Greedy Bones

by Carolyn Haines

  “The seizure forced us to remove the ventilator. While he was struggling, he said your name.”

  “Anything else?”

  “No.”

  “What should I do?” I felt helpless.

  “Talk to him,” Doc said. “Touch him lightly. Let him know you’re drawing him back to this world.”

  I’d never talked theology with Doc, but his sentiments were clear. Oscar was hovering somewhere between life and the other side. I was to bring him back to the world of mortals. Too bad no one had given me a cape or magic powers. “Inadequate” didn’t begin to describe my feelings.

  “I’ll try.” The suit made me sound like some kind of wheezy insect-man.

  The door to the isolation ward swished open, and I stepped into what looked like an airlock. Another door opened automatically onto the room where four very sick people appeared to sleep.

  As I passed Gordon I lightly touched his shoulder. “You have to get well,” I told him. Gordon was the only victim who remained on a ventilator. Regina and Luann breathed on their own. Though I had no medical training, they appeared to have more color and their sores seemed to be healing. Or it could just be they were less under the glare of unforgiving fluorescent lights.

  As I approached his bed, Oscar moaned and one leg twitched. That had to be a good sign. He could move. He wasn’t paralyzed.

  My gloved fingertips grazed his cheek. “Oscar, it’s me, Sarah Booth.”

  I dared a look at Tinkie, who watched each second with breathless hope from behind the glass. My stomach knotted, and I stroked Oscar’s hand, avoiding the needles and tubes attached to every possible artery.

  “Oscar, Tinkie said you wanted to talk to me.”

  His chest moved up and down so shallowly, I wondered if the ventilator shouldn’t be reinserted. “Oscar?”

  I needed a response. One that would let Tinkie know he was sound of mind and that the fever hadn’t destroyed his brain function.

  Moving to the side of the bed, I lifted his hand and held it on top of mine. “Oscar, I’m here. I’m here because you asked for me. You have something to tell me?”

  It seemed an hour passed with only the rasp of his labored breathing, but it was only seconds. I watched his face for any change of expression—for some indication that he was aware of me.

  “Oscar, Tinkie is not twenty feet away. She’s watching you. The only time she leaves your side is when we force her to rest or eat. If you’re here, and if you can respond, signal with your hand.”

  The bandages had been removed from his eyes, and though they didn’t open, I thought I saw the eyeballs shift left, then right. His index finger scratched my palm.

  “Oh, Oscar.” I wept then. I couldn’t stop it. He was there, trapped in that body ravaged by pain and disease. He hadn’t gone away.

  His finger moved again, a light tap against the base of my forefinger. He was trying to comfort me, and that prompted me to get a grip on my emotions.

  “Oscar, if you don’t get better, and soon, I’m going to have to kill you.” It sounded peculiar, but he knew what I meant. “Tinkie is about to worry herself to death. Gordon is very sick, as are two realtors. Do you have any idea what happened to you?”

  One tap of his finger on my palm.

  “You went to the Carlisle plantation?”

  Two taps. A yes. He was communicating! But I had to test it to be sure.

  “Shall I tell Tinkie that you love her?”

  The finger tapped twice, with emphasis. He tried to grasp my hand, but he was too weak.

  “It’s okay. I’ll tell her,” I promised. “But we have to talk about what happened. You went to the plantation. Everything in the house was in order.” I went over the facts as I knew them, and he confirmed them.

  “And when you went out to walk the fields, you discovered the cotton was infested with boll weevils.”

  Two solid taps.

  “Did you talk to anyone there?”

  One tap. His lips pursed, and he made a dry rasping sound in his throat. I frantically waved to Doc. “Can he have some water?”

  “I’d love it if he’d drink,” Doc said. He disappeared through the airlock doors and came back with a glass and a straw. He wore the same hazmat suit that I wore, which made both of us a little clumsy, but Doc was able to put the straw to Oscar’s lips. Oscar drew in a small amount of water and swallowed.

  “Who did you see?” I was pressing him, but this might be the break we needed to find the source of his illness.

