by Box, C. J.
“Poor Liv,” she replied.
*
AT 10:00 A.M. SHARP, the back door to the room opened and Sheriff Kapelow blew through it with a stern look on his face. Joe noted Kapelow had changed into an unrumpled uniform and he wore a flawless silverbelly cowboy hat with the brim folded so sharply it looked like it could draw blood. He looked serious and professional, Joe thought.
Behind him, Judge Hewitt, Duane Patterson, and Deputies Woods and Steck came out. The judge and the prosecutor flanked Kapelow on one side and the deputies on the other. No doubt, Joe thought, Kapelow had instructed them where to stand when they entered the room for maximum photographic impact. He was surprised the judge had agreed to the choreography.
“Greetings, ladies and gentlemen of the press,” Kapelow read from a statement he’d placed on the podium. “I’m here to announce a significant development in our investigation regarding the attempted murders of two of our county law enforcement officials, namely Judge Hewitt and prosecutor Duane Patterson. I’d ask that you hold your questions until the end of the briefing.”
Joe looked up at the assemblage and was confused by what he saw. Judge Hewitt looked red-eyed and hollowed out, and he bent over slightly at the waist as if recovering from a gut punch. He had none of the swagger Joe was used to. Patterson looked even worse. The county prosecutor averted his eyes from the press when he wasn’t clamping them tightly, as if to stave off a breakdown. He swayed slightly as he stood, as if he were a reed in the wind.
“What’s wrong with them?” Marybeth whispered to Joe.
He shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“This morning,” Kapelow continued, “a suspect was apprehended here in Twelve Sleep County by my team and a very specific rifle was found on the suspect’s property. The weapon is being tested to confirm that it was used in the shootings and it will be later sent to the state crime lab in Cheyenne to verify our findings.
“The suspect is an on-and-off resident of the county who has long been a person of interest in this and other crimes,” Kapelow said.
“Bullshit,” Marybeth hissed.
“I’m not at liberty at this time to provide a name for the suspect until he’s been formally charged,” Kapelow said. “You’ll know when that happens.”
Kapelow looked up from his statement and turned to his deputies. “At this time, I’d like to publicly thank the dedicated members of my department for their hard work and long hours . . .”
He went on for a while and Joe tuned out. Kapelow was performing a dance that irritated Joe whenever it took place: the over-the-top press conference where the actual case took a backseat to self-congratulatory speeches by the law enforcement officials who were present. After several minutes of thanking his deputies and staff and “support from the police department,” Kapelow looked up from his notes and directly at Joe.
He said, “We have a suspect in custody because we did excellent by-the-book police work. It’s unfortunate that our efforts were hampered by others who questioned our every move and interfered with our investigation.”
With that, several of the reporters turned in their seats and looked over their shoulders at Joe, who’d been singled out. He felt his face get hot.
“At this point in the proceedings,” Kapelow said, “I’d like to turn the briefing over to Dr. Arthur from the hospital. He’s present to announce another significant development in the case.”
It took Joe a moment to recover from the sheriff’s accusations so he didn’t get the gist of the doctor’s first words. All he knew was that Kapelow had stepped aside the podium and his place had been taken by Arthur.
The importance of Dr. Arthur’s message didn’t hit home until Joe felt Marybeth’s hand grip his knee.
“. . . about an hour ago,” Arthur continued, “Sue Hewitt succumbed to her injuries . . . We did all we could.”
“My God,” Marybeth whispered to Joe. She looked at him with tear-filled eyes. “Poor Sue . . .”
Joe was confused. He glanced to Dr. Arthur’s side. Judge Hewitt was covering his face with his hands. Apparently, he’d been trying to hold himself together, but Arthur’s announcement made it all very real to him. Duane Patterson had turned so his back was to the room. His shoulders shook as he cried silently to himself.
That explained their demeanor, Joe thought. The news overtook him and the implications of it were clear.
