Out Of The Deep I Cry

by Julia Spencer-Fleming

“But it’s freezing out here! And your jeans aren’t going to keep you warm.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ll survive.”

  She worried her lower lip. She was still gripping his gloved hand. “Is that what you want me to do? Leave you here and go get help?”

  “Hell, no. I’m not going to freeze my ass off for two hours when it’ll take us twenty minutes to walk back to the road.”

  She let out a choked-up laugh, shook her head. “I-,” she started, her voice liquid and warm, like maple syrup fresh from the boiler. She cut herself off and pressed her lips together in a smile.

  Love you. He could hear it as clearly as if she’d spoken it. She dropped his hand, stuffed her mittens in her pocket, and stood up. “Let’s do it,” she said.

  It took them forty-five minutes, not twenty. They leaned into each other, her arm as far around his back as it would go, his arm over her neck and shoulders, their hands clutching each other’s parkas. She would take a small step, he would hop. He kept his teeth gritted against the throbbing ache in his leg, but every fourth or fifth hop his useless left foot would hit the hard, packed snow and he’d swear loudly. He kept apologizing for his language until Clare snapped that if he didn’t stop she’d rip his tongue out and beat him with it. They didn’t talk, except for exchanges like “Do you want me to take your boot off?”

  “No.”

  “It might make it easier to keep your leg up.”

  “I don’t want you to take my goddamn boot off.”

  They fell down twice. The first time, he could feel Clare lose her footing and he wrenched his arm away from her. She let go of his parka and he was able to twist sideways, tumbling onto his good right side. The force of the impact vibrated through his broken leg like a dental drill, and he had to lie there for a few minutes, gasping for control, while Clare apologized over and over. The second time, he hopped, landed wrong, and toppled backward, dragging Clare by her neck. When he could speak, he asked her if she was okay.

  “I hate snow,” she said. “I really, really hate it. Ice, too.”

  He couldn’t help it. He laughed. His whole body hurt, and he laughed and laughed while she rolled over, got to her feet, and hauled him upright. He laughed until he ran out of air and he stood there, dizzy and panting, clinging to her shoulders.

  “Slow. Slow,” she said. “Take a few deep breaths.” He did. “Better?” she asked. “We’re almost there.”

  And they were. Although the last few yards, with the truck in sight, were an agony, as what had been a twenty-second stroll along the shoulder of the road stretched into five minutes of step-hop-step-hop-step.

  “Almost there,” she said, relief lightening her voice.

  “I know we’re almost there,” he snarled.

  When they reached the truck, he leaned against the side of the cab while Clare wiggled the keys out of his pocket and unlocked the doors. She slid the passenger seat as far back as it would go and then, while he sat on the floor of the cab, interlaced her fingers into a stirrup. He planted his good boot in her hands and shoved up, humping himself into the seat.

  “Is there anything we can use to brace your leg?” She winced as he bumped his left foot against the floor mat and swore again.

  “Let’s just get out of here.” He leaned back and closed his eyes while she got in and started the truck. He felt as if he had just staggered past the finish line of a ten-mile race, slick with sweat and trembling with fatigue. He concentrated on breathing, steady and deep. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. The truck jounced through a pothole and he hissed.

  “Sorry,” Clare said. He didn’t answer. Just went back to his breathing, keeping the pain not at bay, because it sloshed up against him like waves slapping at the side of a boat, but riding it, staying inside the hull, not letting it swamp him.

  Clare didn’t ask him how he was or try to distract him with chatter, and the part of him that was thinking about anything was grateful to her for her silence. He kept his eyes closed. He could hear the rumble of the county road give way to the whoosh and crunch of traffic. They stopped, waited, rolled, stopped, waited, rolled. They eased over a speed bump and sloped upward. “We’re here,” she said quietly, and he opened his eyes to see her nosing the truck into the emergency-room portico. “I’ll go get someone,” she said, and he closed his eyes again as her door opened and shut. He had time for four more slow breaths before his door opened and a familiar voice said, “Well, what have you done to yourself this time?”

