Charlaine Harris (70 page)

No one tried to stop us as we began going to the sheriff's car. But we couldn't go back to the cabin and get our stuff unless someone drove us. The sheriff said, “Rob, take them to the station.” Rob Tidmarsh raised his forefinger to tell us he'd be one more minute.

Rockwell glared at us as if we were an annoying detail she had to clear off her slate before she turned her attention to more important things, and I think that was exactly the case. “We got to process this scene, and it's gonna take a while,” she said. “You two go sit at the station, and when I can spare someone to run you out to the lake, I'll send 'em back to get you.”

“Rob can't take us on out there?”

“Rob's going to pick up more film while he's at the station. The state forensic boys are going to be here as soon as they can get here, but we want our own pictures. Rob'll be coming right back here, and for now, this is the most important spot in Knott County. So you two are gonna have to cool your heels for a while.”

We'd been doing plenty of that.

There was no help for it. No matter how irritated we might feel—and I for one felt plenty irritated—Rob was going to dump us at the station.

“Will they take the boy to the local hospital?” I asked the deputy.

“No, they'll take him on to the bigger hospital in Asheville,” Rob said. “The SBI guys insisted. We got good doctors here.” He sounded deeply resentful.

“I got good treatment here,” I said. Admittedly, I wanted to be on Rob's good side in case we could get him to take us out to the cabin later. But it was the truth. I was willing to believe, a small town like this, the hospital wouldn't have the big diagnostic machines larger hospitals could acquire, but I seemed to be mending fine, and the nurses had been very kind, if very busy.

Rob relaxed a little.

There's always something strange about riding through town in a cop car when you're seated in the back with a wire mesh between you and the driver. It just makes you feel guilty of something, and you feel awfully conspicuous. When we pulled in back of the station and got out, the media swarmed around the back of the station wanting to know if we'd been arrested. Damn it. I wasn't in the mood to put up with this. I couldn't understand why the vicious swarm hadn't migrated to the old barn.

“We kept radio silence and used our cells,” Rob said when I asked him. He seemed completely open now, and he made a point of walking by my side and holding open the back door to the station, making it clear to the watching reporters that I was in favor.

Inside, there was chaos. The news was spreading in the building and it was only a matter of time before it would flow outward.

Rob looked as if he didn't know what to do with us once we'd gotten to the sheriff's office, so he stuck us in one of the interview rooms, told us where the snack and drink machines were, and said there were some magazines in the waiting area if we wanted to go get them. He was obviously in a tearing hurry to collect the film and get back out to the latest crime scene, so we nodded and he took off.

There ensued several hours of boredom. We could have been on the road getting the hell out of Doraville. We could have been in bed together enjoying our new relationship, an idea that got Tolliver's vote. (I would have enjoyed some aspects of that, but truthfully, I was pretty sore in unexpected places, and my arm had been too busy for a cracked arm.) Or we could have been making money on another job. But instead, we sat in the drab room.

For a change of pace, we made a foray to the station waiting room out front. We commandeered all the magazines, bought junk food from the machines, and tried to stay out of the way.

After four hours, the sheriff came back. She, Klavin, and Stuart came into the room with a couple more chairs, and we went over everything all over again.

“And you really think this boy Chuck killed himself so you'd find the other boy?” Stuart asked for the fifth time.

I shrugged. “I don't know what was going through his mind.”

“He could have written a note, he could have called us, he could have called you, for that matter, and said, ‘My dad has put a boy in a hidden room,' and that would have solved the problem.”

“That wouldn't have solved the problem for him,” Tolliver said.

“He was an adolescent boy,” I said. “He was full of drama and horror and guilt and sorrow. I guess he was trying to atone for himself and his father.”

“So what do you think, Ms. Connelly? Do you think he tortured the animals willingly?”

“If he did, that enjoyment horrified him.” I didn't think there was a simple explanation of Chuck Almand's behavior. I thought at the end he'd tried to do the right thing, but his thinking processes hadn't foreseen the possibility that he could come out the other side of the horror of his situation, come out and heal and recover. He just hadn't lived long enough to believe that he had a future after his dad's arrest, and he wanted his dad to stop killing. At least, that was the way I interpreted Chuck's actions.

They talked at us for a long time, trying to pry things out of us that weren't there to be gotten. “And don't tell anyone anything you saw in the barn,” Klavin said. “Not until we get the case completely locked.”

That was easy to promise. We had no desire to talk about what we'd seen.

