“A real happy place, Yolie. People come from all over the country just to be here. They watch the eagles soar. They hike the trails. And they ride Choo-Choo Cholly up and down the hill, up and down, up and …” Mitch smiled at her. “It’s nice to see you again, by the way.”
“Back at you,” she said, reaching her hand around and pressing it against the back of his head. She came away with blood. “You sure you’re okay?”
“That’s just from this morning, when I had a small concussion. I blacked out twice, but I’m fine. Why, don’t I look fine?”
“You look great.” Yolie grinned at him hugely. “And I know me a hurting baby girl who’s about to get real happy. Come on, let’s get you out of here.”
She took him by the arm and helped him back up the hill to the clearing where Cholly’s little crunched depot was. From there, he could see the helicopter idling in the parking lot, its blades whirring slowly. Several people were standing near it.
One of them started running toward him right away. It was Des, and she ran very strangely. It was partly the deep snow, partly the homemade sling she was wearing on her wounded arm. As she got closer to him, he saw that she was also sobbing uncontrollably, the tears streaming down her face, which was totally not like her. Des absolutely detested girlie-girls.
When she got to him his girlie-girl slammed into him so hard that they both pitched right over into the snow, Des flush on top of him, covering his face with wet, cold kisses. “Baby, I thought you were dead,” she blubbered. “I … I heard those shots and I thought you were dead!”
“Hey, it’s okay, it’s okay. You didn’t have to worry about me. I’m inflatable. You punch me, I bounce right back up again.”
She drew back, studying him with her shiny pale green eyes. “Why does it sound like you have a clothespin on your nose?”
“It’s nothing. But tell me about you. How’s your wing?”
“Broken,” she replied, making a face. “They’re talking some fool stuff about airlifting me to the hospital.”
“Well, you’d better go, you big doofus.”
“Your big doofus wouldn’t leave until she found out how you were,” Yolie said, helping both of them back onto their feet.
“Well, how about now?” Mitch asked her. “Will you go now?”
“I guess,” she grumbled. “If you’ll come with me.”
“You mean like on a date?”
“Don’t make fun of me,” she pleaded, starting to sob all over again. It had to be the bullet wound. She was in shock or something.
“Girlfriend, I’m not making fun,” he promised, hugging her tightly, kissing her smooth cheek. “Honest, I’m not.”
Soave made his way over to them now, looking Mitch up and down with keen-eyed disapproval. The stumpy lieutenant resented Mitch as a presence in Des’s life. Regarded him as an unworthy interloper. Mitch had always detected a whiff of smoldering jealousy on him, too. “We heard a single shot, Berger,” he said to him rather stiffly. “You took him out?”
Mitch couldn’t bring himself to say the words yet. He could feel Des’s eyes on him, studying him anxiously.
“Talk to me, Berger,” Soave persisted. “What was it, kill or be killed?”
“Yes, it was, Lieutenant.”
“And…?”
“And I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to pay Jase back.”
Yolie held Des’s gun out to her. “Go ahead, girl. It hasn’t been fired.”
“What, he shot himself?” Des asked him, pocketing her SIG.
“He did. Then he shook my hand. And then he died.”
Soave took all of this in, tugging thoughtfully at his upper lip with a gloved thumb and forefinger. “Jeez, Berger, this is like a whole new world for you, hunh?”
“I sure hope not, Lieutenant. I was still trying to figure out the old one.”
He rode along with her in the chopper, which airlifted her directly to Middlesex Hospital up in Middletown, where they had a helipad and fully restored electrical power.
He was by her side when they took her into the emergency room. He was by her side when they wheeled her into surgery. It was only then that Mitch let them perform an X ray and cat scan on his own bean. He was okay—no skull fracture. A nurse tidied his scalp wound for him and dressed it rather elaborately. She also cleaned up his bloodied, swollen nose and gave him a couple of Advil for his headache.
He reached out to Bella on Des’s cell phone to let her know what had happened to her roommate. Bella was very upset by the news. For some strange reason, she was also really abrupt with him on the phone, Mitch felt.
