“Could be. But they checked the pond.”
“That's what I was thinking. Holister and I talked about that. The water wouldn't have been that deep here. How'd they miss him?”
“Hard to say. The report should name the divers. If they're still around, I'll talk to them and find out. Then again, maybe the skeleton isn't Tito Cordova. Maybe it wasn't here when the divers went in,” Hogue said. “Looks like I'm going to need a forensics team out here to find out for sure.” He turned away from the bones and walked back over to the .38. “How about you, McManus? Did you get a shot off?”
Jordan stood up. “I told you, I unloaded three magazines.”
Hogue nodded. “Let me see your weapon.”
Jordan hesitated, then placed the Glock in Hogue's puffy right hand.
“If you don't mind, I think I'll hold onto this,” the sheriff said.
“Excuse me?”
“I'm going to hold onto it until we get the ballistics back. It looked liked Holister was shot more than once.”
Jordan could barely breathe; he felt trapped. “Are you accusing me of shooting Holister?”
“No offense, McManus, but it was just you and him out here. I don't see any sign of your shooter. I got boys crawling all over this place. Maybe we'll find something, maybe we won't. Ballistics will tell the story about your weapon. Hard to say whether I'm accusing you of anything or not. So, let's just call it procedure.”
“Why in the hell would I shoot him?”
Jordan wasn't sure if Hogue was trying to intimidate him or humiliate him. There was no better way to degrade a cop than take his gun from him. And to make things worse, make him a person of interest or a suspect in the shooting of another cop.
“I don't know, McManus, why don't you tell me? I'm just considering all the possibilities, just doing my job. This whole situation seems a little fishy to me.”
“And I was just doing mine,” Jordan said, his voice rising. “This is the craziest fucking thing I've heard all day. Damn it, like I'd have a reason to shoot Holister Coggins?”
“Are you sure you've told me everything?”
Jordan hesitated. He was about to lie, about to break another rule, and he didn't like it, but felt like he had no choice now. If Hogue was going to make him a suspect the letter could help clear him—but something told Jordan the sheriff wasn't going to budge, letter or no letter. The letter might not have cleared him of any suspicion with the angle Hogue was taking. He could easily say Jordan had written it as much as anyone else—there was no proof otherwise. Along with ballistics, there'd be a handwriting expert involved. Besides . . . Holister had given him the letter. Hogue was an outsider. An outsider that Jordan didn't trust, at the moment.
“Yes,” Jordan said.
“Well I'm sorry, McManus, that's the way it's going to be. The gun's going in for ballistics testing. I'll inform the proper people in Dukaine about my decision, and it'll be up to them what to do with you from there. From the looks of that arm you're going to have a few days off anyway. Maybe by then, this will be all cleared up.”
“What the hell did I do? Shoot myself to make it look good? That's stretching it a little bit, don't you think?”
“I thought about that. But it's a flesh wound. Could have happened a million different ways other than the story you gave me. I have to look at all of the possibilities, McManus. I'm sorry if you don't agree with my methods, but I quit believing in stories a long time ago. I need evidence. Cold, hard evidence. Can you prove to me that the blood on your arm is a bullet wound?”
“No. You just have my word.”
“Well, that's not good enough today.”
Sam Peterson appeared at the foot of the path that led up to the parking lot. “Jordan, come on. We need to get you looked at.”
Jordan stared at Hogue. “I didn't shoot Holister, goddamn it.”
“Well, you don't have anything to worry about then, do you? Just make sure you stay close to town. I'll want to talk to you once the report comes back.”
Sam walked up next to Jordan. “Come on,” he said as he grabbed Jordan's good arm. Jordan pulled away and started to say something; he wanted to make his case against the shooting no matter what. But the world began to spin again, his head throbbed like a marching band was using it for drum practice, his fingers tingled, and everything went black.
CHAPTER 8
August 21, 2004, 11:55 P.M.
