Table of Contents
Title Page
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
CHAPTER 57
CHAPTER 58
CHAPTER 59
CHAPTER 60
Also by
Copyright Page
To
my grandmother
Lydia F. McCloy
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My special thanks to the following people for making this book possible:
Ruth Cavin, my editor; Laura Langlie, my agent; Robert Keis-man, M.D., my husband; E. James Kohl, M.D.; Katherine Gordon-Clark, Ph.D.; Bill Miller; Anne, Scott, Julie, Jason, Luke, and Maddie—just for being there.
CHAPTER 1
It was a beautiful October morning and I was heading for the hospital on my motorcycle to make my early rounds. The road stretched out in front of me, smooth and empty, begging me to turn up the throttle. The speedometer had barely touched seventy when I noticed that the sweep of road ahead, usually deserted, was clogged. I decelerated back to forty.
State police cars lined both sides of the road and troopers milled around, crossing and recrossing. A small cluster of spectators ogled something by the side of the road.
A deer was my first thought. But why would a deer attract so much attention? Deer accidents were a dime a dozen in these parts. Cutting my motor, I trolled over to an officer and asked, “What’s up?”
“Move on!” He tried to wave me through, taking time to cast a disdainful glance at my secondhand Honda.
I trundled over to the pack of people by the side of the road and repeated my question. A disheveled blonde wearing a sweatshirt with the slogan COWTOWN RODEO looked up. “Dead man,” she said succinctly.
I decided not to linger. I’d had my fill of dead men for one year. A band of bikers had invaded my motel a few months ago and one of them had been murdered in the parking lot. I had even been a suspect for a while. I wasn’t anxious to get involved in another crime scene. I caught myself up short. Crime scene? Why not a simple hit-and-run? “What happened?” I asked the blonde.
She looked up again, her eyes glazed with excitement. “Two bullet holes in the back of the head.”
A burly man in a plaid shirt and stained overalls turned to me. “I found him,” he said proudly. “I live right across the road.” He waved at a small frame house that was almost hidden from view by the huge American flag hanging from the porch.
Congratulations, I thought. But I said, “No one you know, I hope.”
He shook his head. “A stranger.” Did I detect a note of disappointment? “No ID yet,” he added in his best Law & Order tone.
An unmarked car pulled up and a man I knew only too well got out. Detective Hiram Peck. He had been in charge of the biker case. Time to move on. A trooper with the same idea came over and began shooing us away. The little knot of rubberneckers scattered and I turned up the throttle. I could learn all I wanted to know at the hospital when they brought the body into the morgue.
CHAPTER 2
By Tuesday, the scuttlebutt around the hospital was that the body of the dead man was a “gangsta” from Philly. The only disturbing thing was, the mob’s usual dumping ground was the Pine Barrens—a wild and desolate area fifty miles north of Bayfield. Why had they taken a detour this time? That was the question. No one had the answer. But the general consensus was, we hoped they wouldn’t make a habit of it.
I was not overly concerned. It had nothing to do with me. In fact, I was so little concerned, I decided after rounds to take the morning off and go for a bike ride. Bike, as in bicycle, not motorcycle. (That was the last book.)
I had bought the bicycle a few weeks ago at a yard sale. The yard sale is to country people what the mall is to suburbanites—a source of endless amusement to relieve the tedium of Saturday mornings. Dawn has barely raised its sleepy head before the broken furniture and toys, odd bits of china and glassware, buttonless coats and threadbare trousers are spread out on the front lawn, neatly labeled with illegible price tags, laboriously scrawled by the kids with their Magic Markers the night before. Manhattan doesn’t offer such diversions. The street fair is as close as it comes, and that isn’t really the same.
I was often the first one there. If you don’t go early, you might as well stay home, because the one or two useful or valuable items will be long gone.
It was at such a sale that I had bought my bike. I will never give up my motorcycle, mind you. But it’s primarily a workhorse, good for transportation—for visiting patients and getting to the hospital when speed is your main objective. But my bicycle is different. I mount it only for pleasure, when I’m in the mood for a leisurely ride down backcountry roads to enjoy the flora and fauna.
My Honda, on the other hand, scares the fauna—and gives whiplash to the flora. But not my bicycle. My bicycle causes barely a ripple in the grass as I glide by. And, in return, the birds stay put on their perches, the small mammals take time to glance at me with their bright black eyes, and the wildflowers nod a gentle greeting.
My bicycle is blue and silver. Its wheels are strong but not too heavy. Attached to the handlebars is a light straw basket, roomy enough to carry my lunch, a bouquet of wildflowers, or the Sunday Times. Oh yeah, I still subscribe to the Times—the one link to my former Manhattan life. The day I give that up, you’ll know I’ve become a bona fide country bumpkin.
