Summer of the Dead (37 page)

“Sue me,” Bell snapped back. “Okay, Perry. Don't know what you mean, but if you satisfy my curiosity right here and now, I'll make a note of your cooperation. Might help you at trial. No promises.” She gave him the world's quickest reading of his Miranda rights. “There you go. This is your shot, Perry. You understand what I just said to you?”

He moaned.

“Can't hear you,” Bell said. She started to swivel away from him and head for the stairs. She resisted the impulse to yelp in pain; every muscle in her body ached in a different way.
Christ,
she thought.
I'm too old for this shit
. She was already planning what she'd say to Nick Fogelsong the minute she saw him, to let him know she was okay:
Hey, Sheriff—thought being a prosecutor was supposed to be a goddamned desk job
.

“Yeah, yeah,” Perry muttered.

“Huh?”

“I said yeah. I heard 'em. My rights'n all.”

“So you're going to tell me what the hell this was all about?”

Crum rubbed the bottom edge of the poncho across his face to mop up the blood, then screamed from the pain the pressure caused him. “Hurts!” he bellowed. “Hurts bad.”

Bell wanted to laugh. Why did every tough guy turn into a two-year-old when he got a taste of what he'd been dishing out?

“Let's hear it,” she said.

Haltingly, between gasps of pain, he told her the story. Lindy Crabtree, he said, was special. “More special'n anybody else in this shit-ass county, tell you that,” Crum muttered. He'd been bringing her books for years now, boxes and boxes filled with books; he knew how smart she was. But she'd never leave. “Stuck right here in this damned house with a crazy old man,” he went on. “Working at a gas station. Didn't make a lick of sense. Every time I tried to talk to her, tried to make her see how she's better'n this place, loads and loads better, she'd just smile at me and tell me thanks for bringing the books in the house for her. Like that's all I was. Just a friggin' pack mule. Like nothing I had to say was worth a damn. Like I didn't know what it felt like to give up your whole life for somebody else. Somebody who can't even appreciate what you're giving up.” He spit again, then shivered with a long spasm of wet coughing, groaning each time his body twisted and writhed. “Had to make her see. Make her see how scary it is out here in the middle of nowhere for a young girl all by herself—just her and that sick old sack of bones, Odell Crabtree.”

“So you attacked her? To get her to listen?
That
was your master plan?”

“Hell no.” Crum's body shuddered. He could be going into shock, Bell saw, and she hoped he'd wind up his tale before passing out. “Wasn't gonna touch her,” he insisted. “I went after Charlie Frank. Knew where he walked at night. Everybody knows. But I never meant to hurt him bad. Just scare him, okay? So word'd get out. So Lindy would see why she needed to leave. So she'd see what happens to folks out here on their own. I just got a little carried away, is all. Not my fault Charlie got himself killed. Damn fool fought back. I was just gonna cut him a little bit, but he fought back. So I had to get rough with him. Too rough. Who'd of thought he'd fight back? What's he got to live for? But he fought, all right. I wore the poncho so's there'd be no blood on my clothes.” He coughed and spit. “Going after Charlie Frank didn't work—so I had to try something else. Had to scare her good 'n' proper. Which is why I waited for her to come home from that shitty little gas station. Waited behind the door. Made sure I didn't really hurt her.”

“Charlie Frank,” Bell said grimly. “And before that, Freddie Arnett in his driveway.”

“No. No way,” Crum muttered. “That weren't me. Never touched Freddie.”

“Like anybody'll believe you now.”

“Swear to God.”

She wasn't going to argue with him. “So why'd you come back here tonight?”

“Gonna dump some stuff.” Crum's voice was failing him now, growing fainter. “Charlie Frank's boot. To make it look like her daddy done it. So's she'd cut the old goat loose. Put him away somewheres. Where he belongs. Then she'd be free. Free to leave this worthless piece of crap that the rest of us call … home.…”

Crum's voice trailed off and his head fell to one side, chin hanging open, eyes going glassy.

Bell looked at Jason. Swept a hand to indicate the rocks and the boxes and the overturned tables. “What the hell
is
all this?”

