Open Season (19 page)

“How long?”

“Two days.”

I lifted my right hand to rub my eyes and found an intravenous tube taped to my wrist. It was hard to concentrate. “Did we land in some water?”

“A river. You were half-frozen when they found you. You’ve had a concussion."

“Jesus. How’s Frank?”

She pursed her lips and a tear ran down her cheek. “He’s dead, Joe.”

The pounding got worse and was joined by a humming sound. I looked at her for a long time, feeling increasingly detached, as though the inside part of me could just get up and leave the room. I closed my eyes and went back to sleep.

When I woke up, Brandt was looking down at me. “Welcome back.”

His face was serious, his eyes slightly narrowed, as if trying to guess what lay hidden just beneath my skin. I watched him silently from my hiding place.

“How do you feel?”

“All right.”

“How’s the head?”

I thought a moment. “Fine, I guess.” I moved it slightly and the bomb went off again. “Maybe not so fine.”

“The doctor says it’ll probably hurt for a few days. It’s amazing you survived at all.”

“Where’s Frank?” Brandt blinked and looked away. He nodded at someone I couldn’t see—or didn’t try to see. He then took off his glasses and scratched the side of his nose. “You know Frank’s dead.”

“Yes.”

“We had the ceremony yesterday, Joe.” The pounding had faded to the background. It returned with a vengeance. “You could have waited.”

“We waited three days. We couldn’t any longer.”

“Three days? Gail told me I’d been out two.”

“You went under again.”

A deep rage gushed up inside me, making my entire body hot. I tried getting onto my elbows, fighting against the nausea. Gail appeared at Brandt’s side and put her hand on my chest. “What do you want, Joe?”

“I’m sick of staring up everyone’s nostrils.”

She placed a control box into my hand and pushed my thumb against a green button. The bed behind my pillow began to rise. The world slowly straightened. The pain in my head backed off a bit.

Brandt sat on the edge of the bed. “That better?”

I nodded to Gail. “Thank you.”

“What happened out there, Joe?”

“A truck ran us off the road.”

He frowned and reached into his pocket for his pipe. He sat there for a moment looking at it, turning it over in his hands. “What kind of truck?”

“An eighteen-wheeler. Wasn’t there a report?”

He shook his head. “As far as the Massachusetts State Police are concerned, it was a single-vehicle accident.”

“A single… Jesus Christ, didn’t they check the side of the car for paint? The son of a bitch sideswiped us.” I had to breathe deeply to keep the pain in check.

“There wasn’t much left of the car. I saw it myself.”

I stared at the opposite wall, trying to remember. Again, I saw Frank’s face in that red light, the side of the truck coming nearer. I looked back at Brandt. “The truck box was unpainted—plain metal. Still, there ought to be something to go on.”

“We’ll give it another look.”

“What about the road? Skid marks or debris?”

“Nothing besides yours. Of course, it wasn’t bare road. It’s hard to see skid marks on the ice, especially at night.”

It was hopeless. I was four days away from the event. The evidence had been snowplowed by now, the truck long gone. Suspecting nothing, they’d let it all slip away. “When can I get out of this dump?”

Gail spoke up from her chair. “Two or three days.”

“Take it easy, Joe. There’s no rush.”

“The hell there isn’t. What about Ski Mask?” Brandt glanced quickly at Gail, who to him was first and foremost a selectman. “She knows all about it. I told her. What about him? And what about the samples? What happened to them? Did you find them?”

“Slow down. Yes, we found them. The troopers were a little curious, to say the least, but we got them back. I returned them to Hillstrom. She told me the damage was slight—nothing crucial. And we haven’t heard a peep from Ski Mask since the accident.”

I slowly leaned forward and peeled the bed sheet back. Gail rose from her seat. “What are you doing, Joe?”

“Don’t get worked up. I just want to see if everything’s still functioning.” I swung my legs over the side of the bed. My head began to swim.

“I wouldn’t do that. Not unless you’re suicidal.” A young doctor with glasses and a pocket stuffed with the obligatory implements moved in from the door and lifted my legs back. “A concussion means blood gets loose in your head. That builds up pressure and you conk out. Build up too much pressure and you croak. You start running around now, you’ll start bleeding again and it’s bye-bye. Get the picture?”