  He opened his eyes. “Hey, Alta.” He reached for the edge of the doorway and the outstretched hand of the nurse who had ruled the emergency department since before he had returned home to become chief of police.

  “Easy now,” she said, and Clare was on the other side, reaching for him as well, and there was a gurney, set nice and low and easy for him to sit on, fall back on, stretch out on. An orderly helped him settle his leg and then raised the gurney to table height. Russ stared at the sky, bright and cold.

  “You’ll have to move that pickup,” Alta was saying to Clare. “Back out of this drive, down the street, next hospital entrance is visitor parking.”

  Clare leaned over so that her face was hanging above him, just like she had done in the moments after he had fallen. “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” she said.

  “Call the station for me,” he said. “They’re shorthanded already with Noble and Lyle out. Tell Harlene to call in the part-time guys. Tell her to let the staties know we may need back up. Call Bob Mongue, the zone sergeant at Troop B, he’s got like a dozen kids and he always needs overtime. Tell her-”

  “Russ.” She rested one hand on his chest, her mouth quirked in a smile that was half exasperation, half amusement. “Harlene’s been the dispatcher for what, twenty years? She’ll know what to do.”

  Her face was replaced by Alta’s. “Let’s get you inside and give you something to take the pain away, hmm?” She grabbed the side of the gurney and they began rolling. “I thought for sure when the reverend ran in here that you musta been shot or something. The ice got you, hmm? I was hoping for something more exciting than a slip and fall. We get three-four cases a day this time of year.”

  He wondered, as they shouldered their way through the double doors into the steamy, moist heat of the emergency room, if Debba had been telling the truth. If Allan Rouse had slipped and fallen just like he had? And if so, then where the hell was he?

  Chapter 21

  NOW

  Now, her cell phone worked. She pocketed it as she crossed the parking lot toward the sidewalk that ran along the front of the hospital. She knew if she used the main entrance, there would be a lot of meaningless red tape about signing in and checking if Russ had been admitted yet. She was going back to the emergency room.

  She had had a short conversation with Harlene, who became all brisk and efficient as soon as Clare had reassured her that Russ was safe and unlikely to need anything more than a cast. “Fell down at a crime scene and broke his leg, huh? The guys are never going to let him forget this.” She had promised to notify everyone in the department and directed Clare to not let Russ fret. “No fretting. Got it,” Clare said as she rang off.

  She pushed through the entrance of the emergency department, the old-fashioned swinging doors whump-whumping around her, and spotted Alta manning the admissions desk at the end of the drab green hall.

  “He’s already inside, getting his prelim workup done,” Alta said as Clare neared. “They’re getting him changed and starting an IV. I’ll let you know when you can go in.”

  Clare thanked her and took a seat in the waiting room. Someone had thumb-tacked glossy cardboard hearts and doilies onto the institutional green walls and forgotten to take them down after Valentine’s Day. Maybe they kept them up until they could be replaced by jolly cartoon bunnies and two-foot-high chicks for Easter. Rather than cheering the place up, they emphasized the vinyl sadness of the brown-and-chrome chairs, which looked as if they had been bought secondhand from a modernistic j
etport lounge in 1964. Clare settled into the slightly curved back of hers and tried to resist picking at the peeling piping. Across from her, a woman with the look of a farmer’s wife from up Cossayuharie way was resolutely leafing through a Woman’s Day magazine, ignoring the waiting room’s other inhabitant, a man dressed in the contents of a Goodwill donation bin. He smelled powerfully of alcohol and was mumbling to himself.

  Clare glanced at the contents of the table at the end of her row of chairs. Three Sports Illustrateds, a Fly Rod and Reel, two Travel + Leisures. None of them less than two years old. She crossed her arms over her chest and sat. She could hear the drunk mumbling, not angry or threatening, but more like he was holding up both ends of a conversation. She glanced back at him. He looked worn down and used up.

  She leaned over the back of her chair so she could see him better. “Excuse me,” she said. The farmer’s wife lowered her magazine and stared. “Excuse me,” Clare said again. “Do you have a place to stay?”