I had some doubts that the case was all wrapped up, but I kept them to myself. After all we'd done, they still weren't going to listen to my speculations. But doubt niggled at me, and I had that feeling of incompleteness.

Now we had to find Manfred and his mother, who must be wondering what she'd done in her previous life to merit the punishment she was taking.

I asked the sheriff where Manfred was, and she surprised me by telling me he'd been kept here at the Knott County Hospital. He'd asked to stay here, she said.

“I can understand that,” I said to Tolliver as we climbed into Rob's patrol car again. He'd finally been detailed to take us back to the cabin. “Otherwise, it would complicate his mom's life so much, and if he can get the care he needs here, that's better than moving him up to Asheville.”

“The doctor said he'd be okay here,” Rob said from the driver's seat.

“Okay, that's good,” I said. Then I remembered that Manfred had suspected someone had killed his grandmother during the night. Maybe it wasn't so good that Manfred was in this hospital after all. Shit. More to worry about.

So when we got back to the cabin, we packed everything—just in case—and put it in the car—just in case. We put out the fire. We hung the cabin key from the rearview mirror so we wouldn't forget to return it to Twyla—just in case. Then we drove back into Doraville. We'd taken the opportunity to freshen up, since we'd had so little time that morning, and we felt better now. My arm was aching because I'd been more active that day than I should, and I took a pain pill. I felt almost ashamed to pop one, there were so many other people who were suffering far worse than I; but the only pain I could ease was my own.

“Can I just keep driving?” Tolliver asked as we came to the major intersection in Doraville. Straight ahead would take us out of town. Turning left would take us to the hospital.

“I wish,” I said. “But I think we have to make sure Manfred and his mom are okay. Don't we?”

Tolliver looked stubborn. “I bet Manfred's mom is tough. She'd have to be, with Xylda for a mother. I bet they're fine.”

I gave him a sideways look.

“Yeah, okay,” he said, and took the left turn.

MANFRED'S
mother, Rain Bernardo, was a younger version of her mother. The resemblance was only physical, I discovered. Rain was not the least bit psychic, and she hadn't had any special rapport with Xylda. Rain worked in a factory and had risen to management level. She was proud of that. She was proud of being a single mom. She was dismayed that Manfred had followed in Xylda's footsteps and not hers. But she loved her son, and she'd loved her mother, and she was pretty subdued at Manfred's bedside. “Subdued,” for Rain, meant she only talked fifty words a second instead of a hundred.

She had the family red hair, and she had the curves of her mother, but in Rain's case they weren't nearly as generous. In fact, Rain was a very attractive woman, and I was pretty sure she hadn't seen her fortieth birthday yet.

We were there when the first of the usual callers came in. Barney Simpson was more solemn than I'd ever seen him, and I wondered if he was a friend of Tom Almand's. After Barney had asked his usual questions about his patient's comfort and contentment with the treatment he was receiving in the hospital, he lingered. I wondered if he was admiring Rain. After all, he was a divorced guy.

“I'm very sorry about your mother,” Barney told Rain. “She was a colorful lady, and I know you'll miss her. She made quite an impression on this little community in the short time she was here. She'll be long remembered.”

That was a model of tact, I thought. Though Manfred was lying there pale and in pain, a twitch of a smile crossed his face.

“I appreciate your saying that,” Rain said, not to be outdone in courtesy. “Thank you for taking such good care of her. Manfred said you came by to see her. Her health was so poor that both Manfred and I know she was due to go anytime, and we don't blame the hospital for anything.” She cast a quelling look at Manfred, who had closed his eyes, absenting himself from the whole conversation.

“Manfred thinks she should have an autopsy,” Rain said. “And she hadn't been under a doctor's care here in Doraville. Though of course she had doctors in Tennessee, and she saw her cardiologist right before she left for Doraville. What do you think?”

Dr. Thomason came in then, said, “It's raining outside, folks,” and shook a few droplets off his umbrella. “Just rain, not ice,” he added reassuringly.

“It's good you came in here now,” Barney said. “Let me tell you what we've been talking about.” Barney repeated Rain's question. “What about it, Len?” he asked.

“Depends on what we hear from her doctor in Tennessee,” Len Thomason said, considering. “If her doctor there is of the opinion that her death was expectable, not a surprise, no questions to be answered about it, then I think it would be reasonable to assume we didn't need an autopsy, and that's what I'll recommend to the coroner. On the other hand,” he went on, raising both his hands to show us “caution,” “if that doctor isn't satisfied—and he knew her best—we'll have to check into it.”

