by Mary Daheim
“What’s happening?” I asked, breathless.
“I’m going to the hospital. That’s where the Laskey kid is.” He paused, frowning. “Oh, get in. I don’t have time to argue.”
“He is my employee’s son,” I said, flopping gracelessly into the passenger seat. “How sick is he?”
“Sounds like pneumonia,” Milo said, waiting for passing cars. He rolled down his window, reached out to put the flasher on the roof, and turned on the siren. “Freaking traffic,” he muttered, rolling the window back up before cutting off an oil truck. “Dwight and Jack are still with him. So, I suppose, are Mitch and his wife, Belinda.”
“Brenda,” I said. “How were things otherwise at the office?”
He lifted one broad shoulder. “Fine. Sam was alone. He knows better than to ask dumb questions.”
It was a short trip, the hospital being situated even closer to the sheriff’s headquarters than the clinic, one block east. “Everything okay at your end?” he asked, pulling into a No Parking zone by the main entrance.
“Yes. I told Ben I might not make it to dinner with Marisa tonight.”
“Oh?” Milo shot me a speculative look before opening his door. “Can you get out without killing yourself?”
“I’ll try.”
I managed without assistance or mishap. We went up to the main desk, where Jenny Bjornson regarded us with mild curiosity.
“I’ll bet you want to see that Monroe prisoner,” she said to Milo. “Is he dangerous?” The thought seemed to make her blue eyes sparkle.
The sheriff ignored the question. “Where is he?”
“Um …” Jenny frowned. “They took him to the ER about an hour ago. Omigod!” she cried. “It’s after five! I’m supposed to be off duty. Stacey’s late.”
“Not my problem,” Milo said, barely controlling his impatience. “Where’s Troy Laskey?”
Jenny blushed, but kept her eyes riveted on the sheriff. No doubt she wasn’t pleased to see me. We’d clashed over another patient a few weeks earlier. “Probably on the second floor now. Should I call?”
“No,” Milo said, heading for the elevator. “I can find the ‘2’ on the damned button. Come on, Emma.” The elevator was waiting. “Dumbshit,” he muttered before the doors had even closed. “She should stick to business when I ask a question. Hell, her old man works for me.”
“Ron’s a good handyman, isn’t he?”
“He’s okay. At least the price is right.”
The door slid open. Milo practically shoved me into the hall, but his long strides beat me to the nurses’ station. Luckily, none of the RNs or LPNs I’d alienated in recent weeks was in sight. Instead, Julie Canby was at the desk. “Sheriff,” she said pleasantly. “Hi, Emma,” she added, leaning to see me behind Milo’s back. “You’re here for Troy Laskey?”
“Right,” the sheriff said. “Where is he?”
Julie pointed down the hall. “Third door on the right. Oh—there’s Jack Mullins now.”
Jack had just come out of the room. Milo started toward him, but paused, turning back to me. “Stay put, Emma. I go first.”
“Sure,” I said, turning to Julie. “Are Mitch and Brenda here?”
“They went down to the cafeteria,” she said. “Mrs. Laskey is a wreck. She should be in the hospital, too. Poor people. We’re almost at capacity. Bebe Everson is across the hall with poor Roy.”
“What’s going to happen with Roy? I assume he’s okay physically.”
“Yes, according to Dr. Sung. I heard that he started acting really crazy at your office. He’s still sedated.”
“It’s his Mama fixation,” I said. “After all these years, Roy and the rest of the family should give up.”
Julie shook her head. “I wasn’t in Alpine then. In fact, I didn’t know anything about it until today when I came on duty at four.”
“Are you full-time now?” I inquired.
“No, I’m still holiday relief,” Julie said. “Spike hasn’t found anybody to take over the kitchen at the Icicle Creek Tavern. Having a patron drop dead has really shaken my husband.” She adjusted her plain white cap. Doc Dewey’s nurses had to dress up to their profession, not down to looking like the cleaning crew. “I hope Spike recovers faster from that episode than it’s taken Roy to give up on his poor mother.”
I smiled. “You won’t let him get too morose.”
“I hope not,” Julie said. “But I’d rather be here instead of slinging onion rings at the tavern. That’s hard for Spike to accept. When he bought that dump, it was a relic of the old drunken logger brawls.” She shook her head. “He was making progress before Al De Muth died on the tavern floor. Business has slowed since, but I can’t tell him we’d have more money if I worked full-time here. That’d hurt his pride.”
