Nevada Barr - Anna Pigeon 08 - Deep South

by Deep South (lit)

  Some. Not all.

  "So you have no idea who attacked you? None at all?"

  "None," Anna lied. The sheriff's hands clenched on the wooden arms of the chair where he sat, the skin drawn and bloodless.

  And unmarked. Anna's assailant had been bare-handed; she'd felt the heat from his skin when he'd grabbed her leg. The man who'd attacked her would have scraped knuckles. Her fear of Davidson didn't stem from the assault. Had Anna's ribs not been causing her so much pain, she would have breathed more easily. She took another sip of water, careless of the cup. She no longer needed to check out Davidson's fingerprints. "How did you get loose of this guy?" the sheriff asked.

  Anna didn't know. She closed her one good eye. The effort of remembering sunk her back into a nightmare so vivid sweat stood out on her forehead, salt stinging in the abrasions made by fist and canvas.

  The fingers of her right hand tingled and ached. She was so afraid she jerked, spiking pain in to her fragile cranium.

  Anna opened her eye and told Paul how she had gotten away. "I hope the bastard never walks upright again," he said with unpriest-like viciousness, and Anna was pleased. "I'll put the word out to area hospitals to report any man seeking treatment for groin injuries."

  "Good," Anna said wearily. "I think I ruptured one of his testicles.

  That's got to be debilitating."

  "Gee, you think?" Davidson said. Anna thought she heard a smile in his voice but hadn't the energy to open her eye and see. She wondered why she had a bad feeling about him. He seemed like a nice enough man.

  "Tell Barth I need to see him first thing," Anna said. She hoped she'd said it aloud because she hadn't the strength to repeat herself.

  At eight-thirty the following morning Barth Dinkin presented himself.

  Anna's mind had cleared somewhat. More chunks of memory were returned.

  Nothing from an hour or so before the attack, but much of what happened afterward had been restored. Other than that, she felt worse than ever, her muscles stiffened and her knitting bones angry. "You look... " Barth was at a loss for words. He stood at the foot of her bed, his Stetson in his hands, his strange light eyes full of pain and awkwardness. "Like shit. I know," Anna said. "Did you get the print off my ankle?"

  "A partial. The mud was pretty bad smeared. I got a comparison with the one was lifted from Miss. Posey's neck. They matched on seven points. "Bout a sixty-percent chance they came from the same person. I sent 'em off to run 'em against FBI files. Told them the case and they got right on it, but we got no matches."

  "I didn't think you would. Worth a shot."

  "I thought that print on the girl's neck was yours," Barth said. "So did 1. Sheriff Davidson said a print was on the pulse point, it never occurred to me to ask which one. I never touched the carotid. It was under the noose. I checked at wrist and knee. I should have made the connection earlier, but I didn't-not till my own head was in a sack." Anna rested for a minute, thinking. Her brain was not yet sufficiently recovered that she could think and talk at the same time.

  When she opened her eyes-both now, though the left was merely a gummy slit-Barth was standing as she'd left him. "Get me some clothes," she said. "My house isn't locked. Ask Frank if he'll look after the animals.

  He probably already is, but check for me if you would. Get hold of Steve Stilwell. Tell him to meet us at the Honda dealer's in Pearl. If there's more than one, start with the first in the phone book. What time is it?"

  "Eight-thirty-seven, but-"

  "Tell him to meet us there at eleven. Will that give you enough time to get to Rocky and back?" Barth looked both miserable and obstinate. His gaze wandered around the room looking for his courage. When he found it, he met Anna's eye. "Might could," he said. "But you're beat up bad. You don't need to be getting up and running around about now You'll bust something loose."

  "That's my problem," she replied coldly. "Not just. I been here a long time. You're the first lady ranger we've bad. It's not going to look good if you get yourself killed because I was dragging you around when you were supposed to be in the hospital."

  "It didn't seem to bother you much when you and Randy decided to hang me out to dry on that car stop." Low blow Anna felt momentary regret as she saw it smash into Barth's face.

  "That was before. I apologized for that," he said simply.

  It wasn't the reminder of the apology that shamed Anna out of her peevish hatefulness, it was the word "before." Before Barth knew her, before he liked her, before he cared if she lived or died.

  "Sorry," she said. "Blood under the bridge. I'm not my usual sunny self this morning." Barth cleared his throat, an aborted laugh. "I'll okay it with the doctor. If he says not to check out, then I'll stay," she promised virtuously.

  Barth nodded, looking as if he pitied Dr. Munroe. "Anything in particular you want from your house?"

  "Boots, socks, underwear.

  You'll find it. My uniform. Skip the duty belt. I couldn't buckle it, much less draw my weapon."

  "That's the point I was making," Barth tried again. "Not fit for duty." A look must have crossed Anna's bruised face that alarmed him. "Be back in an hour and a half, maybe two," he said.

  Dr. Munroe, seemingly the kindest of men, became hurry the instant his authority was questioned. When Anna asked if she could be released, he told her she needed to remain in the hospital for observation another day at least, preferably two. If she left, he would not be responsible for her health. Of course, no one would hold a gun to her head. If she wanted to leave, she could.

