by Thomas Scott
He was safe. His breathing and his pulse began to return to normal. He took the other vial of morphine and hid it in a top drawer of the master bedroom dresser. After that he watched the front of the house for another agonizing minute before opening the door and walking down the block at a leisurely pace…just a regular guy out for a stroll. He turned the corner, forcing himself not to run to his car.
One down, one to go. Decker, crazy as a loon, had one thought running through his brain: Who’s the boss now? Who’s the boss now?
Like loons everywhere, he wasn’t even aware of the thought. His phone buzzed at him and brought him out of the trance.
“Where are we at?”
“Right on schedule. One down, one to go.”
“You’re going to have to disappear for a while when this is done. You realize that, don’t you?”
Decker did, and he didn’t care. As long as he got the money. “I do. In fact, I can’t wait.” He tossed the phone on the seat and drove toward the hospital. He didn’t really care about what he had to do next. He just didn’t know why. And the why—the not so loony part of his brain told him—might be important.
Still, work to be done. He knew the consequences of a half-assed job.
15
He parked near the hospital’s receiving docks and pushed through a set of swinging double doors. He wore tan canvas pants, a buttoned denim shirt, and a plain black baseball cap. He also wore his combat boots. That was strictly for comfort. It was, he thought, the one thing the government did right—they knew how to make a comfortable boot. He kept his head down in case of security cameras, made a hard left as soon as he was inside and found himself right in the middle of the janitorial supply room.
The room itself was institutional gray and seemed to be the source of origin for the hospital smell that everyone always commented on or complained about. There was a time clock just to his right with a slotted card holder mounted next to it. The opposite wall was lined with lockers painted the same dull gray as the walls. A large bay contained four-wheeled pushcarts stocked with spray bottles, disposable rags, buckets, a mop, toilet paper, and other cleaning supplies. No one was in the room. He moved quickly to the lockers, opening each one until he found what he needed: A hospital uniform shirt with a name tag. This particular shirt belonged to someone named Sam, and Sam, God bless him, had left his hospital ID clipped to the shirt pocket.
Decker snatched the shirt off the hook and put it on. It was slightly large, but not overly so—apparently Sam had little regard for the dangers of processed food—but he tucked it in tight around his waist and made do with what he had. There were boxes of light-blue hospital shoe covers, the kind doctors and nurses wore in surgery, and still more boxes filled with paper head covers done in the same pale blue with a thin band of white elastic around the edges. He wished there were some of the paper face masks. That would have been ideal. Or would it? Did janitors wear those? He didn’t think so. No sense in trying to blend in to the point where you stuck out like a donkey at the Kentucky Derby.
He rolled the bill of his hat and shoved it in his back pocket, put one of the covers on his head and pulled it low, right down to his eyebrows, then slipped his shoes inside the paper covers. He grabbed one of the four-wheeled custodial carts and pushed it out to the hallway. With a little luck, he’d be in and out in less than fifteen minutes. Without a little luck, he’d resort to plan B, which was locked and loaded with the safety on, strapped to his one good ankle.
He pushed the cart along, turned a corner, kept his head down, whistled softly the way janitors do and headed for the elevators.
No one even looked at him.
The fifteen minutes came and went. He was still on plan A, but he was starting to sweat. Finding Martha Esser was harder than he thought it might be. He emptied a trashcan next to the elevator and studied the directory that hung on the wall.
He made his way to the ICU, thinking that if she just woke from a coma caused by severe head trauma, that’s where she’d be. So far he’d discovered two things: the hospital was huge, and they didn’t put the patient names next to the individual rooms like they used to. After circling the floor twice and peeking in on several patients, his luck finally ran out.
“Excuse me. May I help you?”
Decker jumped at the voice behind him and spun on his good leg. A young nurse in yellow scrubs and white tennis shoes stood right behind him. She had jet black hair pulled back and tied in a bun. A single mole, no bigger than the head of a pin was centered right below her left nostril. Decker thought it looked like she had a little booger trying to get away. She was maybe twenty-five, and other than the unfortunate booger-like mole, very pretty. He forced himself not to stare at the mole, the same way others often tried—and failed—when they saw his artificial limb. The nurse looked at the ID badge clipped to his shirt. Fortunately, he’d had the sense to turn it so the back side faced out and the picture was hidden. But the uniform shirt had done its job because people see what they expect to see. The nurse looked away from the ID and to the name tag sewn on the familiar shirt, one that had the hospital logo on the opposite breast.
“Sam, is it?”
“Uh, yeah,” Decker mumbled. “Sorry, I’m still a little new. And a little lost.”
She smiled at him. “I thought so. I haven’t seen you around here before. And, you don’t look like you’re cleaning. You look like you’re looking for someone.”
“Actually, I am…Amber.” He’d glanced at her name tag and smiled. “Hey, my mom’s name was Amber,” he said. Decker was crazy, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew how to turn on the bullshit a little when he needed to. His mother’s name was Ruth. Amber sounded like a stripper name.
Amber reached out and touched his arm lightly…just a brush. “Was?”