“Understandable,” I said. “Speaking of husbands with emotional fixations, how’s Bebe Everson coping?”
Julie leaned closer. “She’s distraught, but Bebe … how should I put it? Not grounded, I guess. She insists Roy hasn’t been himself since the Pikes’ murder-suicide last winter next to their house by the dump site.”
I winced at the memory of the elderly couple’s tragedy. “I was there when the sheriff found them. It was pretty horrendous.”
Julie nodded. “Bebe told me Roy liked Pike. He kept some of the junk Pike used to sell.”
My gaze had fixed on Troy’s closed door. “Who’s in there besides Troy, Jack, and the sheriff?”
“That’s it. Gould went with the Laskeys. The poor kid doesn’t need a guard. I could stop him by putting my foot out.”
“It is pneumonia?”
She nodded. “He wasn’t dressed for this weather. Just his prison uniform with a light jacket. At least he had decent footwear.”
“What are they doing in there? Can Troy talk?”
“A little,” Julie said. “But he should rest.” She stood up. “I have to make rounds, Emma. Are you going to see him?”
Julie’s description of Troy discouraged me. “I don’t want to bother Troy or his parents.”
“Good thinking,” she said, coming out into the hall. “Take care.”
Julie had just gone into the first room on the left when Milo reappeared. “Well?” I said.
“Dumb kid,” Milo murmured. “He’s lucky he was found before he died of exposure. You aren’t interviewing him, are you?”
I shook my head. “Julie convinced me it was a bad idea.”
“She’s right. I don’t need Jack here, but I have to follow procedure until Monroe touches base with me. They may move Troy to their infirmary.” He held out something in his hand. “This is your bailiwick. What is it?”
I stared at the tarnished medal and chain. “It’s a saint’s medal. Let me see it under the light. I can’t read the name.”
Moving to the nurses’ station, I saw a figure wearing a miter and holding a staff. I peered at the tarnished letters on the rim. “It’s Saint Augustine.”
Milo lifted his shoulders. “Which means …?”
“Saint Augustine was probably the owner’s patron saint.”
“And …?”
I sighed impatiently. “Catholics have favorite saints. We pray to them to intercede for us with God. It’s like a spokesperson in heaven.”
Milo shoved his hat back on his head. “That’s one of the dumbest things I’ve ever heard. What’s next? Emailing angels? How about that Facebook thing? Why can’t you just ‘friend’ God and get it over with?”
“Skip it,” I snapped, thrusting the medal at him. “Where was it?”
“Troy had it,” he replied, pocketing the item inside his jacket. “Isn’t Laskey Jewish?”
“Yes,” I said, simmering down. “Did you ask Troy about it?”
“Yeah, but he either couldn’t or wouldn’t say. Are you done here?”
“I ought to see Mitch and Brenda,” I said. “What about you?”
Milo sighed. “I should, too. Gould’s a lousy conversationalist.”
&n
bsp; “What about Roy? He’s right across the hall.”
“Not my problem,” Milo said, nudging me toward the elevator. “There’s no crime in being nuts.”
“True,” I allowed. “Poor Roy.”
The elevator arrived. We got in and the door closed, but Milo didn’t hit the button for the main floor. “Ever make love in an elevator?”
“Milo!” I giggled. “Don’t even think about it.”
“Can’t think about much else.” He looked around. “This thing’s kind of small. We’d probably kill ourselves.” He punched the button. “Maybe we could find a bigger elevator.”
“Not in Alpine,” I said, his hand at the back of my neck. “Don’t.”
Milo hit the Stop button. The car rocked, making me fall back against him. He turned me around, shook off his hat, and kissed me. An alarm went off.
“Shit!” he bellowed, straightening up, but still holding on to me. “Grab my damned hat, will you? I can’t reach it.”
“Then let go of me,” I said, afraid the door would open any second.
Milo complied. The car stopped. I handed him his hat as the door opened onto the main floor. A plump brunette was sitting in Jenny’s place. She looked at us with concern.
“What happened?” she asked. “Is the elevator broken? Are you okay? Should I call maintenance? Aren’t you the sheriff?”
