” Branden said. “I’m from Millersburg, and I’m inquiring about Mr. Yoder as a courtesy to his family.”

  After another delay, the door to the psych unit buzzed, and Branden pushed the latch and walked onto the floor, toward the nurses’ station. As he approached, a chubby doctor in a short white coat came out from behind the counter, stepped briskly toward Branden, held out his hand, and said, “Dr. Branden. I’m Dr. Waverly. Dr. Allan Waverly, The Third.”

  His handshake was gentle and his hand was soft, the consequence of a profession spent handling nothing harsher than paper and pens, perhaps keyboards. His cheeks were puffy and shaded a delicate rose. His fair skin contrasted pleasantly with his fine black hair. His eyes, though haggard, took in Branden with an intelligent sweep, the inspection of a man accustomed to forming opinions quickly.

  Branden shook the doctor’s hand and said, “Dr. Michael Branden, Ph.D.”

  “You’re not medical?” Waverly asked, dismissively.

  “Ph.D., Dr. Waverly. Civil War history.”

  Waverly turned to fiddle with one of the charts that were laid out on the nurses’ counter. He took one of the clipboards, held it stiffly under his arm and said, “You’d never have gotten onto this floor if we’d known you weren’t medical.”

  “I know,” Branden said, and made an apologetic expression. “But I won’t take a minute of your time, and I had hoped you could let me talk to Larry Yoder. Or that maybe you would talk to me about him.”

  “Civil War history?” Waverly asked, softening. “Where’d you take your degree?”

  “Duke,” Branden said.

  “I’m Duke medical school!” Waverly exclaimed. His posture relaxed noticeably. “Class of ’79.”

  “Seventy-three,” Branden said. “You missed the big student sit-ins.”

  Dr. Waverly held the clipboard flat against his chest by crossing his arms over it, and he set his feet close together, back straight, in an aloof, professional stance, like a socialite at a cocktail party, trying to impress a rival classmate. “You were asking about Yoder?” he said.

  “Right,” Branden said. “Larry Yoder from Millersburg. His family brought him in Thursday.”

  “Brought him in with a pillowcase full of money,” Waverly said. “Literally. Large denomination bills. Wanted to pay in advance.”

  “Not surprised,” Branden said and then asked, “How is Yoder?”

  “Come with me,” Waverly said and walked slowly down the hall to a door at the far end, on the right. He held the heavy wooden door open for Branden and followed the professor into a large, bright room, where intense sunlight flooded in through reinforced Plexiglas. Branden stepped to the windows to orient himself and saw heat shimmers rising from the top level of the concrete parking tower to the south. His eyes focused closer, and on the windows he saw dozens of scratch marks in the safety glass. In one place, Branden read a ragged note saying, “Joseph was here—1979.”

  Close to the windows, Larry Yoder was strapped on his back into a tall hospital bed with railings, pillows arranged under his knees. Restraints made of heavy canvas were fastened to clamps under the bed, giving little freedom of movement for either Yoder’s legs or his arms. The chart that hung at the foot of his bed was lettered “SUICIDAL” in red. An IV stand stood at the side of the bed, and several bags of solution fed a line that was taped to the back of Yoder’s left hand, bruised and swollen where the needle punctured the skin.

  A nurse came into the room and stood beside the chart at the foot of the bed, waiting to see if Waverly had any questions. Waverly asked, “Any change?” and the nurse said, “His legs are more restless at times.” Waverly nodded, and she left.

  Yoder lay perfectly still, with his eyes open. As Waverly and the professor stepped closer to his bed, Yoder’s eyes turned in their direction briefly, and then turned slowly back to the ceiling.

  “How are you feeling today?” Waverly asked, and rubbed lightly at the hairs on Yoder’s arm.

  Yoder gave the slightest tilt of his head, and tears flooded his eyes and ran down his temples. Waverly moved to the foot of the bed, pulled back the light blue blanket, and squeezed gently on Yoder’s toes. He ran his thumbnail along the arch of Yoder’s foot, and there was no movement. Waverly replaced the blanket and made an entry on his chart.

  To Branden he said, “I doubt if Mr. Yoder will be able to tell us much today,” and led Branden out into the hall. Waverly took his prim stance again, with his feet close together and his arms crossed over his chest, embracing the clipboard.

  “Is that from his medications, or from his illness?” Branden asked.

