by David Haynes
He knelt down and touched the man’s throat. Nothing.
“Oh no,” a female voice whispered. Wilson looked up. Dr Hamilton was standing behind him, her hair made several shades darker in the rain. “Oh, Christ, no.”
She clambered inside and stepped off the platform.
Wilson looked up at her, catching the expression on her face. “He’s gone.”
Dr Hamilton looked at him and then back down at the old man, biting her bottom lip. She put her fingers on his bloody neck and then tenderly brushed a clump of hair from his cheek.
“Oh, Thomas,” she said.
8
For the second time that week, Wilson and Donovan spent some quality time with the cops. This time it was the local sheriff’s office that attended the scene. Wilson, Donovan and a sobbing Courtney decamped to the diner with two deputies.
Dr Hamilton was driven up the hill to Kennebec Health Consultancy in the Sheriff’s car. She looked a downcast figure in the back of the police car; her hair soaked through and her pristine white coat now a shade of what she wore underneath. It was hard to see the same confident, challenging woman they had met just hours before.
Thomas had made his ‘escape’ through the Hemlock forest that formed the facility’s boundary closest to the town. He had been taken, in a wheelchair, to the forest by a member of staff to complete some of the sketches he had been working on. And then he had used whatever spirit, whatever strength, was left in his cancer-ridden body to make his way into town and kill himself in the most horrific way imaginable. The staff member had left him alone for no more than five minutes. But why would she need to constantly watch him? Thomas had been unable to use his legs for the last month.
Ultimately, the desire for suicide had been stronger than the cancer. Where that strength came from was difficult to conceive.
“You guys aren’t local, are you?” the deputy asked Wilson.
“No, we’re up from Boothbay,” Wilson replied, handing the deputy his driver’s license and phony business card. The card also contained a link to the attorney’s website Donovan had created. He hoped it was strong enough to withstand scrutiny because the hole they were digging was getting deeper and darker by the second.
“Business? I mean, it can’t be a pleasure trip, can it?”
It was one thing to lie to a doctor, another entirely to lie to the cops. He put his answer in the ambiguous center. “Business,” he replied. “But we might be stopping on for a few days.”
Donovan looked up from his booth with raised eyebrows, hearing what Wilson had said. In truth, until he had just said the words to the cop he hadn’t known that was what he was going to do.
“It’s unlikely we’ll need to talk with you or your colleague again, but just in case, where are you staying?”
“Any recommendations?” Wilson replied.
The deputy looked out of the window. “There was a time when there were half a dozen guest houses roundabout. Visitors to the mill and the like, but they’ve all gone now.” He paused. “You could head back out on Route 201 and drive back to Augusta, or there’s the motel in town.”
“Big Mill Motel?” He wanted to make sure there weren’t any others. Perhaps one a little more inviting.
“That’s the one. Never stayed there, so can’t exactly recommend it.” He paused again, wincing. “Only been inside the once. Some guy took a broom handle to his wife’s face. Not a...”
Wilson held his hand up. There had been enough gruesome sights and sounds for one day. And judging by Donovan’s gray face, for a lifetime.
The deputy put away his notebook and stood up. “Appreciate your help, Mr Wilson.”
Wilson nodded in return and listened to Donovan talk to the other officer.
“None of them get better up there,” the deputy started. He tapped his temple. “Up here. No telling what knowing that will do to you. Maybe he just wanted to do things his own way. Go out on his own terms, so to speak.”
Donovan nodded. “Got to be a better way than that though.” He sounded flat.
“The best way isn’t always the way they choose.” And then as if he needed to clarify, he added, “Suicides, I mean. Sometimes the messier ones...”
Donovan shook his head. “I don’t need to know.”
The officer stood up. “Understood. If we need to speak to you again, we have your number, Mr Donovan.”
He finished his coffee and walked out of the diner leaving Donovan, Wilson and Courtney all in separate booths. Wilson got up and walked over to Donovan. Courtney was staring out of the window, a blank expression on her face. She looked the same way she had when she took their order.