  “Bugs.” The word rasped out of his throat. “Cotton.”

  Doc frowned at me. He indicated the monitors, which showed elevated blood pressure and a spike in heart rate. My time with Oscar was limited.

  “Did you see anyone there?”

  His finger tapped once. His hand went limp and slipped from mine. His eyes darted wildly behind the closed lids before they rolled upward.

  “He’s gone,” Doc said.

  I froze. “No.” It couldn’t be. Not like that. Not after he’d come back to us.

  Doc took my arm and moved me away.

  “Wait, Doc. He can’t be—”

  “He’s asleep, Sarah Booth,” Doc said in a gentle voice. “He’s exhausted by communicating with you.”

  Sweet relief. Oscar wasn’t dead, he was only resting. I punched Doc in the arm. “You need to learn better phrasing.”

  “Do you realize what you did, Sarah Booth?” he asked, his face beaming behind the clear mask of his suit.

  “What?”

  “You brought Oscar back. You drew him out of that coma back to reality.”

  “He’ll get well now?”

  Doc looked at Tinkie, her face and hands pressed to the glass, watching her husband. “I can’t say. Sometimes, a patient makes a rally, to deliver a final . . .” My expression stopped him. “At least there’s no apparent brain damage. Not yet. If we can find a way to fight this, I believe they all stand a chance of recovering. That’s a lot better than I felt this morning.”

  Doc didn’t feel better for long. As we were stripping off the hazmat suits, I told him about Cece’s disappearance.

  “Do you have any idea who’s behind this?” His face was strained. “Oscar and three others have contracted some illness. Now Cece has possibly been abducted. This has to stop. Does Tinkie know about Cece?”

  The thought of telling her was intolerable. “No. Maybe I’ll wait. Until we know something positive.”

  “She can’t bear a lot more,” he said.

  If I was reading Doc’s signals correctly, he wanted me to withhold the news of Cece’s disappearance. A lie of omission didn’t sit well, but the thought of sending Tinkie deeper into anxiety was worse.

  “Point taken,” I said.

  “If there’s any flak, I’ll bear the brunt of it.”

  Exhaustion mixed with relief made me lean against the wall. “Oscar is still there. That’s the report I’ll give Tinkie.”

  When Doc didn’t respond, I felt the weight of his doubts. His faith in a medical cure had been shaken. While he practiced the art of healing, he relied on science to direct his skills. So far, science was thwarting him.

  Tinkie waited outside the door. “He knew you! What did he say?”

  “He’s trying to help us.”

  “Thank goodness.” She almost hummed with tension. “I was so afraid the high fever had damaged his brain.”

  I circled her with one arm and held her against my side, and we stood that way for nearly a minute.

  At last she spoke. “He drank some water. You held his hand. Thank you, Sarah Booth. What did he tell you?”

  I hesitated. “Things at the Carlisle place seemed normal, except for the weevils. It’s apparent he went out into the cotton.”

  “And there wasn’t a trace of evidence in the field?”

  This was a sticky point, since Gordon had investigated the plantation after Oscar became ill. Before Gordon’s report had been filed, he’d fallen sick. Only Bonnie Louis
e and Peyton had actually been on the Carlisle property since then.

  “I need to examine the area,” I said.

  “You can’t. It’s too dangerous.”

  Arguing was pointless, and I didn’t intend to stress Tinkie more. In my heart, though, I knew there was no other way. Someone had to go. While Bonnie Louise and Peyton might have the equipment, they didn’t have the personal motivation that I did.

  “One way or the other, we’ll find an answer.” If I had to beat it out of Luther Carlisle or Jimmy Janks—once we found him.

  The worst possibility crossed my mind. What if Janks had dumped Cece at the plantation? What if she was lying there now, sick or dying because of exposure to something we couldn’t identify?

  “I’ve got to get some rest,” I said, edging down the hall.

  “You aren’t fooling me, Sarah Booth. I know that look. You’re going to do something dangerous.”

  “No, I’m really exhausted. I was headed to bed when Coleman showed up and . . .”

  “And what?”

