Life Everlasting

by Robert Whitlow

  “What about her domestic problems?”

  “Yeah, we talked about that.” Alexia started to tell Gwen what had happened between Rena and Baxter at the waterfall but hesitated.

  Gwen spoke first. “I mean, it’s pitiful to divorce a guy who is paralyzed and coming out of a coma.”

  “Oh, she has legitimate reasons to end the marriage, but I don’t want to be involved in it. I have too much else to focus on.”

  Gwen stood and picked up the Richardson files stacked on the corner of Alexia’s desk. “Okay, I’d better get started, but I hope I don’t have to pull a bunch of staples. My dentures can’t handle it.”

  “You don’t wear dentures.”

  “We both should if we’re going to lose our bite.”

  Alexia smiled. “It’s not that bad. I’ll dictate the disengagement letter.”

  Gwen took the files from Alexia, who felt an immediate sense of relief. Tomorrow, Rena Richardson wouldn’t occupy the top two spots on her to-do list.

  Giles Porter had not traveled to the coast for several years. His wife preferred the gurgling sound of a mountain creek to the roar of the ocean surf, so for recreation the Porter clan enjoyed frequent Saturday picnics in the hills of Mitchell County. The detective knew no happier sound than the excited squeal of a barefoot five-year-old grandchild standing in the cold, shallow water of a fast-moving stream.

  The edges of the scar on top of his scalp were especially susceptible to sunburn, and from April to October, Porter always wore a battered hat when he stepped outside. October was past, but he’d thrown the hat onto the seat of his car. The sun along the coast presented a danger long after it went into winter hibernation in the mountains, and Porter didn’t want to take any chances. He was a thinker, not a gambler.

  The detective’s stomach rumbled. He stopped at a local drive-in that sold hamburgers and hot dogs. He ordered a corn dog, which he dipped in a small pool of mustard laced with ketchup that he’d squeezed onto a paper plate. Sitting at an outside table under an aluminum awning, he ate the corn dog in four bites. It was much better than the ones at the Mitchell County Fair, and he ordered another one. When he finished it, he deposited his trash in a trash can at the corner of the building and returned to his car, unaware that a streak of the mustard-and-ketchup mixture stretched from the corner of his mouth partway up his right cheek.

  Porter had memorized the address for Baxter and Rena’s house. He unfolded a map of the Santee area and found the correct street on the northwest outskirts of town. He drove through the downtown area and then southwest. At the Richardson house, he slowed at the end of the driveway and inspected the fine home, nicer than just about any dwelling in Mitchell County. An older man walking a golden retriever came around the corner. Porter stopped the car and rolled down his window. The man approached the car.

  “Good afternoon,” the detective said. “Do you live in the neighborhood?”

  The man stopped and replied in a voice that sounded more like Cape Cod than Cape Fear. “Yes, a couple of blocks that way.”

  “Nice dog.”

  The retriever sniffed the air and wagged his tail.

  “That’s Buddy.”

  Porter reached out the window and patted the dog’s head. “Hello, Buddy.” The detective pointed toward the Richardson home. “Do you know who lives there?”

  The man’s eyes followed the direction of Porter’s finger. “Oh, that’s the Richardson place. It’s one of the oldest houses in town, but a young couple lives there now. It’s a sad story. The husband was in a serious accident a few months ago, and now they’re taking care of him in the cottage beside the house.”

  Porter could see part of the small white building from his vantage point at the end of the driveway.

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  “In a coma and paralyzed from the neck down. He was a nice guy. Whenever I saw him, we would talk about wine. For someone so young, he knew a lot about the fruit of the grape. Most of the locals think bottled beer is a fine beverage, but he had a lot of class.”

  “Has he gotten better?”

  The man shrugged. “My wife heard a rumor that he said a few words the other day when his father came by for a visit, but I don’t know myself.”

  “You haven’t visited him?”

  “No. I stopped by when they first brought him home, but the nurse on duty told me they were restricting visitors to people on a list.”

