“Relax. I’m just being cautious,” he told her.
“Cautious? A gun is cautious?” she persisted.
Hawk ignored the question. “In all likelihood, the worst that will happen is that we wake Molly up. It’ll be embarrassing, but that’s the chance we take. We’ve got to let her know about that underground plume. I hope to Christ she hasn’t actually signed anything. Although if she has, she can probably get the document declared void, on account of bad faith on the part of the sellers.”
Sally had to think about that. “Bad faith? Do you think the people Nattie and Dwayne are representing know about the contamination from the tie plant?”
A quick, sharp, sidewise glance: He was, thank God, keeping his eyes on the road. “Look—Marsh Carhart’s supposed to be such an expert on everything. Either he’s built his rep as a brilliant ecologist on the same kind of bullshit science as his hogwash about rape, or he’s not quite that dumb and he’s all too well aware of what’s seeping down from upstream, but for his own corrupt reasons is pretending that the swap site is clean. Think about it. It took you and me exactly two days to dig up the information on the tie plant. He’s supposedly been studying the site for weeks, at the least. Is it even remotely possible he wouldn’t have spotted the problem?”
“He’s not a geologist or a historian,” Sally said. “And after all, his consultant on the human factor side of things is Sheldon. That alone would be enough to paralyze any possibility of knowing what the hell’s going on.”
Hawk couldn’t help chuckling. The mention of Sheldon did that to him. “Well, even with the considerable handicap of Sheldon, my money’s on Carhart orchestrating, or at least being involved in a cover-up.”
Sally looked at him. “But he saw you up at Happy Jack. And Sheldon followed me to the library, so they know we’re on to them. Do you think Marsh Carhart would follow us out here and try to stop us from talking to Molly?”
Hawk shrugged. “Who knows? One way or another, we’ve got to go tell her what we know. Either Molly’s made her decision and signed off and we can’t change her mind, or she hasn’t, and Dwayne and them are jumping the gun before the paperwork’s done, in which case we have a chance.” He paused. “Just for the record, I don’t mind at all getting you the hell out of town tonight. I don’t like the way guys have been leaping out at you all week long.”
She looked, again, at the backpack between them. “That’s why you wanted a gun. You’re worried that whoever’s been following me, still is. You’ve decided I need a bodyguard.”
“No. You need a keeper,” he grumbled, standing on the accelerator and sending the car into a fit of Jesus shakes.
This, from a man who ordinarily drove with such maddening care that it made her think of rocking chairs and shuffleboard courts. “Please recall that you are driving my 1964 Mustang,” she told him.
“Ninteen sixty-four and a half,” he replied primly.
“Exactly. I want you to know that if you wreck this thing, and we end up as hamburger all over the highway, I will personally hunt you down, in heaven or hell or whatever rodent body you’ve been reincarnated into, and kill you all over again.”
He flashed a grin. “This was supposed to be our romantic night. Sorry, baby.”
Sally leaned back in her bucket seat, closed her eyes, and sighed. “Well, at least we had a couple of good steaks.”
Hawk backed off the pedal, slowing the car to a manageably maniacal speed. High above, the sky was black and very clear, and this far from the lights of town, a million stars shone bright. He eased out a hand and stroked down the front of her body, chin to inside of her thigh. “The night is young.”
For a time they drove on in silence. At last Sally said, “I wonder where Bone was today?”
Hawk grimaced. “No doubt pursuing his own inquiries in his engaging way,” he said.
She took a breath. “You know, it’s occurred to me that he knows who pushed me into the bucking chute.”
“I thought he asked you who’d shoved you,” Hawk said.
“Not exactly. He asked me if I knew anything about who had. As Bone himself pointed out to me, he’s spent his share of time conversing with the cops. He’s a maggot, but he’s not stupid, and he knows a thing or two about getting information without giving any. The main thing he learned from our little encounter yesterday morning was that I didn’t know anything he hadn’t already found out. And the main thing I learned was that he thought Monette was blackmailing someone, and that he’s looking for ‘payback.’ Whatever that means— maybe money. Maybe revenge.”