Then he sat and waited. They wheeled her out of the operating room four hours later. He was with her when they moved her from the recovery room to a private room, an IV in her good arm, her broken, bandaged arm secured within an external titanium frame. He stayed with her all night, dozing in a chair next to her bed. She finally began stirring at about four in the morning. She came out of her drugged haze slowly, gazing around at her surroundings uncomprehendingly.
“Hey, tiger,” he exclaimed, grinning at her. “How are you feeling?”
“All depends …” she responded hoarsely, blinking at him. There was hallway light coming through the open door. “You … wearing a turban?”
“That’s how they dress head wounds. The nurse said I could take it off tomorrow.”
“What am I wearing?” she wondered, peering at her titanium frame in bewilderment.
“It’s the latest thing. All of the chic New York women swear by them.”
“Wha…?”
“You actually want a straight answer, don’t you? They can’t use a plaster cast in a case like yours, where you have deep flesh wounds. No way to tell if they’re healing right if your arm’s stuffed inside a cast. That’s what the nurse told me, anyway.”
“Incredibly glad …”
“Glad?” He frowned at her. “How come?”
“We’re not in that damned castle anymore.”
“I’m with you there, Master Sergeant.”
The attending physician was an alert young Asian woman. As the sky outside the hospital room window began to fade from black to the purple of pre-dawn, she told Des that the bullet from Jase Hearn’s .38 had not only shattered a bone in her right forearm but had torn through the muscles, ligaments and nerves to her hand. The good news was that the orthopedic surgeon and neurosurgeon believed they had successfully put her back together again. Screws had been inserted in the bone, the damaged nerves repaired. She would have to stay in the hospital for a couple of days, hooked up to intravenous antibiotics and painkillers. Once she was sent home, her arm would have to be immobilized for at least ten weeks. Then there would be extensive rehab. But she should fully recover in time, the young doctor said confidently.
“Still can’t wiggle my fingers,” Des said, the worry showing in her eyes.
“You’ve sustained serious nerve trauma, Trooper. It takes time for the feeling to come back.” The doctor took a safety pin out of her pocket and opened it. “Tell me if you feel anything when I do this …”
“Nothing,” Des said glumly when she’d been poked in the pinky finger with the pin. “Still nothing,” she reported after the doctor tried her ring finger.
“How about this finger …?”
“A tingle, maybe.”
“And this one …?”
“Ow!”
“You’re doing fine,” she assured Des with a brilliant smile.
Relieved, Des immediately fell back to sleep.
Mitch took a cab home—his truck was still up at the castle. The roads from Middletown to Dorset were well plowed and sanded. The driver had heard on the radio that most of the electricity in the state had come back on in the night. A warm front was moving in. It was supposed to be a sunny, balmy forty-five degrees today.
And maybe the weatherman would even be right this time.
Peck’s Point had been plowed all the way out to the gate, Mitch was happ
y to see. He had his driver drop him there. Then he stepped his way carefully across the battered, snow-packed wooden causeway to his island home, feeling as if he’d been away for two months.
Big Sister had taken a definite pounding. A weeping cherry had come down on Bitsy Peck’s covered porch. The fine old oak tree out front of Dolly Peck’s had split right down the middle, landing this way and that in her driveway. The private dock where Evan Peck kept his J-24 tied up each summer had been smashed to pieces by the floating chunks of ice that the angry surf had brought crashing in. But no power lines were down and no houses had taken structural hits. It was all damage that could be dealt with in the weeks ahead, just as the causeway could be dealt with. Standard winter wear and tear when you lived out on an island in the Sound.
Although there was one very important lesson that Mitch had learned from this experience: The next time he saw a burnt orange sunrise in February he would not wonder if it was a good omen. Rather, he would bar the door and hide under the bed.