“Best guess? It's a coal mine,” Jason said. “Or as close to one as Lindy could rig up. Make her daddy feel comfortable. Place he knew best. Place he'd been happy.” He spotted an object on the floor, half hidden beneath a stack of branches, and he picked it up. “Dang,” Jason said. “Wish I'd had this a few minutes ago.” It was a wood-handled knife, used to hack at the massive felled tree. Odell Crabtree had tried to keep his path clear as best he could, just as he'd done in the mine for so many years.

“Let's get the hell out of here,” Bell said. I'll call the sheriff. He'll come by with the EMTs and they can deal with this bastard. Now that he's spilled his guts. Here—hand me that rope he used on you. Gotta make sure he doesn't get out.”

Next Bell tackled the cellar stairs. Jason was right behind her. She faltered twice; he steadied her, kept her going.

“Hey,” Jason said. They had reached the top. The kitchen was dark. Not as dark as the cellar, but still dark. “You were yelling something while you beat the shit out of him.”

“Don't remember.”

“Well, it sounded like you were saying ‘Daddy' or some—”

She cut him off. “Said I don't remember.”

*   *   *

They headed for the Explorer, hurrying but watching their step; they stumbled, then righted themselves. The moon's faint light was thwarted even further by a long train of clouds that had stalled out in front of it. Bell groped to find the door handle, missing twice before she secured it.

The rain had slacked off but not stopped. It had the dour, relentless feel of a rain that frankly had no intention of ever stopping, not entirely. Bell switched on the wipers even before she turned on the headlights. As she backed out of the driveway she took a quick look at herself in the rearview mirror and winced—which made her wince again, this time with cause, because her face was deeply bruised. The cut on the top of her right ear might very well need stitches. Blood was drying in crusty lines along the lacerations on her arms and hands. The skin below one eye was swelling and turning a sickly shade of yellowish purple. She looked like hell. Felt like it, too.

“Sure you're okay to drive?” Jason asked. He asked it gingerly, having seen what a pissed-off Bell Elkins could be like.

“Fine.”

Without either one of them having to name it, both knew where they were going next and why: the Raythune County Medical Center—to find Lindy and relieve her anxiety.

“What's that?” Bell said. She took her eyes off the road for an instant. Jason had something balanced on his lap.

It was the small tin box of letters. “Grabbed it when we went through the kitchen,” he said. “You told me it was important to her. We can take care of it until Lindy's ready to go home.” He placed the box in the glove compartment.

Bell didn't waste time with a parking spot. She pulled up in front of the hospital's main entrance. Ditched the Explorer right there.

With Jason at her side, she moved rapidly past the front desk, waving away the receptionist's prissy entreaty: “May I help you?” Bell wanted to get the news to Lindy as soon as possible. The father she loved had not caused her pain, or caused pain to others.

A few yards beyond the double doors leading to the ICU, in a brilliantly lighted corridor down which she barreled with a speed that belied the soreness in her legs, Bell nearly collided with a short, worried-looking older woman in a pale blue nurse's smock. The woman wore a name tag with
SALLY FUGATE
on one line and on the next line, in even bigger letters, this: NURSING SUPERVISOR.

“Excuse me,” Bell said, “but we're on our way to see—”

“I'm so sorry, Mrs. Elkins,” Fugate said, interrupting her in a hushed, professionally sympathetic tone. Her hands were clasped. “So very, very sorry. I'm afraid I have to inform you that Lindy Crabtree died twenty minutes ago.”

 

Chapter Thirty-eight

“No way.” Jason's voice trembled, but it was emphatic. “No freakin' way, lady.”

Bell wasn't yet able to speak. She fought against shock, beating it back the way she might beat back a wild animal charging at her. Emotion, she knew, wouldn't do her a damned bit of good right now. The fury that had been so effective during a fistfight in a rock-clogged basement would mean nothing here—it would, in fact, work against her. Power in this realm was measured by the steely elegance of self-control. She needed to get answers. And to get them, she'd have to be calm and systematic with her questions. Not hard and ornery and demanding—which had been her first instinct. Always was.

“Lindy was fine when I left here,” she said carefully. “What's going on?”