“You okay over there?” he asked her. He expected a surly remark in response.
She turned around and came out of the trance. “Yes, thank you.” Whatever mask she had been wearing temporarily slipped, revealing a vulnerable-looking girl.
“You have anyone I can call?” He reached into his jacket and withdrew his cell. Quite how much she had seen Wilson didn’t really know, but she looked shaken up. Not as badly as Donovan, but then again she had only been through that hellish experience the once.
She shook her head, smiling, and then stood up. “I’m okay.” She opened her mouth to say something else but stopped herself. She gave a nervous smile and then disappeared behind the counter.
“Big Mill Motel?” Donovan asked. “If it were a toss up between that and The Bates’ Motel, I’d pick the bed with Norman and his mom.”
Donovan was smiling, his comment a mask like Courtney’s. Wilson sat down opposite him. “Hey, it’s not that bad. I hear they’ve even got hot water in there.”
“And cable,” Donovan replied. “Don’t forget that.”
Wilson laughed. “Listen, John, you don’t have to stay up here with me. I don’t know why yet but Richard Pace brought us here, he wanted us to come. I think by doing what he did, he hoped we’d take the bait. He was that desperate.” He took a deep breath. “Take the car and go back, I don’t mind. Have a few days at home with your folks. You need...”
“And miss you calling Doc Hamilton ‘ma’am’ again? No chance. Besides...” He leaned a little closer. “Courtney thinks I’m cute and wants to buy me a drink.”
“She does? When did she say that?”
“She didn’t, but she’s thinking it. I can tell.” He leaned back again, winking.
Wilson shook his head but it was good to see a trace of the real Donovan fighting through the bloody stain of Thomas’s death. He was also pleased that Donovan wanted to stay.
“Shall we go check into The Overlook, then?” he said.
“Why not?” replied Donovan. “Maybe they have a mini-bar to go with the hot water and cable.”
*
Jerry, the motel’s owner, greeted them like they were messiahs. His reverence was embarrassing but his gratitude that someone had actually come to take him away from his daytime soap marathon was genuine.
“Of course, we’re having a major refurb, should be ready sometime in the spring.” Every single hook had a key dangling from it but he carefully selected one, picked up a bundle of towels and ran around the counter. “I’ll put you in one of our new rooms on the east wing. Only had a lick of paint a few weeks back.”
They stepped back out into the gloomy day and turned right, in the direction of the intersection. They passed all the rooms until Jerry stopped at the final door.
“What brings you to town then, fellas?” Jerry was small and thin, his hair a deep, luxurious shade of nicotine yellow.
“Work,” Donovan answered.
Jerry tutted. “Not much work around here nowadays.” He pushed the key into the lock. “Not like the good old days when Hemlock was a big name. When they closed that mill down, they might as well have put a pistol in my mouth and pulled the trigger. Blown my brains out.”
Wilson winced.
“We’re working at the hospital,” Donovan said, nodding at the door. Room number 12. “This us?�
��
Jerry didn’t move aside. He was deep in thought. The hospice wasn’t visible from where they were but he stared in that direction. “At least someone still thinks it’s worth coming to town. Even if they have only come to die. Poor bastards.”
Nobody said anything for a few seconds, then Jerry smiled and stepped aside. “Here we are. Room 12. Arizona.”
Donovan was inside first. “Wow!” he said, turning a full circle. “Like being in ‘True Grit’.”
Jerry laughed. “Couldn’t have put it better myself. I’ll leave you to it. If you need me, you know where I am.”
Wilson stepped across the threshold. He could hear Jerry laughing all the way back to his office. Was he laughing at them or with them?
“Holy shit,” he whispered.
The walls were decorated with a giant frieze of the desert; wall to wall, floor to ceiling. Sonora Desert and Monument Valley, complete with cacti, agave and Route 163 leading away into the distance – into the bathroom, to be exact. The wall behind the beds was filled with a cowboy sitting on his horse, Stetson pulled down far enough to hide his eyes, conceal his thoughts. His face was so large, Wilson could see nasal hairs and skin blemishes. It was remarkable and they both stood in silence for a minute, just to take it in. They had to.
