“How’s Tricia?” I asked as I leaned over my sister’s prone form. She was a bit pale, but I assumed the drugs were keeping her relaxed and out of pain.
“She had an awful day. Just awful. So much pain, and those nurses didn’t have any sympathy.”
I knew that some doctors disapproved of treating alcoholics in the ICU and wondered if others in the medical field felt the same way. Or if my mother was fabricating the whole thing.
At this point, I couldn’t be sure, so I decided to skip the drama. “How long has Tricia been off the ventilator?”
“They finished weaning her yesterday,” she said as she paced in front of the bed, looking more lost and agitated than usual. “And those respiratory therapists were so awful, coming in here and making her gag.”
“I’m sure they were just doing their jobs,” I said as I pressed the Styrofoam container of food into her hands, partially to give her something to do and partially because her blood sugar seemed a quart low. “Here, Mom. Why don’t you sit and try to eat something? You’re probably hungry.”
Obediently, my mother sat, opened the box, and began to pick at her food. “I know you’re right. Everyone here is really nice and they’re doing the best they can for her, but it’s so hard to watch your baby suffer.”
I took the other seat, a straight-backed oak chair with a pink padded cushion, and opened my food while listening to my mother recount, more calmly now, what had gone on that day.
God, I was hungry. I tore open the plastic-wrapped fork and knife and shoveled a forkful of stewed yellow squash and onions into my mouth.
After a few ravenous bites, I slowed my pace and considered my sister. It was true. It was difficult to watch her suffer, but by this point, we should have mastered the task because we’d been watching it for years. My reaction had always been different, though. While my mother worried, my sister drank, and my father avoided, I was out playing superhero, trying to right all wrongs and leap tall buildings in a single bound.
I don’t know which one of us had coped the best.
We sat together, me eating and my mother watching the soap opera, until someone knocked on the door behind us.
I jumped at the sudden noise, cursed myself, and turned around to find Dr. Janowski standing there in his white lab coat. “I’m here to check on Tricia’s progress,” he said as he entered the room followed by a nurse with a computer on a rolling cart. She deposited the cart in an out-of-the-way corner and went to the bedside to prepare for the doctor’s exam.
Dr. Janowski began scrolling through the charts on the computer, found what he was looking for, and then glanced up at my mother and me. “How does our patient seem today?” he asked.
My mother began to recount the horrors of the ventilator removal, and I listened as the doctor made the appropriate responses and assured her that my sister was breathing well now.
“I’m just going to have a look at her surgical site, Mrs. Jackson,” he said.
And though he was already in the process of pulling the curtain around Tricia to begin his examination, my mother said, “Go right ahead. We’ll get out of your way.”
My mother and I waited quietly in our seats, both pretending to concentrate on the muted TV.
At some point during the exam, my sister awoke, and I heard the sound of her groggy voice and the hushed assurances of the nurse, explaining what was happening.
Soon, Dr. Janowski stepped from behind the curtain and said, “The surgical site looks good and seems to be healing normally. No sign of infection.”
“That’s great news,” my mother said with a hand over her heart and a grateful look on her face. I was afraid she was going to fling herself at Dr. Janowski and hug him until he popped, but thankfully she restrained herself.
Me? I was waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“Can we speak outside for a moment while my nurse redresses the wound?”
And there it was.
Once we moved out into the hall, the doctor spoke to my fears. “Now that Tricia is off the ventilator and awake, her recovery may begin to get more difficult.”
“Oh!” my mother said. “Do you mean she’ll be in a lot of pain?”
“We’ll make sure she’s comfortable.” He glanced at me. “But alcohol withdrawal is more of a concern at this point.”
“Withdrawal?” My mother gasped. “She’s not an addict, doctor! She was just a little tipsy when she fell.”
Oh, come on. My mother was in big-time denial.
It was not an attitude I wanted to share with her.
“Let’s just hear him out, Mom.”
She crossed her arms in front of her and pressed her lips together in compliance.
Dr. Janowski nodded at my mother and then looked between us. “Based on what she was able to tell us of her history earlier, we’ve decided to prescribe IV Librium. The dosage has been calculated in ratio to the amount of alcohol she said she consumes, and it should get her through just fine. Still, we’ll be watching for symptoms of delirium tremens.”
“DTs?” I repeated. “What are the symptoms? Shaking?”
“Yes, shaking, but also confusion, hallucinations, anxiety. If she begins showing any of these symptoms, please tell the nurse immediately. The Librium should prevent them, but the next forty-eight hours are critical, and she may have to be sedated for as many as ten days.”
Alcohol was royally screwing up my sister’s life. It caused her accident and was now impeding her recovery.
“You said earlier that her bones had also been damaged by her drinking,” I said, trying to see the larger picture. “Can the condition of her bones be reversed?”
“Certainly, if Miss Jackson refrains from drinking, her bones may recover rapidly.”
That was good news at least. “And if she doesn’t? What will her life be like?”
Dr. Janowski looked at me squarely. “I can only speak to her bone health, and if she continues along this path, she is likely to suffer more fractures in the future.”
“How long will it take her to heal fully?” my mother asked, ignoring the true problem as usual.