“If you haven’t figured it out yet,” Sheriff Kapelow said to the room, after gently shouldering the doctor from the podium, “instead of attempted murder, our suspect will now be charged with murder in the first degree of Sue Hewitt.”
“I’m heartsick,” Marybeth said to Joe. “I thought she was recovering.”
“I thought she was, too,” Joe said. He recalled Arthur’s talk of the bullet splintering inside and how unusual that was. He wondered if the judge was lamenting his decision to keep her close and not have her airlifted to Billings or Denver. And he wondered why Patterson seemed to be so overcome by the sudden turn of events.
Then something hit him. Two revelations at once.
The first was that he suddenly knew what motivated Sheriff Kapelow, and that answer put everything that had happened into perspective.
The second was something Stovepipe had said.
EIGHTEEN
IT WAS AN HOUR AFTER THE PRESS CONFERENCE HAD taken place in town and Candy Croswell was flustered.
She’d read the sheriff’s announcement on Facebook and at the time it had filled her with immense relief. They had a suspect in custody. The knot in her stomach about Tom was finally starting to unclench. It wasn’t until that moment when she read about the man in custody that she acknowledged her growing suspicions about Tom had likely been wrong. It was a huge burden off her shoulders. She rewarded herself with a third glass of wine.
But her joy and relief were short-lived when the annoying woman driving a pearl-colored Range Rover showed up and demanded to speak to Tom. Candy now regretted opening the door and letting the woman into the house.
“Call him,” the annoying older woman demanded of Candy. “Tell him Missy Hand is here to see him with a five thousand dollar check, as agreed. We have business.”
“Missy Hand?” Candy asked. She’d never heard the name before.
“He knows who I am,” Missy said with a sniff.
“I don’t,” Candy said.
Missy responded with a wave of her hand. “That doesn’t really matter, does it? I’m not here to see you. He’s expecting me.”
“He is? He didn’t say anything to me about it.”
“Imagine that,” Missy said with a roll of her eyes.
Missy Hand was direct, determined, and dismissive. She knew what she wanted—whatever it was—and she was there to get it, Candy thought.
Through the peephole in the door, Missy had looked small and frail but well put together. Her clothes were fashionable and they fit perfectly, so she obviously wasn’t a transient or door-to-door salesperson. The Range Rover had Wyoming plates, but it was from a different county—number twenty-two. Candy was not yet familiar with the confusing numerical designations of various Wyoming counties. She assumed the woman was lost and that she needed directions somewhere.
But what did she want?
Candy asked her.
“Are you his wife or something?” Missy asked.
“No.”
“Then it doesn’t concern you. He never even mentioned you when I talked with him and you have no standing as far as I’m concerned. Anyone can shack up, believe me.”
Candy was speechless.
“I need to talk to him now,” Missy said. “I can’t wait around all day. Call him. I’m sure you can do that without messing up your nails. Call him and tell him I’m here.”
Without waiting for an invitation, Missy walked across the living room and poured the last of Candy’s wine into a glass. Missy lifted the glass and looked at it from below as if confirming from another angle that it was less than ba
rely one-quarter full.
“You could have saved some for me,” she said.
“I don’t even know you,” Candy replied. She wanted to sound angrier, but the woman unnerved her. Missy acted as if she belonged there and Candy was the interloper.
“You do have a phone, don’t you?” Missy asked her.
“Look, lady . . .”
“Call me Mrs. Hand.”
“Look, please, Mrs. Hand,” Candy pleaded, “he’ll be home later tonight. Leave me your number and I’ll ask him to get in touch with you and you can figure it out from there.”
Missy simply shook her head no. “Where do you keep your wine?” she asked.
Candy didn’t reply, but she’d inadvertently cast a glance toward Tom’s under-the-counter wine storage. Missy caught it and opened the glass door. She chose a very expensive 2004 Joseph Phelps Insignia Cabernet that Candy knew Tom had been saving for a special occasion.
“There are other bottles to choose from,” Candy said.
“There are,” Missy said as she nudged the door closed with her knee. “But I choose this one.”