  The man stopped talking and looked at her, like one party to a tête-à-tête examining an interloper.

  “Because if you don’t, I know a shelter. You can’t drink there, though.”

  He blinked at her, dropped his head, and resumed mumbling to himself.

  “Don’t worry about him, Reverend.” Clare whipped around to see Alta standing there, a clipboard in her hand. “He comes in every once in a while. He’ll be here overnight, drying out.” She spoke a little louder to the man. “Doctor will see you in just a few minutes, Mr. Arbot. You hang in there.” The man gave no sign he had heard the nurse.

  “Can I go in?” Clare asked her.

  “Yep. He’s had some pretty powerful narcotics, so don’t be surprised if he seems out of it. We’re waiting on radiology to clear out, and then he’ll go in for his X rays.”

  “Did the doctor say anything?” Clare knew that under the privacy laws, Alta really had no business telling her anything. She wasn’t a relative, nor was she visiting in her official capacity. But the nurses had gotten used to seeing her around as she and the town’s other clergy rotated through the unpaid post of hospital chaplain. Alta responded exactly as she would if Clare had been going in to pray with or counsel a patient who had requested her.

  “Looks like a simple fracture, although of course we won’t know for sure until radiology. It’s a bad break, though, and Dr. Stillman will want to put him under to set it. So I suspect the chief will be our guest at least until tomorrow.” As she spoke, she led Clare to the brushed-metal doors separating reception and waiting from the actual emergency room. She whacked a fist-sized button set in the wall, and the doors hissed open. “Right through there,” she said. “He’s in the third bed down.”

  Clare, following the nurse’s directions, parted the third pair of limp blue curtains. “Hey,” she said.

  Russ was reclining on an angled hospital bed, begowned in a johnny, his broken leg elevated on a pair of poofy pillows. As Alta had said, there was an IV in his arm, and whatever was in it must have been pretty good stuff, because the lines of pain and fatigue that had been chiseled into his face were gone. In fact, Clare had never seen him looking so relaxed.

  “Hey,” he said, waving her in.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Stoned.” He laughed. It was different from his usual laugh, lighter, younger.

  Clare smiled. She nodded toward his leg. The break was hidden by a twill-covered ice pack the size of a small sandbag. “I meant that.”

  “I’m not feeling much pain, but Jesus, it looks awful. Take a look.” He sat upright and flipped the ice pack off. He was right. It did look awful, swollen and spectacularly bruised. He resettled the bag over the break and leaned back again.

  “I called Harlene,” Clare said. “She’s taking care of everything. I’m supposed to tell you not to fret.”

  “No fretting, yes ma’am.” He grinned.

  Clare bit her lip to keep from laughing. “I called your mother, but she wasn’t at home. I left her a message. I told her you’d broken your leg, but that you were going to be fine, and I left her my cell phone number in case she wants to reach me. I figured that way, I can let her know what’s going on if she calls when you’re getting it set or something.”

  He sobered fast. “Before you tell her anything, make sure she knows I didn’t break my leg while on duty.”

  “But you were examining a crime scene.”

  “I was walking in the woods.” His face took on a stubborn cast. “If my mom thinks I was injured in the line of duty, she’ll freak out. Her biggest fear is that something’s going to happen to me because of my job.” He took her hand in his and looked up at her, confiding, “She’s not really wild about me being a cop.”

  “I had gotten that,” Clare said. “Okay, I’ll tell her we were taking a walk.” She pulled her hand out of his and looked around for a chair, but there was nothing in the drapery-enclosed space except a rolling cart full of medical supplies and Russ’s IV pole.

  He stroked the side of the bed. “You can sit here.”

  “I’ll stand, thanks.”

  “Come on. Keep an injured man company.” He gave her a smile she had never seen before: wheedling, charming.

  “I’m getting a look at a whole other side of you,” she said, compromising by leaning her hip against the edge of the bed where he had indicated.

  “If I get up in this damn hospital gown, you’ll get a look at every side of me.” He laughed again.