  “And asked me to help him.” My answer was feeble and wouldn’t satisfy Tinkie for longer than two minutes. “I really have to go.”

  “What did Coleman need your help on?”

  I waved a hand. “A lead.”

  “You’re hiding something.”

  If I didn’t get away, she’d break me and I’d spill everything I knew. “Please, Tinkie. I’m beat.”

  I couldn’t discern if it was pity or exhaustion that slipped across her features. “We’ll talk tomorrow. If you do anything that endangers your life, Sarah Booth, we’re finished. No more partners. No more friends. If something happens to you—”

  She focused her attention on Oscar, her mouth set in a firm line.

  I found myself stranded outside the hospital with no wheels. Coleman had dropped me off, and in my desperation to get away before I spilled my guts about Cece, I’d forgotten to borrow Tinkie’s Caddy. Going back inside wasn’t an option.

  The night was cool and sweet, lightly scented with an early magnolia on the crisp air. Above me, the stars glittered sharply. In high school I’d learned what made them sparkle. I couldn’t remember such a long-ago lesson, nor did I want to. I preferred to enjoy the magic of their beauty.

  Finding a ride home was almost more than I could manage. I could call Millie, but then I’d have to tell her Cece was missing and she’d spend the night worried. She had a café to run that demanded her full attention.

  Harold was a possibility. Always urbane and never fussy, he would dress and pick me up with nary a complaint.

  Coleman was busy. If he was making headway—any headway—I didn’t want to disturb him.

  Behind me the hospital door opened and Peyton walked toward me. “Ms. Delaney, are you okay?”

  “I need a ride home.”

  “I’m happy to oblige.” He pointed to a dark red SUV with the CDC logo on the side. I was so caught up in my own issues I’d failed to notice it in the parking lot.

  “Thanks, Peyton.” Here was opportunity—unexpected but greatly appreciated. “Would you happen to have one of those CDC hazmat suits that I could borrow?”

  He opened the vehicle door for me. “You want to go to the Carlisle place?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t have one in the truck. Come by the office tomorrow and I’ll see what I can do.” He closed the door and went around to the driver’s side.

  “Could we run by there and get the suit tonight? I want to be sure . . .” A wave of nausea caught me unprepared, leaving as abruptly as it came.

  “Sure of what?”

  Phrasing was all important. Revealing the depth of my fears would not benefit my cause. “A friend of mine is out of pocket. It occurred to me that she may have gone there.”

  “One thing I can assure you is that no one is on that property. You have my word. But I’m happy to take you there. Tomorrow. That’s my best offer.”

  In the dark I could accomplish little, and if I continued to press, he might outright refuse. “Tomorrow, then. Why are you at the hospital at this time of night?” Peyton was on the job 24/7. His dedication was remarkable.

  “I was running some tests and I needed to consult with Doc Sawyer.”

  I stopped in the process of buckling my seat belt. “Any results?”

  He put the car in gear before he answered. “Progress, but no firm resolution.”

  Since he was driving, I had the luxury of studying his face. His lips were tightly compressed, his jawline firm and clear. Something—or someone—was eating him alive. The case had become personal for him. “What do you think you discovered?”

  “It would appear someone has tampered with the DNA of those weevils.”

  “Like the cotton.” Coincidence city here.

  “Not exactly, but similar.” He shot a look at me and then refocused on the road.

  “You’re saying someone deliberately created this new breed of beetle designed to devastate the cotton crop.” Even as I said it, we drove past fields of new cotton. In the moonlight, the tiny plants stretched to the horizon, the future of many landowners.

  He inhaled. “I’m saying it’s possible.”

  “Another explanation is what?”

  “Perhaps an experiment went awry.”

  That took longer to digest. “So someone could have designed these weevils for a good cause and it somehow went bad?”

  “It’s possible.” He was extremely defensive.

  “Do you have an idea who may be behind this?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  His response was so swift, so emphatic, I knew he was lying. He suspected someone, but he wouldn’t share that name with me. Not voluntarily, at any rate.

  “Have you connected the weevils to the illness?”

