The Dearly Departed (6 page)

At 5, 6, and 11
P.M.
, Joey Loach watched himself on three Boston TV stations looking worse than he realized and needing a shave. No reporter had asked him the question he feared—Why, in a one-horse town with no crime and no criminals, were you wearing a bullet-proof vest?

“Was I
wrong
?” he would have said. “Wouldn't I be dead now if I didn't arm myself every morning when I left my house?” For three years his vest had been a secret, purchased with his own money, a promise he'd made to his mother and the condition on which she had let him go to the police academy.

Elsie Loach was both inconsolable about her son's near disaster, imagining the inches in either direction that would have left him dead or paralyzed, and triumphant that she'd saved his life. She wanted him to resign immediately. No one's son should be a police officer! They should come from the ranks of orphans and middle-aged men whose mothers have passed on. He practically lived at the station, like a firefighter, like a lighthouse keeper, like a monk. She'd brought the braided rug from his room at home and a reading lamp for his bedside, which necessitated her acquiring and refinishing a solid maple night table from the rummage sale at Saint Xavier's along with a bureau scarf that wasn't frilly or stained.

Strangers assumed that she was thrilled to have Joey in uniform; exhilarated by the sight of him behind the wheel of his cruiser, pressed and clean-shaven, but she wasn't. She turned off the news when she saw reports of police officers shot, killed, sued, eulogized. And now it had happened. A crazy man had shot Joey at close range as he ambled in his good-natured fashion up to the half-open window of—as best as he could remember—a Ford pickup with Massachusetts plates. They were out there—nuts and murderers; sociopaths who thought it was better to kill someone's son than get a ticket. Marilee and her husband had safe jobs—day-care teacher at a state building with a metal detector and dairy manager at Foodland.

Worst of all, the murderer was at large. “He's gone,” Joey had promised. “Even the stupidest cop killer would get out of town and not look back.”

“Maybe he wasn't just passing through. Maybe this was his destination. Maybe he was out to get you.”

“I pulled him over! He shot me because he must've had drugs in the car or it was stolen, or there was a body in the trunk.”

“Promise me you'll let the state police handle this. Let someone else go looking for him.”

“I'm not going looking for him, okay?”

“Will you spend tonight at home?”

He shook his head. She walked from the foot of his bed to one side. “Let me see.”

“No.”

“I want to see what he did to you.”

Joey pulled the thin cotton blanket up to his shoulders. “It's black-and-blue. They told me to expect a few more shades before I'm done. But forget it. I'm not showing you.”

“Is it very painful?”

“No,” he lied.

She narrowed her eyes. “They said on television it was like getting beat up by a heavyweight boxer.”

“Nah,” said Joey. “Bantamweight, maybe.”

She opened the flat, hinged carton that held his new bullet-proof vest, picked it up by its shoulders, held it against her own chest, and said, “It seems so flimsy.”

“That's the point—lighter; new and improved.”

“But strong enough to stop the bullets?”

“Definitely. More than ever. You're worrying about nothing. Lightning doesn't strike the same place twice.”

“That's not true! If you're chief of police, you're a lightning rod.”

“This is King George, Ma. This was a bad break, but it's not going to happen again.”

“What if he's never caught? How do I get to sleep at night knowing he's out there?”

“You'll sleep fine. So will I. In fact I've got a prescription for sleeping pills. I'll give you one.” He folded the blanket to his waist. “Now I'm getting out of bed and I'm getting dressed, so you may want to leave.”

“I'll wait in the hall. I want to speak to the nurses anyway.”

“About what?”

“I want someone besides you to tell me that the doctor discharged you.”

Joey picked up a cord and followed it to its grip. “See this? It brings a nurse in five seconds and I'll tell her you're harassing me.”

Mrs. Loach looked around the room. “Your uniform. Where is it? Can I mend it?”

Joey's mouth formed a tight, grim line. He shook his head. “The FBI gets the uniform.”

Mrs. Loach backed up to the visitor's chair and sat down heavily.

Joey tried again. “I think visiting hours are just about over. Besides, it's polite to give the patient privacy when he wants to get out of bed and his ass is hanging out of his johnny.”

His mother's eyes narrowed. “Why does the FBI need your pants if you were shot in the chest?”

“For lab work. Ballistics. Powder burns. You know the drill.”

“I wish I didn't!” she cried. “I sit around hoping I'll never get a phone call from the emergency room, and then it happened, like my worst fear come true.”

He sidled out of bed and walked backward to the bathroom. “It
wasn't
your worst fear, though, was it, because I'm fine. The vest worked. I've made those phone calls to mothers—‘There's been an accident, and I'm sorry, Mrs. Smith or Jones, but your son didn't make it.'
That
's someone's worst fear. This is nothing. Day before last, I had to call the son of the man who died at Margaret Batten's house. And then Sunny. She'd have been thrilled if her mother was merely in the hospital with the wind knocked out of her.”

“Margaret Batten,” murmured Mrs. Loach. “What a terrible thing.”

“You're right about that, and it gets worse. Her daughter heard it secondhand from Finn's son. I called him because she wasn't home. But that didn't bother
him:
He left a message on her answering machine. That's how she found out.”

