“Will you go with him?” Mom asked.
“No. I’m about to go into the O.R. with the commissioner. But Wayne will be in good hands. You and Barry should go on to Asheville.”
Mom nodded. I realized we had a problem.
“My car’s at the high school and Archie brought Mom.”
“You’ve got the key to mine on your ring. Take it. I’ll get a lift to yours and then come to Mission. Keep me posted. I’ll check my phone when I can.” She gave Mom a hug, held it, and then broke away to hurry to her patient.
Mom sniffled and blinked back tears. She managed a wan smile. “Barry, you married over your head.”
When we arrived at Mission, Uncle Wayne had already been admitted into the Intensive Care Unit. Since the procedure involved keeping him in an induced coma, visiting was discouraged. A nurse suggested I leave a contact number so we could be reached in case there was any change. She said they were monitoring cranial pressure, and although the readings were high, the measurements didn’t seem to be increasing. She expected the doctor would keep him in that state till at least early evening. We would have plenty of time to return before he regained consciousness.
Mom thanked the nurse and turned to me. “Since we’re here, why don’t we sit a few minutes? I feel better knowing he’s just down the hall.”
The special family area for the ICU wasn’t crowded. On the Saturday of Labor Day weekend, most activity occurred at the regular ER. That parade of admittees represented barbecues gone awry, hotdogs lodged in throats, and broken arms and ankles resulting from roughhousing in the backyard or climbing a treacherous mountain rockface. The holiday fracas, as Susan called it, was the reason both she and her colleague, Dr. O’Malley, had been on-call at our local hospital. But most of these injuries didn’t rise to the level of intensive care, and so Mom and I sat in a corner of an empty room where we could talk undisturbed.
“I don’t like him being in a coma.” Mom wrung her hands in her lap.
“It’s the best approach if there’s brain swelling. Susan wouldn’t have said otherwise.”
“But your uncle’s old. What if the coma does something to his cognitive abilities? I’ve heard general anesthesia is to be avoided for that reason. It can trigger dementia.”
I didn’t know to what extent such a cause and effect had been proven, but I knew perfectly well what drove her fear. My father had developed early-onset Alzheimer’s, and Mom, Uncle Wayne, and I had watched a vibrant, intelligent, and young man lose his personality right before our eyes and finally die unable to recognize any of us. His illness had brought me home from a career in law enforcement and tied me to the town I’d been determined to leave.
But that tragedy had created relationships that I now cherished. My marriage, my partnership in the funeral home with Fletcher Shaw, and the opportunity to fulfill part of my dream by being Tommy Lee’s part-time deputy and frequent lead investigator. Good things could grow from tragedy. But at that moment, my uncle’s recovery was all that mattered.
My cell rang. I recognized the number of Tommy Lee’s mobile.
“Mom, I’m going to step out in the hall and take this.”
I walked toward an exit sign for a stairwell. “This is Barry.”
“How’s your uncle?” Tommy Lee asked.
“Mom and I are with him at Mission. They’re keeping him in a coma and monitoring his cranial pressure. The doctors are cautiously optimistic. Thanks for checking.”
“Call me if there’s any news. Wayne’s one of a kind. We need to hold onto him as long as we can.”
“I will. Anything more about why Toby McKay did what he did? Melissa Bigham said it might relate to last year’s crop failure.”
“That’s tied in but we believe what drove him over the edge was this year’s.”
“His crop failed again?”
“It grew too well. Toby used old batches of lead arsenate, a pesticide that’s been banned for years. He sprayed so frequently the chemicals infused through the skin and into the apple itself. The USDA and NC Department of Agriculture ordered the entire crop destroyed.”
“What about crop insurance?”
“I doubt if he had any. Probably couldn’t afford it. He and his family were on food stamps. And no insurance is going to pay a claim that was caused by illegal activity.”
The words Melissa said that Toby shouted, “You ruint me,” became clear in their context. “So, Commissioner James symbolized the forces against him.”
“Yep. That’s probably part of it.”
He let the sentence hang out there.
“Part of what?” I asked.
“You didn’t ask me how I knew he was on food stamps.”
“I assumed someone saw him using them.”
“Actually, they don’t use stamps any more. I found his EBT card.”
“What’s that?”
“Electronic Benefit Transfer. The state government issues it and money is deposited each month for approved food items. The merchant is paid by swiping the card. At least that’s the way it’s supposed to work.”
I could tell by the tone in Tommy Lee’s voice that the card was more than an indication of Toby McKay’s poverty.
“Where’d you find it?”
“In Rufus Taylor’s wallet.”
“Rufus who owns the convenience store out on 64?”
“Yep. Taylor’s Short Stop. Some kids found his body behind the counter about forty-five minutes after your uncle saved Commissioner James.”
