Last Licks

by Donally, Claire

  She came down to discover that Mike had changed into some old clothes, too. Shadow circled around them, looking a little skittish. Mike began to laugh. “The last time we looked like this was during spring cleaning. He’s probably expecting us to start taking the house apart again!”

  Dropping to her knees, Sunny coaxed Shadow over and gently stroked him. “No excitement here,” she told him. “We’re going away for a while.” At last, his tail stopped twitching. Will arrived in his pickup, and Sunny and her dad went outside. Mike told Sunny, “You go up first, honey.”

  She grinned, climbed aboard, and settled next to Will. Then Mike hauled himself aboard, slammed the door shut, and off they went.

  O’Dowd’s sat in the middle of a little patch of urban blight at the edge of downtown. Some people called it the source of the blight. It was a long, low, wooden building that had begun life as something other than a bar, but not even Mike remembered what it had originally been. The only hint as to its present business was a beer sign in one of the tiny windows. Mike used to joke that people didn’t find O’Dowd’s, they just sank to its level. As underage college kids, Sunny and her friends had snuck in there for an illicit beer. But Sunny had still been shocked to see how far the bar’s never-high standards had fallen when she and Will visited the place to talk with a suspect.

  Warmer weather hadn’t improved the ambiance. Will drove into a weed-trimmed parking lot. Sunny saw a few pickups, some vans, a couple of cars that could only be called beaters, and of course, motorcycles. Rolling his truck to a stop, Will got out and opened the door for Mike and Sunny. They reached the plywood slab that served as the bar’s front door and heaved at it—last night’s rain had swollen the wood in place. With a good yank, Will got it open, and they went in.

  A yellowish-gray cloud hung in the air. The state of Maine might have banned barroom smoking, but O’Dowd’s didn’t follow no stinkin’ ordinances. Patrons in here continued to blithely light up. The jukebox with its overamped bass still thumped away, while folks at the bar and at the tables did their best to scream over the noise.

  Scanning the room, Sunny spotted a few Bridgewater Hall staff members—they must have all owed Luke favors or something, she figured. They sat in little islands, distinct among the regulars. Sunny spotted Elsa Hogue and Jack the physical therapist sitting at one table, Elsa looking very uncomfortable.

  “Let’s see if we can join them,” Sunny yelled to her dad and Will.

  “Do you want something to drink?” Will bellowed.

  “Beer—in a bottle,” Sunny screeched.

  “Me, too,” Mike bawled out.

  Sunny led the way over to the therapists while Will headed for the bar. Elsa and Jack were happy for company. Mike tried to carry on a conversation while Sunny watched Will’s progress at the bar. It was like watching a silent movie—if silent movies were scored by Steppenwolf.

  As Will got closer and closer to the bar, Jasmine the barmaid showed more and more interest. Jasmine had been the local sex symbol during Sunny’s college days. Now she had too much skin pushed into too little clothing, a bad dye job, and a missing tooth. Still, she did a good come-hither routine until Will was close enough for her to recognize him as a cop. Then her face shut down to a sullen mask as she sold him three bottles of beer.

  He returned to the table with a wad of napkins, using them to twist the tops off and wipe the mouths of the bottles. Sunny shouted her thanks, accepted one of the bottles, and took a sip. It had been a while, but apparently some things never change. Cold beer after a warm day remained a good combination.

  She saw Luke Daconto come around from the back of the bar carrying a microphone stand and a small amplifier, which he set up on the raised dais that housed the jukebox. Then he vanished, only to return again with his guitar case. Most of the bar denizens didn’t even pay attention as he tuned up. Luke looked at Jasmine and nodded. She came from behind the bar, reaching around the back of the jukebox to pull the plug. There were some raucous moans and groans while she vainly signaled for silence. Sunny could barely hear her shouting, “Live music tonight!”

