Deadline (38 page)

A doctor came in that night. He was very distinguished-looking, with gray at the temples. He said I was very lucky. I said I knew that. He said he thought I'd keep all but the toe he'd removed the night before. The little toe on the right foot.

“So much for playing the violin,” I said.

The cops came after supper. A state police detective named Reed whom I'd run into before. An assistant AG named Merritt. I asked her if she knew Olin, and she said she'd heard I'd tried to call him Tuesday.

“Probably should have tried earlier,” I said.

“Probably,” she said.

A detective sergeant arrived with a tape recorder and we all sat and talked. They had found the notes I had given to Vern and we took it paragraph by paragraph. They were very thorough. Merritt was very professional, very intelligent, very understanding. After two hours, I was very tired.

Merritt told me Vigue had been suspended pending the outcome of the investigation. Vern was in Augusta for an autopsy.

She wrote something on her legal pad.

“We haven't investigated your allegations of kidnapping. But I heard—is that right, Sergeant?—that we have a James Libby in custody, and he's agreed to cooperate in the investigation. We're looking for Cormier.”

They looked at me and looked at each other. The detective wrapped a cord around the tape recorder.

“Do I get a guard or anything?” I asked.

“Oh, yeah,” Merritt said. “There's a trooper outside. Don't worry. We aren't going to let any bad guys in.”

“Good.”

After they left, there was a knock at the door.

“Who's minding the store?” I said.

They smiled and stood around the bed, looking concerned. Roxanne started to take my hand, saw the bandages, and patted me on the shoulder.

“How you feeling?” Cindy said.

“Okay, considering.”

Roxanne patted. Paul kept his hands in his jacket pockets.

“It's unbelievable,” he said quietly. “Is it true? About Vern? An escaped murderer, and he killed Arthur? Tried to kill you?”

I hesitated.

“Not murderer. Manslaughter. That's what he said, anyway. Cops have to check it out.”

“My God,” Cindy said. “He was such a nice guy. I mean, always joking. I just can't—”

“I liked him,” I said. “He said he liked me. Right up until the end.”

I shook my head.

“I don't know.”

We looked at each other. Paul looked like he could use a cigarette. Roxanne looked like it pained her to be there. I knew the feeling.

“So who writes it?”

They looked alarmed.

“I'll have to get somebody,” I said. “Any volunteers?”

“Who's going to do sports?” Paul asked.

“Posthumous bylines. It gets a little sticky, doesn't it?”

A nurse padded in with her white shoes and said I was supposed to get medication. Cindy and Paul said good-bye and left. Roxanne moved closer.

“I almost lost you,” she said.

“Only counts in horseshoes.”

She leaned over and kissed my forehead. I smiled but I knew.

It wasn't the same. As long as I stayed in town, it wouldn't be the same. And I didn't feel like leaving. Not yet.

Jack, you've lost another one, I said to myself.

“I love you,” Roxanne said.

It didn't ring true.

I moved my bandaged hand out from under the sheet and patted her wrist.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Gerry Boyle is the author of a dozen mystery novels, including the acclaimed Jack McMorrow series, and the Brandon Blake series. A former newspaper reporter and columnist, Boyle lives with his wife, Mary, in a historic home in a small village on a lake. He also is working with his daughter, Emily Westbrooks, on a crime series set in her hometown, Dublin, Ireland. Whether it is Maine or Ireland, Boyle remains true to his pledge to send his characters only to places where he has gone before.