His carriage house had lost several of its roofing shingles to the wind, exposing the reddish, nearly new-looking cedar underneath. The little apple tree he’d planted in the fall had been uprooted. Otherwise, the place looked okay. And Mitch heard absolutely the most wonderful sound when he went in the door—the steady thrum of his furnace. The power was back on. It was still very, very chilly in the house, but his faucets ran normally. He would have to make his rounds later on just to be certain, but if his own pipes were okay, then the chances were that everyone else’s would be, too. His house had the least amount of insulation on the entire island.
Clemmie and Quirt were cold, hungry, lonely, indignant, pissed off and terribly in need of petting and snuggling and more snuggling. Not a crumb of kibble was left in their bowls. He put down fresh kibble and treated each cat to an entire jar of their Beechnut Stage 1 strained chicken with broth. According to Des, baby food was much better for them than canned cat food. No artificial ingredients, no additives—just chicken. Clemmie and Quirt couldn’t lick their way through enough of it.
He got a big fire going in the fireplace. Cranked up his coffeemaker. Logged on to his computer. Ada Geiger’s death had made its way onto the news wires. Mitch’s editor at the paper, Lacy Nickerson, had already e-mailed him three times about it. He e-mailed her back, promising her a piece about the legendary director by day’s end. A large, comfortably aged pot of American chop suey was waiting for him in his refrigerator. He put it on the stove to warm while he jumped into a scalding-hot shower, a plastic shower cap of Des’s carefully positioned over his bandaged head. He shaved off his itchy stubble, climbed gratefully into clean, dry clothes and shoveled down three man-sized portions of his favorite sustenance. Then he poured himself a mug of coffee, topped it off with two fingers of chocolate milk and sat back down at his computer, gathering his thoughts on Ada.
That was when Yolie Snipes phoned to say she was on her way over with something near and dear to him. He hoofed his way across the causeway to meet her at the gate when she buzzed. It was his beloved Studebaker pickup that she’d brought him. His truck and a pair of envelopes—a large manila one for Des, an Astrid’s Castle letter-sized envelope for him. Inside his he found a check for $320 made out in his name and signed by Aaron Ackerman. There was a scribbled note enclosed:
I would very much like a chance to win this back the next time you re in D.C.—Aaron
Somehow, Mitch doubted he’d be taking Acky up on the offer any time soon.
“I take it you folks managed to dig your way out,” he said as he drove Yolie back toward Astrid’s.
“True, that,” she confirmed. “But if we’d left it up to the power company, we’d still be stuck up there. Captain Polito strong-armed him a dozen young recruits with chain saws to clear the private drive. Lousy duty, but those boys got it done.”
Yolie had a few more questions for Mitch while he steered the truck up Route 156. Also a bit of news—she’d spoken to Martha Burgess, who had told her something very interesting. And then, before he knew it, Mitch was right back at the front gate to Astrid’s Castle. As he started his way up the steep, twisting drive, he was hit by this powerful, awful feeling that someone had just hit the rewind button and the whole movie was going to start all over again from the beginning. This time in slo-mo.
Truly, it was a comfort to see so many state police cars and crime scene vans clustered there by the drawbridge when he pulled up.
“This here’s a crazy one,” Yolie said as she hopped out, her braids glistening in the sunlight. “There’s nobody left to charge with anything. Nobody who did anything is still with us. Everybody’s dead.”
“Except for us,” Mitch said quietly.
“You tell my baby girl to take care, hear?”
“Will do,” Mitch promised, flooring it the hell out of there. He could not get away from Astrid’s Castle fast enough.
He stopped off at Des’s house to pick up a few things for her. Round little Bella Tillis was in the kitchen heating up some of her homemade mushroom-barley soup.
“Good, you can take this to her for me,” she huffed at Mitch when he came in the door. “I’ll go see her later on this afternoon.”
“Sure, that sounds fine.”
“Would you mind telling me why you’re wearing a turban?”
“That’s how they dress head wounds. The nurse said I can take it off tomorrow.”
“Oh, I’ll just bet she did,” Bella snapped, slamming her way around the kitchen like an angry bumper car. “Make sure Desiree eats this while it’s still hot,” she ordered him as she poured the steaming soup into a heavy-duty thermos bottle.
