Family Practice (13 page)

“Weather like this has everybody worried. Funnel clouds have touched down all around us. We're all wondering if we're going to be next.”

“Don't even think it.” Oh, Christ, that would really test her mettle as chief. In her year and a half in Kansas, she'd yet to see a tornado, but she'd seen the devastation they left in their wake in nearby areas, and experienced top-notch anxiety what with tornado watch, tornado warning, and tornado alert, which was when the sirens went off. One thing about earthquakes, there wasn't all that buildup. “Tell me about August Barrington.”

“August,” he said thoughtfully. George Halpern was invaluable; she'd never have survived as police chief without him. Invariably polite, invariably kind, with a large capacity for acceptance, he was what parents had in mind when they told their children, “If you're in trouble, go to a policeman.”

Dropping his pen on the desk, he took off his wire-rimmed glasses and polished them with a handkerchief. “August was a very nice man.” He put his glasses back on, folded his hands across his comfortable mid-section, and regarded Susan with mild blue eyes. “Let me think. I know he was born in Kyane. That little town doesn't even exist anymore. It had about a hundred souls, and then people started moving away, dying of old age. The final blow was losing the post office. When that closed they weren't, anymore, listed on maps.”

“George, you think we might move along a little here?”

“Now, Susan, you have to learn not to be always so much in a hurry. A good small-town cop needs to know all this local history.”

“Right. Another time. Let's get along to August, successful painter.”

“There are those who say painting saved his life. He was one of them. It was right sad. Highly intelligent man. Studied architecture. Won all sorts of recognition as a student. Long about that time was when he married Lydia. You know about her? Doctor. Greatly loved by the community.”

A clap of thunder rattled the building. She jumped.

“Five children,” George said. “But August's troubles, I believe, started early. Very shameful back then. Mental illness, poor soul. Depression. Serious depression to the point where he couldn't even move. Give her credit; Lydia hung in there with him. It couldn't have been easy. She was a proud woman. Always kept her head high and pretended to the world everything was fine. In and out of mental hospitals, August was. That was back in the days of shock treatments. Several attempts at suicide. Heavy doses of medicine. The whole thing. All very grim.”

Rain lashed against the window, sounding like rifle fire.

George leaned forward, rested his elbows on the desk, and spoke louder to be heard over the noise. “That the sort of thing you want to know? He died thirteen, fourteen years ago, as I recall. Does this have anything to do with Dorothy's murder?”

“I don't know. I'm just filling in background. Being a good small-town cop.”

“We need to get cracking on this, Susan. The Barringtons are important people here. Especially Dorothy. Head of a prominent family. Already the mayor's been on the phone demanding an immediate arrest.”

“Tell me about it.” She grimaced.

“Uh oh.” He jumped up and dashed out.

Susan turned around to see what the problem was. Water poured in under the closed window, spilled over the sill, and ran down to soak into the carpet, an icky brown color.

George came back with a bucket, a mop, a roll of paper towels, and an armful of rags. He handed her a rag. She knelt to soak up water.

“Genetics is a funny thing.” He stuffed rags along the sill. “Every one of those Barrington children looked like their mother: blond hair, blue eyes, fair skin. The family resemblance is strong. Then along comes the youngest. Way past the time, I expect, when Lydia thought she was done with all that. And here's Ellen looking just like her father. Dark hair, dark eyes, kind of intense. It worried Lydia something fierce. She was always watching that one with a hawk eye, checking for signs of her father's mental illness.”

“And did Ellen ever display any?” Susan grabbed sopping rags one at a time from the sill, wrung them out over the bucket, and replaced them.

“Not that I ever heard. Poor kid. But then the Barringtons would have kept that real far under wraps. She did give them trouble, but not that kind.”

“What kind?” Jesus, this rain wasn't falling, it was horizontal.

“Not our kind either. She was always just a defiant little thing. Never loud or rowdy or scrappy, just obstinate and planted like a rock when she didn't want to move.” He plied the mop against the indoor-outdoor type carpeting and squeezed it over the bucket.

