by Mary Daheim
“Thank goodness!” she cried softly. “I didn’t know who else to call. It’s Craig. He’s in the back, and he’s a mess.”
“Why didn’t you call 911?” I asked as we hurried through the gallery’s showroom.
“He wouldn’t let me. I didn’t know what to do.”
I managed not to gasp in shock when I saw Craig Laurentis. He was huddled on the floor, wrapped in a dirty hospital blanket. One foot was bare; the other still wore what was left of the treaded sock he’d worn during his brief stay. His face was even gaunter than when I’d last seen him. There was dried blood on one hand and I didn’t think I could bear to examine the bullet wound that was hidden by the blanket.
I cleared my throat. “Craig,” I said softly but firmly, “I’m calling the doctor. You can’t stop me.”
He couldn’t seem to speak, though his mouth was open and he tried vainly to raise the bloodied hand in protest. I turned my back on him and went into the showroom, where I dialed Doc’s office number. Marje Blatt, one of Vida’s many nieces, answered. I cut to the chase, telling her I had to talk to Doc immediately.
“He’s with a patient, Emma,” Marje replied in her usual efficient manner. “If it’s an emergency, you should call 911.”
I snapped. “Do you want me to send your aunt over to wring your neck? Let me talk to Doc. Now!”
Marje didn’t say anything, but I heard some noise in the background. Maybe she’d fallen out of her chair. I didn’t care, as long as she put her boss on the line. While I waited impatiently, I tried to see into the back room, but Donna was in the way, hovering over Craig.
“Emma?” Doc said. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s Craig Laurentis. He’s in a very bad way at Donna Wickstrom’s art gallery. Can you please come?”
“Why don’t you … never mind,” Doc said briskly. “Is there a parking place in front of the gallery? It’ll be quicker if I drive.”
I glanced outside. “One door down, toward the corner of Eighth. I’ll stand in it until you get here.”
“Fine.” He rang off.
I decided I had two, maybe three minutes to wait outside, but first I asked Donna to come with me. She started to argue, but I was already at the door.
“Quick,” I said as we went outside. “How and where did you find Craig?”
“He called me from the gallery about half an hour ago,” she said. “He’d broken a back window to get in. I don’t know how he had the strength. He could barely speak, but I don’t think he got very far after he left the hospital. For all I know, he’s been sleeping by the dumpster in the alley. I thought he told me he’d tried to call you, but maybe he meant he wanted me to call you now. So I did.”
I suddenly remembered the incoherent and allegedly drunken calls Denise had taken the previous day. God only knew how she’d interpreted what he’d actually said if he could barely speak. If Craig had wanted to talk only to me, then that explained why he’d hung up on Leo.
I realized Donna was shivering in her lambswool sweater and light wool slacks. “Go back inside,” I said. “I don’t want Doc to have to hospitalize you with pneumonia.”
“Okay. I should call home anyway to see how Ginny’s managing with the little ones,” she said, backpedaling to the gallery. “I had to ask her to stand in for me, but I didn’t say why.”
“Good thinking,” I remarked, though Donna didn’t hear me. She’d already ducked in out of the cold.
I felt slightly embarrassed standing in the gutter on Front Street. At least two cars and one truck honked at me, probably figuring I was about to jaywalk. Or maybe it was somebody I knew. I was so focused on watching for Doc that I didn’t notice.
After what seemed like a long time, but probably was less than five minutes, I saw his metallic blue Land Rover. I retreated to the curb and waited for him to get out.
“I alerted the medics,” he said, skipping any greeting. “This doesn’t sound good.”
Like his father before him, Doc was never one to gloss over medical problems. “It isn’t,” I said as we hurried inside. “Donna thinks he’s been outside until today.”
“Damn,” Doc said under his breath. “What fools these mortals be.” He took one look at Craig and made a shooing motion at Donna. “Out, out, young lady. You too, Emma.”
We both retreated to the showroom, seeing Doc on his knees, mumbling to himself—or to Craig. I whispered a question to Donna, asking if Craig was conscious.
“Barely,” she replied. “He must be starved and maybe dehydrated. This is so awful—I can’t imagine what he’s been through.”