My concern about the abandoned body had decreased so much that I barely glanced at the site as I pedaled past. My mind was on the Times I was about to pick up at the post office. It takes a day and a half for the paper to get to Bayfield, and the Sunday edition is too fat to fit in my motel mailbox, so I always pick it up myself on Tuesdays. An excuse for a bike ride in balmy weather—like today. Also a chance to exchange a few words with Lucy, the postmistress, and keep abreast of the local gossip.
Full of such mundane thoughts, I was about half a mile past the body site when I heard a strange sound. I wouldn’t have heard it if I had been on my Honda. Actually, the sound itself wasn’t strange. It was as familiar to me as the lullabies my mother used to sing before she passed away (euphemism in these parts for died). But it was an odd sound to hear in this location. One doesn’t often hear the chug chug of a printing press coming from a barn.
I dragged my feet in
the dust until I came to a dead stop—and listened. There was no mistaking the methodical, rhythmic beat that had lulled me to sleep during those years after my mother’s death, when my dad worked late into the night to meet his deadlines. The printer’s job is always due yesterday. As I stood there, eyes half-closed, listening, I could almost smell the ink and the paper. I had to see what kind of press this farmer had. It sounded like a Multi (a Multilith), which is what we’d owned—a cheap workhorse that churned out the print jobs day after day, night after night with a fair regularity. But nothing like the Heidelberg—that sleek German instrument that spat out pages without a hitch until the job was done. My dad could never afford one of those.
I left my bike by the side of the road—the risk was minimal in this sleepy part of rural New Jersey—and picked my way between the yellow soybean plants to the barn. As I drew closer, the sound grew louder, and I was sure it was a Multi. I recognized that bumpy, battered beat—so different from the smooth hum of the Heidelberg. The difference was like the difference between a Honda and a Harley.
I stepped from the warm sun into the cool barn and blinked in the dim light. Gradually, my eyes adjusted and I saw him. His back was to me. He was tinkering with something at the head of the press, where the rollers are mounted. I could hear the chink of metal against metal so familiar in any print shop. I stayed where I was. I knew better than to startle him. Printing machinery can be treacherous if your attention wanders. I had my share of scars to prove it, from the days when I’d worked in my dad’s shop as his printer’s devil. This term goes back to the Middle Ages, when the printer’s apprentice was always covered with black ink and looked like a devil. But in my day, printers’ ink came in many hues, and after a day’s work I was daubed with most of them and looked more like a clown than a devil. One day, a sheet of paper fell into the press and was snatched up by the rollers. Afraid it would jam the machine and spoil the run, I grabbed for it. My finger was caught between the rollers. The press stopped, the smell of burning rubber filled the air, and my screech brought Dad running. I still have an ugly bump on the first knuckle of my right index finger, spoiling the natural symmetry of my hand forever.
When the printer-farmer (or farmer-printer) took a step back from the press, I cleared my throat. “Excuse me …”
He turned sharply and squinted at me. I must have been no more than a dark silhouette in the open doorway.
CHAPTER 3
My gaze veered to the press—the only reason I had dropped by. “It is a Multi!” I cried, as if discovering a long-lost friend.
“What?” The man switched off the press and stared at me.
“Sorry.” I looked at him. “My name’s Jo Banks. I heard your press from the road and I had to see if it was like ours. My dad’s a printer. He had a Multi when I was a kid and I used to help him in the shop.” I stretched out my hand.
His hand remained at his side. “I’m busy. I don’t have time to gab.” He flicked the on switch. The barn was filled with the clatter of the press and further conversation was out of the question.
Well, I’d found out what I wanted to know and had my nostalgic high from the whiff of paper and ink. I figured I might as well go. This guy wasn’t exactly Mr. Hospitality. Printers aren’t known for their social skills. They are a dour, taciturn lot. My dad is like that, too, until you get to know him. It’s the nature of their work, I guess. They work long hours, often alone, or with just a helper or two. They are under constant pressure to meet insane deadlines. And their equipment is always letting them down. If something can go wrong, it usually does. Such a life does not inspire happy-go-lucky congeniality. But this guy took the prize for unfriendliness. I turned to leave.
A sharp yelp stopped me. The barn was silent. I spun around. The printer was bent over the head of his press in a position I instantly recognized—that of someone in excruciating pain. I ran to his side.
The first two fingers of his right hand were jammed between the rollers, up to his second knuckles. He had managed to hit the off switch with his left hand, but not before the familiar smell of burning rubber filled the barn. I looked around for some tools. Spying a Phillips screwdriver on a bench nearby, I snatched it up and scanned the press. To free his fingers, I’d have to loosen the top roller. It was held in place by four screws. I went to work, while the printer moaned at my side.
“Easy does it,” I said lamely, trying to soothe him. My bedside manner lacked its usual sparkle because at the back of my mind lurked the unthinkable thought that my unexpected visit had rattled this man, and that I might have caused his accident.
