Heads You Lose (18 page)

“Only, you knew something about Holland that the rest of the town should have known. If he wasn’t a real doctor, he shouldn’t have been treating patients.”

“Well now. You have a point there,” Sook conceded. “But I did what I had to do.”

Lacey sat down in the crappy mesh chair Sook had pinched from Mapleshade’s waiting room. She had so many questions for Sook, but only one was relevant to her case.

“Tell me the truth, Sook. Who is your silent partner?”

“Was,” Sook corrected.

“Excuse me?”

“It was Hart.”

As she drove home, Lacey went over the rest of her conversation with Sook. The old man had figured out during his first visit with Holland that he was no doctor. He could treat a flesh wound and do basic triage, but for any complicated concerns, he referred patients to the local emergency room. Holland knew what tests to run, but had only limited knowledge of the treatment protocol. Holland told Sook he was a Vietnam vet. On a hunch, Sook phoned up one of his Army connections and learned that there was no record of a Herman Holland as a physician in the Vietnam War. In fact, no Herman Holland had worked as even a medic. Sook then contacted the AMA and found that there was no Herman Holland in the doc’s age range.

Sook couldn’t believe that Holland had practiced in Mercer for twenty years without anyone noticing. He saw an opportunity and seized it. He rented out a mailbox and opened a bank account under the name Mallard Corp. Then he made his demands. It didn’t take Holland long to figure out the identity of his blackmailer. Sook was the only Mapleshade resident who refused to visit his offices, even during that brutal strep throat outbreak.

How Sook’s silent partner came into the picture was another story. Sook had once asked Hart to drive him to his mailbox store. They ate lunch at Diner afterward. Hart asked him about the letter. Sook’s reply was cagey. Hart could always spot a liar, being such an adept one himself. He got curious and picked Sook’s pocket when he dropped him off at the home.

As soon as Sook realized his check was missing, he got a phone call from Hart. He wanted a cut. Sure, Hart could blackmail Holland himself, but the fake doc could only afford so much hush money. If pushed, he would leave town, as he eventually did. Hart opened a bank account in the name of Merganser, Inc., and Mallard Corp. wrote him a check every month. Lacey’s final question was one she never thought she’d ask Sook.

“Did you kill Hart?”

Of course, Sook denied killing Hart. And Lacey believed him. Unless the old man had an accomplice, it was a physical impossibility, considering all the variables involved in the aftermath of Hart’s death. Still, Lacey was no longer sure what Sook was capable of. She decided to steer clear of him for a while.

She drove straight home, took a shot of whiskey, and sat down on the couch next to Paul. They watched a rerun of
The Littlest Catch,
about the perils of Canadian shrimp fishing. During a commercial break, Paul hit the mute.

“You know, Lace, maybe this is rock bottom,” he said. “Maybe it’s time I quit watching this stuff.”

Lacey was stunned for a moment, but quickly recovered. “Or even ever mentioning it again?” she asked.

“Deal,” said Paul.

It was the first thing they’d agreed on in days.
²⁶

The shock of the telephone ringing jarred them out of their shared moment of clarity. Lacey jumped for the phone.

“Give us ten minutes. We’ll be right there,” Lacey said into the receiver, and then hung up the phone.

“Who was that?”

“Deena. She’s at the Timberline. Smashed. Needs a ride to the hospital.”

“Why?”

“Terry took a turn for the worse.”

When the trio arrived at Terry Jakes’s hospital room, a sheet was pulled over his head.

“What happened?” Deena asked the nurse.

“Pulmonary embolism,” the nurse replied. “I’m afraid it’s very common with these types of injuries.”

“A pulmonary what? I was just talking to him this morning. He was fine,” Deena said as tears began rolling down her ruddy cheeks.

“It’s a blood clot in the lungs. Most likely it traveled from his leg. A lot of damage was done there.”

“So he’s dead?” Lacey asked.

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

“Um, yes.”