“He should never have left the hospital,” I said. “But I wasn’t really surprised.” I gazed around the gallery. “Where’s that new painting?”
“I’m not finished framing it,” she replied, nodding in the direction of the back room. “It’s kind of a … challenge.”
I nodded. “I can imagine. I hear sirens.”
“Thank heavens,” Donna murmured. “Maybe this time those nurses will keep a better eye on him.”
“It’s the best place for him,” I said as Donna went to the door.
“Oh, of course,” she agreed, leaning out to look for the medics.
I didn’t say anything. It occurred to me that if Craig pulled through, he needed more than nurses to look out for him. If my fears for his safety were justified, he needed a deputy on duty, too.
Wes Amundson and a recent hire, Tony Lynch, entered the gallery with the gurney, IVs and oxygen at the ready. They barely looked at Donna and me on their way to the back room.
“I’m closing the door until they’re ready to leave,” Donna said. “We’re already collecting gawkers. I can’t deal with that right now.”
I couldn’t, either. “I think I’ll go to the hospital,” I said, “if Doc will let me ride with him.”
“Should I go with you?” Donna asked.
I shook my head. “Go home. Ginny may have passed out from exhaustion by now. But keep this disaster to yourself. You can tell Ginny if you can get her alone, but if any of your little charges overhears anything, God only knows what they’ll say to their parents. We don’t want rumors running amok about you, Craig, the gallery—whatever.”
“Yes,” Donna murmured. “Kids really do say the darnedest things.”
“So do adults,” I said, trying to see what was going on in the rear of the gallery. I couldn’t tell. There were too many people, too much movement, and too much pain, judging from Craig’s weak moans.
“I’ll wait until they’re gone,” Donna said after a long pause. “I have to get that window fixed, too. Maybe Steve can do it. He should be home from the high school a little after four. I’ll call him now.” She shot me a quick look before picking up the phone. “Don’t worry—Steve’s very discreet. You have to be when you’re a teacher.”
I went to the other side of the gallery, where I dialed the Advocate’s number. Alison answered. I asked her to put me through to Mitch. The Laurentis story was his, but I knew Vida would be irked anyway at not being the first to know.
“Do you want me to meet you at the hospital?” Mitch asked after I explained what had happened.
My initial reaction was to say yes, but I had second thoughts. None of us would learn any details until Craig was able to talk—assuming he ever could, given his perilous state. If Mitch came, nothing short of tying Vida up would stop her from joining him. “Hold off. For all I know, he has to have more surgery.”
“Got it,” Mitch said. “I’ll stick to my rollicking wildlife feature. Do you want me to tell Kip in case we need to put something about Laurentis on the website?”
I glanced at my watch. “It’s not quite three-fifteen. I should be back no later than four. Got to go. They’re taking Craig out to the ambulance.”
Donna and I hung up our phones almost simultaneously. Neither of us spoke as Wes and Tony rolled Craig through the gallery. Doc followed them, looking grim. With a wave to Donna, I followed Doc.
“Could I ride to the hospital with you?” I asked as we waited for the medics to maneuver the gurney through the front door.
Doc frowned at me. “Are you sure you want to do that?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. But once we get there, I’m not available for comment.”
“I understand. Thanks.”
The ambulance was blocking traffic on Front. Doc was parked just east of the gallery, so his Land Rover wasn’t impeded. He didn’t wait for the medics to load their burden.
“I have to be there when they arrive,” he said after we’d gotten into the SUV. “If you’ve got any questions, ask them now.”
“Is Craig going to make it?”
“Depends,” he said, turning onto Eighth and driving up the hill past Cascade Dry Cleaners. “I can’t tell how much more blood he’s lost, but it looks as if an infection’s set in. Damn fool. Anyway,” he continued, turning onto Pine, “the other problems, like lack of nourishment and dehydration, can be fixed. Elvis Sung and I both figure he’s basically healthy. Darned if I know what the guy eats, but he was probably in decent shape before he was shot.”
“How old is he?”
Doc chuckled. “He told Elvis he was a hundred and one. I figure mid-fifties. From what I recall about sightings around town over the years, he went gray prematurely. Maybe that’s how he got to be a recluse.”