“I’ll sure try. But I can’t make her do anything she doesn’t want to do.”
“No, she’s stubborn, all right. But I don’t have to tell you about stubborn, do I?”
“Bella, do we have a problem I don’t know about?”
“You tell me,” she fired back, standing there with her hands parked on her hips. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m fine,” he said, fingering his bandage. “Just a little headachy.”
“No, I mean how are you feeling—as if you didn’t know.”
“I didn’t. I don’t. I …” Actually, Mitch was starting to feel a bit dizzy again. “What do you mean?
“If you break that poor girl’s heart, she won’t be the only one walking around town with a broken arm, that’s what,” Bella answered, stabbing Mitch in the chest with her stubby index finger. “You’ll still have to deal with me, Mr. Hotshot New York Film Critic. And I will never forgive you. Now do we understand each other?”
“No, I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Tie that bull outside, as we used to say on Nostrand Avenue.”
“Bella, I have never understood what that expression means.”
“It means, be afraid,” she growled at him. “Be very afraid.”
“Trust me, I am,” he assured her, backing his way slowly out of the kitchen.
When he arrived at the hospital he found the patient sitting up in bed engrossed by an old rerun of The Loveboat on television.
“Okay, this must be all of the painkillers they’re giving you,” he said, kissing her on the cheek.
“Shush!” Des ordered him, her eyes glued to the set. “She’s not really in love with the captain after all. She was just trying to make her ex-husband jealous.”
“Des, you are sitting here watching Bert Convy and Florence Henderson exchange witty repartee,” he pointed out, flicking off the television.
“Hey …!” She protested.
“Why don’t you try this instead?” he said, presenting her with the envelope of crime scene photographs that Yolie had delivered, along with the sketch pad and graphite sticks that he’d brought from her house.
“Um, okay, you may have noticed my right arm isn’t exactly functioning.”
“Your life drawing teacher told you he actually preferred your left-handed
stuff. He thought it felt less restrained.”
“Mitch, do you remember every single word I tell you?”
“Elephants and Jewish men never forget. Girlfriend, you’ve been through a lot. This is how you deal. So you may as well start dealing. It’s not like you’ve got anything better to do for the next day or two.”
“Actually, I’ve been lying here thinking about what Ada told me,” she confessed. “How I shouldn’t be taking any more classes. Kind of scary.”
“Why scary?”
“Because taking classes is what I’m about right now. That’s why I’m doing this resident-trooper thing instead of humping to get back on Major Crimes. If I’m not learning to be an artist, then what am I doing?”
“Being an artist.”
Her eyes widened with fear. “Doughboy, you just sent a cold chill right up and down my spine.”
“Nah, that’s just your backless hospital gown—your booty’s waving in the breeze. Des, I agree with Ada. You’re ready to take the next step. You can handle this.”
“Sure about that, are you?” she asked him warily.
“I have no doubts. None.”
“So what’s in the thermos?”
“Mushroom-barley soup, courtesy of your roommate.”
“Yum, let me at it.”
He poured some of it into a Styrofoam cup for her and set it on her tray table, along with a spoon.
She sampled it eagerly, smacking her lips. “That Jewish mother can make soup.”
“Yolie had herself a conversation with Martha Burgess,” Mitch announced, flopping down in the chair next to the bed. “Martha cried her poor eyes out about Les. But here comes the weird part—she told Yolie she’d broken it off with him several weeks ago. Decided to give her marriage another chance.”
“So she wasn’t planning to leave Bob for Les?”
“Apparently not. Which got me to wondering,” Mitch said. “What if Les was actually planning to marry Jory after all?”
“Could be he was,” Des answered wearily. “There’s no telling what he promised Jory, or she promised him. We only have her version, and that girl and the truth were not exactly tight.” She set her spoon aside and slumped back against her pillows. She’d barely touched the soup. Her appetite wasn’t back yet.
The Burnt Orange Sunrise Page 30