“You out there now?”
“Yep. When your uncle’s out of danger, I could use your help, Barry. The SBI will be all over the commissioner’s shooting, but Rufus was one of our own and I’m not going to let the state boys run over us. It’s our case and I want you on it.”
Chapter Five
I tried to get Mom to go home or at least spend the night with Susan and me. She was adamant about remaining.
“What if he wakes up and we aren’t here?” That question met every proposal I suggested and it was all I could do to get her to the restroom by agreeing to enter if something happened.
Fortunately, I was discharged from that responsibility when Susan arrived around six that evening.
She reported Commissioner James had sailed through his shoulder surgery and would be released in a few days. He’d asked about the man who had stopped his assailant, and when a recovery room nurse informed him that his surgeon was the man’s niece-in-law, James had insisted upon speaking to Susan.
She delivered his gratitude to Mom with the promise that the commissioner would come to see Wayne before returning to Raleigh.
The three of us spent a restless night in uncomfortable chairs only to greet the dawn with no change in my uncle’s condition.
Mom awoke with a start when a ray of sunshine pierced through the blinds and struck her eyes. She blinked and looked around the room. “What about Democrat?” In all the craziness of the day before, she’d forgotten about our dog.
“Fletcher heard what happened,” I said. “He went up to the house and gave him food and water. Freddy’s on alert if we need him.”
Freddy Mott worked part-time when the workload grew too heavy.
Susan stretched in her chair. “Would anyone like coffee? I’ll be happy to make a run to the cafeteria.”
Mom shook her head, but I stood. “Yes, but I’ll get it. I need to stretch my legs.”
Before Susan could object, I ducked into the hall. I wondered if there had been any overnight developments in the Rufus Taylor murder, and I was anxious to talk to Tommy Lee. But, it was only six-thirty, and yesterday had to be as exhausting for him as it was for me. I decided I’d wait another hour before trying to reach him.
At six-thirty on Sunday morning, the hospital corridors were practically deserted. The only patrons in the cafeteria were staf
f who were coming on or off a shift change. I got two cups of black coffee and headed back to the intensive care floor. My phone vibrated on my belt, signaling a text message, but with each hand wrapped around a hot cup, I could only quicken my step. I assumed the message was from Susan and there had been a development.
When I entered the waiting room, I knew what the text had said. Tommy Lee sat on the other side of Mom with his broad, rough hand atop hers. He looked like he’d spent the night in the room with us. A dark crescent hung beneath his good eye and a matching portion appeared from underneath his patch. Gray stubble coated his unshaven cheeks. His wrinkled uniform spoke to hours on-duty and perhaps a few winks of sleep in his office.
“Good morning, Barry.” His gravelly voice rumbled hoarser than usual.
“Thanks for coming.” I nodded, handed Susan a coffee and offered the second one to him.
He waved it away. “No, I’m caffeined to the gills. Another cup and I’ll be bouncing off the walls. I just came by to say Patsy and I are very upset about what happened and praying for your uncle’s recovery. And to tell you the department has been flooded with calls of concern from hundreds of people. Wayne’s action was so selfless and brave, and it was witnessed by so many that he’s become a hometown hero.” A smile crept through the serious cast of his lips. “P.J. said Wayne will never have to pay for another haircut.”
Pete Peterson, Junior, aka P.J., owned Mr. P’s barbershop, the business started by his father and, for over seventy-five years, the gathering place for men’s gossip on Main Street. My uncle would treasure free haircuts more than a Congressional Medal of Honor.
“That’s very sweet,” my mother said. “And I know you must be exhausted. Why don’t you go home, Tommy Lee? Barry will let you know if there’s any change.”
The sheriff took a deep breath and nodded slowly. “I think that’s a good idea.” He stood. “If there’s anything you need, Connie, don’t hesitate to ask.”
“We won’t. Give Patsy my love.”
Tommy Lee looked at me. “Walk to the elevator?”
“Sure.” I followed him into the hall.
Instead of heading for the elevators, the sheriff turned toward the stairwell where I had taken his call the day before. He moved through the door and onto the landing. Then he listened for footsteps.
His voice dropped to a whisper. “We arrested Sonny last night.”
“Who?”
“Sonny McKay. Toby’s twenty-five-year-old son.”
“I never knew either one of them.”
“Well, they kept to themselves out in the county.”
“Did Sonny kill Rufus Taylor?”
“Maybe. But we arrested him at the hospital where he showed up drunk and belligerent. He demanded to see Commissioner James. He said he needed to tell him why his father did what he did.”
“What was the reason?”
“He said he’d only talk to James. Wakefield and Hutchins brought him in and booked him on a drunk-and-disorderly charge. We’re letting him sober up in a cell, and then maybe he’ll be more cooperative.”