“She passed just last year. Right here in this ward.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry.”
Decker leaned on his cart, let his head hang, and turned the bullshit up a half notch. “Still miss her. Guess I always will. I see these rooms and, well…” He spread his arms out a bit and let the gesture speak for itself. The gesture had to because his mother, the one good thing in his life had been gone for almost thirty years now.
Another touch. “It gets better. It does. You just have to take it one day at a time.”
“I guess. Lot of days, though. Listen, you were right. I am sort of looking for someone. One of my mom’s old friends. I thought she’d be up here, in the ICU.”
“A patient, you mean?”
“Yeah. Her name’s Martha Esser.”
Amber looked around before she answered. “We’re not supposed to give out patient information…”
“Well, we do both work for the same hospital, you know,” Decker said with a chuckle. “Not exactly crime of the century if you know what I mean.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean, but it’s the HIPPA laws. I’ll tell you something, Sam, they’re getting worse every year. Pretty soon the patient is going to have to sign a piece of paper that says they can look at themselves in the mirror.” She laughed at her own nurse humor.
Decker smiled at her. “Yeah, I get it. That’s okay. Sorry to have bothered you. I better get back to my floor. She probably wouldn’t even remember me, anyway.”
“Oh, I’ll bet she would. You know what? What’s the harm? I mean, from what I hear, she doesn’t have any family left after what happened to her husband. You heard about that, right?” Amber was a talker. She thought for a moment, then said, “She’s been moved to the rehab wing. Do you know where that is?”
“I’m afraid not. But I’ll find it. Listen, you’ve been a huge help. Thanks a lot, and it was nice to meet you, Amber.” He pushed at the cart and started to walk away.
“Hey, Sam?”
He stopped and turned back. “What’s that?”
“I’m getting ready to go on break. Come on, I’ll take you right there.”
Decker didn’t want that. Didn’t want that at all.
“Oh, no. That’s all right. You’ve been very helpful. Take your break. You deserve it. I know how hard you all work up here.”
“No, really. I insist. Plus, I haven’t seen Martha for a few days and I’d like to see how she’s progressing. Besides, everyone knows it’s impolite to deny the insist.”
Decker looked at her for a moment. “You sure you want to do that?”
Amber caught a look in his eyes, just a flash. Something in her gut tried to tell her something, but she pushed it away without ever realizing she’d done so. “Sure. Why not?”
Plan B, then. “Okay. Lead the way, Amber.”
Decker followed her down the hall, watching her ass jiggle inside the yellow scrubs. Amber was already dead. She just didn’t know it.
Probably would have made a good stripper though, with that ass.
16
Murton took the call from Becky and told her she was on speaker with Virgil. They were about halfway back to the city. They’d been to the Esser residence and saw that there was exactly nothing to see. The crime scene techs told them that the truck had been wiped clean and there was nothing in the house that constituted a crime other than the rooster wallpaper in the kitchen. “That’s a misdemeanor-level crime right there,” the tech had said.
“Hey Jonesy.”
“How’s it going, Becks?”
“Going well…considering.”
“Considering what?”
Murton slapped his own forehead and interrupted before Becky had a chance to answer. She was just as upset about Pam Donatti’s lawsuit as Murton was. Virgil, on the other hand, seemed to have already forgotten it. “What have you found so far, baby?”
There was a pause before she answered, and when she did her voice was flat. “Westlake is exactly who he says he is. In fact, so are all of the farmers. Other than a few traffic violations there’s no real background on any of them, unless you consider the fact that Charlie Esser married into his fortune. He clearly didn’t marry out of love and respect. Cora has given me access to the state databases as well as the NCIC. Martha Esser filed two separate complaints against her husband, one just over a year ago and the other six months before that. But both were eventually dropped. If there are two complaints filed, you know there must have been ongoing abuse that didn’t get reported at all. Other than that, everyone’s taxes are in order and no one is involved in any radical organizations or anything like that. The co-op books are clean as well. Not counting the Esser’s, reading about the entire group of them is a safe substitute for sleeping pills.”
“How’d you get the taxes?”
“Hey, Jonesy?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t ask questions you don’t want answered.”
“Mmm, okay.” Becky, Virgil thought, had hacked the federal database, probably through a backdoor from the NCIC. “Is there anything else?”
“Yeah, Jonesy, there is. Just where in the hell do you get off siding with Pam Donatti and this ridiculous lawsuit she’s—”
“The governor’s calling, baby-doll,” Murton said. “Thanks for the intel. I’ll see you tonight.” He clicked off, glanced at Virgil and noticed the cartilage flex as he ground his jaw tight. “Women, huh?”
“Murt, Sandy and I are not siding with Pam on this lawsuit. I thought I made that clear.”
“Relax, Jones-man. I know you’re not. I was just a little hot for a minute. The whole thing caught me off guard…and you know how much I like that. I told Becky about it and frankly, she’s upset. Got a right to be too, if you ask me. She’ll cool off. I’ll take care of it. I just haven’t had the chance to talk to her since this morning.”
“You know what I remembered this morning?”
“What’s that?”
