Footsteps came crashing through the brush branches and a pair of flashlights found us.
“Put your hands up,” came a less-than-steady voice behind the light.
I put my hands up and so did Ames. The two policemen moved toward us past the dead man.
“On your knees,” said one of them. “Arms behind your back.”
I moved as fast as I could. Ames hadn’t budged.
“Can’t do that,” he said.
“Old-timer,” came the voice, drawing nearer, “I’m in no mood.”
“Don’t go on my knees,” said Ames. “For man nor God. I’ll take the consequences.”
And he did. When they took us in to the station back on Ringing Boulevard, Ames took full responsibility, told the police that I had come to patch up an old quarrel and that Holland had set us up. He told them I’d tried to stop the killing and that I had no idea that he had a gun or might use it.
It was not with charity and goodwill, but on the advice of a county attorney that they eventually let me go home after starting a file on me.
They kept Ames and I testified at the inquest. Ames was turned over for shooting Jim Holland.
I’d been the only witness. Ames was given a suspended sentence for having an unregistered firearm. He stayed in town, got a job as odd-job man at the Texas and assigned himself the task of being my guardian angel.
“We going somewhere?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Need a weapon?” he asked, following me back into the Texas.
“No,” I said.
“We’ll be back by one,” I said to Ed as we passed him.
“No hurry,” Ed said without looking up from his book. “Marie and Charlie’ll be here in a little while. I can hold down Fort Apache.”
Ames had a motor scooter in his room. He also had various small arms and a Remington M-10 twelve-gauge pump-action shotgun and a yellow slicker that covered it when necessary plus the use of any of the guns of the Old West display on the walls of the Texas. Ames kept them unloaded but all in firing condition.
We got into the Saturn.
“How’s Ed’s liver?” I asked as I started to drive.
“Swears by acupuncture and Chinese herbs,” said Ames. “Seems to work.”
“Willpower,” I said. “Man owns a bar and can’t drink.”
“Man does what a man has to do,” Ames said.
I would have glanced at him to see if he was joking, but I knew Ames well enough to know that he meant just what he said. I never asked Ames for a joke to tell Ann. I was sure he didn’t have any.
He didn’t ask where we were going, didn’t ask why I pulled off of Beneva and drove down the narrow paved road to the Seaside Assisted Living Facility. The Seaside was a good four miles from the Gulf of Mexico, but it did have a pond with ducks floating on the green water.
I parked in a space between two cars in an area marked RESIDENTS ONLY.
“We’re here to see a woman named Dorothy Cgnozic,” I said.
The nod from Ames was almost not there, but I knew what to look for. He didn’t ask me why we were going to see the woman or why I wanted him with me. If I wanted to tell him, that would be fine. If not, he wouldn’t burn with curiosity.
I told him.
“She thinks she saw a woman get murdered here last night,” I said.
He looked at me, gray eyes unblinking.
I had asked him to come because he was seventy-four, because people found him easy to talk to, to trust, especially the very young and the very old. He understood.
I took off my Cubs cap. We went inside and found the nursing station down a carpeted corridor. I had been here before to serve papers. It was clean, well lit. There was a slight bustle of chatter behind the counter between a large woman in white with a chart in her hands and a smaller, heavier woman with red hair that looked natural. The red-haired woman was on the phone. The large woman was reading to her from the chart.
“December eighth,” the red-haired woman said. “Chart says that’s when the Flomax should stop.”
The person on the other end was talking. The redhead looked at the woman with the chart and rolled her eyes upward and then said, “It’s your signature… Will do.”
She hung up and looked at Ames and me.
An old woman, white-haired, wearing a light blue suit moved next to us at the desk. She leaned on a cane and looked straight ahead at the big nurse.
“We’re here to see Dorothy Cgnozic,” I said.
“You were here a few months ago,” said the large woman with the chart.
“I served some papers,” I said.
“And you’re going to serve papers on Dorothy?” she asked protectively.
“No. Just want to see her. She called me. My name is Lewis Fonesca. This is Ames McKinney.”
“Pleased,” said Ames.
If he had a ten-gallon hat, I’m sure he would have taken it off and said, “Ma’am.”
Ames is hard to resist. I’m not.
“May I ask what she wants to see you about?” asked the large woman.
I looked at the pin above her left breast. It said she was Gladys Sprague.
“Yes,” I said.
“Well, I’m asking.”
“My pills,” said the woman with the cane.
“Not for an hour, Lois,” said the large nurse patiently. “One of us will come to your room.”
“It’s lunchtime,” the woman with the cane said.
“When lunch is over, come back here or someone will come to your room,” said the redhead.
“You won’t forget?” said the woman with the cane.
“It’s all on the charts,” said Gladys the nurse with a smile. “We won’t forget.”
“My tissues,” said the woman with the cane.
“We understand,” said the large nurse.
The old woman started up the long corridor.
“Mr…” Gladys said.
“Fonesca. And this is Mr. McKinney.”
“Right. I’m guessing,” said Gladys with a sigh. “Dorothy told you she saw someone murdered here last night.”
“Yes,” I said.
“No one was murdered here last night,” said the redhead. “And no one died. We get about a death a month, sometimes more, but not yesterday and no murder.”
“I’d still like to see her,” I said.
“Sure,” said Gladys. “She almost never gets visitors. She goes to lunch in forty-five minutes. Her room number is one eleven. We like Dorothy. So does everyone else. She helps with the bingo numbers on Tuesday and Thursday, never complains. I don’t know what’s with this murder business. We have a social worker on call. Dorothy will get a visit from her later this afternoon.”
“Our residents sometimes…” the redhead started and then went on, “sometimes exercise their imaginations. They want attention, a sense that they are still a part of things.”
“It’s not necessarily an unhealthy sign,” said Gladys.
“Remember Carmine Forest?” asked the redhead.
Gladys shook her head and said to us, “Carmine, what was it, three, four years ago?”
“Three,” said the redhead.
“Carmine,” Gladys went on, “claimed vampires were stalking the halls at night, turning the residents into vampires.”
“Said he could prove it,” Gladys continued. “Said the residents were getting pale, losing blood. Even claimed he had seen fang marks on their necks.”
“Which closed almost immediately after they were bitten,” said the redhead. “He started painting crosses on the doors with Magic Marker.”
“Permanent black marker,” said the redhead.
“Got ugly,” said Gladys. “Mrs. Schwartz and Mr. Wallstein complained that it was an attack by anti-Semites. They called a rabbi. Carmine called a priest. Rabbi and priest got together and calmed things down.”
“Carmine demanded an exorcism,” said the redhead. “Priest said the Church didn’t recognize the existence of vampires.”
“Carmine wrote to the pope,” said Gladys. “No answer.”
“Then he sent in a letter of resignation from the Catholic Church and said he was going to become a Hindu because they believed in vampires and would send someone to deal with it.”
“Did they?” I asked.
“We’re still waiting,” said Gladys.
“Oh,” said the redhead, suddenly remembering. “What about Carla Martin?”