I didn’t understand. “You don’t mean vanity, I assume?”
“No, no,” Doc replied as we passed McDonald’s and Posies Unlimited. “It’s not a myth that trauma can turn a human being’s hair white virtually overnight. Maybe he served in Nam. That might do it.”
“He’d be the right age. Milo was in Nam.”
“So he was. Ever see his medals?”
“Medals? No. He never talks about it.”
“Typical.” We passed the Baptist church on the right and then St. Mildred’s on the left before reaching the hospital’s underground parking entrance. “A lot of Vietnam vets don’t talk about it, at least not the real stuff. Most vets of any war don’t.” He pulled into the garage, parking the Rover in his private space. “Come on, Emma. You can take the staff elevator up to the first floor with me, but you’re on your own after that.”
“I understand,” I said.
We didn’t speak on the brief ride from the garage. Doc had already put on his game face and merely gave me a pat on the shoulder after we arrived in a hallway off the lobby. He went down the hall; I assumed I should go through the door directly in front of me.
Jenny Bjornson was behind the front desk, reading an issue of People magazine. “Hi, Ms. Lord,” she said in a chipper voice. “It sounds like we’ve got some excitement going on around here. I heard sirens.”
“Your escaped patient has been caught,” I said, figuring she’d find out what had happened soon enough. “It turned out that freedom wasn’t good for him.”
“Oh—you mean the hermit guy.” She giggled. “What would you expect from somebody like that? He must be crazy.”
I kept my temper in check. “I would’ve thought the nurses or someone else on the floor would notice his departure. Mr. Laurentis left in broad daylight.”
Jenny’s pale face showed a spot of color. “The nurses get so busy with charts and doctors’ orders and other patients. I’d hate to have their jobs. You wouldn’t believe how tired they are at the end of a shift.”
“No, I guess I wouldn’t.”
The irony was lost on Jenny. “So how come he’s being brought back?” she inquired.
Again, I tried to hide my irritation. “He’s not healing properly.”
“Oh. That’s probably because he took off so soon.”
I nodded slightly. “Can you do me a favor?”
She suddenly looked wary. “Like what?”
“Call the sheriff’s office and let them know that Mr. Laurentis is back in the hospital.”
“You can use our phone,” she said.
It wasn’t what I could do, it was what I couldn’t do. I didn’t want to talk to Milo. No, that wasn’t true. I didn’t want to be the one to call him before he called me. After what had passed between us the previous night—the naked emotion, the unbridled passion, the loss not just of self-control but of self—I was embarrassed. No, that wasn’t true, either. I was afraid it hadn’t meant as much to him as it had to me. All these thoughts and contradictions flew through my brain at warp speed. I cursed myself for acting like a chicken-livered adolescent. At the moment, Jenny Bjornson was the least shallow and most mature person in the hospital lobby.
“Oh—thanks,” I said after a long pause, and then told an outright lie. “I would’ve used my cell, but the battery’s low.” I took the receiver from her and turned away to dial the sheriff’s main headquarters number. I could hear clucking sounds inside my head.
Doe Jamison answered. I relayed my message to her as concisely as I could manage.
“That was a dumb stunt on Laurentis’s part,” she declared in disgust. “Do you want to talk to Dodge? He’s in his office, and I’ll warn you he’s as pissed off as I am. The next thing I know he’ll have me scrubbing floors. This hasn’t been a good day around here. Thank God it’s almost over.”
“No argument here.” I bit the bullet. “Okay, put me through.”
“Sure. Good luck.”
The chicken clucking in my head got louder. As soon as I heard the phone start to ring, I hung up.
FOURTEEN
HUNH,” I SAID, HANDING THE RECEIVER BACK TO JENNY, “we got cut off. Lori Cobb’s taking a vacation day and I guess her sub isn’t used to transferring calls.”
Jenny shrugged. “It happens. I still do it wrong sometimes.”
I stood by the reception desk, considering my options. It dawned on me that I didn’t know why I’d come to the hospital in the first place. I’d told Mitch we wouldn’t learn anything for a while, but apparently I hadn’t taken my own advice. It was useless to waste time hanging around and listening to Jenny’s inane chatter. I asked her to have Doc Dewey call me as soon as he knew anything.