  She glanced back at the wilted blue curtain. Maybe she ought to open that. It wasn’t as if they were alone; she could hear one of the nurses cracking a joke and a doctor quizzing a blood technician. And it wasn’t as if she were being inappropriate; when she visited patients they almost always talked in private, behind a drawn curtain or a closed door. But she was uncomfortable with this version of Russ, this sloe-eyed, uninhibited Russ. She liked his inhibitions. She relied on them.

  She jumped up and pulled the drapery aside, just in time to whack a doctor standing opposite her who had obviously been reaching for the curtain himself. “Oh!” she said. “I’m so sorry.”

  He gave her a hesitant smile. “I’m Dr. Stillman,” he said. His glance flickered to either side of her, as if he were checking to make sure no one else was going to leap out at him. “I’m the orthopedic surgeon. Are you Mrs. Van Alstyne?”

  She swallowed her first response, and said, “I’m Reverend Clare Fergusson. I brought Chief Van Alstyne in.”

  Russ sat up straighter. “Dr. Stillman?” he said. He peered at the man. “You can’t be Dr. Stillman.”

  Clare looked, too, but the doctor seemed authentic enough. White coat, stethoscope, a short stack of medical-record jackets under his arm.

  “You must have been one of my dad’s patients,” he said, moving to Russ’s side and peeling the ice pack off his leg. “What did he have you for?”

  Russ was still looking suspiciously at him. “Broken collarbone.”

  “Your father practiced here?” Clare said. “In Millers Kill?”

  Stillman looked up from where he was delicately touching Russ’s leg. “I’m the third-generation Dr. Stillman in these parts. My dad was an orthopedist, too, so I get this reaction a lot from people who had their bones set by him when they were kids.” He grinned. “They can’t figure out how Dr. Stillman’s stayed so well preserved.” He stood up. “Okay, Chief, I’m going to deliver you to the tender mercies of radiology. I’ve already scheduled an operating room for you, so we’ll be able to get this taken care of right away.”

  “Operating room!”

  “Trust me, you’re not going to want to be awake for this one.” Stillman unlocked the bed’s wheels, rehung Russ’s IV on a stubby hook at the head of the bed, and rolled through the open curtains.

  “Clare?” Russ sounded disoriented, like someone calling for a light in a suddenly dark room.

  It took her several long strides to catch up. “I’ll be here when you get out,” she said.


  They exited the emergency room through a side hall. “It’ll be a few more hours before he’ll be able to see anybody,” Dr. Stillman said. He brought the bed to a stop in front of a pair of elevators. “I’m not sure what room he’s being admitted to.”

  The elevator doors opened. Russ caught at her hand, squeezed it tightly, let go. Stillman trundled him into the freight-sized elevator.

  “I’ll be here,” she said again.

  Russ reached toward her, his arm stretching, his hand outflung as if he could pull her through the elevator doors and take her with him. His eyes were dilated black with the painkillers pumping through him, and even though she knew it was just the drugs, she had to stand for a long time, staring into her scratched and blurry reflection, after the stainless-steel doors closed on his final words: “I’m still holding on. Not letting go.”

  Chapter 22

  THEN

  Friday, April 16, 1937

  Harry McNeil was just picking up his lunch at the Rexall’s soda counter when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned, and was surprised to see Niels Madsen.

  “I’ve been looking for you,” the attorney said.

  Harry held out his hand. “And you found me.” They shook. He turned back to the counter, where the jerk was wrapping his ham-and-swiss. “You could have just called my office.”

  “You’re never in your office,” Niels said, in a faintly accusing voice.

  The jerk stuffed a small container of cole slaw and a paper napkin into the bag. “You want a pickle with that?” he asked. Harry shook his head. “Two bits,” the jerk said. Harry fished the coins out of his pocket and handed them over.

  “I’m never there because very little crime happens in my office,” Harry said, picking up the conversation. “It’s good for the citizens of the town to see their police chief out and about.” He grinned. “And I get antsy if I’m cooped up too long.” He glanced at the lunch counter, its row of seats fully occupied. “Let’s go across the street and sit in the park.”