“Just out of the blue, someone knocked on the door and said, ‘Here, have a kid.’”
“Yeah.”
Duckworth ran a palm over his mouth. “That’s quite a story.”
“That’s what she says happened.”
He shook his head slowly, then said, “I thought I’d heard you’d moved to Boston.”
“I had.” I guessed it wasn’t that strange that Duckworth would take notice of what I was up to, given that we knew each other from my troubles five years earlier. “But I moved back. Things weren’t working out at the Globe. I was working nights most of the time and never got to see Ethan. You remember Ethan.”
“I do. Good boy.”
Even with everything that was going on, I couldn’t stop worrying about what had happened with Ethan at school.
“I wanted to be close to my parents,” I told Duckworth. “They’re a great help. I got rehired at the Standard just as the paper closed.”
Duckworth wanted to know how I’d made the connection with the Gaynors. I told him, and about arriving at the same time as the husband. Duckworth wanted to know how Bill Gaynor seemed, before we’d found his wife.
“Agitated. He said he’d been trying to raise her on the phone, couldn’t.”
He asked me whether I knew anyone named Sarita.
“No. But I heard Gaynor say the name. That she’s the nanny. Haven’t you talked to her?”
“Not yet.” He paused. “You’re not getting your car back.”
“I kind of figured.”
“Eventually, but not for a while.”
“You’re going to find my prints on that stroller.”
“Uh-huh,” Duckworth said.
“I just thought I should mention it. I put it in the car when we came over here.”
“Okay.”
“And probably in the house, too,” I added. “I was inside, briefly, with the husband. So on the door, maybe some other places. I don’t remember. I might have touched something.”
“Right,” Duckworth said. “Thanks for filling me in.”
I thought maybe, in retrospect, that pointing those things out didn’t do me the service I was hoping it would.
Sixteen
Jack Sturgess had two patients currently in the hospital he felt obliged to check in on before he left Promise Falls General and went back to the medical building a few blocks away, where he kept his office. But he couldn’t get his mind off what Agnes had told him at end of the canceled board meeting.
That there was trouble, again, with Marla. Just when you think things are settling down, another bomb goes off.
His first patient was an elderly woman who’d fallen and broken her hip. She taken a tumble at the nursing home where she lived, and Sturgess was recommending she be kept here another couple of days before sending her back to let the home staff look after her.
Next was a seven-year-old girl named Susie who’d had a tonsillectomy the day before. Back around the dawn of time, a child who’d had this procedure would be kept for three or four days in the hospital, but now it was usually a day surgery: Arrive in the morning, go in for surgery, home by suppertime. Not that the patient would feel much like eating anything.
But Susie had lost a lot of blood during the operation, so she’d been kept overnight.
“How’s the princess doing today?” the doctor asked as he approached her bedside.
Struggling, she said, “Okay.”
“Hurts, huh?” he said, touching his own throat.
Susie nodded.
“They tell you you’ll get to eat all this ice cream after the operation, but once it’s over, the last thing you want to do is eat anything, am I right?”
The little girl nodded again.
“Even ice cream will hurt going down that throat of yours. But I’m betting by this afternoon you’ll want a bowl. That’s a promise. I’m sending you home today. You’re going to be just fine.”
He placed his palm on the girl’s cheek and smiled. “You’re a brave one, you are.”
Susie managed a smile. “I’m missing school,” she whispered.
“You like that?”
An enthusiastic nod.
“Maybe what we could do,” Sturgess said, “is next week, we put the tonsils back in; then we’ll take them out again so you can miss even more school.”
That brought a smile. “You’re joking,” she said hoarsely. “I don’t hate school that much.”
“You get better,” Sturgess said.
As he walked back to the car, his thoughts returned to Marla Pickens. He wondered what the problem was this time. If she’d kidnapped another baby from the hospital, surely everyone in the building would have been talking about it.
He figured sooner or later he’d learn the details. He was, after all, the family’s GP.
His car was parked in the multilevel garage that had been built four years ago. The hospital still had some ground-level lots, but over the last decade it had become nearly impossible to find a spot, even in the area reserved for staff, so a five-story parking building had been erected. The doctors were given exclusive access to the north end of the first level.
Sturgess had his remote out, pressed the button, saw the lights on his Lincoln SUV flash. He was reaching for the door handle when someone behind him, by one of the pillars, said, “Dr. Sturgess?”
There was no time to react.
The fist drove its way into his stomach the second he turned around. It felt as though it went in far enough to touch his spine. He dropped to his knees immediately, head down, a pair of worn sneakers in front of him.
Sturgess didn’t bother to look up. He didn’t know who this person was, but he didn’t have to guess who had sent him.
“Hey, Doc,” said the man standing over him. “I guess you can figure out what that’s about.”
Sturgess’s chest heaved as he struggled to get his breath back. The punch had been well placed. He didn’t believe anything had been broken. The man hadn’t caught a rib. He figured he’d be able to walk in another minute or two.
“Yeah,” he croaked.
“It’s a message,” the man said.
“I know.”
“What do you think it means?”
“It means... you want your money.”
“Not me.”
“The man... who sent you.”
“That’s right. He says you’re nearly paid up, but not quite. Until your debts and the interest are dealt with, he’s gonna keep sending me around to visit you.”
“I understand.”
“I’m not sure you do,” the man said. “Next time there will be blood.” He chortled. “And it’ll be coming from the little stump where one of your fucking fingers used to be.”
“I hear you,” the doctor said, most of his wind back now. “I gave him a hundred grand. You’d think he’d be fucking happy with that.”
“If a hundred grand was all you owed, I’m guessing he would be.” And then in a slightly more conciliatory tone, “You know, have you ever considered that maybe you’ve got a problem?”
“What?” Sturgess said; he had one knee up, and was slowly coming to a standing position. Now he was able to look his attacker in the eye. The thug was about thirty, bearded, pushing three hundred pounds easy.
The man rested a hand gently on the doctor’s shoulder. “You think I enjoy this? You think I like beating the shit out of people to get them to pay up?” He shook his head. “Not at all. I’m telling you, maybe you should get help. Gamblers Anonymous or something like that. Don’t go telling my boss I said this, because he likes the business he’s in, but hey, if you got your act together, there’s always some other dumb asshole willing to throw away his paycheck on the horses or blackjack or whatever. But you’re a doctor, right?”
Sturgess nodded.
“You help people. You probably work with your hands, doing surgery, shit like that. So when I see you next, and have to relieve you of one of your fingers, that’s kind of bad for society, you know? Like, imagine this. I chop your finger off; then I get in a car accident or something, and you’re the only doctor on call, but you can’t operate on me because your hand is fucked. That would be ironic, right?”