“I’ve got to get back to the office,” I added. “It’s going on four.”
“Sure,” Jenny said. “But I get off at five, so if I don’t see Doc, I’ll leave word with the nurses.”
“Try the OR, too,” I said, halfway to the door. “Mr. Laurentis may need surgery.”
Jenny looked puzzled. “Mr. La …?”
I wanted to strangle the little twit. “Craig Laurentis. The patient who was just readmitted. Can you remember that for more than two minutes?” As I shoved the door open, I left Jenny looking stricken, and I didn’t give a damn.
It was starting to get dark as I walked down Fourth, the gray clouds overhead hanging in like dirty laundry. Once again, I passed the Bank of Alpine—and once again, I saw a familiar figure coming through the door.
“Emma?” JoAnne Petersen called.
I moved toward her, trying to smile. “I don’t think I’ve seen you in years.” Ten to be exact, but I didn’t want to pinpoint the time of the family tragedy. She hadn’t aged well. I remembered her as a rather pretty woman with good skin and rich brown hair. The skin was not only sallow but wrinkled, and the hair was turning gray. JoAnne had to be fifty or thereabouts, but she looked ten years older.
“I never seem to have time to visit anyone other than family or a few close friends,” she said, a faint smile on her thin lips. “I got a call from Vida, inviting me for tea tomorrow afternoon. I might be able to do that. I understand she’s had her own share of problems recently.”
“Vida will ride them out,” I assured JoAnne. “She’s a very strong person. Are you staying with Denise?”
“I planned to,” she replied, “but I didn’t realize she had Greg’s dog. I’m allergic to dogs, so I’m going to stay with my cousin Olga. She’s still working at the hospital on night duty, but has the weekend off.”
I vaguely recalled Olga Bergstrom, an old-school, no-nonsense kind of woman.
“Is she the one you sold your house to?”
JoAnne shook her head. “That was one of the younger Bergstroms, Carol Ann. She and her husband, Doug Larson, were expecting their first baby back then. I thought it’d be good to keep some sort of family connection, even though I lost money on the sale.” She smiled wanly. “There was a time when it was a happy house. I hope it is again.”
My glance strayed to the iron tower clock that had stood on the sidewalk in front of the bank since it opened. It was five minutes to four. “I think I know the Larsons,” I said, feeling antsy. “He owns the gym and she works there part-time.”
JoAnne nodded. “Do you go there often?”
I laughed. “No. I’m not the workout type. I get enough exercise chasing stories.”
JoAnne’s smile was slightly wider. “I walk for exercise. Denise is a fanatic for going to the gym. When we lived here, I worked a lot in our garden. I always feel that exercise should accomplish more than getting muscles. But now, in the condo, I … well, all my gardening is in pots and planters.” Her expression was wistful as she looked away from me. “Life’s strange, isn’t it?”
“Very,” I agreed. “Nobody told me it was easy.”
“No.” JoAnne held out her hand. “It’s cold. I should be on my way. Nice to see you, Emma.”
We shook hands. “You too, JoAnne. Take care.”
As she crossed Third, I waited for a few vehicles to pass on Front. I hadn’t offered JoAnne condolences on Larry’s death. I suppose I didn’t need to. It’s always the same—“I don’t know what to say, but …” I remembered the well-meaning people who tried to console me after Tom was killed. So inadequate, so impossible to convey compassion for the inevitable. I’d wanted to say, Don’t bother. I know you’re trying to be kind, but Tom’s dead. That’s the bottom line. Nothing you or I can say or do will change that. I wondered if JoAnne felt the same way.
Vida, who had been talking to Alison, glared at me when I came through the Advocate’s front door. “Well? Is it Florence Nightingale flapping her wings back into the coop?”
The chicken allusion wasn’t lost on me, given my recent attack of cowardice. But even Vida wouldn’t realize that. I saw Alison stifle a laugh from where she was sitting behind the counter. “I don’t know anything more than I did when I called Mitch,” I said. “I went with Doc to the hospital, but he dumped me off and warned me it might be hours before he had any word about Craig.”