“You’ve got to wonder why someone would do this,” Donovan said, throwing his jacket on the bed. “I mean, what would make someone think this is acceptable? Look at this.” He walked over to the desk and pointed at the lamp. The stand was one of the recognizable buttes. Beside it, two old-time cowboys sat smoking cheroots beneath a mock cow-hide shade.
“This is cool, though,” Wilson said, pointing at the ceiling.
The ceiling light was a wagon wheel with small cowboy-boot shades hanging from it. He flicked the switch. Four out of the five bulbs lit up.
“Want to check out the bathroom?” Donovan asked.
Wilson laughed. “I’ll let you take that honor.” He took his own jacket off and lay it on the bed. His shirt was still damp from the soaking they had taken earlier. They hadn’t exactly come equipped for an overnight stay in rural Maine. Especially not in October.
“Saloon doors for a bathroom?” Donovan shouted.
“Just have to whistle while you’re in there.” He grabbed the remote and tried the television. The sign was correct, the motel did have cable. It was the remote that was the problem. It was stuck on one channel – a local information service that had a distinct leaning toward the religious. A preacher filled the screen with a grimace that was rather too smitten with his daily Botox treatment to be genuine. He was keen though, and when the shot panned out, he had a throng of followers standing behind him. They were either oblivious to what Wilson could see in the man or they had been paid to be there. The setting was vaguely familiar. It was the chapel on the road toward the hospice; the only building beside the Kennebec Health Consultancy that looked cared for. His words went over Wilson’s head.
The preacher’s name ran in a continuous banner across the foot of the screen. Reverend Hal Cavendish, Church of Broken Pieces, Hemlock Mill.
There was no request for a donation or toll-free number to call, just his name and church. By the look of his suit, he wasn’t short of a few dollars. Not that it seemed too many folk around town had much spare change to give him anyway.
“Nice suit.” Donovan walked around the back of him and collapsed on his bed.
Wilson flicked off the television and sat on the edge of his own bed. “Cable’s not so good,” he said. “How’s the hot water?”
Donovan put his hands behind his head. “Warm.” And then tilting his head from side to side he added, “Ish. The decoration’s the same in there as it is in here.”
Wilson chuckled. He was biding his time, waiting for an opportunity to ask Donovan if he was okay without sounding like that’s what he was asking. “Crazy morning, huh?”
Donovan sighed. “You can say that again.”
“Crazy week too.” He paused. It wasn’t just Donovan who had gone through the wringer, they both had. And yet he saw in Donovan a trace of vulnerability that he didn’t recognize in himself. Sure, Donovan was cocky and liked to make fun of Wilson’s insecurities and lack of understanding in certain areas, but a lot of that was front. Not all of it, certainly not where girls were concerned at least, but some of the bravado was a shield. It didn’t slip very often but occasionally there was a chink. He’d known Donovan since he was sixteen years old, and although he regarded him as a friend, there was still more than a hint of a father-son bind there too.
“You hope you never have to see someone like that,” Donovan started. “Someone so far gone that suicide feels like the only thing they can do. I guess most of the time, you don’t know how people feel, how they really feel.”
He rolled onto his side and looked at Wilson. He opened his mouth once, closed it and then started again. “No mystery how Pace or Thomas felt though, eh? They made it pretty clear.” He shook his head. “I can almost understand why Thomas felt like that. I mean you want to go out on your own terms, don’t you?”
Wilson nodded. “You get used to making your own decisions but the biggest one of all is down to someone or something else. So, when the doc tells you you’re going to die and there’s nothing to be done but wait, you can decide to go with it or you make your own call. I guess that’s what Thomas did. What I don’t get is why he did it like that. In the middle of town and in that way. That makes no sense.”
“Maybe when you get to that point, nothing makes sense?” Donovan replied. “Or maybe what Thomas did makes sense to Dr Hamilton? She probably knew what was going on with him better than most.”