  “I guess that’s for the best.”

  “Yeah, it would be a shame if he picked up a bug from a visitor. My brother-in-law was in a coma after he had a stroke. He caught a cold and died of pneumonia.”

  Porter glanced down at Buddy. The dog stood motionless beside his master.

  “That’s a well-behaved dog.”

  The man smiled with obvious pride. “He used to walk around the ring when we lived in Connecticut.”

  “I bet he has a wall of ribbons.”

  “He did well, but now all he has to do is keep me company.”

  Porter nodded. “I bet he does that better than anyone else. Nice talking to you. Have a good walk.”

  “Thanks.”

  Porter watched the man proceed briskly down the street. He drove past the Richardson house and returned to the downtown area. Finding the courthouse, he parked on the street near the front entrance. He went inside and found the office of the clerk of court. A young woman was behind the counter.

  “I need to find out whether a guardian has been appointed for an adult,” he said.

  “Who is it?” the woman asked.

  “Baxter Richardson.”

  The woman’s eyes widened. “We don’t do that in this office, but I can find out for you.”

  Porter smiled. “That would be great.”

  The woman walked over to a simple wooden desk and picked up the telephone. She punched in some numbers and talked for several minutes before hanging up.

  “There’s no record of a filing. Do you know him?’

  “I’ve been around him a little. How about you?”

  “Oh, I grew up here, and everybody knows the Richardson family. My older sister went to school with his brother, Jeffrey, and Baxter and I were in the same class in elementary school.”

  “What was Baxter like as a kid?”

  “Kind of quiet. Jeffrey was a big talker, always getting in trouble for smarting off to the teachers, but Baxter was a good kid. Everybody liked him.”

  “How about Baxter’s wife?”

  “She’s from somewhere else. I think they met in college. I recognize her when I see her around town, but I’ve never talked to her.”

  Porter tapped the counter with his fingers. “Thanks for your help.”

  “Uh, just a minute,” the young woman said with a sheepish grin on her face. “Did you know you have some food on your face?”

  “Where is it?”

  The girl pointed to her own right cheek. Porter reached up and felt the dried mustard-ketchup concoction.

  “That must be left over from the corn dogs I ate for lunch,” he said. “I stopped at the drive-in on the north side.”

  “Yeah, they have the best corn dogs, a lot better than the ones at the fair.”

  “That’s what I thought too.”

  Porter pulled a clean handkerchief from his pocket, wet the corner with the tip of his tongue and then rubbed his cheek.

  “Did I get it all?” he asked.

  The young woman nodded. “Yes. You know, Baxter liked to eat there. He could go to any restaurant in town, but I’ve seen his SUV parked in front of the drive-in many times. They also have delicious soft-serve ice cream.”

  “I didn’t try that,” the detective paused. “Have you eaten lunch today?”

  “No sir,” the young woman said with a short laugh. “I guess I have food on the brain. I’ll be on my lunch break in a few minutes.”

  “Will you get a corn dog?”

  “No, I have some carrots and celery in the refrigerator in the break r
oom. I’m trying to lose weight for my wedding. I’m getting married in two weeks.”

  “Congratulations.”

  Porter left the courthouse and returned to the drive-in. The same woman was behind the counter. She eyed him with curiosity when he approached.

  “I enjoyed the corn dogs,” he said.

  “Most folks do. We mix the batter and dip them ourselves.”

  “Is that what Baxter Richardson would buy before his accident?”

  “Do you know Baxter?”

  “Not well, but I know he liked to come here.”

  The woman shook her head sadly. “It’s awful what happened to him. He was one of our best customers. He liked corn dogs, but his favorite food was our fish sticks, an order of onion rings, and an ice cream topped with chocolate syrup. We make the fish sticks ourselves.”

  “What did Baxter put on his fish sticks?”

  “Ketchup with a few pieces of raw onion. I made it up for him special.”