It had the desired effect: Mrs. Loach's features reset themselves for a new course of misfortune. “That poor girl,” she cried.

Joey closed the bathroom door behind him.

“There was just the two of them,” she said. “And I always admired the way her mother fought for her. I hope I told her that. I must have at some point.”

“No doubt,” said Joey.

“Were you nice to Sunny?” his mother called.

“Of course I was.”

“Sometimes you can be brusque over the phone.”

“To you.”

“Did she go to high school with you or with Marilee?”

“Me.”

“She was the girl who golfed, right? Wasn't there some hysteria about her playing on the boys' team?”

“They had to let her play. They didn't have a girls' team and she was better than all of the boys.”

“It's because of where she lived,” called his mother. “If you grow up next to a mountain, you learn to ski, and if you live next to a country club, you learn to golf.”

“What?” Joey yelled.

“Bad luck, as it turned out, that house by the golf course. And you know what makes it worse? They fixed the furnace in a half hour. Maybe less.”

“Who did?”

“Herlihy Brothers Fuel just showed up—not ten minutes after they read about it in the
Bulletin.
Sean and Danny both.”

“Who let them in?”

“
I
did! When no one answered at the station, they came by the house.”

“But, Ma—”

“No charge. They donated their services.”

“What about the police tape no one was supposed to cross?”

“The door was open. They know their stuff, believe me. They wear gas masks or whatever they're called these days.”

“Ma! How many goddamn times do I have to tell you that you can't let every Tom, Dick—”

“I'm leaving,” she said, “but only because you sound like yourself and can walk and do your business. Just promise—”

“No promises,” he yelled, followed by a muffled, “Ouch. Shit.”

“What's the matter?”

“Nothing!”

“I heard you say ouch.”

“I'm a little sore. It's nothing. Just go. I'll call you tomorrow. And stop making decisions about police matters. Nobody swore you in as my deputy.”

There was silence beyond the bathroom. Joey opened the door.

His mother's face brightened. “Should I strip the bed?” she asked.

The hospital operator said that Chief Loach's condition was not a matter of public record. Could she have the name of the caller?

“Sunny Batten.”

The operator gasped, then introduced herself as Danielle Thibault's sister Celeste, two years ahead of Sunny in high school.
So
sorry for her loss. Every time she picked up the newspaper, it seemed, there was a tragic headline about someone she knew. Oops. Hold on.

Celeste returned. “Everyone's calling about him since it was on the news.”

“You can't say if he's still there?”

Celeste paused. “I'm not supposed to. And get this: That's a direct order from the
FBI:
‘If anyone calls asking about Chief Loach's condition, take down his name.' ” Celeste's tone grew conspiratorial. “A couple of women didn't leave their names, but I knew exactly who they were.”

“Who?”

“Old girlfriends of his! Linda LaDue, Patty Timmins, for sure. Or it could have been her sister. They sound the same.”

After a moment Sunny said, “I did see him on the news, but I'm calling for official reasons.”

“Call him at the station. He should be back by now. Or run over there. Where are you calling from?”

“King's Nite.”

“The office phone or the pay phone?”

“Pay phone.”

“Is there a light on in the front of the station—I mean, not just the porch light, but inside?”

Sunny turned and looked.

“Doesn't matter. He's there. Just walk over. The front door'll be open. If he's snoozing in the back, ring the bell on his desk. How long are you up here for?”

Sunny said, “Until I figure out where to go next.”

“Any chance you'd stay?”

“First I need a job,” said Sunny.

“Like what?”

“A change,” said Sunny. “I was teaching, which I sort of fell into. I think I might try something a little more exciting.”

“We have openings here,” said Celeste. “In fact they just posted ‘Inpatient Pharmacy Technician.' Heather Machonski's taking maternity leave. Do you want me to pick you up an application?”

“Not just yet,” said Sunny.

“You probably want something out of doors, right? You were the big tennis player.”

“Golf,” said Sunny.

“I'd try the summer camps,” said Celeste. “Maybe they have camps for golfers—there's one for everything else.”

“Maybe when my head is clearer,” said Sunny.

“Gotta get this. You stay strong, okay? Call me if you want to bounce any job ideas off me. In any event, I'll see you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Sunny repeated.

“Your wake, hon,” said Celeste.

“Keep it on,” said Sunny as Chief Loach snapped off the television and jumped to his feet. “Joe—it's me, Sunny. I made it back just in time to hear you were shot.”

“Shot
at,
” he said. “The bullets bounced off me.” He banged a fist against his ribs. “Kryptonite.” He winced. “More or less.”

“No damage?”

“Plenty,” he said. “I'm black-and-blue like I was worked over by an angry mob.”

“Should you be back at work so soon?”

“I'm it. There's no one else.”

“When do you sleep?”

He shook his head. “I'll let you in on a little secret: Nothing ever happens here—until this week, that is. I've been in this job for three years. I was on the Keene force for nine years before that, but I swear to God this thing at your mother's house is the first time I had to put up my police tape.”