  “No, but the connection has to be there. What else could it be, Sarah Booth? There are no soil contaminants, nothing in the water at the Carlisle plantation. The house has been tested for everything from radiation to chemical pesticides. I haven’t found a damn thing.”

  The weariness in his voice revealed how his lack of success gnawed at him. Peyton was, perhaps, as driven as I was. He pulled up in front of Dahlia House.

  “How did you find out about the mutation in the weevils?” I asked.

  “The credit goes to Bonnie Louise. She made the breakthrough, with the help of her mentor at Mississippi State. Bonnie is a remarkable researcher, and the boll weevils have always been a primary interest of hers.”

  “Does Coleman know about this?”

  “She’s given him a full report.” He chuckled softly. “She nearly killed herself getting over to the sheriff’s office to report to him. Bonnie has it bad for the lawman.”

  I could only ignore his comment about Coleman. “Thanks for telling me about the report.”

  Peyton turned off the engine. “You’re a loyal friend. Mrs. Richmond and Doc Sawyer sing your praises, Sarah Booth. They told me how much you gave up to return home and help your friend’s husband. I wish Dr. Unger’s report had been more conclusive. Beaucoup thought for sure he’d be able to identify the mutations of the weevils and give us a course of action. Unfortunately, progress is going to be much slower than I’d hoped.”

  “Dr. Unger?”

  “Jon Unger. He’s an international authority on insect development and, as I mentioned, Bonnie’s mentor. She’s been consulting with him on this case.” He rubbed his face. “Unger works with the government on high-profile matters. Beaucoup thinks he’s the second coming.”

  Bonnie Louise had mentioned him, but she’d been under the impression Peyton admired his work. I didn’t read it exactly that way. “Is he coming to Zinnia?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. Bonnie and I have taken different paths on this investigation. I’ve hardly seen her. Unger may have been here already. I just can’t say.” He looked like he was about to slump over the steering wheel from fatigue.

  “Thanks, Peyton.” I slipped out of the car
. “Get some rest. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  He drove away, his taillights blinking red in the velvety Delta night.

  15

  Sweetie and Chablis snoozed on the horse hair sofa in the parlor. Aunt Loulane would stroke out at the sight of the hound and the dustmop sprawled across the antique, whose history was almost as long as Dahlia House’s. I merely felt bad that I’d had so little time to spend with the pooches.

  Tiptoeing so as not to wake them, I decided to call Coleman from upstairs. I was bone tired. My body felt thick and sluggish, but my mind was like a panicked bird, flying in all directions. The sensation made me dizzy.

  My foot was on the staircase when I felt Jitty’s presence. Often she caught me by surprise, but this time I knew she was behind me.

  “Please tell me you have some advice,” I said. Normally I tried to avoid her dictates and sometimes obscure pointers, but I was willing to take help from any source, even the Ghostly Divide. “Just no more Great Depression costumes. I can’t take it.”

  Shifting to sit on the staircase, I faced her. Gone were the rags and dirt. Instead, Jitty was unadorned—she was contemporary. No ball gowns, no tie-dyed, no outlandish Star Trek suits. She wore jeans and . . . “Is that my favorite red top you’re wearing?” I asked.

  “Oh, this? I found it in the closet.”

  Times had to be tough in Casperville if she was raiding my closet. “What’s wrong with you?”

  She sank onto the step below me. “I’m scared for you, Sarah Booth.”

  “You’re always the one quoting FDR. ‘Nothing to fear but fear itself.’ ”

  “My fear is that you’re gonna take some rash action that’ll haunt you the rest of your days.”

  “Actions won’t haunt me. That’s what you’re for.” She was genuinely worried. What ever fun I might have had at her expense, I couldn’t enjoy it.

  “The person behind all this woe is smart—and wicked—Sarah Booth. Not your normal run-of-the-mill criminal.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know.” I wished Jitty could resort to ghostly means to help me, but she couldn’t. Or wouldn’t.

  “You’re at a turnin’ point in your life, Sarah Booth. A future that most women would kill to have is right there at your feet.”