“Dorothy never had any children of her own.”

“That she didn't. Maybe didn't want any. After her mother died, she was left in charge. Strong woman, Lydia, and Dorothy was just like her. Took care of the four younger siblings, saw they got educated. Even after they all grew up, she thought they still needed looking after. And like her mother, she worried about that youngest. Ellen just didn't fit in with the rest of them. Never did what she was told. Carl was a little bit that way too.”

“He went to medical school, ended up working at the clinic.” The rain was winning; the puddle on the carpet kept growing.

“He did that, finally came through like he was supposed to, but there were times when she would tear her hair about him. One time when he was in high school, he and a friend set off to join the Marines.”

“What happened?”

“Dorothy sent somebody after them and brought them home. I don't really believe he meant to do it. I think Carl just wanted to rattle her. She kept too firm a hand on him. He was a wild driver, speeding and reckless. Parties when he was at school. He was too smart, was his problem. Never had to work to learn anything. Graduated high school at fifteen and college at eighteen. Sailed right through medical school with honors. Not like Willis. Willis always had to bend his mind and labor away.” George left to empty the bucket.

“What about Marlitta?” she asked when he returned.

“No trouble with her. She did what she was told, no argument, never got out of line.”

Maybe there were advantages to being an only child, Susan thought, although as a kid she'd felt deprived and longed for an older sister. Her best friend in first grade was always talking about “my sister, Sybil.” Susan, intensely jealous, had made up a sister just so she could say “my sister, Jacqueline.” She'd thought Jacqueline a much prettier name than Sybil.

When the rain slacked off, at least started coming down instead of coming in, she went back to her own office. She turned on the desk lamp, edged aside the three piles of messages—first stack, important; center, not important but better get to right away; third, no importance at all but get around to when time permitted—and found what she was searching for.

Ballistics had come through on the slugs. A match. No surprise. The bullet from Jen's heart and the one that had killed Dorothy had been fired from the same weapon.

She picked up the phone and asked Osey to come to her office.

A moment later, he ambled in. “Ma'am?”

“Any luck with Dorothy's neighbors?”

He folded himself into the armchair with a series of uncoordinated jerks. “Found out a little. Doesn't amount to much. Dorothy went over to the Coffee Cup Café, walked over, appears like. They were real busy at noon. People nodded hello and not much else. She got a chicken sandwich and took it with her, stopped by the door outside, and got a newspaper from the box.”

Osey raked straw-colored hair off his forehead. “There was a gardener working across the street from the house. He saw her drive in sometime midday. He couldn't give me any time closer than that. Said Dorothy was in the house maybe twenty-five, thirty minutes and then drove away again.”

So. Dorothy took her salad and paper into the park, sat on a bench, read as she ate. Found the bit about the painting and scooted off home. Why home? Talk to her husband? Then she stalked into Meer's gallery and demanded to see her father's painting. Went back to the medical office and made phone calls to all her siblings. Why did she call them?

Mentally, Susan heard her former boss in San Francisco accuse her of speculating ahead of the evidence.

“What about Taylor?” she asked. “Anybody see him yesterday?”

“Two car dealers. Haven't found anybody so far who saw him at home around the right time. Pretty much run out of people to ask.”

She opened Dorothy's newspaper out on the desk, turned it around, and tapped the filler about the painting with an index finger. Osey unfolded himself and bent over to read it. He looked up at her.

“Get onto the
Kansas City Star,
” she said. “Find out who wrote this and where the information came from. Get names, who sold and who bought.”

“I'll do it.” He straightened up and waited with an inquiring look.

“That's all.”

He nodded and ambled out. The phone rang and she picked it up.

“Brookvale Hospital just called,” Hazel said.

*   *   *

Not bothering with the elevator, Susan raced up the stairs to ICU. The very air seemed bubbly with jubilation. Dr. Sheffield, wearing scrub greens, stood at the nurses' station making a notation on a chart. He caught sight of her, slid the chart back into place, and gave her a dazzling smile.