  After her third fruitless attempt, Jasmine shrugged, causing a ponderous jiggle to run through her extra flesh, and returned behind the bar. Luke finished arranging the mic, slung his guitar strap over one shoulder, and stood with his hands on his hips, just staring at the seething barroom. It took a few minutes, but people began to glance over in his direction . . . and shut up.

  Finally, there were just a couple of drunken boobs laughing at one another’s jokes. Luke dropped the microphone down to guitar level and struck a jangling discord that boomed out through the amplifier.

  “Sorry,” he said, readjusting the mic back in line with his lips. “My guitar farted.”

  And with that, he launched into a jagged version of “Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Right.”

  Will leaned toward Sunny. “Got to give him one thing,” he whispered with beer-laced breath. “He’s got stones.”

  12

  It wasn’t four a.m. when the phone rang this time—it just felt that way to Sunny. After a couple of beers she wasn’t accustomed to anymore and a somewhat late night, even an eight a.m. call had her nerves jangling.

  “H-h’lo?” Her voice was hoarse and raspy from yelling over the noise at O’Dowd’s. Luke had won the crowd over, even doing an encore. But congratulating him on his success had been a little difficult when the jukebox came on again. Sunny coughed, trying to clear away a film of cigarette smoke and beer in her throat—or was that just in her head? “Who is this?”

  “Ms. Coolidge? It’s Rafe Warner.”

  That got her eyes open. “Is there a problem? Is Mr. Barnstable okay?”

  “Sure,” Rafe replied. “I was just talking with him. He gave me your number.”

  Sunny slowly raised herself to a sitting position. “And why was that?”

  “I’m getting off my shift now,” Rafe said, “and I’ve got something to give you.” His voice sank to a whisper. “Files.”

  “What kind—” Sunny got out, but Rafe cut her off.

  “I can’t discuss this on the phone,” he said. “I can be at your house in half an hour. Mr. Barnstable gave me the address.”

  Thanks, Ollie, Sunny thought.

  “Half an hour,” Rafe repeated. “I’ll see you then.” Obviously it wasn’t up for discussion, because he cut the connection.

  Sunny stared owlishly at the receiver in her hand, hung it up, and then grabbed the handset again. She punched in Will Price’s number. When he picked up, he sounded awake and much more human than Sunny felt.

  “Files?” he said when Sunny told her story. “Intriguing. Be there in fifteen.”

  That gave Sunny enough time to run a shower and get the fug of O’Dowd’s out of her hair. She sat drinking a large mug of coffee when Will rang the bell. He was in jeans and a T-shirt, and so was she.

  “I see we’re both dressed to spend the day sorting through files,” he said with a smile.

  “The question is, what are they, and how many?”

  “I’m betting this is the stuff we asked Reese for.” Will leaned against the front of the refrigerator.

  “The stuff he told us it was illegal to give out?”

  Will didn’t answer. He stared at the coffeemaker, noticeably inhaling the brewing smell the way Shadow savored a rare scent. Sunny sat up a little straighter. Speaking of Shadow, where was he? He hadn’t been in her room, nor was he around when she came downstairs . . . She finally woke up enough to catch Will’s hints. “Oh. Sorry. Would you like some coffee?” Sunny poured him a cup and sat at the table.

  Will added a little milk and sugar to his cup, took a sip, and sighed. “I told you cops live on this stuff. Do I dare ask who makes the coffee in this house?”

  “That pot was my dad’s,” Sunny told him. “I found it on when I got down here, along w
ith a note telling me he was off for his walk. Stick around, and you’ll get to try a pot of mine.”

  Now that they’d both had their caffeine fixes, the conversation began to flow.

  “We know Warner has a mole in Reese’s office,” Will said. “They must have overheard us with the big guy.”

  “So Rafe is just going to give us what we want?” Sunny didn’t share Will’s morning optimism. “Why?”

  The doorbell rang. Will grinned. “I guess we’ll just have to ask him.”

  She opened the door to find a jittery Rafe, standing with a sheaf of papers in his hands. He thrust them over to her. “You don’t know where these came from, got it?”

