“I think he just might drop dead right there,” I said.
“We better get a doctor,” Dooley said.
And so we hurried back to the house, in search of Odelia, or Marge or anyone who could get Mr. Carrington some much-needed medical attention. Fortunately for him, we soon managed to collar Marge, and she came hurrying with us to where we’d last left the older man. He was sitting on the ground now, sort of slumped to his side, his back leaning against the wreck of his boy’s car, and looking like death warmed over.
“Mr. Carrington?” asked Marge, leaning over him. “Are you all right, sir?”
“Pain… chest…” the man croaked quietly.
Marge grabbed for the man’s pulse, but clearly it wasn’t what it should be, for she shook her head, then took out her phone to call an ambulance. Ten minutes later the ambulance arrived, and two paramedics were soon taking care of the unfortunate man, loading him up onto a stretcher, and then carting him off to the hospital.
“Good thing you called us, ma’am,” said one of the paramedics before hopping into the ambulance. “He’s not in great shape.”
And then they were off, sirens screaming, as is their wont.
“It’s actually you Mr. Carrington needs to thank,” said Marge, referring to Dooley and myself. “If you hadn’t called me out here…” She glanced around. “What was he doing here anyway?”
“He was arguing with a man named Jessie,” I said. “Accusing him of organizing the street race that killed his son. And also accusing him of digging up his son’s body.”
“There was a lot of shouting, Marge,” Dooley said. “Mr. Carrington doesn’t like Jessie.”
“Yeah, and then Jessie walked away, and Mr. Carrington slumped against the car.”
“His heart, I think,” said Marge. “I’m not a nurse, but his pulse was very weak.” She shook her head. “Poor man. I don’t think he ever got over the death of his son.”
“What about his wife? Is she still alive?” I asked.
“No, Alexis died when Steven was an infant,” said Marge. “Blake raised Steven and his sister Fallon and older brother Adam all by himself, and from all accounts father and son were very close—so close they were more like friends than father and son. But then Blake married his secretary Krystle, and that caused the boy to rebel. The car crash obviously came as a big shock to Blake, and I think he never fully recovered. He started to drink heavily, and then when Krystle left him things really went downhill for the poor man.”
“Is it true that the crash happened here?” I asked, nodding in the direction of the car wreck.
“Yeah, they’d been organizing street races for a couple of weeks, and the police were onto them, so that night they decided to take their race to this field—at the time the grass wasn’t as high as this. The farmer who owned it at the time had just harvested his crop of potatoes and the field was pretty rough. Steven’s car must have hit a rut or a hole and was catapulted into the air, turning over several times before crashing down and catching fire. And then before anyone could get the boy out, the fuel tank exploded and it was all over. Blake bought the field, wanting it to stay exactly like it was on the night Steven died. But of course nature takes its course, and now it looks like this—a jungle.”
“That’s really creepy, Marge,” said Dooley.
Marge smiled.“Yes, I guess it is a little creepy. But of course Steven’s body was removed after the crash, and in fact the only thing that still remains of what happened that night is this car wreck.”
“And now the bones,” I said.
“So were those Steven’s bones?” asked Dooley.
“I probably should ask you guys—you’re usually better informed than me when it comes to that sort of thing.”
“Not this time,” I said.
“No, we were busy looking for Angel—the girl who was abducted by aliens,” Dooley explained.
Marge’s smile dimmed. “Yes, terrible business, that. I can’t even begin to think what her poor mother must be going through. I should probably give her a call.”
“And Father Reilly, her poor father,” said Dooley before I could stop him.
Marge frowned.“Francis is Angel’s father? Are you sure?”
“Oh, yes. Shanille told us all about it. Father Reilly is Angel’s dad, only he can’t come out and say so because his church won’t allow it, and when they find out they’ll kick him out.”
Marge had brought a distraught hand to her face.“Oh, dear,” were her only words, but that was plenty to show us how greatly the news had affected her.
17
Alec Lip hurried into the hospital. His sister had called him with the news that Blake Carrington had suffered some kind of episode, and as the Chief was cursing under his breath, he hastened past the reception desk, then accosted the first person who looked like they worked at the hospital and demanded,“Blake Carrington. What room is he in?”
“I’m sorry, sir,” said the woman. “But you’ll have to ask at reception.”
Alec wildly wheeled around, then finally clapped eyes on the desk and saw that a line of five people had formed. Instead of practicing restraint, he elbowed his way to the front of the line and flashed his badge.“What room is Blake Carrington in?”
“Sir, you’re being very rude,” said the receptionist.
“Police emergency,” he practically barked, before realizing that he was behaving much like a bull in a China shop. So he repeated in more dulcet tones, “I really need to see Blake Carrington. Can you please tell me what room he’s in?”
The receptionist still didn’t seem all that eager to accommodate him, but finally consulted her computer and said, “Seven-thirteen. Walk down this corridor, then take the elevator to the seventh floor and—”
But he was already hurrying away, muttering an apology to the lady first in line, who was eyeing him as if he had personally assaulted her.
He was sweating profusely at this juncture, and cursed the fact that he hadn’t interviewed Blake sooner. Now he might die and he’d never be any the wiser!
He stabbed the elevator button several times until the doors finally closed with agonizing sluggishness, but not before a wizened smallish man with a wide smile on his face pushed them open again and inexorably wormed his way in.“Nice day, isn’t it, sir?” wheezed the man, who must have been at least a hundred if a day.
“What floor?” asked Alec.
“What did you say?” asked the man.
“What floor?” asked Alec, a little louder this time.
“I didn’t get that,” said the man. “Speak up, son.”
“What floor!” Alec practically bellowed this time.
The man’s smile vanished. “No need to shout, sir. I’m not deaf, you know.” And as he regarded Alec balefully, he pressed the button for the first floor, then changed his mind and pressed the button for the second floor, then, since you can never get enough of a good thing, proceeded to press the button for floors three, four, five and six. He gave a grunt of satisfaction for a job well done and declared, rather mystifyingly, “I’ll know it when I see it,” and rocked back on his heels, nearly keeling over as the elevator took off.
And so it was with a delay of perhaps fifteen minutes that Alec finally arrived at room seven-thirteen, and entered. He didn’t know what he’d expected, but the sight of Blake Carrington, hooked up to all kinds of tubes and wires, managed to give him a minor shock. A nurse was checking something, and looked up when he entered. “Is he conscious?” asked Alec, panting from the exertion of getting from point A to point B.
“He is,” said the nurse. “Are you family?”
“No, police,” he said, and flashed his badge for good measure, earning himself a scowl.
“He’s very weak,” the nurse said censoriously. “So whatever you say, keep it brief and don’t upset him.”
“Fine,” he said, holding up his hand in a sign of acknowledgment. Then he pulled up a chair, turned it around and plunked himself down, his meaty arms on the backrest.