Luckily, the bullet had only torn flesh. A jagged cut just below Jordan's shoulder looked more like he'd been in a knife fight instead of being shot. The wound required eight stitches. Another inch or two and it would have entered and exited his arm, shredded his muscle or changed course, and done far more damage. It would have been easier to prove to Hogue that he wasn't responsible for the shooting if that had happened.
After a couple of hours in the ER, a pert little blonde nurse who didn't look old enough to be out of high school wheeled Jordan to a hospital room. He objected to being admitted, but the ER doctor insisted that he be held for observation because they couldn't stabilize his blood pressure, and every time he tried to stand up he almost passed out.
He hated hospitals, especially this hospital. It looked the same as it did the first time he remembered being taken there, when he was seven and broke his ankle when he fell out of the oak tree in Kitty's front yard. And again, after the car wreck, when he learned firsthand what it was like to lose someone he loved.
He kept arguing with the nurse, insisting he was fine, but all she did was smile, take his temperature, and give him a shot of Demerol. Five minutes after he disrobed and climbed into bed, he was fast asleep.
He woke up hungry and sore. His sleep was deep and without dreams or nightmares. But as he struggled to wake, the events of the day seemed foggy, and he had to question whether the shooting had actually happened or not. A touch to his arm told him all he needed to know. The world had done a flip-flop. Nightmares happened in broad daylight instead of in the lonely dark of night.
The hospital room was silent, lit only by the light that reached in under the closed door. He could hear distant muffled voices, someone padding by the door, a large air-conditioning unit humming on the roof. Jordan had no idea what time it was. He eased out of bed, grappling with the Houdini-inspired hospital gown.
The room's sole window overlooked the emergency room entrance. The parking lot was lit with towering incandescent lights that funneled a green diffused spectrum of light onto the asphalt. The bright white heat of the day had faded into a cover of solid blackness. A thin veil of vapor snaked up from the parking lot as the night air cooled and the humidity escaped into the air, casting long flittering shadows from the swarms of insects that attacked the lights.
“I can't stay here,” Jordan said.
He found his clothes in a closet next to the bathroom. His watch and wallet were in a plastic bag, his utility belt and police gear were lying on top of the pile.
It was almost midnight. The entire day had been lost, and he did not feel rested at all.
His thoughts turned to Holister as he noticed the blood on his shirt, wondered if he had survived, if the marshal was dead or alive. There were two things he knew he needed to do. The first was to check on Holister's condition, and the second was to get the hell out of the hospital as fast as he could.
He washed his face in the sterile bathroom, trying to get rid of the Demerol hangover. His arm was completely wrapped in bandages, and he was supposed to wear a sling, but the confinement was worse than the distant pain he felt when he moved the wrong way. As he got dressed, he tried to ignore the blood on his shirt, but couldn't. The itchy feel of his uniform brought the entire day back to him, almost taking him off his feet. He sat on the toilet, catching his breath, fighting away the tears as he relived the moment when Holister was shot. Anger welled up from deep inside him, surpassing his sadness so strongly that he just wanted to start yelling at the top of his lungs.
“Get a grip, man. Just get a grip,�
�� he said to himself, using his good arm to hoist himself up.
He tapped the pocket of his shirt, an unconscious reflex, feeling for a pack of cigarettes that wasn't there. Steadying himself along the wall as he went, he made his way to the phone to call the front desk.
A female operator answered the phone.
“I need to check on the condition of a patient,” Jordan said.
“Name?”
“Holister Coggins.”
“Are you a member of the family?”
The question took Jordan by surprise. “I work with him, he's my neighbor.”
“And your name?” the operator asked, cutting him off.
“I just want to check on his condition.”
“Your name, sir?”
“Jordan McManus.”
“Your name's not on the list, sir. I'm sorry, I can't give you that information.”
“Is he all right?”
“I'm sorry, sir, I can't give you that information.”
“Jesus Christ, is he dead or alive?”
The operator hesitated. “You'll need to call the family for that information, sir.”
“You can't even tell me if he's in the hospital or not?”