She was the type of woman, Candy thought, who did what she wanted and expected others to comply. It was incongruous how tiny she was physically. A stiff wind might blow her over. Candy was a head taller and fit. Candy knew that if it came down to it, she could throw Missy out the front door without much of a problem. Missy was an example of an outdated kind of beauty that was all about sublime and delicate slimness. The thought of putting her hands on the woman, though, was simply inconceivable.
Missy expertly removed the cork from the cabernet using the German precision tool Candy often struggled with. Then Missy tossed the last of the wine she’d poured earlier into the sink as if it were bilge water. After rinsing her glass clean, Missy poured a full glass of the cabernet and tasted it. She closed her eyes as she did so and smiled.
“It’s good.”
“It was a special bottle.”
“And this,” Missy said, while raising her glass toward Candy, “is a special occasion.”
“What special occasion?”
“I’m here to save my husband’s life.”
“What?”
“My,” Missy said, “you’re cute. But you’re dim, aren’t you?”
“Please,” Candy said, “tell me what you want with him.”
“Call your boyfriend,” Missy said. “Tell him I want to talk with him.”
“And if I don’t?” Candy asked.
“You’ll wish you did,” Missy said with pursed lips, as if the very thought of the potential consequences was distasteful even to her.
*
TOM WAS OUT OF BREATH when he answered his cell phone. He was also clearly angry.
“How many times have I told you not to call me at work?” he asked.
“I know, I know. I’m sorry,” Candy said. “But there’s a situation here at the house. This older woman showed up here and she absolutely demands to talk with you.”
Tom said, “Who is she?”
Candy turned away from Missy, who was listening carefully from her perch at the breakfast bar. She lowered her voice and said, “She says her name is Missy Hand and that you’re expecting her.”
“Oh.”
“She says she absolutely won’t go away until she talks to you. She says the two of you have business of some kind.”
He hesitated. She imagined him stopping in mid-stride and thinking it over. Tom was always in a hurry, rushing from place to place. That he didn’t immediately deny knowing Missy or why she was there surprised Candy.
Finally, Tom said, “I completely forgot she was coming over today. There has been so much going on . . .”
“You knew she was going to show up here?” Candy asked, hurt. “And you didn’t tell me?”
“I didn’t know where we’d meet,” Tom said. “But never mind that. I didn’t expect her to just show up at my house.”
My house, Tom had said. Not our house. Not even the house.
“Give me the phone,” Missy said to Candy. She’d slipped off her stool and was right behind her.
“Tell her I’ll call her tonight,” Tom said.
“I tried. She says she has to talk with you and she’s not leaving until she does.”
“I’m probably not leaving even then,” Missy said with a light laugh. “I don’t know where you got that.”
“Tom, what is this all about?” Candy asked. She was exasperated. “Why does this woman just show up here like this?”
Tom didn’t reply.
In Candy’s ear, Missy said, “This woman? This woman? I’d be offended if I didn’t think you were just a run-of-the-mill yoga floozy.”
That was more than Candy could take. She was now just as angry with Tom as she was with Missy. They’d put her in the middle of . . . something.
“Here,” Candy said, thrusting the phone to Missy.
When Missy took it, Candy stormed across the room and stood behind the breakfast bar as if guarding it.
She listened as Missy said, “Did you forget about me? I’m not really accustomed to being forgotten.”
Candy could hear Tom stammering something. He was obviously apologizing. As he did, Missy half listened and topped off her glass. Then she opened her small purse with one hand and drew out a dainty card. It looked like the kind of stationery wealthy old people sent thank-you notes on, Candy thought.
Missy said to Tom, “Do I need to go over the list with you again or do you have it on you?”
When Tom apparently asked her to remind him, Missy said, “Forgive me if I mispronounce some of the names. You people exist in a world of your own with your own special language. But here we go: oxaliplatin, leucovorin, irinotecan, and 5-fluorouracil. Do you need me to repeat that?”
