“A snub-nosed thirty-eight revolver, a nine-millimeter semiautomatic with a banana clip, and a twelve-gauge Ithaca shotgun. None of Norton’s weapons fired the shot. The bullet dug from the clinic wall was a steel-jacketed thirty caliber, probably from a rifle.”
“So maybe Norton was careful enough to get rid of the rifle after the shooting.”
“Maybe,” Wicker said. “But he was careless enough to leave bomb-making manuals lying around his house, and there were blasting caps in his car. I doubt he’d be so cautious as to drown or bury a rifle.”
That sounded reasonable to Carver.
They drifted back into the room.
“I’d better get back to Beth,” Carver said, looking at his watch.
“Tell her we’ll get together after I’m back on my-when I get out of here,” Delores said. “We have things to talk about. We both lost something in that explosion.”
“I’ll tell her,” Carver promised.
As he left the room, he saw Wicker sit back down.
Beth was being backed from her room in a wheelchair as Carver approached. The elderly volunteer who was maneuvering the chair was also holding the flower-patterned valise that Carver had brought for Beth. The woman appeared to be well into her seventies, a large-framed woman with white hair that had probably once been blond to match her pale eyes and complexion. The breadth of her shoulders and hips suggested she had never been thin. There was a craggy symmetry to her features that lent her stateliness and probably, long ago, beauty of the unconventional sort that haunted.
Carver kissed Beth and took the valise from the woman, then started to take over pushing the wheelchair.
“Sorry,” the volunteer said with a smile, “I’ll have to take her down to the lobby and see her off. Insurance requires I look after her while she’s still on hospital property.”
“Insurance rules the day,” Carver said, and stepped back.
“I can walk,” Beth said.
“Not if you want to leave here,” the volunteer said, showing a streak of steel.
Carver grinned at Beth and stood aside to make room for the wheelchair as they started toward the elevator.
“Where were you,” Beth asked as they descended, “trying to see Lapella?”
“No, she’s still unconscious.”
“Dr. Galt told me. That bastard kicked her in the head.”
The volunteer studied the numerals on the digital floor indicator. The elevator stopped and the door glided open.
“I was visiting Delores Bravo,” Carver said.
The volunteer gripped the wheelchair handles tighter and leaned her weight forward so the chair’s wheels would hop over the ridge where the elevator didn’t quite line up with the lobby floor.
“How is she?” Beth asked, craning her neck to look behind her and up at him.
“She’ll need the wheelchair,” Carver said.
Just outside the hospital’s side entrance, they waited for him in a patch of sunlight while he went and got the car. As he pulled into the driveway, he saw Beth still sitting motionless in the wheelchair, the white-haired woman standing over her like an aged and wise guardian angel.
The sight scared and saddened him. For the first time he wondered if they were doing the right thing, letting Beth leave the hospital.
Then he remembered Lapella, in the same purgatory between sickness and health, protected by the same corps of angels. They hadn’t made much difference the day she was beaten.
He braked the Olds in front of the entrance, then climbed out and helped Beth into the car.
As they were driving away, he glanced in the rearview mirror and saw the angel leaning against the wall by the entrance and lighting a cigarette.
19
Holding Beth’s oversize valise and the crook of his cane in his left hand, Carver unlocked the cottage door with his right. Beth stood alongside him, looking tired but obviously glad to be free of the hospital. Behind them on the beach the surf roared and dashed itself on land, while off in the distance gulls screamed.
“What was that?” Beth asked, hearing another, faint sound from inside the cottage over the rush of the surf.
“That’s a surprise,” Carver said, opening the door.
He went in ahead of Beth, glanced around, then smiled and stepped aside, leaning on his cane and motioning for her to enter.
She took a few steps inside, then stood still, staring at the medium-size black-and-tan dog that was staring at her with its head cocked to the side.
“What is it and why?” Beth asked, never one to be fond of animals.
“German shepherd,” Carver said. “I got it from the pound this morning before coming in to the hospital. The woman there recommended it, said they were a very territorial breed and he’d be protective of his house and owner almost immediately. And he’s got a good loud bark that’ll scare away any intruders.”
Beth looked more closely at the dog. “Are German shepherds all swaybacked like that? And aren’t both ears supposed to stand up on a German shepherd?”
Carver didn’t know the answer to either of those questions. “Maybe it’s a collie-shepherd.”
“What’s that?”
“Half German shepherd, half collie.”
“But it doesn’t have long hair or a pointed snout like a collie.”
Carver smiled. “That’s because he’s a German shepherd.” Setting the valise on the sofa, he snapped his fingers and whistled for the dog. The dog ambled over to Beth and stared up at her. She bent down and ruffled its fur between the ears, possibly to get it to quit staring.
“His facial markings are odd,” she said. “Makes him look as if he has eyebrows.”
Carver had noticed that at the pound, and on reflection realized it was the eyebrowlike markings that gave the dog the quizzical, intelligent expression that had made him feel confident in the animal as a loyal watchdog and companion.
“What’s his name?” she asked.
“Al. That’s what the woman at the pound said. And he’s had some training, she said. He’s housebroken and obedient.”
“He looks old.”
“She told me he was a young dog.”
“He’s gray around the muzzle,” Beth said as Al began to lick her hand.
“So am I,” Carver pointed out, “if I neglect to shave for a few days. Al doesn’t shave at all.”
Beth walked over and sat down on the sofa, next to the valise. Al followed and sat quietly at her feet. That didn’t figure to Carver, since he’d been the one who had fed Al this morning. Maybe his previous owner was a woman.
Al rested his head against Beth’s thigh. Carver was getting restless.
Beth ignored Al and unzipped the valise, then withdrew her computer case. She opened the case and removed the computer.
“You should rest,” Carver said.
“I’ve been resting, Fred. I’m going to print out my notes and have you read them, then you can let me know what’s missing.”
She stood up, causing Al to jerk his head back and stare at her questioningly. He followed her over to where her ink-jet printer was set up on a table, watched as if he understood what was going on as she attached the printer cord to the computer. She hooked up the AC adapter and plugged in the computer and printer.
“I don’t think we need to keep Al,” she said. Al raised his sort-of eyebrows and stared at her as if shocked.
“He’s a great alarm system,” Carver said. “He might even fight for you if the WASP breaks in.”
“Al is not a fighter.”
“You can’t tell by looking.”
Al barked. It was a deep, dangerous, German shepherd bark.
Beth couldn’t help looking impressed. She even smiled.
Carver and Al watched as she switched on the computer and keyed into her word-processing program. In less than a minute, she had the printer grinding out paper.
The phone rang. Carver went over and picked it up before Beth could. She was apparently determined to forget her grief and her injuries by throwing herself back into life. That wasn’t what Dr. Galt had in mind when he released her.
“Fred Carver?” a man’s voice asked after Carver said hello. “The private investigator?”