  Anna took that as a yes. When Barth returned, she wasn't a hundred percent sure she could do the things she'd planned but bad no intention of admitting it to anyone, least of all herself.

  The IV had been unhooked the previous night when she began ingesting liquids on her own. She didn't have to resort to anything as theatrical as pulling bloody needles from her arm, but moving had proved a struggle.

  By dint of will, and the kind auspices of a hydraulic bed, she sat up straight, then worked her legs over the side. The pain in her neck, shoulders, head-basically all points north of her navel-was bad, but there'd been only token dizziness. As long as she didn't shake her head or stand quickly, it was controllable. Since she could scarcely move her bead and could barely stand at all, she didn't think it would be a problem.

  Till Barth returned, she tormented her tortured body with small yogic stretches. Though she'd undoubtedly pay for this extravagance later, the movement restored enough range to her neck muscles that she could twist her head ten degrees off center without actually screaming out loud. Her right arm was an even more unqualified success. The upper arm was badly bruised but bone had not been broken, muscle traumatized or tendons torn. Anna felt particularly good about her right arm. Maybe she should have told Barth to bring her duty belt after all.

  The hard-won sense of accomplishment was snatched away by the interruption of the phone. John Brown, the chief ranger, was on the other end of the line. Beneath his probably heartfelt condolences, she heard a second message, one that comes to most women in law enforcement whether they deserve it or not.

  Maybe she'd been hurt, not because she was careless, not because there were risks inherent to the profession, but because she was female.

  Little. Weak. The effort of sitting up was nothing compared to that of making light of her injuries to her boss. When she was finally able to get off the phone, her head was pounding and she was drenched with sweat that reeked of sickness.

  True to his word, if not overly enthusiastic in the execution of it, Barth returned at eleven o'clock bearing a clean uniform and boots.

  Looking far more grim than Anna thought her condition warranted, he left her clothes on the chair and told her he'd wait outside, Till she lost it, Anna'd not realized the agility required to dress oneself. By lying on the bed and wriggling, she managed to get on socks, panties, and trousers. During the process she heard her boots fall to the floor.

  Retrieving and donnin
g them seemed impossible in her diminished state.

  The shirt was beyond her capabilities. Her left arm was not quite useless but very nearly so. Shoulder and neck muscles she might have used to circumvent it were in full rebellion. "Barth," she called through the door. "I'm here."

  "I'm having trouble with my top." Silence followed. Anna was about to holler again when he replied.

  "I couldn't find your, um. It. I went through drawers-I mean I didn't go through them, like, just looked in them and didn't find nothing." For a moment Anna was baffled. Then she laughed. A big mistake. The pain brought on coughing that racked her broken ribs. For a while she shut down, concentrating on pain management and oxygen. When she'd regained control, she said: "No, I burned those in 1971. 1 meant my shirt. Give me a hand." Another silence followed by: "Why don't you ring for the nurse?"

  "I'd rather not." Barth knocked politely then opened the door, his eyes carefully downcast. "They didn't release you, not properly, did they?" he asked accusingly. "The doctor said I could go," Anna insisted stubbornly. "You lied."

  "Okay, I lied." The fact he was right sharpened her voice more than she liked. "Are you going to help me or not?" She couldn't do it without him and waited, torn between irritation and hope, while he considered.

  "Don't blame me if you get yourself permanently crippled up doing this," he warned. "I won't. Here." Barth looked up at last. Out of deference to his sensibilities, Anna clutched her pillow modestly over her chest.

  The big ranger pinched up the proffered shirt. In his hands, it looked like doll clothes. "This isn't in my job description," be said woodenly.

  Having learned her lesson, Anna did not laugh. A very nearly irresistible urge to flash him seized her. Dr. Munroe's painkillers, they lowered the inhibitions. "Just hold it up," she said, careful not to think any wicked thoughts she might suddenly implement. "I'll do the rest." Dressed, Anna survived the baleful stares of the nurses and Barth's unspoken disapproval, and made it unaided to his patrol car. The dizziness she was so pleased to have escaped found her halfway to the parking lot, but, like a practiced drunk, she trod carefully and managed without weaving or stumbling.

  Wretched as she felt, she was not sorry to have left the hospital.

  Sun on her face, the smell of hot asphalt and honeysuckle melted the stale food and antiseptic odors from her skin; she felt more like a living thing. Still and all, she allowed Barth to open the door for her and eased into the familiar contours of the Crown Vie's seat with relief.

  Barth took his place behind the wheel, cranked the ignition and turned the air-conditioning up. Anna preferred the healing heat of spring, but considering what she'd put the man through, she stoically withstood the cold, soulless air.

  Barth didn't put the car in gear. There was an ultimatum brewing; Anna could feel it. To pass the time, she cranked the rearview mirror around to survey the damage to her face. Gross, the childish word sprang to mind. Her unshampooed hair was flat and spiky by turns.

  Bed-head moussed in place with remnants of mud. Her left eye was in the enraged reds and purples of early bruising. The sides of her neck were black with it, and raw contusions striped her left check.