I lay back against the pillow, partly happy for the interference. “How come all the doctors on television don’t talk like that?”

“They’re actors. They don’t think it’s real.” He pried back my eyelid and flashed a light in my eye.

“So how soon do I get out?”

“Two days at the soonest. You’ll be able to get around before that, but I don’t want you out of my sight until I know you’re okay. I know your type—pure John Wayne.”

“Give me a break.”

“All right—pure Jane Fonda. Take your pick.”

He finished his examination and had a nurse take my vitals. He said he’d see me the following day and left. Brandt took up his station by the bed. “Well, I guess I’ll let you be.”

“Tony, we got a lot of good stuff down there.” He patted my arm. “It’ll keep, Joe. Just try to relax and shake this thing off.”

“But what’s been going on?” Again, he glanced at Gail.

She took the hint. “You want me to step outside?”

“For Christ’s sake, Tony.”

Gail squeezed my hand. “He’s right, Joe—it’s good politics. What he says isn’t pillow talk, and that can be bad enough.”

Brandt smiled at her as she picked up her purse. “Thanks. I’ll vote for you next time.”

“Well,” she said, with exaggerated, tinny humor, “I should hope so.”

I waited for the door to close behind her. “So?”

“Nothing new on the Phillips killing. I think we’ve dead-ended on all possibilities except Ski Mask, and there we’re digging into Davis’s past with a microscope. I have managed to get Tom Wilson to stand between us and the board concerning the links to the Harris case.”

Wilson was the town manager and Brandt’s direct boss. “He’s lying to them?”

“Withholding information is more like it. I convinced him that if we let them know about the Harris connection, it’ll wind up in the next day’s paper; until we have something solid, it would be best to leave that hornet’s nest alone.”

“I can’t believe he agreed to it.”

“He’s so scared we may have jailed the wrong man, he’s damn near irrational.”

I closed my eyes and lay back against the pillow for a moment.

“You ought to get some rest.”

I opened my eyes again. “No, wait. So no state police?”

“Not yet. They’ve been informed—hell, they read the newspaper too—but so far they’re out of it.” He looked at me closely. “You look lousy. Get some sleep and I’ll come back later, okay?”

“All right. Thanks.”

I watched the door swing shut behind him. I felt a little like all this was happening to someone else; my concern with keeping the state police off our turf seemed incongruous now that I thought about it. Frank was dead, I damn near was, everything had gone to hell in a hand basket, and I was worried I’d lose the case.

My eyes were shut when Gail walked back in and resettled herself in the corner chair. I could hear her turning the pages of a book. “How was the ceremony?”

She put the book down and looked at me sadly. “There were a lot of people there. They had an honor guard—I think Frank would have been embarrassed.”

“How’s Martha?”

“Not well. She’s staying with her daughter somewhere in Massachusetts.”

“Wendy. I think she lives in Braintree.”

Gail nodded. “That’s it. She seemed very nice.”

“Where did they hold the ceremony?” I knew the ground was too hard for burial.

“At the cemetery—Martha insisted. They just put the casket on the snow. It was beautiful—cold, but sunny. When they played taps, it was like the sound would go on forever. You could hear it hit the mountain across the river.”

I could visualize it. I knew the plot he had chosen; he’d shown it to me one summer afternoon years ago. It was on the eastern edge of Morningside Cemetery, right at the crest of a slope falling sharply to the railroad tracks and the Connecticut River far below. We’d stood there for a few minutes, taking in the view of Wantastiquet Mountain across the river in New Hampshire, looming a good thousand feet above us. In the middle of the river was a small wooded island that acted as midpoint to the bridge crossing there. At the turn of the century, it had been a permanent carnival area, the town’s hot spot all summer long, complete with merry-go-round, Ferris wheel, the works. Now it was just an island—a lover’s lane during the warmer months. Looking out over all that—the wash of green trees and the sparkling water—I had complimented him on his choice.

I could see it in my mind’s eye, but none of it really sank in—I didn’t actually feel anything. I knew he was dead, that I’d never see him again, that he now lay in a box in some refrigerator, awaiting the spring thaw. But I only felt bitter. “What killed him?”

“Tony said you’d ask.” She wasn’t smiling. She got up and sat on the edge of the bed.

“Professional habit.”