“No, sir, I can't.”
Jordan slammed down the phone.
He immediately picked the phone back up and dialed Holister's house, hoping Celeste would answer. It rang three times before he realized how late at night it was, and he hung up.
“Damn it, I gotta get out of here,” he said, sitting down on the edge of the bed. His first instinct was to call Monica, his ex-wife, but they hadn't spoken since the day their divorce was final. That life, that love, seemed like a bad memory hanging in the distance, a smoky haze of anger reignited by the spark of his own betrayal. Their marriage had started on rocky ground, Jordan rebounding from a broken heart after Ginny married Ed, and Monica anxious for love to fight her own demons. Looking back, Jordan was surprised the marriage had lasted as long as it had, seven years. But his stubborn streak and finish-what-you-start attitude kept him tied to the vows, even though it was obvious years before that neither of them could make each other happy. So he drank more, and she worked more. In the end, they had both simply married the wrong person.
The ghost of Ginny's love haunted Jordan every time he touched Monica. And Monica had physical and material needs that Jordan could never fulfill. She had ambitions that Jordan could never comprehend, and she was willing to do whatever it took to climb the ladders she'd put before herself. And there were no children in that plan.
Then he thought about calling Charlie Overdorf's younger sister, Lainie, who lately had been making a point to speak to him at softball games, wave whenever he slowed the police cruiser to a crawl in front of Miller's Grocery where she worked. Jordan was certain there was an attraction between them. Lainie was a tall brunette with perfect carved legs and a happy smile that made her hard not to notice. She had two young kids of her own, six- and seven-year-old boys, and had gone through a rough divorce herself. But he wasn't sure if he was ready to step into the shoes he would obviously be required to fill. Not yet, not this soon after his own divorce. Not with his feelings for Ginny alive and well, no matter how hopeless that might be. He wasn't going to use Lainie as a rebound—he thought too much of Charlie, of Lainie, to allow that to happen, so there was no way he was going to call her now.
After another second or two of thought, he called the only other person he could this late at night, and asked for a ride home.
He exhaled as he set the phone in its cradle. The drive from Dukaine to Morland, to the hospital, took about twenty minutes, but Jordan knew it would take his ride a little longer.
His mood was sour, made even more so by the fact that he couldn't find out about Holister. And it got worse when he went to gather up his utility belt and realized that his gun wasn't there. Jordan still could not believe Hogue thought he was a suspect, that he could be involved in the shooting.
He had no choice but to wait until the ballistics test came back. Surely the report would clear him, prove the bullets that took down Holister didn't come from his gun. And then, Jordan thought, I'll be on Hogue's doorstep demanding my weapon back with an apology wrapped around it for good measure.
Then what? he wondered. He had no idea where the investigation stood, where it was heading. There was a skeleton buried in Longer's Pond, and a shooter on the loose. It made sense to him that the two were related, they had to be. The letter Holister received was nothing but bait. If Holister was right, and the skeleton was truly Tito Cordova, then that was a place to start asking questions. But of who? Most people had either forgotten or buried the memory of Tito deep in the mud of their own past. Nobody would be comfortable answering questions about Tito. Jordan wasn't sure that he was.
He shook his head, made his way back to the window. Morland was only fifteen miles from Dukaine, but it seemed like a different world. There were three major factories, all serving the automobile industry. His grandfather, George, worked at the plant that made alternators for forty-four years, so Jordan had witnessed strikes, union walkouts, layoffs, as well as the good times when the factories could not produce enough alternators to fill the demand. Grandpa George always smelled like metal and oil.
Morland had changed since the days of Jordan's childhood. The Woolworth's store downtown had closed, along with most of the businesses. Now there were strip malls and fast-food restaurants at the north end of the city, close to the only interstate exit that served the town. The pace of life was more hectic, not like the comfortable rhythm of life in Dukaine.
Jordan could only think of one thing as he looked out the window: the person who had shot Holister and him was walking free. Would he strike again? Or had he accomplished what he set out to do?