“Maybe both,” said Hawk, looking at the bruise on Sally’s arm, the souvenir of her morning in the park with Bone. “Why not? You know, honey, I’ll be just as glad if you don’t run into him again. He’s got his own agenda, he appears to be loaded most of the time, and I don’t think he’d take kindly to anybody getting in his way. I think it’s time we left the murder to the cops. You don’t need to treat this as your own personal crusade on behalf of all honky-tonk angels, retired and active.”
Hawk had a point. And for now, anyway, they were headed in another direction. The Mustang fairly flew down the dirt driveway to Wood’s Hole. Molly’s Expedition was parked in the turnaround, and next to it a late-model, dark green sedan with Colorado plates: rental car. A few lights were on in the house. Hawk slung his daypack over his shoulder.
“Easy, big guy,” Sally said to him. “If somebody besides Molly answers, what are you going to tell them?”
“Oh boy, glad you thought of that,” he said. “We do need a cover story. I can just say I’m a friend who got worried when she didn’t respond to any of my phone messages.” With that he was out of the car and on the way to the front door. As cover stories went, Hawk’s was at least a marvel of simplicity.
Sally caught up with him as a woman opened the door only as far as a chain lock permitted. She was about the same age as Sally and Hawk, petite, dark-haired. Her fierce, penetrating blue eyes told the rest of the story. Obviously this was Molly’s daughter, Alice Wood, and she was clearly wondering what the hell two strangers were doing coming to her door, way out in the country, after ten o’clock on a Friday night. “Yes?” she said.
“I’m Josiah Green,” Hawk told her, his voice muted, “I’m a geology professor at the university, a friend of Molly’s. I’ve been trying to get in touch with her for a couple of days. When she didn’t return my calls, I started to worry, and thought I’d better come see if she was okay. This is my friend, Sally Alder.”
“Oh,” said Alice. “You’re the one who’s been leaving the phone messages.” She shut the door, and they heard her take off the chain. She introduced herself. “Come in. I’m sorry, my mother isn’t here. There’s been an accident.”
“Oh no!” Sally said. “I hope it’s nothing serious.”
“Too soon to tell,” Alice answered, a little abruptly for Sally’s taste. “I came into town yesterday—we have some pressing family business. And this afternoon my mother fell and broke her ankle. I took her to the hospital in Laramie. The doctors are doing tests. There’s some fear that she might have had a stroke.”
“A stroke? Why would they think that?” Sally asked. “It’s a pretty common cause of falls in older people. My mother likes to think she’s immortal, but none of us is,” Alice explained.
“So is she having trouble moving or speaking?” Hawk inquired.
“Obviously she’s not moving very well, with a broken ankle,” Alice said, “but I’m afraid it would take more than a small stroke to prevent my mother from speaking.”
“I guess that’s reassuring, but I’m so sorry,” said Hawk. “Is there anything we can do?”
“Not at this point,” said Alice. “They’ve made her as comfortable as possible, and we did, thank God, manage to get her a private room. I’ve been there most of the day, and my brother will be here tomorrow. We’ll get by.”
Why did Sally have the distinct feeling that Alice viewed her mother�
��s medical problem as an inconvenience, rather than a personal and emotional trauma? “Is she conscious?” Sally asked.
Alice snorted. “She wants to be running the show. I’m sure she’s in a lot of pain, but she won’t let them give her anything. I’ve tried to convince her to take something, but she won’t listen to me—never has.” Alice shook her head, then looked at the ceiling, then sighed, shoulders heaving. “It’s been an exhausting day, but there’s nothing more to do, so I thought I’d come out here, catch some sleep, and pack up some of her things to take back in the morning.”
Alice looked worn down, no doubt about it. But Sally knew that if it was her own mother lying in a hospital bed in agony, she sure wouldn’t be way out at the ranch, complaining. She’d be sitting in a chair in the room, bothering the nurses for ice packs at the very least (and probably hassling Molly, as Alice evidently had, to quit being such a hero and take some painkillers).
“Listen,” said Hawk. “We’d like to send her some flowers . . .”