  She thought she'd expected it, thought she knew how bad it would be, but it shook her. "Wherever we go, whatever we do, you stay in the car or the deal's off." Barth came out with his terms. "Of course," Anna said.

  "With you there don't seem to be any 'of course' about anything. I'd make you promise, but your promises don't seem to mean diddlysquat when you want your own way. So I'm just telling you. This is how it is, and I got no problem with just stuffing you in the back and locking the doors."

  "I'll stay in the car," Anna said. She would too. Not only was her strength of ten men seriously depleted, but one look at her face and she'd realized it would be highly unprofessional to appear in public, in uniform. The taxpayers do not like to see their servers and protectors looking like dog food.

  Barth was placated. The car began to move.

  The city of Pearl bumped up against the cast side of Jackson just across the Pearl River. So named, Barth told her as they crossed the bridge, because of the freshwater oysters once found there.

  Whether the oysters were extinct and whether they bad ever produced a single pearl, Barth didn't know.

  Pearl didn't live up to its name. Possibly some fine old Southern architecture existed, but not on the street where the Honda sales lot was located. The town was indistinguishable from a thousand towns Anna'd been through: Strip malls, fast food, stoplights and billboards.

  Two blocks before they reached Bob Deckert's Hondas, Barth said,

  "Steve's here." Anna hadn't been aware that she had closed her eyes until she had to open them to see what he was talking about. Stilwell, very sensibly, had parked in front of Payless Shoes, where he could watch traffic and wait for them. A lesser man would have plopped himself down in Deckert's showroom giving everybody too much time to wonder what he was doing there. "Dozing?" Barth asked.

  The note of concern in his voice annoyed Anna. She didn't answer him. In truth, she barely heard him. He was talking at her deaf ear. Anna sincerely hoped she'd been dozing. If she'd lost consciousness for another reason, she was in serious trouble. It felt like a nap, she reassured herself.

  Barth pulled the Crown Vic into the Payless lot beside Stilwell.

  The other district ranger obligingly left his own vehicle to sit in the backseat behind the heavy wire grid protecting Barth and Anna.

  "Howdy, howdy," he said amiably.

  Anna could turn neither head nor body to look at him. Before she could muster a response, Barth betrayed her. With the swipe of one meaty paw, he cranked the mirror around so Stilwell could see her reflection. "She oughtn't be here," Barth said stubbornly. "I told her that. You see now what I was getting at?"

  "Whoa," Stilwell said. Then, as if needing stronger language, added: "Yikes."

  "She's not fit to do anything." Sensing an ally, Barth grew more confident. "I'm not going to do anything," Anna said placatingly.

  "You guys are.

  "Then why didn't you just tell us what needed doing and stay put in the hospital like you was s'posed to?" Barth asked reasonably.

  She had no answer to that. She trusted Barth and Steve. There wasn't much she could do but direct and ask questions at best, get in the way and distract at worst. She'd just had to get out of the hospital. Since she could remember, they'd given her the willies.

  After Molly's long stint in Columbia-Presbyterian, the willies had escalated to the pre-phobic warmups. "There was nothing good on TV," she said.

  Amazingly, both Steve and Barth knew what she meant, and though their voices were obnoxiously gentle when they addressed her, there was no more argument. Anna was relieved. She needed her strength to tell them what she thought had happened and what she wanted them to do. "Doesn't make sense," Barth said when she finished. "That buckle wasn't worth much. Shoot, the paraphernalia from the whole Union army detachment wouldn't be worth this kind of stuff. You think Williams searched your house for the buckle?"

  "He knew Taco wouldn't be there. I told him that morning he was at the vet. The search was like a lawyer search: no indication anybody'd really done anything."

  "And he committed murder and attempted murder for what to him's gotta be a little bitty thing?

  It doesn't make a whole lot of sense."

  "Do you think he was the one put the boys up to alligatoring your garage?" Stilwell asked. "Another attempt on your life." Anna didn't. She was thinking about the overtime slip of Randy's with Fisheries and Wildlife listed as the assisting agency. She was willing to bet a couple of calls to William and Pete would prove it was a pesky gator and had been left in the care of Ranger Thigpen.

  "There's more to it than artifacts," she insisted. "Just what, I don't know. But right now we have exactly nothing: no confession, no witness, no evidence, not even probable cause to get a search warrant. If you two don't scare something up for me, odds a
re good this will be pinned on one of those boys: Brandon because we can prove he was there or Lockley because he can't prove he wasn't." True to her promise and because her muscles, apparently not realizing she wasn't dead, had gone into rigor mortis, Anna remained in the patrol car when they reached the Honda sales lot.

  In an attempt to be kind, Barth left the radio and the air-conditioning on. As soon as he disappeared through the gleaming showroom doors, she struggled up far enough to turn the AC to low and switch radio stations.

  Gospel, oldtime gospel, she'd developed a taste for. Contemporary Christian Iangled her nerves.

  The radio cooperated, and the next station the needle found played Perry Como's "Catch a Falling Star." Anna could live with that.