“When I was with the MCU…before they sacked me, it felt like someone was always upset with me about something. Wait, that’s not exactly right. It’s more like someone was always upset with me about something and I either didn’t notice or didn’t care. I’m not exactly sure which. But after I spoke with Delroy earlier, I did notice. I’m not talking about the lowlifes and scumbags. I’m talking about people I care about…you and Becky, Sandy, Cora. Like that.”
“Ah, Cora’s always upset. I think it’s part of her personality. And you were in charge. Not to sound too unsympathetic, but that’s the breaks, Jonesy. It goes with the territory. Meet the new boss…same as the old boss.”
“I think you might be missing my point.”
Murton looked at him without expression. “Then how about you dumb it down for me a little?”
“There’s something I didn’t tell you yet. I saw my dad yesterday. By the tree. We spoke to each other.”
Murton turned away and stared at the countryside sliding by. After a few moments he turned back and looked at Virgil. When he spoke, his voice was at once full of pain and anger. “I’m going to ask you something and I’m only going to ask you once and you better tell me the truth.”
Virgil knew what was coming. “So ask.”
“I swear to Christ, Jonesy, if you try to bullshit me on this I’ll know it. I will also personally kick your ass so bad you will need those pills again.”
Virgil nodded. “That wasn’t a question, but I believe you about the ass-kicking. If you think you could, that is.” Virgil knew he could. Murton was the toughest fighter he’d ever met. “I’m not on the pills. I’m as clean as the day I was born.”
Murton stared at him, hard, for a full minute. Because Virgil was driving he had to watch the road, but he turned and looked at him a few times without blinking, his face open and honest.
“Okay,” Murton finally said. “I believe you. The offer of the ass-kicking still stands though.”
“Noted.” Then: “It makes me feel like there might be something wrong with me.”
“Why? Because you can talk to him?”
“No, because…” Virgil was going to give him a smart-assed response but cut himself off. “Yes, because I can see my dead father. And not only that, I can talk with him. Jesus, I feel like I need a shrink, or something.”
“Ah, that’s bullshit, and you know it. You’re fine. Besides, Small has seen him, and so has Robert. There’s nothing wrong with them. Especially with Small.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “Nothing wrong with her at all.”
“You know, I’m really starting to worry about you and her.”
“You should.”
“Maybe Becky can give me some guidance on the issue.”
Murton called his bluff. “Hey, that’s a great idea. Becky’s a wild one. I’ll bet she’d go for it…me and her and Small. It’s more common than you think these days. Besides, after Sandy spits out that kid and he’s got my steel gray eyes, my square jaw and over-all dashing good looks you’re going to know what’s what. She’ll probably get your house after the divorce which means I’ll be living there. Man, I’ve always loved that place. Can’t believe it’s going to be mine. You can still fish in the pond if you want. I’ll let you have Wednesdays and one weekend a month. Hell, I’ll even rent you my place at a reduced rate until you get back on your feet.”
Virgil picked up his phone.
“What are you doing?” Murton asked.
“Calling Becky back. You just said it was a great idea, remember?”
Murton held up his hands in surrender. “All right, all right. I’m just messing with you. Hey, give me that phone.”
“Yeah, Becks, it’s Virgil. Listen—”
“Hey, c’mon man, quit fooling around…”
After the cop humor had run its course: “So every once in a while you get to talk to your old man. So what? I’d give my left nut to be able to see him—Mason, I mean—let alone talk to him. Count your blessings, brother.”
“I’ll tell you exactly three things,” Virgil said. “One, it makes me feel a little like a freak or something.”
“Everyone’s a freak in one way or another.”
“Would you please just let me say it? B, he’s always spea
king in some sort of code. He never just comes right out and says what he means. This time the theme was a combination of ‘everything matters, and I’m not in control.’ He just kept driving that point home. And three, deep down in my heart—and I’ve never really told this to anyone—a tiny part of me wants it to stop. It’s like every time he shows up by that tree my grieving process has to start over. It’s not natural.”
Murton shook his head. “Don’t be an idiot.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means here’s three things right back at you,” Murton said. He ticked them off his fingers. “A, you just said one, B, and three. Try to stay with the same system, like I’m doing right now. B, I just said it, but clearly you didn’t hear me…Count. Your. Blessings.” He poked his finger into Virgil’s shoulder, hard, with every word. “And C, stop saying you want it to stop, because if you don’t, it just might and then you’ll really be messed up about it.”
“Ah, I don’t really want it to stop. It’s just…hard. He’s there, but he’s not there, know what I mean?”
“No, I don’t,” Murton said. “I guess some of us just aren’t as fortunate as others.” He turned away and stared out the side window of the truck.
The rehab wing of the hospital, Decker thought, was almost as depressing as the V.A. facility where he’d done his own rehab after the war. The floor was tiled in a dull cream color, the walls were painted cream, the ceiling was cream, and so was the furniture. Even the physical therapists wore cream-colored scrubs. Decker discovered that if he squinted just so, he could make their scrubs fade into the background to the point where it seemed that the attendants all looked like a bunch of floating heads.