  “Most likely both,” Waverly said. “But the medication would be enough. First, he’s on Depakote for the bipolar disorder. Then there’s Ativan and Desyrel, all at the maximum dose. I wrote orders this morning for Risperdal, too—he may be somewhat psychotic right now. So I’m not expecting him to have much to say for a while. You should tell his family that it’ll take some time before we can start any psychotherapy. It might be a week or more before he even makes it out of his room for Group. Even crafts are doubtful at this juncture. Once we get him stabilized, I’ll back down the Ativan, and he won’t sleep so much. Could be a week or two.”

  Branden thought about the Yoder family and about John Weaver and Britta Sommers. He looked at Yoder in his bed, frail with desperate eyes, and he remembered the burning cars at the crash scene and the twisted buggy parts scattered over thirty yards of road and field. He thought of the heavy smoke odor inside Sommers’s ranch house, and he remembered the expressions on the faces of eight Amish men who had received letters from John R. Weaver. He asked, “Did he say anything when they brought him in?”

  “Not Larry,” Waverly said. “His mother told me he shot a horse.” He waited with a coaxing expression for an explanation.

  Branden offered nothing, and Waverly added, dubiously, “She told me he shot a horse and killed several people. Sounds a bit extreme for your neck of the woods, but if that were true, I’d need to know it.”

  Branden looked back into Yoder’s room and studied the small, pathetic form that was laid out in the bed. He turned slowly back into the hall, letting the door close softly. He faced Waverly and said, “I think he probably did, Dr. Waverly. Shoot a horse, that is.”

  21

  Saturday, August 12

  4:45 P.M.

  AT AKRON Children’s Hospital, Branden parked in the outdoor lot on Bowery Street. He climbed one flight of stairs to the skyway over Bowery, and entered the hospital near the main reception counter. On the right-hand wall in the corridor outside the burn unit, he saw a display of fifty or so fire department arm patches, and opposite that, the outside counter for the unit. He asked about Robertson and was told to lift the receiver on a phone at the end of the hall. At the phone, he explained the nature of his visit, and a nurse from inside the burn unit emerged and instructed him to wash his hands and put on a bright yellow paper gown and mask, each of which fastened in back with tape strips.

  Inside the burn unit, Branden found Melissa Taggert in a white doctor’s coat, standing next to the central station outside Robertson’s room.

  Branden walked directly to her and asked, “What’s his condition, Missy?”

  “It’s worse than I originally thought,” she said, eyes weary and bloodshot. “They’ve run some cultures and found out he has a yeast infection. Which means they’ve switched him to amphotericin. Then last night he grew confused. Became restless. His temper
ature dropped, and so did his blood pressure. Also tachycardia, which means he’s getting worse. Some vital organs might become involved, if the infection takes hold. Any way you figure it, Mike, he’s worse. Much worse than we realized.”

  Inside Robertson’s room, Branden found the big sheriff on a large air bed, with three IV poles holding five IV pumps on the left side, at the sheriff’s head. Several monitors crowded on stands on the right of his bed. Robertson lay on his back. The edges of white thermazine and gauze bandages showed under his back and arms. The tube from a Foley catheter ran out between his legs, and there was a CVP line in his chest, with four ports. An arterial line ran from his arm to a blood pressure monitor. Branden read the labels on several of the bags that were piped to the central line and saw morphine, lactated Ringers, and ativan. The blinking monitors and pumps kept up a steady chorus of low beeps and clicks in what was otherwise a dim and silent room.

  Branden took Bruce Robertson’s big hand and gave a gentle squeeze. Missy Taggert watched from the foot of the bed as Branden pulled a chair closer with the point of his foot. He sat down still holding to Robertson’s hand, and said, “Bruce, it’s Mike.”

  There was no response, and Taggert’s eyes dropped. She nodded sadly to the professor and turned slowly to leave the room. Branden saw in her expression the same sorrow and helpless despair that he had seen in Caroline’s eyes after her miscarriages. Limitless grief, mixed bravely with determined self-control.

  He spoke again to Robertson, again without a response. With the sheriff’s large hand cradled in both of his, the professor leaned over beside the bed, thinking. Also praying.

  In time, Robertson stirred in his bed, lifted his head weakly, and gave the professor’s hand a squeeze. He said, “Hey, Mike,” with effort, and lay back on the pillow. “If you don’t let go of my hand, people gonna think we’re dating.”

  Branden gently eased his hand away and said, “Looks like you’ve pretty well done it this time, Sheriff.”

  Robertson’s eyes spoke of pain and exhaustion. Tears formed in them, and he tried to raise a hand to dry them. He failed in the task, and, as a line of tears streamed down his cheeks, the sheriff said, “They keep putting drops in my eyes.”