“Well, I always tell patients to give it a year to heal fully,” he said, “but in a patient with healthy bones, it takes at least six weeks for the fracture to heal. Most people start driving in nine to twelve weeks and return to normal activities in three to four months. In your daughter’s case, it may take longer.”
“When can I take her home?”
“I’d like to monitor her recovery until we’re sure she’s not going to experience DTs, but she will likely be discharged in about a week, depending on how she does.”
“Oh, a few days in the hospital, she won’t like that. But afterward, I’ll bring her to my house,” my mother said, her eyes alight at the prospect of taking care of Tricia 24/7.
But the doctor’s next words worked magic on me. “It’s critical that she not consume any alcohol during her recovery,” he said, “especially while she’s on this medication.”
As I listened, I realized just how much I hoped this accident would turn into a blessing. Tricia would be immobilized during her recovery, and she was already going through a safe detox from alcohol. I had a fresh lead on her rapist, and I knew the bastard would be caught soon. These combined factors could be the impetus for a good change—a real turning point for all of us.
“I’m going to run home,” my mother said after Dr. Janowski and the nurse left. “I could really use some sleep, and I need to pack us some overnight bags. I think I have some of Tricia’s laundry at home, so I’ll bring that. And I need something to read. I’m sick of watching soaps and game shows.”
My mother gave me a quick hug and then leaned over Tricia to explain that she’d be back tomorrow, while I went into the hall to call my father.
I assumed he hadn’t been updated about Tricia, and to be honest, if we were going to be watching her for signs of DTs, then we needed someone else on the rotation this weekend. It was time to get hi
m here.
My father received the news about the possibility of further complications with his usual stoicism, and he agreed to spend Saturday night with Tricia, which would be a nice relief for my mother.
When I returned to Tricia’s room, my mother was gone, but my sister smiled weakly at me. “Hey, Sissy,” she said, her voice rough from the ventilator.
“Hey,” I said back. “How are you feeling?”
I pulled the recliner beside her bed and leaned close as Tricia turned her wide, unfocused eyes to me. She seemed not to have heard my question. “You’ll stay here with me tonight, won’t you?” she asked. “You won’t leave me, right?”
A feeling of tenderness washed over me, and I brushed her pale blond hair from her face and said, “I’ll be here. Don’t you worry. Mom will be back tomorrow, and Dad will stay with you this weekend, but you’re stuck with me for a while.”
“I’m glad you’re here.” Tricia reached up, and I watched her hand as it wavered a bit in midair before she managed to find my hand and squeeze it weakly.
“They gave you the good drugs, didn’t they?” I looked into her glazed eyes and then at the IV bag that hovered above her.
“Yup,” she said. “But I’m still glad you’re here. You always take care of everything.”
You have no idea, I thought. I really wanted to tell her. I wanted her to know that I was about to bring to justice the man who had done this to her. But Tricia wasn’t exactly aware of my personal investigation into her rape, and she probably wouldn’t approve if she were. She seemed to want to forget what happened by any means necessary, and she certainly didn’t have any conception of how close we were to discovering her attacker’s identity.
Looking down at her tired face, I wondered how she would take the news when I told her.
Probably not well, given her already chronic alcohol use. I’d known it was bad, but this was the first potentially health-endangering complication I’d witnessed.
Well, except for the DWIs.
No, I’d wait until later to tell her about the investigation. After her ankle had healed and—in an ideal scenario—after she weaned herself from alcohol. Maybe then she would be able to handle the news in a healthy way.
I hoped.
Tricia looked up to find me watching her. “You okay?” she asked, which was a surprise. Usually she was so focused on herself that she didn’t notice me.
“Yeah, I just had a tough day. It was only my second back, but it feels like I’ve worked a month.”
“Oh,” she said as her eyelids slipped shut momentarily, “tell me about it.”
I thought of the charred body and said, “Why don’t we watch some TV instead?” Before she could respond, I turned up the sound on the wall-mounted monitor just in time to hear the newscaster announce, “A Cranford County man’s body was found last weekend in his car along Highway 403. Local police say the state will investigate for potential car arson.”
So much for forgetting work. I flipped the channel to a sitcom. I wasn’t in the mood for news reports, even such vague ones, on one of my cases. One of our cases, I reminded myself.
I turned to Tricia, pleased that I could tell her something about my day without being too specific. “Did I tell you I have a new partner at work?”
“Nope,” she said. “Anyone I know?”
“Nope,” I replied in kind. “His name’s Mark Vincent. He worked with me on that case a few weeks ago and now he’s here to stay.”
“Mark Vincent. Is he cute?” she asked, as if we were thirteen years old and suddenly boy crazy.
“I don’t know if ‘cute’ is the word I’d use,” I said, thinking of his bulky frame and all-business exterior. “But yeah, he’s attractive in a military kind of way.”
“Mmmm, I like a man in uniform.” Tricia’s words were slurred, and I looked over to find her eyelids drooping again. “Is he married?” she managed to ask.
“No,” I said as I got out of the recliner to pull the covers higher around her shoulders. “But he has a kid. A son in college.”