“Because I thought he was dead the other day and he wasn’t. So let’s just—”

“Lacey!” Paul interrupted. “That’s enough.”

“Do you want to say good-bye?” the nurse asked.

Deena nodded her head. The nurse pulled the sheet down and there was Terry Jakes, looking bruised and battered and most definitely dead.

NOTES:

Dave,

Once again, please accept my condolences. I consulted my friend Dr. Pedram Navab and he assures me that a pulmonary embolism is a very common complication with these types of injuries. There was no foul play involved in Terry’s second demise, if that makes you feel better. And he wasn’t in pain. At least not too much, although he did have some difficulty breathing. My point being, don’t delve into any hospital conspiracy. There is none.

As a friendly reminder, let’s not forget that there’s still one primary mystery to solve here: Hart’s death.

Lisa

P.S. If you bring Terry back again, I’m putting him through a woodchipper.

Lisa,

Greetings from the high road. Guess I should be pleased with small victories, like the fact that you didn’t send Terry’s gurney down an elevator shaft, or have him whisked away by a highly concentrated tornado. Putting a medical gloss on your
deus ex machina
doesn’t make it any less clunky. You keep harping on keeping the mystery going; maybe you should focus on the characters’ vendettas, rather than your own.

Sorry you were bored by my last chapter. Maybe, like Terry, I’ve learned that burning too brightly can be dangerous. If the
Fop
experience taught me anything, it’s that Bordeaux and Twinkies don’t mix.

Dave

CHAPTER 18

On their way out of the hospital, Paul and Lacey were approached by another nurse. “Paul Hansen?” she asked. “I’m not supposed to do this, but Mr. Jakes asked me to let you know that his will is on a videotape in his bedroom closet. He said to show it to everyone at the same time.” In his mind, Paul was already on the way to Terry’s. He’d already postponed grieving for his friend—right now he had to get his plants back home just in case Sheriff Ed wanted to take this opportunity to start poking around Terry’s place.

Lacey was silent on the drive home. She’d never seemed to appreciate Terry while he was alive, but apparently seeing him die twice in two days was more than she could take.

“Get some rest, Lace,” Paul said as he dropped her off at home. “I’ll take care of the plants.”

She dropped out of the truck and somnambulated into the house.

At Terry’s, Paul loaded his plants back into his truck, covered them with a tarp he found in the garage, and then went looking for the video will. Terry had a massive collection of tapes, both Beta and VHS, and Paul doubted it included one clearly marked “Terry’s Will.” Paul dreaded the prospect of enduring untold hours of dharma talks, bargain-bin porn, and metal concerts, but it had to be done.

After sampling a dozen tapes in front of Terry’s nineteen-inch console TV, he played a hunch and inserted one marked “Intermediate Levitation.” When Terry came on screen with a solemn look on his face and announced, “This is Terrence Leotis Jakes,” Paul knew it was the one. Terry’s forehead was smudged with the remnants of tribal war paint—he must have taped the will after one of his
Survivor
application sessions a few years back. Paul ejected the tape, honoring Terry’s wishes. He stuffed it in his bag and drove his plants home.

Paul was up first the next morning, despite having been up late reestablishing the plants in the basement. “Happy anniversary,” he said as Lacey trudged into the kitchen.

“A year since we found the body?” Lacey deadpanned.

“Close. A week.”

“What did you get me?”

“A basement full of high-yield pot plants.”

“Aw, you shouldn’t have.”

“It was my pleasure,” said Paul, raising his coffee. “Here’s to a less eventful week two.”

“Whatever.”

Lacey poured herself a cup to go and headed out the door. She worked full eight-hour Tarpit shifts on Thursdays and Fridays, and for once she seemed content to have two days of mindless work ahead of her. Paul noticed that her inquisitiveness seemed to have waned since Terry’s death.