  When he turned to go, Will caught him by the arm. “We may not know who gave them to us, but I’d like to know what they are. Come in and have some coffee.”

  Rafe reluctantly accepted a cup. They all sat at the table, the small pile of papers in the middle. Rafe kept looking at them as if he feared they’d explode. “There’s a list of the people who passed away in the last year and a half. Well, cases. Their names are blotted out, but I left the dates and the cause of death.”

  That should give them a long enough time period to average out any normal peaks and valleys in the mortality statistics. Sunny figured that a careful search of the obits from the Portsmouth and Portland papers could probably discover names to line up with the dear departed, but she decided to let Rafe go with a fig leaf of privacy.

  Will had more practical considerations. “You mean the official cause of death.”

  Rafe nodded. “The rest are staff rosters for those days. I figure that’s close enough to what you asked for.”

  “What made you decide to take such a risk getting these to us?” Sunny asked.

  “I think you’ll look at them and decide you can’t use them.” Rafe’s confidence seemed to come back as he upped his caffeine level. “You’ve talked about a rise in mortality rates at Bridgewater Hall, and that’s true. Right now we’re above average. But you’re suggesting that the spike is because union people are angry, or aren’t doing their jobs, or whatever, because of what Dr. Reese has done since he took over.” He took a deep breath. “Reese has definitely made trouble—I ought to know, I’ve been banging heads with him since he came in—but if you look at the deaths month by month, the spike was higher when Dr. Faulkner was in charge, and we got along better with the administration.”

  Will frowned. “So you’re saying—”

  “I’m saying it’s not a job action, or people slacking off. As shop steward, I know the folks in the union. They may not all be saints, but they—we—do our best for the patients. I think this information should prove that to you. So you’ll either have to go barking up some other tree or just accept that Mr. Scatterwell died of whatever they wrote on his death certificate.”

  Which is where we’d already reluctantly landed before you brought all this paper to my house, Sunny couldn’t help thinking.

  “I guess we should say thank you,” she said, wishing she sounded more sincere. “It must have been a lot of work for you.”

  Rafe shrugged. “A little less looking at screens, a little more photocopying. Just promise me one thing. Shred them, burn them, destroy them somehow when you’re done. I think once you see that they back up what I told you, you won’t have any other use for them.”

  Rafe thanked Sunny for the coffee and went to stand up. The scrape of his chair seemed to be the cue for a gray-furred form to come through the door.

  Shadow’s gotten very good at putting in an appearance just as strangers—or Toby—are heading out the door, Sunny thought with a smile.

  She wasn’t sure if it was cat manners or just cat curiosity. Shadow would come over, give the guest a cursory sniff, accept a little petting if the mood was on him and the person was so inclined, and then move on.

  But as Shadow approached Rafe, his standoffishness melted and he became friendly—maybe too friendly. Shadow was all over Rafe’s feet and ankles, practically clinging to him.

  “Well, hello, fella.” Rafe sat back down and went to pet Shadow, but the cat surprised him—and Sunny—by veering away. It turned into a strange kind of dance. Shadow seemed magnetically drawn to Rafe’s bottom half, but repelled by his top.

  Then Sunny had a thought. “Were you holding Patrick recently?” she asked.

  Rafe looked surprised. “Why, yes. He was feeling a little rocky this morning, so I picked him up to help him feel better.”

  “Meanwhile,” Sunny went on, “Portia was on the floor.” She laughed. “I bet Shadow’s smelling Portia from your knees down, but Patrick on your upper half. If you sit there and don’t pet him, you’ll have a new best friend all over your feet.”

  Rafe did as she suggested, folding his arms and staying still. Shadow twined his way around the security guy’s legs, sniffing and purring.

  “I’ve brought Portia’s scent home on me a couple of times,” Sunny explained. “And Shadow definitely likes it.”

  “I guess so.” Rafe chuckled, looking down at the cat around his ankles, and then yawned. “I’d better be getting home.”

  But when Rafe rose from the table and started down the hall, Shadow trotted right behind him.

