“But it’s a Republican county,” John said, “always has been. You wouldn’t ever’ve had any trouble getting elected, not when that’s the ticket you run on anyway.”
“First you got to get on the ticket, son. This ain’t Republican or Democrat, it’s politics. And I told you, Norman people control the politics in this county.”
I said, “And in return the Normans expect an occasional favor.”
“That’s right. No big deal.”
“No big deal,” John said, flatly. “Just small stuff, like covering up murders.”
“Aw, can the murder crap. Where do you get that from? All it was, was Stefan Norman said, you know, just look the other way a little on this Janet Taber deal. He explained it to me, how the girl had some kind of blackmail scheme cooked up, only it didn’t pan out, and then she ran herself off Colorado Hill, out of, you know, remorse. Stefan said a lot of noise over the girl’s death might drag in the Norman name and things could get blown out of proportion, so…” He shrugged again; he seemed embarrassed.
“What was Janet Taber blackmailing them over?” I asked.
He pointed a thick finger at me. “I know for a fact that was just a damn hoax. Something she cooked up outta’ whole cloth. I know the details.”
“What are the details?”
“I gave my word I wouldn’t reveal them.”
“You gave your word to Stefan, you mean.”
“Don’t ask me to say more. At least not at this time.”
John said, “Don’t push him on it, Mal. Can’t you see he’s a man of principle?”
Brennan ignored the sarcasm. He said, “I just want you to know, Mallory, John, that I’ll handle this thing from here on out. You were right, Mallory-I was wrong: there probably was foul play of some kind, where the Taber girl was concerned. But now that I’m in, you’re out.”
“And you’ll start,” I said, “with Stefan Norman sending Davis after me?”
“Who says Stefan sent him?”
“Oh, Brennan.”
“Seems to me you assume a hell of a lot, Mallory. That’s why your half-ass investigation hasn’t got too far.”
“See to it yours doesn’t amount to you just looking the other way some more.”
“It won’t,” Brennan said, and he slapped his knees like a department store Santa summoning the next kid. “I see it this way: if the Normans got some secrets they want kept that way, well fine. But when those secrets start including crimes, like breaking and entering into your place, and I’ll grant you that Taber girl’s death is looking fishy in hindsight, well then…” And he paused to flash a big grin. “… then I’ll have to slap on my shit-kicking boots, boys.”
If that was meant to make me feel warm inside, it didn’t. And Brennan hadn’t endeared himself to his stepson, either: John’s face had drained of color and his eyes were cold.
Down the hall the door to Davis’s room opened and the three of us stood up and watched the doctor walk down to us. He was around thirty, of medium height and had sandy, longish hair and wireframe glasses. He carried an aluminum clipboard, carried it like it was heavy, like he’d rather be anywhere at that moment than in a hospital in Port City, Iowa, at three in the morning.
“Can I have him now, doc?” Brennan said.
“Better we keep him here,” he said.
“Something serious?” Brennan gave me a quick sideways glare.
“No, doubt there’s much chance of that. Probably a mild concussion is all, though we’ll need a closer look.”
I said, “Can I talk to him?”
“You can try,” he said. “That is, if it’s agreeable with the sheriff. But you probably won’t have much luck.”
“Why’s that?’ Brennan asked, shifting foot to foot.
“Well,” the doctor sighed, “that is one of the primary reasons it’s best we keep him at least overnight. You see, he is conscious, but he won’t say a word. You can talk away at him but he won’t respond whatsoever.”
“What do you make of it?” I said. “Shock?”
“Amnesia?” Brennan chimed in.
The doctor chuckled and said, “Doubtful, though he may indeed be trying to simulate memory loss, for some kind of effect; that is, assuming he’s seen the same soap operas and old movies you have, Sheriff.”
“If he’s just faking…” Brennan said, moving forward.
The doctor held out his hand in a stop gesture. “Check back with us this afternoon. In the meantime, you’ll want to send someone to guard his room.”
Brennan nodded.
The doctor nodded back, then turned and walked off.
Brennan said, “I better go down and phone the chief of police and have him send a man over. This is going to have to be a cooperative investigation anyway, might as well take advantage of the situation.” He turned to John and said, “Keep an eye on Davis till I get back.” He looked at me and then back at John and said, “And keep his butt out of that room, okay? Keep in mind I’m handling this from now on, son.”
We watched Brennan walk to the elevator, disappear inside. When he was gone, John stared poker-faced after him. Then he jerked his thumb toward Davis’s room. “Go on down there and see what you can get out of him.”
Davis was staring at the ceiling, his hospital bed completely flat. His long arms lay in front of him like the branches of a dead tree; his flesh was nearly as white as the hospital gown. There was not a flicker of recognition in his face as I approached, no trace of anything, except a deep purple bruise on one cheek. On top of his head, however, in the nest of thinning, dyed-blond hair was the goose egg my frying pan had produced. That was the only thing remotely comic about Davis, however: otherwise you’d have to put a mirror to his lips and see the fog before attesting to his being alive.
“Davis.”
I cranked the bed into a sitting position and his eyes remained open and staring. Motionless.
“Davis,” I said, “why did you break into my place?”
It was like trying to communicate with a figure in a wax museum. His face stayed expressionless, his eyes didn’t move. Didn’t twitch. Didn’t blink.
“What did Stefan want done to me, Davis? Did he want me dead?”
Didn’t move. Didn’t twitch. Didn’t blink.
“Did you kill Janet Taber, Davis? Did Stefan ask you to do that?”
Didn’t move. Didn’t twitch. Didn’t blink.
“Did you break her neck with your hands? She didn’t have a very big neck. Did you pour booze all over her car and put her inside and push it off Colorado Hill? Did you do all that, Davis?”
Didn’t move. Didn’t twitch. Didn’t blink.
“I’m going to find out,” I said. “You tell Stefan when he comes with flowers. If Stefan doesn’t show, tell the lawyer he sends, tell him to tell Stefan.”
Then he moved. Twitched. Blinked.
Crooked a finger and motioned for me to come closer.
I stayed where I was.
He spoke and it was just a whisper, like a guy with terminal laryngitis. I couldn’t make out a damn thing he was saying.
I leaned in a bit and his big hands reached out and clutched my neck.
And squeezed.
He was strong, Christ was he strong. Those hands had only been on my throat a few seconds and already the world was turning red-fading-to-black, but somehow I found the strength, and the sense, to throw a punch into him, into his chest, a pretty damn good hard right hand, considering the strain I was under.
Since he was still in bed, and at an awkward position to maintain a stranglehold, the punch was enough to send him back and his hands, thank God! went with him.
But not for long. They both lashed out at me, fists now, and I felt my face go to the right and then to the left, like I was slapped, twice, by a two-by-four.