“Unfortunately,” Milo said, “I am. It might be a good idea to have that thing checked out. You wouldn’t want somebody getting hurt and suing the hospital.” He’d leaned a bit closer to me—and grabbed my rear. “Besides, you’re running out of beds.”
I gave a start. The receptionist, whose nametag identified her as the tardy Stacey, blinked a couple of times before nodding. “Um … you’re right, sir. I’ll do it now.”
“Good.” The sheriff seized my arm and hauled me down the corridor to the cafeteria.
“Are you nuts?” I demanded. “Are you trying to lose your job? Are you trying to ruin my reputation?”
“She couldn’t see what I was doing.” He stopped just short of the cafeteria’s double doors. “Listen up,” he said, backing me against the wall. His hazel eyes bored into my face with unfamiliar ferocity. “I’ve waited a hell of a long time for you to come around. I’ve had lousy luck with women, you included, but you were the only one worth the trouble. I’m fifty-five years old. I’ve spent my whole adult life trying to keep law and order in this county. For the past three weeks, I’ve been in crisis mode, wondering if maybe I wasn’t only a lousy husband, but a crappy father. I blamed myself for Tanya getting mixed up with a screwball who almost killed her. The only thing that kept me from going nuts was knowing you were waiting for me. If I can’t let loose now before I keel over with a heart attack, then the job’s not worth it. As for your reputation, that got ruined the day you came to town with your bastard kid. Maybe you didn’t hear the gossip, but I did. You sounded like Jezebel on the local grapevine. Then I met you and I thought, ‘That’s no Jezebel, that’s just another poor soul who’s been battered and bruised along the way—like me.’ You’re mine now and I don’t care who knows it.” He grabbed my chin in a tight grip. “Got that straight?”
I tried to nod, but couldn’t. “Uh-huh,” I said in a sort of squeak.
He let go. “Good. Let’s make nice with the Laskeys.”
I was rattled, traipsing after Milo to the table where Mitch and Brenda were sitting with Dwight. The sheriff started speaking, his voice low and sympathetic. Dwight was eating something—chocolate cake, maybe. I fumbled with a chair and sat down opposite Brenda. She was pale and red-eyed, apparently unable to focus. In less harrowing times, she was attractive, with tastefully tinted fair hair and fine features. Mitch looked gaunt and haggard, his face almost matching his gray hair.
The cafeteria was less than half-full, but all eyes seemed to shift in our direction. I didn’t recognize any of the diners. Several looked like visitors who might’ve been out-of-towners calling on relatives or friends.
Milo finally sat down at the head of the table as if he were calling a meeting, which, in a sense, he was. But first he told Dwight to go home. “You’ve already put in plenty of overtime. Take a hike, Gould.”
“Is that an order?” the deputy responded.
“You bet.” Milo’s face softened. “You’ve been on double time for three weeks. SkyCo can’t pad your paycheck any more this month.”
Dwight brushed crumbs off his shirt. “It figures,” he growled, before looking at the Laskeys. “Good luck, folks.” He went by me without so much as a nod.
“Okay,” the sheriff said. “We’re not playing by my rules. It’s a state matter, so I’m waiting on them to tell us what to do with Troy. I don’t like to speculate, so I won’t. This is the second time your son broke out. Do you know where he intended to go the first time?”
Brenda looked vague. Mitch shook his head.
Milo persevered. “He was found near Sultan the first time, right?”
Brenda still sat motionless. Mitch nodded.
“Do you know where he was going before he was reapprehended?”
Brenda turned her head, but didn’t speak. Mitch stared at his uneaten salad, but finally replied. “He wasn’t sure. Troy was … lost.”
Milo inclined his head. “What about this time?”
“I don’t know,” Mitch said helplessly.
“Was he coming to see you?”
Mitch turned to Brenda. She didn’t meet his gaze. “I assume so,” my reporter finally said.
“Okay.” Milo paused, as if his silence might prompt a response from the Laskeys. It didn’t. “Troy escaped Thursday afternoon,” he continued. “That’s five full days. It’s some thirty-five miles from Monroe to Skykomish. He could walk it in a day. Have you any idea why it took him so long to cover that distance?”
“No,” Mitch said abruptly. “He hasn’t told us, either. Sorry, Sheriff, we can’t help you.”