Flowers! Sally’s eyebrows went up. Hawk didn’t send flowers. The thought just didn’t occur to him. He installed computer software, changed her oil, surprised her, on special occasions, with things that made her life easier, and she’d even managed to persuade him that gifts of jewelry were never a bad idea. But not flowers. She’d hinted, tried the ploy of sending him flowers, even harangued him outright, but it didn’t do a damn bit of good.
He tossed her a silencing look. “. . . and maybe we could visit Molly later in the week if she has to stay there,” he continued. “Can you give us her room number?”
“Three twenty-eight,” said Alice. “As I said, it’s one of the few private rooms in that little motel you people call a hospital.” And then she hesitated. “Say, Josiah. How do you happen to know my mother anyway?”
“Birdwatching,” he answered smoothly. “We share an appreciation of avocets.”
An appreciation of avocets. Great. What next, a suspicion of sapsuckers?
But Alice wasn’t paying attention. “Oh,” she said dully, and then yawned. “Listen, I really need to get some sleep.”
“Of course!” Sally exclaimed. “We’re sorry we bothered you. But please don’t hesitate to call if there’s anything we can do to help.”
“Yeah, sure,” Alice said, all but pushing them out the door, shutting it quickly behind them.
“She didn’t even take our number!” Sally huffed as Hawk started the car.
“She has absolutely no interest in us, or anything about her mother’s life. She acted like Molly was nothing but a hassle for her. If it were my mother who’d had a stroke . . .” said Hawk.
“I know. Me too. I’d be down there drinking crummy coffee and screaming at the nurses. You’re right. Alice wasn’t showing a whole lot of what I’d call family feeling. Maybe the brother will be better,” Sally tried.
“I hope so,” Hawk said, and fell silent. They were both pretty beat; they both knew it. But then, finally, he asked, “How would you feel about going to the hospital, right now, just to check on her?”
Tenderness for him spread warmth and new energy from her head to her toes. “I would feel,” she said, “like telling you how much I love you.”
It was closing in on midnight by the time they got to the Ivinson Memorial Hospital. Sally heard their heels clicking down the hallway, registered the bad lighting, the linoleum floors, the walls painted colors intended to cheer and soothe, overlaid with a grimy patina of sickness and worry and pain. Under ordinary circumstances Hawk set a comfortable walking pace, but tonight Sally was hustling to keep up. No one intercepted them to quibble about visiting hours. This was Wyoming.
Light and sound spilled into the dim hallway from room 328. Molly had her bed cranked up into a sitting position, her left foot propped up and swathed in a fiber-glass cast. Her skin looked papery, pale and thin, and her blue eyes glittered with the pain she evidently refused to mask. She was gripping a remote control and staring at a television mounted high on the wall. David Letterman was laughing at one of his own jokes, but Molly’s mouth was grim.
Until she realized that they’d come into the room. Then shock replaced discomfort and determination. Her eyes went wide and her mouth formed an O. “What in the world are you two doing here in the middle of the night?” she asked.
No slurred speech. No evidence that she was confused, no sign of change in the muscles of her handsome, tense face. Molly Wood wasn’t showing any of the common signs of stroke. Thank God.
“We heard that you were in here and came to see how you were doing,” said Hawk. “If you’d been asleep, we’d have come back in the morning.”
“Sleep! With an ankle that feels like it’s on fire, I hardly think sleep is a possibility,” she snapped.
Amazingly, Hawk laughed. Molly glared. “I’m sorry, I’m not laughing at your affliction, believe me,” he said. “But your daughter told us that you might have had a stroke, and from what I see, you’re sharp as a tack and mad as hell. I find that reassuring, Molly.”
“Perhaps you’d like to share your opinions with my doctor. The fool is putting me through all sorts of ridiculous tests. It seems my age is justification enough for assuming that my brain is going haywire and my body is breaking down.”
“I’m sure they just want to be careful,” said Sally. “Preventive medicine.”