Tricia wrinkled her nose. “Oh, he’s old, then. Probably gray chest hairs. Yuck.”
“Not really old.” I pushed a stray strand of hair from her face and smiled down at her. “I think he married young, and I’ve seen his chest. Not a gray hair in sight.”
Tricia yawned but still managed to say, “You saw his chest?”
Oops. I hadn’t meant to get into all that. “It’s a long story,” I said, “but I can guarantee that it’s not nearly as interesting as you’re probably imagining.”
Tricia shrugged halfheartedly but didn’t let me drop the subject so easily. “You gonna date him?”
“I doubt it,” I said as I watched her eyelids fall closed.
I had other things to do besides date cute boys. I had to catch the man responsible for putting Tricia in her current condition.
Eleven
Dumping the first body had been as easy as taking out the trash.
But disposing of the next twenty-five or so had been a hell of a task. First of all, stowing that much waste on one piece of land—no matter how large—requires creative thinking, and second, dead bodies aren’t exactly light. Hell, carrying them one by one through the woods had nearly thrown out his back until he’d gotten smart and started using his old wheelbarrow to haul them to their final resting places.
The man grinned at that last thought: final resting places. Ha! It sounded so peaceful and serene, so respectable.
Hardly.
Unless, of course, some of these people had hoped to spend eternity rotting in a septic tank.
Somehow he doubted it.
Still, he whistled as he rolled the old man’s remains down the wooded path toward the back of his property. But as his feet crunched through the leaves that littered the forest floor and the wind blew through the narrow pine branches above, he swore he felt the temperature drop, and a sudden chill passed through him, causing him to want to plant this guy as quickly as he could and get back inside his house.
Briefly, he considered throwing the carcass into the pond, but as usual, he ruled out the possibility—he couldn’t have bodies floating up if he invited a buddy over to fish. He’d have to take him somewhere else.
He thought he might use the commercial septic tank he’d secretly installed for disposing of the bodies, but it was hidden farther back on his twenty acres, and opening the hatch in the huge concrete lid required so much effort. Usually he only went to that trouble when he had more than one body to dump.
Nah, he thought as he shifted his baseball cap lower over his brow, he’d just use the tried-and-true burial method. Drop the old geezer into the mass grave, toss a bit of lime over him, and he’d be home in time for a nice breakfast. Maybe he’d even put in the effort to make grits to go with his eggs and thick-cut bacon.
As he shoved the wheelbarrow into the small clearing that housed his current dumping ground, he knew grits were going to be out of the question.
Something was wrong.
Bad wrong.
“What the hell?” he said aloud as he parked the old man in the shade of a thick water oak and dashed over to examine the pit he’d dug so carefully with his backhoe. The opening of the hole had definitely been disturbed, evidenced by the pockmarks that had formed in the loose piles of soil around it. He was certain it hadn’t looked that way when he’d tossed in the last stiff.
He leaned over the edge of the hole and flinched as he stared down in disbelief.
One of his goddamn bodies was missing.
Twelve
Bright and early the next morning, I peeled myself off the hospital recliner where I’d slept—or tried to sleep. Between the nurses’ constant interruptions and some crazy dreams, I hadn’t exactly slumbered peacefully. I looked at Tricia as she lay on the hospital bed. Her skin color was better, and her chest moved up and down regularly under the blanket.
I smiled and gently brushed her bangs from her eyes. She was asleep
and seemed serene. After a long night of blood pressure and temperature checks, I wasn’t eager to wake her, so I took my bag to the bathroom, changed into a new outfit, and quietly slipped out of the room.
I headed to the office with a quick stop for coffee on the way, and soon Vincent and I were on the road back to Cranford County, with Kathy Vanderbilt as our primary mission.
“What do we know about the widow Vanderbilt, aside from the fact that she stood to gain a crapload of money from her husband’s death?” I asked.
“Not a whole hell of a lot,” Vincent said from his position in the driver’s seat of his GMC.
I leaned down to yank a stack of papers from my work bag, which I’d stowed on the floorboard. I found the printouts from Americus Mutual, Kathy’s police record, and the Vanderbilts’ financial information and then shuffled them into some sort of order, thinking that I should probably convert to an electronic tablet to keep my work better organized and less coffee stained.
But I was a traditional girl. I liked the feel of paper, which was sometimes the only solid thing in an investigation. I’d made a concession when I’d bought a smart phone and agreed to tote a laptop, but I wasn’t ready to go completely digital.
Not yet.
We’d already covered the Americus policy, so after scanning it once more as a refresher, I flipped to Kathy’s police record. “Mrs. Vanderbilt has a couple of speeding tickets, and when she was a teenager in the early 1990s, she was arrested twice: once for vandalism and again for disorderly conduct. But here’s the interesting one. In 2002, she was arrested for filing a false police report against a neighbor, whom she accused of assault.”
Vincent nodded in recollection. “I remember reading that. Weren’t the charges dropped for lack of evidence?”
“Yes, the investigation revealed no evidence against the neighbor, and Kathy subsequently admitted that she had fabricated the charge in the hopes of bilking money out of a local battered women’s charity.”
“Classy,” Vincent said.
Death Benefits Page 8