The first three screws freed up easily, but the fourth was stuck. It wouldn’t budge. Corroded with ink from a thousand print jobs, it resisted all my efforts.
“Goddamn it, can’t you get it?” the man cried, stamping his foot in frustration.
I spotted an oil can on the bench and squirted it on the screw. But how long would it take to work? I would never know. The man, unable to bear the pain any longer, yanked his hand from the press and stowed it under his armpit.
“Don’t.” I grabbed his arm.
He pulled away.
“I’m a doctor,” I explained belatedly. “My office is down the road and I’m on the staff of the Bridgeton Hospital. Let me see your hand.”
Slowly, he held it out. The first two fingers were an ugly sight—smashed and bleeding. Probably broken. But all that could be fixed. The important thing to find out was, “Can you move them?”
He couldn’t. I turned his hand over and saw what I feared most: a deep cut above his wrist. Some sharp part of the press had cut him while he was struggling to pull his hand from the machine. If the tendon was damaged, his whole hand might become useless.
“We have to get you to the hospital.” I was applying pressure above the gash, although it wasn’t bleeding much. No artery had been damaged, thank god.
He pulled his arm away. “No hospital.”
I looked at him. “What do you mean?”
“No hospital,” he repeated more loudly, backing away from me.
“Look, this is no joke. You could lose the use of your hand.”
He scuttled over to a battered desk piled high with scrap paper from old runs, pink order slips, and other junk that only a printer would recognize. With his good hand, he yanked open a drawer.
“You need surgery right away.” I said. “And by an expert. I can drive you to Philly—to one of the major medical centers. Do you have a car?”
His look of naked terror shocked me. I’ve known people who were afraid of doctors and surgery, but this was ridiculous.
A ray of sun knifed through a ragged hole in the roof, glinting off the metal object he had removed from the drawer. When he spoke, I realized it wasn’t doctors or surgery he was afraid of.
“You’re a doctor,” he said. “You can do the operation.”
His words barely registered. All my attention was fixed on his good hand and the gun he was pointing at me.
CHAPTER 4
A parade of unhelpful thoughts marched through my mind:
This guy is wacko.
I’ve done it again—walked into a ludicrous life-threatening situation.
Tom will say it was my own fault.
If I die, it will kill Dad.
“I don’t do hand surgery,” I managed to croak. “That’s a specialty. If you botch it, the patient can lose the use of his hand.”
As I waited for him to say something, I heard the soft trudge of footsteps approaching the barn. Please, god, let it be someone who will help me.
The printer also heard the steps and glanced over my shoulder through the open barn door. I didn’t dare turn and take my gaze off the gun.
The footsteps paused. “Daddy?” A childlike voice spoke behind me.
“Come in, Lolly, baby.” The printer spoke in a gentle, coaxing tone, all the time keeping the gun trained on me.
Expecting a child to appear, I was startled by the age and size o
f the person who moved into my field of vision: a woman of about twenty, clothed in a shapeless housedress of about the same size. Even in the dim light, I could see that her pale oval face wore a puzzled expression.
Hiding his pain, the printer spoke slowly and deliberately. “This lady dropped by to say hello. She’ll be staying with us for a while.”
The young woman’s gaze moved slowly from her father to me.
“She didn’t want to stay at first,” the printer went on, “but I persuaded her.” A grimace of pain distorted his features.
“Daddy! What’s wrong?” She lumbered toward him, oblivious of the gun.
“Get back!” he shouted. “Pinched my hand in the press is all. This lady’s a doctor. She’s going to fix me up.”
Lolly looked at me.
Watching her standing irresolute between us, I suddenly understood. Despite her age and size, Lolly was still a child. My heart sank. She could not help me, even if she wanted to. Which she probably didn’t.
I wondered if there was anyone else on the property, or in the house. “We should get your daddy to a hospital right away.” I told her. “He—”
“Don’t listen,” her father interrupted.
“Go to the house and tell your mom to call nine one one,” I commanded.
“That would be a neat trick.” He smiled sardonically. “Her mom’s been gone for over six years. Right, honey?”
The child-woman turned her head from me to her father and back again. I looked at the man and saw his face drain of color as he sank to the floor. Lolly rushed forward. But he hadn’t lost consciousness. “Stay back!” he ordered, still holding the gun on me.
Alarm bells went off in my head. I was still a doctor and I knew this man must be treated at once. “We better get started,” I said.
The man frowned. The impossibility of his situation was dawning on him. If he lost consciousness, he was finished. Then I could do with him what I wanted.
“If I’m to perform this surgery, I’ll need surgical instruments, medical supplies, not to mention anesthesia.”
“A local,” the man burst out.
I shrugged, as if this detail was of no consequence—although putting him under completely would solve all my problems. “I’ll have to go to the hospital to get these things,” I said.
Sleight of Hand Page 1