Donovan shrugged and rolled onto his back again. “I guess. And we’ll never know why Pace did what he did. Not really.”
“Maybe not,” Wilson replied. “And had he seen what we saw this morning, I doubt he would’ve made the same decision.”
“Which just makes it worse,” Donovan said. “Makes it pathetic, a cruel trick, don’t you think?”
Wilson hadn’t thought of it, or rather he’d tried not to think about it as deeply as Donovan had. “It’s how life is, I suppose.”
He stood up and walked over to the desk. Beneath it, Wilson had seen the mini-bar. He opened it up, pulled a small bottle of Jack Daniels out and tossed it over to Donovan. It bounced off the bed and landed on the floor. “Reckon you could do with one of those,” he said.
Donovan leaned over and picked it up. He looked at the label and then twisted the cap. “I hate this shit.” He swallowed the lot and then winced. “Horrible. Any more in there?”
Wilson looked at the stock. “One more and then you’re onto the vodka.”
“This is enough. Need to keep sober for Courtney.” He winked and held his hand up. Wilson threw the last bottle of bourbon into his hand.
Half an hour later, Donovan was asleep, his boots kicked across the room and his wet jacket flung onto the sandy-colored carpet. He was going to be okay.
9
The diner stayed open throughout the day and into the evening. It was a good thing too, it was the only place in Hemlock serving hot food. Although serving was stretching things a little. The diner was empty when Wilson and Donovan arrived, not even Courtney was around, but the lights were all lit.
They sat in the same booth as they had earlier. The sodium lights leaked a miserable tangerine glow onto Main Street. Someone had been along and boarded up the store through which Thomas had thrown himself. All traces of the tragedy gone. Nails and wood secured the window, the rain washed the sidewalk. They both stared at it, replaying the horror.
Donovan stood up first. “Going to take a look, see if anyone’s here.”
He walked over to the counter. “Hello? Anyone back there?” He looked over his shoulder at Wilson and then back into the kitchen. “Courtney?”
A few seconds passed by. Donovan shrugged and sauntered back to the booth. “Guess we’re going to have to go to t
he bar and eat beer nuts.”
“I guess...”
“Gentlemen!”
Wilson recognized Reverend Hal Cavendish immediately. He came from the kitchen, around the front of the counter and walked toward them. Courtney appeared a few seconds later.
“I was just offering my support to Miss Douglas regarding the awful tragedy this morning.” He offered his hand to Donovan and then Wilson, his smile as slick as his suit. Both men introduced themselves to him.
“Reverend Hal Cavendish. I lead the worshipers up at our little chapel here in Hemlock.” He turned to Courtney. “Anything these gentlemen want, it’s on me tonight.”
“There’s no need...” Wilson started.
Cavendish showed his palms. “Nonsense. Courtney told me what you two attempted to do for that troubled soul. It deserves gratitude and if that means a slice of meatloaf, which I can recommend by the way, then so be it. Courtney’s meatloaf is the best in the county.”
He slid into the seat vacated by Donovan. “Oh and I’ll take a coffee!” he called without looking away from Wilson.
Wilson thought cameras were supposed to add pounds and years, but Cavendish looked exactly the same as he had on the motel’s crappy television. The sheen to his skin was matched by the shiny silk of his suit. His fair hair was neatly clipped in a conservative style, not a blade out of place. He could have been a politician.
Donovan eased in next to Wilson. “She okay?” he asked Cavendish.
“Miss Douglas? Yes, she’s fine. I’ve offered her some additional support, which I hope she’ll make use of. I like to help where I can. The experience must have been shocking, terribly upsetting.” He clasped his fingers together. “And you two?” He looked at them in turn. “How are you two bearing up?”
“Fine, just fine,” Donovan replied, a little too quickly.
“To witness something so... so utterly grotesque must have been a shock to you? Nothing can prepare you for the sight of such torment, either physically or spiritually. My experience in Fallujah taught me that.”