  Porter nodded. “Give me the Baxter special without the onion rings.”

  “Ice cream too?”

  “Yep.”

  Back in his car, Porter placed the paper tray containing the fish sticks and ketchup mixture on the seat beside him and ate the ice cream as he retraced his route through Santee. The smell of the fried fish filled the car. He passed the courthouse and continued to the Richardson house. When he reached the driveway, he turned in and drove toward the house. The SUV Rena and Baxter had driven to the trailhead for Double Barrel Falls was parked in a detached four-car garage. Porter remembered the license-plate number. He parked in front of the cottage and sat in the car for a couple of minutes until he finished the ice cream. The young woman at the clerk’s office was right. The soft-serve was good. Picking up the fish-stick tray, he approached the door of the cottage and knocked. A middle-aged woman with a badge identifying her as a registered nurse opened the door. She looked suspiciously at the detective and the food in his hand.

  “May I help you?” she asked.

  Porter produced his badge with his free hand and identified himself with a smile. “I was involved in the efforts to rescue Mr. Richardson after his fall and kept up with his status at the hospital in Greenville.” The detective took a step forward. “How is he doing?”

  The nurse retreated, whether before the badge or the pungent smell of the fish, he couldn’t tell.

  “Uh, better. I guess you can see him for a few minutes, but keep it brief. And you can’t eat in here.”

  “Of course not.”

  Baxter was lying on his side facing the open door. His eyes were closed. There was a chair beside the bed, and Porter moved it close to Baxter’s head and sat down.

  “Hello, Baxter,” he said.

  The young man didn’t move.

  “It’s not quite as nice a day as the first time I saw you at the hospital in Mitchell County,” Porter continued. “All the leaves are gone from the trees in the mountains.”

  The nurse, who was standing at the foot of the bed, stepped toward the kitchen. “I need to prepare his afternoon meds,” she said. “When I come back, you’ll need to leave.”

  Porter nodded. As soon as the nurse was out of the room, he held the fish sticks and ketchup-onion mix up to Baxter’s nose.

  “I brought you some fish sticks with ketchup fixed just the way you like it.”

  Baxter opened his eyes and blinked. Porter leaned closer.

  “My name is Giles Porter. I’m a police detective from Mitchell County.”

  Baxter licked his lips. “Po, pop,” he said.

  Porter looked into the young man’s eyes. Their bleariness signaled an absence of comprehension.

  “I’m a policeman,” Porter continued. “Do you know what that means?”

  Baxter shifted his head slightly and closed his eyes for several seconds. Porter stayed close to the bed. Baxter reopened his eyes. This time they were in focus.

  “Yes,” he said in a weak voice. “Do Rena?”

  Porter leaned even closer. “Yes, I know Rena.”

  “Ba, bad.”

  “Did she do something bad? If so, say yes.”

  Baxter blinked his eyes and said, “Yes.”

  “What did she do?”

  Porter held his breath. Baxter opened and closed his mouth several times. No words came out. Porter spoke again.

  “Did she push you over the edge of the cliff at the waterfall? If that’s what happened, all you have to do is say yes.”

  “Here’s your medications,” the nurse announced as she burst in from the kitchen.

  Porter kept his eyes glued to Baxter’s mouth. “Yes or no?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Baxter managed in a weak voice.

  Porter sat up in the chair. He wanted to cry out in triumph but kept cool.

  “No,” Baxter continued.

  Porter immediately leaned over closer to Baxter’s head.

  “Which is it?” he asked quickly. “Yes or no. It’s very important.”

  “It’s very important that the patient have his medications,” the nurse interrupted. “Please, it’s time for you to leave.”

  Porter held up his hand. “We haven’t finished talking.”

  The nurse glanced down and saw that Baxter’s eyes were open. She set the medicines on the hospital tray.

  “I’m sorry, Detective Porter, but we have to give priority to medical protocol. I’m sure Mr. Richardson has enjoyed your visit.”