  “Uh-oh,” Will said. “This could be trouble.”

  *

  Shadow had avoided Sunny since last night when she came home late, smelling of that smoke the humans liked to breathe and the stuff they drank to act silly. He’d found that a bad combination in other homes where he’d lived.

  The Old One had gotten up earlier that morning and left something out for Shadow to eat, so he’d left Sunny to sleep by herself. Then the talking-thing had made a noise, and Sunny woke up and stood under the water so the bad smells were gone. But then the human male that spent a lot of time with Sunny had come along. Shadow had learned to give them space when Sunny’s He came to visit. He was just about to come into the room and let Sunny know he was around when the noisemaker at the door sounded again—some stranger this time. So Shadow had lain low in the living room while the sound of two-leg talk had drifted down the hallway. After a while, though, he’d decided to go check out the newcomer.

  The human didn’t seem scared of cats, or angry at seeing one. That was good. In fact, he seemed friendly. Then Shadow smelled the mysterious She on him. He investigated the stranger’s feet and legs thoroughly. The scent was so strong, it made his head buzz. Yes, this was definitely the She! Could this be the two-leg the She lived with?

  The human bent down and offered a friendly hand—but Shadow hadn’t liked that scent at all. It was a He, and Shadow smelled sickness on him. But when the hand went away and the offending He-scent dissipated, Shadow couldn’t keep himself away from the traces the She had left.

  Then the human rose from his chair again, getting set to leave, and Shadow had an inspiration. This two-leg could lead him to the She!

  So, as the human went with Sunny toward the door, Shadow had followed. The scent from the other human’s pant legs was a constant distraction. He stepped a little closer, the scent filling his brain . . .

  And then hands came from behind and grabbed him up. Snatched from his happy fog, Shadow found himself held helpless as the door opened and the She’s human disappeared. Flinging himself around, Shadow managed to tear himself loose, but by then the door had already closed. He flung himself at the heavy wood, scratching and crying, but the two-leg was gone, and the She’s scent was already fading.

  He heard Sunny’s voice. How dare she close the door on him, letting the She’s human get away! Shadow was so, so angry. With his back to the door, he hissed at her, one paw up and claws ready—

  And then he remembered the scent of Sunny’s blood. He couldn’t do that again. Conflicting impulses all but paralyzed him. He jammed himself up against the door, the unyielding wood, right at the space where the faintest traces
of outside air came in. But it didn’t bring the scent he most desired.

  Sunny spoke, but she didn’t touch him. Maybe that was a good thing. Shadow couldn’t trust himself not to draw blood again. He just stayed where he was, letting out his feelings in mournful yowls.

  *

  “I’ve seen people going through detox who didn’t look or sound as bad as that,” Will said as he and Sunny sat back in the kitchen. “Looks as though Shadow has a real case for Rafe’s Portia.”

  “I don’t know what to do about it,” Sunny said as another disconsolate moan came from the front door. “So I guess we may as well ignore him.”

  They sat together, reading down the list of names Rafe had left. Will ran a finger down the page. “I count twenty-three people here. That’s like a third of the beds in Bridgewater Hall, isn’t it?”

  “That shouldn’t be so surprising. My dad told me the other day that the average life expectancy for a person in a nursing home is about three years.” She held up a hand at the look on Will’s face. “Hey, those are the kinds of statistics Dad keeps dredging out of the newspapers.”

  Will pointed to the lower part of the list. “So, for the past twelve months, there are seventeen cases. But in the six months before that period, I count only six deaths. If that held as the average for the previous year, we’re looking at a big jump, almost fifty percent.”

  “Yes, but remember, you’re working with a universe of only seventy-five beds,” Sunny pointed out. “A couple of very old or very sick people would cause a big swing in the statistics.”

  Will divided the files into two piles, and gave one to Sunny. “I think that’s all we can get from the deaths. Let’s see what the rosters tell us.”

  By the time she got to the third sheet, she said, “I keep seeing the same names.”