“I called Harlene,” Clare said. “She’s taking care of everything. I’m supposed to tell you not to fret.”
“No fretting, yes ma’am.” He grinned.
Clare bit her lip to keep from laughing. “I called your mother, but she wasn’t at home. I left her a message. I told her you’d broken your leg, but that you were going to be fine, and I left her my cell phone number in case she wants to reach me. I figured that way, I can let her know what’s going on if she calls when you’re getting it set or something.”
He sobered fast. “Before you tell her anything, make sure she knows I didn’t break my leg while on duty.”
“But you were examining a crime scene.”
“I was walking in the woods.” His face took on a stubborn cast. “If my mom thinks I was injured in the line of duty, she’ll freak out. Her biggest fear is that something’s going to happen to me because of my job.” He took her hand in his and looked up at her, confiding, “She’s not really wild about me being a cop.”
“I had gotten that,” Clare said. “Okay, I’ll tell her we were taking a walk.” She pulled her hand out of his and looked around for a chair, but there was nothing in the drapery-enclosed space except a rolling cart full of medical supplies and Russ’s IV pole.
He stroked the side of the bed. “You can sit here.”
“I’ll stand, thanks.”
“Come on. Keep an injured man company.” He gave her a smile she had never seen before: wheedling, charming.
“I’m getting a look at a whole other side of you,” she said, compromising by leaning her hip against the edge of the bed where he had indicated.
“If I get up in this damn hospital gown, you’ll get a look at every side of me.” He laughed again.
She glanced back at the wilted blue curtain. Maybe she ought to open that. It wasn’t as if they were alone; she could hear one of the nurses cracking a joke and a doctor quizzing a blood technician. And it wasn’t as if she were being inappropriate; when she visited patients they almost always talked in private, behind a drawn curtain or a closed door. But she was uncomfortable with this version of Russ, this sloe-eyed, uninhibited Russ. She liked his inhibitions. She relied on them.
She jumped up and pulled the drapery aside, just in time to whack a doctor standing opposite her who had obviously been reaching for the curtain himself. “Oh!” she said. “I’m so sorry.”
He gave her a hesitant smile. “I’m Dr. Stillman,” he said. His glance flickered to either side of her, as if he were checking to make sure no one else was going to leap out at him. “I’m the orthopedic surgeon. Are you Mrs. Van Alstyne?”
She swallowed her first response, and said, “I’m Reverend Clare Fergusson. I brought Chief Van Alstyne in.”
Russ sat up straighter. “Dr. Stillman?” he said. He peered at the man. “You can’t be Dr. Stillman.”
Clare looked, too, but the doctor seemed authentic enough. White coat, stethoscope, a short stack of medical-record jackets under his arm.
“You must have been one of my dad’s patients,” he said, moving to Russ’s side and peeling the ice pack off his leg. “What did he have you for?”
Russ was still looking suspiciously at him. “Broken collarbone.”
“Your father practiced here?” Clare said. “In Millers Kill?”
Stillman looked up from where he was delicately touching Russ’s leg. “I’m the third-generation Dr. Stillman in these parts. My dad was an orthopedist, too, so I get this reaction a lot from people who had their bones set by him when they were kids.” He grinned. “They can’t figure out how Dr. Stillman’s stayed so well preserved.” He stood up. “Okay, Chief, I’m going to deliver you to the tender mercies of radiology. I’ve already scheduled an operating room for you, so we’ll be able to get this taken care of right away.”
“Operating room!”
“Trust me, you’re not going to want to be awake for this one.” Stillman unlocked the bed’s wheels, rehung Russ’s IV on a stubby hook at the head of the bed, and rolled through the open curtains.
“Clare?” Russ sounded disoriented, like someone calling for a light in a suddenly dark room.
It took her several long strides to catch up. “I’ll be here when you get out,” she said.
They exited the emergency room through a side hall. “It’ll be a few more hours before he’ll be able to see anybody,” Dr. Stillman said. He brought the bed to a stop in front of a pair of elevators. “I’m not sure what room he’s being admitted to.”
The elevator doors opened. Russ caught at her hand, squeezed it tightly, let go. Stillman trundled him into the freight-sized elevator.
“I’ll be here,” she said again.
Russ reached toward her, his arm stretching, his hand outflung as if he could pull her through the elevator doors and take her with him. His eyes were dilated black with the painkillers pumping through him, and even though she knew it was just the drugs, she had to stand for a long time, staring into her scratched and blurry reflection, after the stainless-steel doors closed on his final words: “I’m still holding on. Not letting go.”
Chapter 22
Friday, April 16, 1937
Harry McNeil was just picking up his lunch at the Rexall’s soda counter when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned, and was surprised to see Niels Madsen.
“I’ve been looking for you,” the attorney said.
Harry held out his hand. “And you found me.” They shook. He turned back to the counter, where the jerk was wrapping his ham-and-swiss. “You could have just called my office.”
“You’re never in your office,” Niels said, in a faintly accusing voice.
The jerk stuffed a small container of cole slaw and a paper napkin into the bag. “You want a pickle with that?” he asked. Harry shook his head. “Two bits,” the jerk said. Harry fished the coins out of his pocket and handed them over.
“I’m never there because very little crime happens in my office,” Harry said, picking up the conversation. “It’s good for the citizens of the town to see their police chief out and about.” He grinned. “And I get antsy if I’m cooped up too long.” He glanced at the lunch counter, its row of seats fully occupied. “Let’s go across the street and sit in the park.”
“It’s too cold to sit in the park,” Niels said, although he followed Harry out of the store. Harry didn’t see what the lawyer had to complain about-his long woolen coat looked far more substantial than Harry’s own police-issue jacket, which hadn’t been replaced in over eight years. He paused at the curb, looked both ways, and then jaywalked across Church Street toward the park.
Despite the early-April chill, Harry wasn’t the only person to have thought of an open-air lunch. The benches were filled with people eating, talking, sitting with their faces turned up, starved for the spring sun after the long winter. “How ’bout over there?” he said, pointing to a bench beneath an enormous old elm. It faced St. Alban’s, the age of the tree gently reproaching the church’s fake-medieval front. “Nobody’s sitting there.”
“That’s because it’s in the shade,” Niels said.
Harry ignored him and sat down. He took the paper napkin out of the sack and spread it over his knees. Niels grunted as he joined him. Harry removed the sandwich and unwrapped it, careful to not let any of the lettuce fall out. “So what’s up?” he asked.
Niels shifted on the bench. “How are your kids?” he said.
“Fine,” Harry said. “And yours?”
“Fine,” Niels said. “How’re things at the station?”
“Great,” Harry said. “And at the law firm?” He bit into his sandwich, closing his eyes for a second at the harsh tang of the mustard.