Candy had no idea what she was talking about. She’d never heard any of the terms used before.
After a long pause, Missy said, “And you’re sure you have them all?”
When Tom replied, Missy nodded her head and said, “Good. That’s wonderful. I’ll wait for you here and, yes, I’ve got your fee. You said cash and that’s what I brought. Money is really the last thing I’m worried about right now.”
Then, after listening for thirty seconds, Missy turned to Candy and said, “He wants to talk to you.”
*
CANDY WAS TREMBLING with anger when she raised the phone to her mouth.
“What?”
“I’ll explain all this later,” he said. “Don’t get all worked up. Just calm down.”
“I’m calm,” she said through clenched teeth.
“You don’t look calm to me,” Missy said from across the room.
Candy turned away from her again. She said, “Tom, I don’t know what’s going on and I’m stuck right in the middle. You’re obviously keeping secrets from me. First there’s a rifle case in your truck, then . . .” She almost mentioned the cell phone, but she caught herself. “This strange woman just shows up and I’m supposed to entertain her. What other things aren’t you telling me?”
He didn’t respond.
She said, “My imagination kind of ran away from me when I saw that. I mean, there’s these shootings in the area, you know? I was starting to think . . .”
“Think what?” The question was hostile and she immediately backed down.
“Well, until that press conference today, I was starting to wonder, you know . . .”
“It’s not like that,” he said. “Not at all. Look, I’ll explain everything after she leaves tonight. Trust me on this.”
“Trust you?” Candy said, her voice rising. She disconnected the call and tossed the phone aside. She’d never hung up on him before.
Candy felt a sense of déjà vu. This was Brent’s Corvette and Nicolas’s bear hunting trip all over again. The end was in sight.
From behind her, Missy said, “If you can’t trust your doctor, who can you trust?”
*
CANDY ASKED MISSY, “So thos
e names you read over the phone—they’re drugs, aren’t they?”
Missy took a sip. “Good guess.”
“So Tom’s your drug dealer?”
Missy chuckled with a deep-throated laugh that was disarming. “Drug dealer? I never thought I’d have a drug dealer. But it isn’t like that. My husband—I’m old-fashioned that way—is very sick with pancreatic cancer. He’s likely to die from it. All the traditional treatments the doctors over in Jackson have put him on aren’t working. He’s currently on gemcitabine.”
“I don’t know anything about pancreatic cancer,” Candy said, trying not to let the I’m old-fashioned that way dig bother her.
Missy poured herself another glass of the Cab she’d opened and offered some to Candy. Candy’s first inclination was to demur—it was Tom’s special wine, after all—then she said, “Fuck it,” and held out her glass.
Missy filled it and said, “Pancreatic cancer is sinister. Gemcitabine is a drug that’s supposed to stop the spread of cancer after the tumor is gone, and that’s what Marcus is taking now. That’s the go-to drug and it’s what the doctors know about. Unfortunately, the survival rate with it is thirty percent. Thirty percent. I won’t stand for it.
“It’s not the only treatment, however,” Missy said. “I found out about an experimental treatment that’s being done in Europe that raises the survival rate to forty-two percent. It hasn’t been approved by our Food and Drug Administration to be administered here yet. It may be in a few years, but I can’t wait.”
Candy was puzzled. She said, “Tom is going to help you with an experimental treatment?”
“I wish,” Missy said. “But he refused. The furthest he’d go is to provide the four drugs for a kind of chemotherapy cocktail. Those were the drugs I ordered from him.”
“I had no idea,” Candy said. “I don’t know whether to say good for Tom, or Tom is a drug dealer.”
“Both, actually,” Missy said. “I got his name from a couple of people in the know in my social circle in Jackson.”
Candy absorbed the information. “Are you telling me Tom sells drugs to your friends?”
“He does,” Missy said. “And to be honest, most of them are prescription opioids. You’d be surprised how many upstanding citizens are addicted. People you’d never suspect. But they all love your Tom!”