Fugate's voice had a condescending lilt to it, as if she were trying to soothe an unruly toddler. “These things happen, Mrs. Elkins. It's sad, I know, and it's hard to accept, but sometimes, even when the doctors and the nurses have done their very best, nature decides to—”

“No,” Bell snapped, interrupting her. “No way. She was
fine
. I talked to her. She couldn't have died. It's impossible.” To hell with calm and systematic.

“Unfortunately, it's not.” Fugate closed her eyes and shook her head. She opened them again when the grave theatrical waggle had run its proscribed course.

Bell located her cell. She let her eyes slide over to meet Jason's, and then she sent a quick text to Rhonda Lovejoy.

“I'm afraid,” Fugate said, “I really do need to ask you to leave now. This is a health care facility and our staff is busy with their professional duties. We appreciate your concern, and we join you in your grief, but we'll take care of contacting any family the girl might have had, and then we'll—”

“What's going on?”

A familiar voice. Bell turned. The question had come from Sharon Henner, who emerged into the corridor from the same door out of which Fugate had appeared moments ago. Sharon wore a bright pink suit and black heels. Had the governor's daughter been here all day? Ever since her mysterious arrival this morning? Behind her were Bradley Portis, the hospital CEO, and the older security guard from Riley Jessup's estate.

“Oh, it's just a very unfortunate circumstance,” Fugate said, looking anxiously at Sharon. “Regretfully,” she went on, gesturing toward Bell, “I've had to inform Mrs. Elkins here that someone she knew passed away this evening. Rather unexpectedly, I'm afraid. But there are limits to what medical science can do. And as I've been trying to explain, it's important at this point to move past our grief and come to terms with—”

“Bullshit,” Bell declared.

Fugate was startled—her eyes bugged out, as if to demonstrate it—but she quickly recovered her equilibrium. “I know the deceased was a friend of yours, Mrs. Elkins,” she said. Her tone was suffused with gentleness. “Once you've had a chance to get some closure, I'm sure this unwarranted hostility will dissipate.” She looked more intently at Bell. “That's a nasty cut on the side of your head. Do you need some medical attention yourself?”

“Lay a finger on me,” Bell said coldly, “and I'll break your arm. That's a promise.”

“My goodness!” Fugate, hand splayed on her chest, blinked and frowned a pert little frown.

Bell switched her attention to Bradley Portis. She had to look up; he was a very tall man in a very nice suit, his thick hair swept back from a high lined forehead. He had watched her exchange with Fugate—his dark eyes moving back and forth, while his body remained still—with that lofty indifference Bell had observed in other powerful men, that sleek reserve that signaled a staggering load of self-regard. Nothing so small and absurd as the likes of her could faze him. “Mr. Portis,” she said, “I'm hereby informing you that I'll have a warrant here in half an hour to search your offices for the medical records pertaining to Lindy Crabtree's treatment. There are significant questions about her care in this facility.” She added, with as much authority as she could muster as she fought through a monumental exhaustion, “Until then, neither you nor your staff will touch a thing—not so much as a Post-it note.”

For a brief interval no one spoke. Bell was acutely aware of the way the two sides had arranged themselves, the opposing forces gathered like a scene in one of Nick Fogelsong's history books recounting pivotal battles from Troy to Normandy to Basra. This might have been a white-tiled corridor with pale green walls and institutional lighting, not a sunstruck rampart seething with soldiers and machines of war, but the line separating the combatants was clear: Portis, Fugate, Sharon, and the security guard on one side. On the other, Bell and Jason.

Jason
.

She looked around. No Jason. The kid had a definite flair for disappearing at crucial moments. This time, though, Bell was grateful for it. He had understood her wordless message.

Portis was speaking to her. His voice had the blustery baritone of a man accustomed to being in charge. And there was, in the haughty lift of his chin, a definite edge of contempt, a sense that he really should not have to bother himself with people of her ilk. “Mrs. Elkins,” he said, “you're overreacting. There's no need for all this grandstanding. I can see that you've been through some kind of physical ordeal—and now you have to somehow process the tragic death of an acquaintance. May I suggest that you sit down and rest for a moment? Mrs. Fugate will escort you to a private area and a representative from our grief counseling staff will be happy to—”