  Porter didn’t move. “This isn’t entirely a social visit. I’m conducting a criminal investigation.”

  The nurse raised her eyebrows. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Because you’re neither a witness nor a suspect. I realize Mr. Richardson needs to conserve his strength, but I need to talk to him. I’m almost finished.”

  The nurse took a step back. “Do I need to leave?”

  “If you don’t mind.”

  “Okay. I’ll be in the kitchen.”

  As soon as the nurse was gone, Porter spoke. “Baxter?”

  The young man’s eyes were closed. They didn’t open. Porter held the fish and ketchup close to Baxter’s nose.

  “Baxter, please open your eyes so we can talk.”

  Whatever ability the familiar food had to rouse Baxter had waned. His eyes remained closed. Porter reached over and touched Baxter’s cheek.

  “Wake up.”

  He waited. The eyes remained closed. Baxter released a long sigh. Porter leaned back in the chair.

  “Nurse!” he called out. “You can come back.”

  Immediately, the nurse stuck her head out of the kitchen.

  “How long will he sleep?” Porter asked. “We weren’t finished.”

  “It’s impossible to know. It could be hours or minutes.”

  Porter stood up. “I’ll be back later. When does your shift end?”

  “At three o’clock.”

  The detective turned to leave.

  “Detective Porter?” the nurse asked.

  Fish sticks in hand, Porter turned around. “Yes?”

  “Is Mr. Richardson a suspect or a witness to a crime?”

  22

  When you come to a fork in the road, take it.

  YOGI BERRA

  Alexia intently reviewed a set of proposed interrogatories. The precise wording of the written questions was important. She wanted to force the opposing party’s attorney to either provide answers damaging to his case or file groundless objections that would justify a motion to compel. Whatever the response, Alexia would continue to narrow the avenue of escape for the man seeking to dodge future financial responsibility for his wife and two children.

  On her desk rested a complete set of the documents Gwen copied from the Rena Richardson files. Beside the stack was a standard disengagement letter. It was easy for Alexia to withdraw from representation without any lawsuits pending. No judge needed to authorize her retreat. As soon as she finished correcting the interrogatories and dictating a demand letter in another case
, Alexia intended to call Rena and deliver the news.

  The phone buzzed. All Alexia’s calls were now being routed through Gwen, and she’d told the secretary that she didn’t want to be disturbed except for an emergency.

  “What is it?” she asked with a slight edge in her voice.

  “It’s Rena Richardson.”

  “I’m going to call her in less than an hour.”

  “She wants to talk to you now.”

  Alexia tapped her pen against the top sheet of the interrogatories. She could back out as easily now as in another sixty minutes.

  “Okay, I’ll take it.”

  She picked up the receiver.

  “Rena, I’m glad you called,” she began.

  “He’s here!” Rena screamed into the phone. “You’ve got to come!”

  “Who?” Alexia asked in alarm.

  “The detective with the horrible scar on his head!”

  When Alexia crossed swords with Giles Porter at the hospital in Greenville, she expressly told him not to have any contact with Rena. Unless initiated by her client, communication between the two violated Rena’s constitutional right to have an attorney present when questioned by the police.

  “Put him on the phone,” Alexia said grimly.

  “He’s at the cottage with Baxter.”

  “Where are you?”

  “At the house.”

  “Then stay inside and don’t talk to him.”

  “But he’s talking to Baxter! You’ve got to tell him to leave!”

  Alexia hesitated. Rena had the right to order Giles Porter to leave her property unless he was there pursuant to a valid arrest or search warrant. But sending Rena over to the cottage to deliver an ultimatum wouldn’t work. Alexia would have to maintain the status quo as Rena’s advocate for one more skirmish.

  “I’ll be there in less than five minutes.”

  Alexia hung up the phone and grabbed her purse. As she hurried out the door, Gwen called out.

  “Attorney Alexia Lindale to the rescue! I knew you wouldn’t abandon a woman in distress!”