Todd felt a hard tug as his hair was yanked upward once, twice. “You really got me there with some of those kicks, pussy,” the unseen man behind him said. “Now I gotta hurt you bad.”
“Hey, man, let’s get the money. It’s no fancy electronic safe system or nothing. He’s probably got a wad of cash in there.”
“Shut up,” the man behind Todd said. “You know the deal. Nothin’ gets taken.”
“How’s he gonna know?”
“No. Now put the goddamn magazine down and help me with this fag.”
The last thing Todd thought, in the moment before all his thoughts were wiped away, was how businesslike they sounded. Like in Pulp Fiction. Nothing personal. Nothing personal. Nothing—
Chapter Seven
In her dream, Clare was floating in an inner tube on an emerald green pond. It was kind of like her special place in the woods near her parents’ home, except the water was bathtub-warm and there was much more open sky above her, the light dazzling through her closed eyelids. The tube spun slowly, her hair and feet trailing through the water, and then a man surfaced at her side and she saw with delight that it was Russ Van Alstyne. He floated close, smiling, and then his hands were running along her body, warm and liquid as the water. She noticed that she was naked. How wonderful. A car alarm went off on the distant shore, but she ignored it, watching his face and his hands, flowing from relaxation into a sweet tension. The car alarm was louder, annoying her. She worried that it might be her car. She fought to focus on the tingling sensations in her body, but the shrill was too…damn…loud. She woke with a sideways lurch across her bed, the phone ringing on her nightstand, sunshine splashing over her tangled sheets.
“Good Lord,” she said. She could feel her cheeks coloring. She took a deep breath and snagged the phone. “Hello?”
“Reverend Fergusson?” It sounded like a girl, trying not to cry.
“Yeah. I mean, yes, this is Clare Fergusson.”
“It’s me, Trisha MacPherson.” MacPherson. As in MacPherson and Engels, the celebration of Holy Matrimony, twelve o’clock this afternoon. “I’m afraid…I’m afraid we’re going to have to cancel the wedding.” The girl’s voice was choked with tears. Clare rubbed her eyes and tried to focus. Trisha’s fiancé must have dumped her. During their three sessions of premarital counseling, Clare had thought he looked shifty. A little too eager to please. The weasel.
“Trisha, I’m so sorry.” Clare sat up in bed, pulling herself away from the green, green pond and into the here and now. “I know it seems like the end of the world at this moment, but when someone breaks off an engagement, it’s a realistic reflection that they’re not ready to—”
“Nobody broke off the engagement!” Outrage tightened Trisha MacPherson’s voice. “Kurt is here with me right now. It’s my brother Todd. He was beaten up last night. He was hurt very…”
Trisha’s voice was replaced by a young man’s. “Reverend Fergusson?”
Clare was wide-awake now, the floating world drowned in cold shock. “Kurtis? What’s up?”
“Trish’s brother Todd was assaulted in his video store last night. His brother Tim went looking for him this morning when we couldn’t raise him at home…found him unconscious and called an ambulance. We’re all at the Glens Falls Hospital right now.”
“How is he doing?”
“It’s pretty bad. They’re taking him in right now for a ruptured spleen. There may be kidney and liver damage, too.”
Clare tilted her clock toward her. Eight-thirty. “I’ll be there in forty-five minutes.”
“Oh, thanks, Reverend. I know Trish’s family aren’t churchgoers, but I think they could use…we could all use some extra…” he foundered. “Thanks.”
There are no agnostics in foxholes, she thought after hanging up, and I’m meeting a lot of folks in foxholes lately. She had to call the sexton and the organist to let them know the wedding was off, have someone at the church to help guests who wouldn’t hear the news in time, tell the florist—oh, no, no wedding flowers meant someone on the floral committee would have to whip up a quick arrangement for Sunday…. Despite the whirl of practical details, she couldn’t keep from wondering: Was it a terrible coincidence that Millers Kill had seen two violent attacks in the space of two days? Or was there some connection between Trisha’s brother’s assault and what had happened to Emil Dvorak?
The surgery waiting room was full of anxious MacPhersons. The bride-to-be was curled up on a sofa in the corner, clutching her mother’s hands. The groom rubbed the back of his fiancée’s neck, while the father of the bride sat four-square and straight-backed, leafing through a two-year-old copy of Field & Stream. Half of the low artificial-leather chairs were occupied by people Clare had seen yesterday evening at the rehearsal. Some were watching a CNN anchor report on a possible pilots’ strike; others were paging restlessly through magazines. The best man stood with his back to the wall-mounted television, talking into a cell phone in a low voice. Everyone looked up as Clare entered, then let out a collective breath of relief or disappointment.
Clare crossed to Trisha and her family, expressed her condolences, and sat down to listen to whatever they needed to say. She again heard from Kurt how Todd had been found unconscious in his store earlier that morning. Trish told Clare about her brother’s errand to deliver candles. She heard about what a sweet, inoffensive, good boy he was from Mrs. MacPherson. Mr. MacPherson grunted something about a shotgun being better than insurance. She approached the brother who’d found Todd, a soft-spoken young man named Tim, who kept glancing worriedly at his obviously pregnant wife. Clare had to draw his story out in a backward spiral, first talking about canceling the caterer, then about speaking with the police at the scene, and finally about finding his brother’s battered body. “I can’t tell them,” he said, looking at his parents and sister. “They only saw him prepped for surgery, cleaned up and covered by sheets.” His eyes teared up. “But, oh God, I can’t stop thinking about what he looked like.”
After an hour or so, a doctor came in with a report from the surgical team. They had removed Todd’s spleen. His liver was undamaged. There might be a problem with his kidney functions later on, but they would simply have to wait and see. They were closing up now and the surgeon would come in with more news soon. Yes, there was no question he would survive—he was young and healthy and should make a good recovery.
The atmosphere lightened after that, and when the door opened again, everyone looked up with expressions of bright expectation, but instead of a surgeon, they saw a cop. His short-sleeved uniform shirt was tucked into jeans, and he was wearing sneakers instead of shiny brown shoes. Clare guessed she was the only person in the room who knew he was normally off duty on Saturday morning. He caught sight of her and raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Mr. and Mrs. MacPherson? I’m Russ Van Alstyne, the chief of police.”
Todd’s parents stood up, Mrs. MacPherson clinging to her husband’s arm. “You find the bastards who did this?” Mr. MacPherson asked. “It was a robbery, wasn’t it? I told that boy he needed real protection. Cash business like that. Bound to attract attention.”
“We don’t know who assaulted your son yet, sir. We’ve taken prints, and hopefully that will lead us somewhere. One of my officers is interviewing neighboring business owners to find out if anyone saw anything.” He looked around. “Is Tim MacPherson here? The one who found him?”