Dr. Thomason had put it in such a matter-of-fact way that you felt quite sane and reasonable after listening, and you were sure this was the right course. That manner of his must have been invaluable to his practice. It was almost enough to make me ashamed I'd suspected he might have had something to do with the boys' deaths. Now, as I watched him smile gravely at some question of Rain's, I could only imagine all over again how easily Len Thomason could persuade a boy to go with him anywhere. Everyone trusts a doctor. There were a hundred things he could have said to induce a young man to go off with him. Right now I couldn't think of any, but I was sure given time I would.

Even Barney Simpson, who didn't seem like the most lighthearted of individuals, perked up around Dr. Thomason. I remembered he'd gone in to talk to Xylda the night before; no, he'd peeked in and gone away. He hadn't even gone into the room.

Doak Garland was across the hall, praying with some relatives outside a room with an “Oxygen in Use” sign on the door. Anyone would go with him, too. He was so meek and mild, so pink and polite.

Why was I even worried about further suspects? Tom Almand had been arrested. The case was closed. It was hard to believe one man could cause so much misery. Even Almand's own son had died of his evil. There was something about the whole thing that felt—unsealed, uncompleted.

I was sure that Tom had had an accomplice, a partner in crime.

Once I admitted this to myself, the idea wouldn't go away. While Tolliver talked to Barney Simpson, and Rain discussed Manfred's injury with Dr. Thomason, I picked out the reasons I suspected this. I had them all in my head when I looked up to meet Manfred's eyes. I felt Manfred connect with me. Suddenly Manfred said, “Mom.”

Startled, Rain turned to the bed. “What, honey? You feeling okay?”

“I've been thinking,” he said. “I won't argue with you about the autopsy if you'll let Harper touch Grandmother and tell us what she sees.”

Rain looked from Manfred to me, and I could tell from her compressed lips that she was trying to hide revulsion. She not only hadn't fully believed in her mother's talent, she had loathed it. “Oh, Manfred,” she said, really upset, “that won't be necessary. And I'm sure Harper wouldn't want to do that.”

“I'll know how she died,” I said. “And I'm sure cheaper and less invasive than an autopsy.”

“Harper,” she said, giving me a face full of disappointment. She struggled with herself for a minute, and I felt sorry for her. Abruptly she swung toward Dr. Thomason. “Would you mind very much, Doctor? If Harper—sees—my mother?”

“No, not at all,” Dr. Thomason said. “We medical people long ago realized that there's more to this earth than we see in our practice. If that would bring comfort to your son, and you're agreeable…” He seemed sincere. But then, a sociopath like the one who'd killed the boys would seem very normal, right? Otherwise, people would have spotted him a long time ago.

“Have you heard anything about the boy who was taken to Asheville?” I asked.

“Yes, I have.” Thomason nodded several times. “He's not talking, not at all. But they don't think his life is in danger. They think he'll recover. Most of his silence is psychological, not physical. That is, his tongue and voice box are in working order. Lungs, too. Well. Miss Connelly, the body is at Sweet Rest Funeral Home on Main. I'll call them after I leave here, and they'll be expecting you.”

I inclined my head. I wasn't looking forward to this, but I did want to know what had taken Xylda into the other world. I owed her that much. And Manfred, too.

“How long do you think Manfred will need to stay in the hospital?” Rain asked.

Dr. Thomason, who'd been on the point of leaving the room, turned to give Manfred an assessing look. “If all his vitals stay good, and he doesn't run any fever or have any other symptoms that scare me, tomorrow should be good,” he said. “How about you, young lady? Your pain better?” he asked me suddenly.

“I'm doing much better, thank you,” I said. Barney Simpson had been trying to find a break in the conversation to take his leave, and he said “See you later” to everyone in the room and strode out the door.

Maybe it was the pain, maybe it was the shock to his nerves the past week had been, but out of the blue Manfred said, “Well, when's the wedding?”

There was instant silence in the room. Dr. Thomason completed his own departure in a hurry, and left Rain looking from the bed to Tolliver and me, almost as astonished as we were.

I'd known Manfred wouldn't be happy, but I hadn't thought he'd be angry. I told myself to bear in mind his many shocks of the past few days. Tolliver said, “We haven't set a date yet,” which was yet another surprise I hadn't wanted.

Now I was mad at everyone. Rain was gaping, Manfred was looking sullen, and Tolliver was really furious.

“I'm sorry,” Rain said in a brittle voice. “I thought you two were brother and sister. I misunderstood, I guess.”