Molly offered up a withering stare. “That is the purest horse manure,” she said. “When they X-rayed my ankle, they diagnosed the only thing wrong with me. I did not have a stroke. I was carrying a basket of laundry across the living room to the dining room to fold the clothes. I keep a tidy house, and I’m accustomed to everything being in its place. My daughter, Alice, left her laptop and briefcase in the middle of the floor, and I couldn’t see them over the laundry basket. I fell. That’s the whole story.”
Hawk gave Molly a long look, and at last, to Sally’s astonishment, took Molly’s hand. “If that’s it, and you don’t have any obvious symptoms of stroke, why all the alarm?”
Molly grimaced, reminding them that she was suffering. “Alice has been insistent that they consider all possibilities. And the doctors are, as always, cautious. I don’t blame them, but I rather wish they weren’t quite so concerned that I might sue them somewhere down the line.”
Alice had insisted. It occurred to Sally that the doctors might not be the only ones thinking in legal terms. Hawk shot her a glance that told her he’d had the same idea. “Maybe you should think about letting them give you something for that ankle. Wouldn’t hurt you to sleep, Molly,” Hawk said.
She took a moment to answer. “Josiah,” she said, “I’m not opposed to painkillers. But I don’t want to take anything that could interfere with my judgment just now. I have to be able to think clearly, as you’re aware. The future of my ranch, and of my family, depends on it.”
Molly lay her head back on the pillows. “I am worn out, and I wish this thing didn’t hurt so damn much.”
It was hard to see her like that, aching, spent, aging by the minute. “Your judgment can wait until morning,” said Sally. “Couldn’t you just try to get some sleep tonight?”
A glint of tears flickered in the blue eyes, but her words were cool and even. “I don’t think you quite understand the pressure I’m under,” Molly told them. “Alice has been badgering me constantly for the last two days. My son, Philip, will be here in the morning. So will Nattie and Dwayne, and Alice is coming back, of course.” Molly paused for a breath. “I’ve agreed in principle to the land swap.”
“You haven’t signed anything yet, have you?” Hawk asked.
“They’re bringing the papers here tomorrow. I have to think about my grandchildren,” she explained.
“Molly,” Sally said, “we’ve found some information that could change your mind. Hawk—um, Josiah—will fill you in. It won’t take long. Listen to what he has to say. I promise you, we have nothing to gain or lose personally from whatever you decide, but we do care about you.
And then, if you want, we’ll stay here with you tonight. After a while you could let them give you a shot and try to get a little rest.”
Maybe they’d caught her at the point of utter exhaustion. Maybe, since they’d shown up at midnight, and she was alone and hurting, she’d decided to trust them. “As long as I don’t have to talk,” she said, closing her eyes a little too tightly.
So Hawk told the tale to the tired, gritty ranchwoman. When he finished, he asked if Molly understood what it all meant, and she nodded. “I’ll have to think about it,” she said. “I want to sleep.”
Sally found a nurse, who arrived, presently, with a hypodermic. And then, in the dark and on into the dawn, they sat by the bed. Molly slept fitfully, reaching out, in wakeful moments, for a hand. Hawk never moved from her side.
Saturday
Chapter 24
Message in a Bottle
At six A.M. a nurse came to take Molly’s vital signs, and woke them all up. Sally had conked out in the chair in the room, a piece of furniture upholstered in avocado-green vinyl, a material engineered to stick to human flesh. The chair had proven not to be Posturepedic. Her back hurt, her knees ached, and every muscle in her neck and shoulders was knotted up dense as rock.
As she pried her eyes open, she saw Hawk raise his head from the edge of the bed and blink. He wore his glasses slightly askew—he hadn’t meant to fall asleep. Now he took them off, rubbed his eyes and the bridge of his nose, wagged his head to loosen up his own neck.
Sally had done her share of all-nighters over the years, not a few during the high times of Jubilee Days. This was the first Jubilee Night she’d pulled in a hospital. Let the good times roll.
She caught Molly surveying Hawk with a hint of a fond smile on her face, but the minute Molly saw Sally looking at her, she replaced affection with dignity, as if she always woke up in hospital beds, in command.
Bad Company Page 26