“We are all walking around three inches off the floor,” he said. He seemed set to leap in the air and click his heels.

“What happened?”

He looked at his watch. “Forty-three minutes ago that incredible little girl opened her eyes and looked around.”

Susan felt like she'd been kicked in the stomach; she couldn't get air in her lungs.

“By God, let's hear it for modern medicine. The system worked. Everybody knew his job and did it without fumbling. They were right there. They came through.” In dry medical terms, he laid out physiological details of why everything had worked.

He shook his head. “Oh, Jesus. This is sweet. A miracle.” He grinned at her. “The truth is probably closer to a whole lot of luck. And timing. And aggressive paramedics. Minor evidence like no heartbeat and no respiration didn't slow them down.”

Susan's heart was beating so loudly she almost couldn't hear him. “Jen's going to be all right?”

“Oh, well,” his voice dropped into professional caution. “She is still a very sick little girl. And she's got a long way to go.”

The grin broke out again. “Oh, sweet Jesus.” He made a wide half-circle with his thumb and middle finger and gazed at them. “I had my fingers plugging holes in her heart.” He looked at Susan, shook his head. “A goddamn miracle.”

She felt a grin stretch across her own face. “I have to see her.”

Abruptly, he gathered up the shreds of professional demeanor. “Oh, hey, you can't subject her to any kind of questioning. I meant it when I said she's still critical.”

“Yes.”

He crossed his arms and looked at her. “I'll give you two minutes.”

She nodded.

“I will be there, and when I say no more, that's it.”

“Yes.”

Jen looked pretty much as she had when Susan last saw her: face splotchy-red, lying perfectly still, eyes closed, tubes and wires snaking around her, monitor bleeping and flickering. Except her thin chest rose and fell on its own. No hiss of the respirator.

Susan crept slowly to the railed bed, lump in her throat the size of a melon. “Jen?” she said softly.

Jen's eyes opened, those unusual yellow-green eyes, sleepy and unfocused.

Suddenly realizing her chest was aching for air, Susan took a breath. “Hi, kiddo.”

“… Susan…?” Jen's voice was hoarse and so faint Susan had to lean close to hear her.

She picked up Jen's hand and closed both of hers around it. “You are some fantastic kid. You know that?”

Jen moved her head, eyes drifting to Dr. Sheffield over Susan's shoulder.

“You're lots better.”

The monitor bleeped and spiked. Dr. Sheffield watched it closely.

“… don't…”

“I'm proud of you.”

“… was?” Jen's eyelids fluttered closed.

“We're going to the ballet. Soon.

“… black … black … can't … remember…”

Dr. Sheffield touched Susan's elbow and shook his head. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

Susan nodded. “You're doing just great,” she murmured to Jen, and gently squeezed her hand. “I'm going to leave now. You get lots of rest. I'll be back later.”

She followed Adam Sheffield out to the corridor.

“The memory loss isn't unusual,” he said. “It often occurs after a severe trauma.”

“Yes.”

“And she's getting medication for pain. That adds to the fuzziness.”

“Yes.”

“It may all come back, or bits and pieces, or she may never remember.”

“Yes.”

She managed to hold it together until she got to the parking lot, then she lost it. Her legs felt rubbery; tears welled up and she couldn't see. After all the rain, the sun was dazzling. She found the pickup through a watery blur and bent her head against the side window. It felt hot.

The door handle burned her fingers when she opened it. She slid inside, found a tissue in her bag, and mopped her face. On the way back to the department, she had to stop twice; tears leaked all over, and she couldn't see where she was going.

She edged into a parking space and just sat there. Come on. Pull yourself together. Stiff upper lip. The show must go on. Hallelujah. Hallelujah. Oh, dear God.

She slid from the pickup, blouse sticking to her back.

“Susan?”

Her head snapped up; she turned and almost stumbled into Parkhurst. He put a hand on her elbow to steady her.

“You okay?”