“He drowned, Joe. He was unconscious when you hit the river. The autopsy said he wouldn’t have survived anyway. You should have been underwater, too, but somehow you got tangled in your seat belt and it kept your head up.”

“Who found us?”

“A motorist called it in. He saw the hole in the fence and the fresh tracks and used the call box by the side of the road.”

The pain in my head stopped. Everything stopped. For a moment I flashed back to the last sensation I’d had that night: the rushing water and the cold—the sudden, numbing cold. “That caller didn’t leave a name, did he.” It wasn’t a question.

“No.”

“No—he wouldn’t.”

She took up my hand. “Wasn’t this an accident?” Her voice was barely audible.

“I don’t think so.”

“But why?”

“I don’t know. The other attempt kind of made sense—if you were a little nuts—but not this one. We thought he was trying to stimulate us—to get us interested in the case.”

She stared at me in shocked silence for a moment. “What do you mean, ‘the other attempt’? What does that mean?”

I took a deep breath. I didn’t want to get into that. “A few days ago someone turned on the gas in my apartment after I went to sleep. Ski Mask pulled me out.”

Her mouth opened and shut. “I didn’t know that. Why didn’t I know that?”

“I didn’t tell you. Only Frank and Brandt knew about it. There was no harm done.”

“Ski Mask saved your life?”

“Maybe. We don’t know. I thought so at first. That’s what he said; that someone was trying to derail the investigation into the Harris thing by killing me and making it look like an accident. Frank thought that was all baloney—that Ski Mask was just trying to stoke up our interest and keep us off balance. Makes sense.”

“So you think Ski Mask ran you off the road.”

“Who else?” I shut my eyes again. The effort of keeping them open was wearing me out.

“Isn’t it possible he was telling the truth?”

“Why would anyone involved in the original murder stir every thing up when the best thing would be to lay low? It’s just too farfetched. That’s why we figured the attempt on me was just Ski Mask throwing out red herrings. There couldn’t be anyone except him out there.”

“That may have been true then; it’s hardly true now. Why would Ski Mask kill the two people most helpful to him? And why would he try to destroy the very evidence that might reopen the case? It seems to me there probably is somebody else, trying to hush the whole thing up. And they almost succeeded.”

I pushed against my temples with my fingers. This conversation wasn’t helping things. “Frank was starting to think that Ski Mask killed Kimberly and was daring us to catch him. That he was playing a kind of help-us-here, hinder-us-there game. That might explain driving us off the road. He was convinced Ski Mask had followed us to Connecticut. Jesus, this thing is such a mess.”

Gail wouldn’t let it go. “I think Frank was right, at least partly. Ski Mask probably did follow you, saw the other people force you off the road, and anonymously called in the accident.”

It was bad enough having one loony in a mask; now we were staring at a whole separate bunch of them. And nobody knew what the hell any of them wanted, or why this whole bloody mess had been started in the first place. “Jesus, Gail. I don’t know.” I put my head back on the pillow and looked up at the brown spot.

Gail put her cool hand on my forehead. “Why don’t you take a nap?”

I didn’t answer. She pushed the button on the control box and lowered the bed. She bent over and kissed me again. “I love you, Joe. I know you miss Frank, but I’m happy you’re alive.”

I lifted my hand and touched her breast with the backs of my fingers. My head weighed a ton. “I love you too. I wish I could get you into this bed right now. How long have you been here?”

“From the start. The hospital’s not too full, so I took the room next door.”

That made me smile sleepily. “Must be costing you a fortune.”

“It ain’t cheap. I’ll send you the bill when you’re feeling better.”

She stayed by my side, rubbing my forehead until I went back to sleep.

I did stay two more days. In fact, it took me that long to feel halfway solid on my feet again. Gail would help me walk around the room and later down the hall, and then I’d pile back into bed as if I’d spent the entire day doing push-ups. Most of the time I just lay there, reading, talking with Gail, seeing visitors—mainly cops—and watching television. I never got to see it, but Gail told me that right after the accident I’d been a feature on the local news, complete with a file photo that made me look twenty years younger. Katz, of course, had gone wild, running a story each day on the goings-on at the police department; Gail showed me the back issues. He didn’t have anything new, of course, but on his daily visits, Brandt let me know the publicity was making for some pretty frayed nerves among Tom Wilson and the selectmen. It was typical of Gail that she never commented on what was happening at the board meetings.