“That’s too bad,” Milo said. “That doesn’t help anybody.”
Mitch again gazed at his salad. The sheriff rubbed his chin. Just hours ago, the two men hadn’t parted on good terms. No wonder the tension hung in the air like sheet lightning. Troy might be the obvious cause, but it dawned on me I might be watching a turf war.
Milo reached inside his jacket and took out the medal. He slid it at Mitch. “Do you recognize this?”
Brenda deigned to glance at the tarnished trinket. Mitch frowned. “No,” he said. “It’s some kind of religious thing, isn’t it?”
The sheriff gestured at me. “Ask your boss. She’s the resident expert on this stuff.”
“It’s a Saint Augustine medal,” I said, surprised I could still talk. My chin felt sore. Maybe by the end of the day I’d be a mass of black and blue. “He’s one of the great doctors of the Catholic Church.”
Milo scowled at me. “You told me he was a bishop, not a doctor.”
“It’s a term for a theologian. If you want to know more, ask Ben.”
Milo’s eyes snapped. “No thanks.” He turned back to Mitch. “You’re Jewish. Why would your son have one of these things?”
“I’ve no idea,” Mitch said stiffly. He looked at Brenda. “Do you?”
Brenda shook her head.
Milo stood up. “That’s it. I’m going to check in with Monroe.”
“Wait.” Mitch had also stood up. Heads swiveled in our direction. The cafeteria had grown ominously quiet. “You can’t let them take Troy away from here. He’s very sick.”
Milo made a helpless gesture. “It’s not my call. You cover our office, Laskey. You know jurisdictional differences. I’m outranked.”
My reporter turned pleading eyes on me. “Can’t you do anything?”
I was puzzled. “Like what?”
“Whatever! Brenda’s falling apart. Can’t you intercede?”
I didn’t dare look at Milo. “Come on, Mitch. You know better. You and Brenda have more clout as Troy’s parents than anybody.”
“Troy’s not a minor,” Mitch snapped. He grabbed Brenda by the arms, pulling her out of the chair. “Let’s find Dr. Sung.”
Wordlessly, Brenda clung to Mitch as they made their exit. Milo scooped up the medal. “Why would the Laskey kid have this thing?”
I struggled out of the chair. “Did Jack ask Troy about it?”
Milo put the medal inside his jacket before we walked to the exit. “No. I told you, the kid’s pretty much out of it. Why? Do you think it’s not Troy’s?” He opened one of the double doors for us.
I grimaced. “I don’t know. It just feels wrong.”
“Okay. If you figure out why, let me know.”
We couldn’t guess that what was right was wrong—dead wrong.
SEVEN
HOLD IT,” MILO SAID BEFORE WE REACHED THE HOSPITAL EXIT. “I have to call those dawdlers in Monroe.”
Stacey was at her post. She smiled faintly. “Is everything okay?”
The sheriff had gone to the far side of the lobby and turned away to use his phone. I walked over to the desk. “You mean with the Laskeys?”
She nodded. “Jenny told me about their son. That’s sad. I don’t know Mr. Laskey, but my folks live next door to them.”
I scrutinized her nametag. “You’re Dutch and Tina Bamberg’s daughter,” I said. “How’s your father’s video store doing since the advent of Netflix? Leo Walsh tells me it’s been hard on him.”
Stacey looked blank. I realized she didn’t recognize me. “I’m sorry,” I said, putting out my hand, “I’m Emma Lord from the Advocate.”
Stacey blushed as we shook hands. “I recognized you. I mean, you looked familiar, but I thought you were Mrs. Dodge.” She faltered. “Couples who come together usually are … couples.”
“There is no Mrs. Dodge,” I said stiffly. “The sheriff and I both have an interest in the Laskey case. Tomorrow is my deadline for the paper.”
“Oh—sure,” Stacey gulped. “What did you ask me?”
“About the video store.” To make amends for causing the poor girl embarrassment, I smiled. “Leo’s my ad manager. He knows your dad.”
“It’s been hit pretty hard,” Stacey replied, her color returning to normal. “Christmas helps because people buy gifts from us. Mom says we should switch to selling cameras and photography equipment. Dad’s always liked taking pictures. He could still sell DVDs and CDs, too.”