I took a deep breath. “We're no relation, but we spent our teen years in the same house,” I said, trying to keep my voice gentle and level. “Now, I think, Manfred must be tired. We'll just go over to the funeral home. Sweet Rest, I think the doctor said?”

“Yes,” Rain said, “I think that was it.” She looked confused, and who could blame her?

As we strode out of the hospital, Tolliver said, “Don't let him spook you, Harper.”

“You think Manfred saying the word ‘wedding' is going to spook me?” I laughed, but it didn't sound amused. “I know we're okay. We don't need to take any big jumps. We know that. Right?”

“Right,” he said firmly. “We've got all the time in the world.”

I wasn't in the habit of feeling so sure about that, since I spent a lot of time with surprised dead people. But I was going to let it slide for now.

This funeral home was one of the one-story brick models, with a parking lot that would fill up way too quickly. I've been in hundreds of funeral homes, since lots of people don't make up their minds until the last minute about asking me in. This would be one of the two-viewing-rooms kind, I was willing to put money on it. After we walked into the lobby, sure enough there were two doors facing us, each with a podium outside with a signing book waiting for mourners. A sign on a stand, the kind with removable white letters that stick into rows of black feltlike material, said that the viewing room on the right contained James O. Burris. The one on the left was empty. There were also rooms to our right and left; one of those would be for the owner. The other would be for a co-owner or assistant, or it would maybe be employed as a small reception room for the bereaved family.

And here came the funeral director herself, a comfortably round woman in her fifties. She was wearing a neat pantsuit and comfortable shoes, and her hair and makeup were also on the comfortable side.

“Hello,” she said, with a kind of subdued smile that must be her stock-in-trade. “Are you Ms. Connelly?”

“I am.”

“And you're here to view the remains of Mrs. Bernardo?”

“I am.”

“Tolliver Lang,” Tolliver said, and held out his hand.

“Cleda Humphrey,” she said, and shook it heartily. She led us to the back of the building, down a long central hall. There was a rear door, which she unlocked, and we followed her across a bit of parking lot to a large building in the back, which was really a very nice shed that was brick, to match the main building. “Mrs. Bernardo is back here,” she said, “since she's not going to be buried here. We keep our temporary visitors in a transition room back here.”

“Transition room” turned out to be Cleda Humphrey's comfort-speak for “refrigerator.” She opened a gleaming stainless steel door and a draft of cold air billowed out. In a black plastic bag on a gurney lay Xylda. “She's still in her hospital gown, with all the tubes and so on still attached until the autopsy decision is made,” the funeral director said.

Shit,
I thought. Tolliver's face went very rigid. “At least her soul's gone,” I said, and I could have slapped myself when I realized I'd spoken out loud.

“Oh,” said the cheerful, motherly woman. “You can see 'em, too.”

“Yes,” I said, really startled.

“I thought I might be the only one.”

“I don't think there are many of us,” I said. “Does it help in your job?”

“When they're gone like they should be,” Cleda said. “If I see one lingering, I try to call in their pastor to read a prayer. Sometimes that does the trick.”

“I'll have to remember that,” I said faintly. “All right. Let me do my thing.” I closed my eyes, which wasn't necessary but did help, and to get the best impression possible, I laid my hand on the bag. I could feel the chill flesh under the surface.

I feel so bad, I'm so tired…. Where's Manfred? What's that man doing here? Looking at me. So tired…sleep.

My eyes flew open to meet the funeral director's curious blue gaze.

“Natural death,” I said. It wasn't murder if someone else just stood there and watched. I'd had no sense of touching, or any other kind of contact. Someone, some man, had watched Xylda in her last moments, but that was hardly surprising. It might have been the doctor or a nurse. There was no way to tell. However, the image I got was chilling—someone calmly and dispassionately watching Xylda die. Not aiding, but not preventing, either.

“Oh, good,” Cleda said. “Well, I'm sure the family will be glad to know that.”

I nodded.

The black bag went back into the transition room.

In a somber silence, we retraced our steps across the parking lot and through the corridor back to the front doors of the funeral home.

“I guess you're braced for a huge amount of business,” Tolliver said. “When the bodies of the—the young men—are released.” I was sure he'd been going to say “victims.”

“We're going to be pretty busy, yes, sir,” she said. “One of those boys was my nephew. His mama, my brother's wife, she can't hardly get out of bed in the morning. It'd be one thing if someone had grabbed him and killed him—that would be bad enough. But to know he lived for a while, and got hurt so bad, and got used so unnatural, that just kills her.”