A pair of headlights swept into the parking lot. Jordan recognized the van and drew a sigh of relief. It came to a stop at the ER just like he had instructed. He headed for the door, peeked out to make sure he wouldn't get caught leaving by the night-shift nurses, and then headed for the elevator. He pushed the button and the door opened immediately. The little blonde nurse who had wheeled him to his room yelled at him to stop, but Jordan jumped inside the elevator and hit the door-close button quickly.
The ride down was quick and Jordan breathed a little easier, sure that his escape was uneventful. The nurse had no idea where he was going; he'd be in good shape if she didn't follow him.
The elevator door opened into a dimly lit lobby. A bronze statue of Jesus greeted him, arms stretched out, two lambs at His feet. Jordan looked past the statue without regard to the implied invitation or promise of salvation, trained his vision on the exit, and hurried toward it.
“Jordan.”
The voice stopped him in his tracks. He turned and saw Ginny stand up from a chair in the shadows of the waiting area. A TV flickered in the corner. Another person sat in the chair next to Ginny, but Jordan couldn't make out who it was for sure, but he was certain he knew, and the last person he wanted to come face to face with at the moment was Ed Kirsch.
He looked over his shoulder at the lights on the elevator, making sure the nurse hadn't followed him. The elevator was stopped, the numbers were not moving.
Ginny hurried across the room to meet him. Jordan did not open his arms to greet her. He stood motionless, eyeing the exit like an escaped convict that just got caught ten feet from the main gate. Ginny buried herself in his chest. Tears soaked through his shirt as she sobbed. He stood with his arms at his side.
“I'm so glad to see you. Are you all right?” Ginny asked, staring up at him. Her hair was disheveled, her face void of makeup, and she was dressed in blue jogging pants and a plain white T-shirt without a bra.
“I'm okay,” Jordan answered, pulling away from Ginny as Ed Kirsch walked up to them.
Ed was five years older than Jordan was and his hair was already graying, his face was heavily lined, especially under his pale blue eyes. He was a slender man, almost
fragile, and wore tight black jeans, a big silver belt buckle the shape of Texas, scuffed yellow snakeskin cowboy boots, and a long-sleeved black western shirt with pearl buttons. Ed shared little resemblance to Bill Hogue. Other than his eyes and nose, Ed favored his father, Lee, in stature, gait, and attitude. The apple had not fallen far from the tree.
Jordan reached out and shook Ed's hand.
“Good to see you up and walking, Jordan. We was going to come up and see you, but visiting hours were over by the time everything settled down. They let you out of here this late?” Ed asked.
“Yes,” he lied.
“That's a hell of a shiner.”
“It's not so bad,” Jordan said, breaking eye contact. “Could've been worse, I imagine.”
“I imagine so,” Ed said.
Ginny eased away from Jordan and took her place next to Ed. “I'm sorry,” she said. “Charlie said you were shot, and I couldn't even begin to think, what with Daddy in surgery and everything that was going on. All I could hear was sirens and my mother screaming into the phone that Daddy and you were hurt. I just can't believe this is happening.”
“I called down to check on your dad, but they wouldn't tell me anything,” Jordan said.
He could still feel her tears on his chest, smell her perfume, a light scent of familiar jasmine. Her touch revived him and he wanted nothing more than to hold her, push her hair aside and hug her as tight as he could. But he restrained himself, tried to shield his emotions, his desire to touch her, to comfort her and have her comfort him. Just seeing her with Ed twisted his stomach into pretzel-sized knots.
Jordan wanted to ask Ginny a question: “Would this be happening if we would have run away like you wanted to?” But instead, he asked, “How's Holister doing?”
“He's been in surgery a long time,” Ed said. “I guess that's a good sign. You know Holister, he's strong as an ox.”
“And stubborn as a mule,” Jordan said, relieved that Holister was still alive.
“You two always were a good pair,” Ginny said, forcing a smile.
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