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.
Twelve
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?"