Paul called Deena just to check in on her. Several of Terry’s friends and relatives had converged on Mercer as soon as they’d heard about the tower collapse. It seemed like a good idea to have some kind of memorial service while they were still in town. Deena said she’d put the word out. She was glad to have something to do other than, as she put it, “sittin’ around thinkin’ about old shoulda-beens and usedta-coulds.” The coroner wasn’t ready to release the body, but why should that hold things up? She agreed to arrange things with Tate. That afternoon, Deena’s friends put signs up around town: “Timberline. Friday 6pm. JAKES’ WAKE. All friends and family of Terry Jakes welcome.”

With those details sorted out, Paul couldn’t help wondering how a tower stands firm for decades and then spontaneously collapses. Maybe it had been on the brink for years, and Terry was as suitable a last straw as any. Stranger things had happened, including several in the past week. In any case, Paul wasn’t about to go poking around the place, which was no doubt being scrutinized by Mercer’s finest.

Paul’s thoughts turned back to the list of WINO names from the cabin. If he couldn’t begin to untangle the mystery that seemed to have Mercer by the neck, maybe he could tie up a loose string from the past. Or at the least get some reassurance that the two weren’t parts of the same thread. He took out the list: Blakeys, Collaspos, Sundstroms. The Sundstroms were the only couple Paul thought he could picture, but their address was way out in Easternville. He decided to start with the closest address: Grace and Victor Collaspo, who apparently lived on the north end of town—or did when the list was made.

As he walked up to the house, he could see a small, plump woman washing dishes, her head barely visible in the window. She came out to her porch and hugged him. “Paul Hansen. You look just like your mom.” She embraced him as though his parents’ death had happened last week. Paul didn’t recognize her. “Come in, come in,” she said.

Sitting with Paul at her dining room table, she didn’t ask how he’d found her or what he was looking for. Paul hadn’t planned what to say, so he winged it. “I was just wondering about the time, you know, with my parents’ accident. My, uh, therapist thought it would help me get some closure on it.”

“Well, that’s just great. Good for you,” said Grace. “I don’t know if I can help you, though. I hadn’t seen your folks for a while when the accident happened. Victor and I were going through a rough patch at the time.”

“Sorry to hear it.”

“Don’t be. We split up a good three years ago. And I do mean a
good
three years. Are you married, Paul?”

“Nope.”

“That’s fantastic. What’s the rush, right?”

“So where’s Victor now?” Paul asked.

“Florida, I think. He went off with Jas Blakey. All I can say about that is they deserve each other.”

“Ah. She was part of WINO, too, right? Is her . . . is Walter Blakey still around?”

“Wow, I’m surprised you remember his name. Yeah, he’s in the same house up in Emery. I think he even still uses the cabin.”

Back in his truck, the reality of Terry’s death started to hit Paul. He’d visit Walter Blakey when he had time. For now, he had some deliveries to make, some soil amendments to buy, a plot of young plants to check on, and a friend to mourn.

On Friday evening the Timberline was already starting to fill up when Paul and Brandy arrived. It felt like half of Mercer was there, along with lots of Terry’s out-of-town friends and relatives. Someone had put together a decent buffet, and everyone had made at least a gesture toward funeral attire. Even Darryl was wearing black jeans. Paul said hello to Terry’s goth teenage niece, Melinda, who actually looked a little perkier than usual.

Lito showed up just after Paul, and the two shook hands and made small talk. Betty and Wanda hung around the buffet table with Rafael. There were plenty of other locals in attendance. Paul wondered how many of them had known Terry, how many were just there for the free booze, and how many straddled that line. Then again, Terry was not one to deny anyone their rightful share of free booze. The question itself was what Terry would have called a “mute point.”

Tate rang the “Last call for alcohol” bell to get everyone’s attention. “Okay folks, thank you all for coming,” he said stiffly. “We are here to celebrate and remember our friend Terry Jakes. I will now turn it over to Terry’s cousin, Martin Jakes. Martin?”