“Any forensics on Rufus?”
A door squealed open on the landing above us. Tommy Lee held up a finger and said nothing. The footsteps went up.
“We’re running prints and ballistics,” Tommy Lee said. “We might find it’s the same gun Toby used.”
“Could Rufus have been undiscovered that long?”
“Depends on how busy the store was. The kids who found the body rode their bikes and saw only Rufus’ pickup. They went straight to the candy section. It took them a while to decide what they wanted. Then they started searching for Rufus so they could pay. They thought he was in the bathroom. One of them peered behind the counter and had the presence of mind to use the store phone to dial 911. Given a slow day with most of Rufus’ local customers in town for the parade, he might not have had any business for a while.”
“Enough time for Toby McKay to shoot him and be in position on the curb of Main Street?”
“I’d say unlikely, except for that EBT card.”
“Maybe Toby left it last time he was in. It was a coincidence.” I quickly added, “But never trust a coincidence.”
Tommy Lee chuckled. “Maybe you’ll make a decent investigator yet.” He clapped me on the shoulder. “I don’t mean to burden you with a case. Not while we’re all worried about your uncle. I just thought you’d be interested.”
He left down the stairwell.
When I returned to the waiting room, I found Mom and Susan speaking with a man in a white coat whom I assumed to be a doctor. Susan introduced me to Charles DeMint, the physician in charge of Uncle Wayne’s treatment.
“I was just telling your wife and mother that Wayne’s cranial pressure is decreasing. We feel we can safely bring him out of the coma. Once he’s out, we’ll run a battery of tests, and we’ll especially want to make sure there’s no subdural hematoma.”
The smile on Mom’s face faded at the sound of the ominous words.
“Can you explain that?” I asked.
“It’s not bleeding in the brain, but bleeding outside within the tissues protecting the brain’s surface. The fall could have torn blood vessels there. At first, minor bleeding might not be noticeable or cause any symptoms, but as the blood collects it puts pressure on the brain. Was Wayne on blood thinners?”
“No,” Mom said. “He prided himself on not being on any medication.”
Dr. DeMint nodded. “When he regains consciousness, we’ll run our tests, including another CT scan.” He left us with the assurance that in a few minutes a nurse would allow us to visit.
And she did. We entered a glass-walled room and found my uncle lying on his back with so many tubes and wires attached that he looked like a collapsed marionette. His breathing was more regular than when he’d been sprawled on Main Street.
Mom hurried to the bedside and rested her hand on his shoulder. “Oh, Wayne,” she whispered. “Don’t you leave me.”
We stood in silence for a few minutes, silence except for the staccato beeps of monitoring equipment.
Then Mom looked back at me. “I’ll be fine, Barry. It’s clear to me that Tommy Lee needs you.”
Susan gave my hand a squeeze. “I’ll stay with her. We’ll keep you posted.”
I was torn. At the moment, all we were doing was staring at an unconscious man in a hospital bed. But, we were doing it as a family.
“Your uncle acted to save a man’s life,” Mom said. “Don’t you think he would want you to do the same?”
I wondered if Mom had somehow learned of Rufus Taylor’s death, or was it simply her intuition, which never ceased to amaze me? She must have picked up some visual cue between Tommy Lee and me.
Whatever the impetus, her words rang true. Uncle Wayne wouldn’t want me standing over him while a potential killer could still be at large. At this point, there was only circumstantial evidence linking Toby McKay to Rufus’ death. And the timeline for driving from the small convenience store in the county to the parade on Main Street was very tight. How feasible was it that Toby could have made that trip in time? I was also curious about what Toby’s son, Sonny, knew about his father’s rampage. I wanted first crack at interrogating him once he sobered up.
Tommy Lee brought Sonny McKay into an interview room. A rank, sour odor preceded him. His head was down and the front of his tee-shirt was stained with vomit. He wore dirty cargo pants cuffed over heavy black work boots. His sandy hair lay askew and when he finally looked up, his dark eyes were bleary and bloodshot. His right cheek sported a blue bruise he must have suffered during his intoxicated melee.
Sonny was a good head taller than me, with a build the mountaineers would call high-pocket scrawny. I noticed Tommy Lee hadn’t cuffed him, but I saw Deputy Reece Hutchins positioned just outside the interview room door. Tommy Lee pulled
it closed behind him. Sonny and I didn’t say hello or shake hands. It wasn’t that kind of encounter.
Tommy Lee gestured for him to sit on the far side of the table and then he and I took chairs opposite. The sheriff set a Tascam digital audio recorder on the table, started it, and gave the date, time, and names of persons present.
“Sonny, do you know why you’re here?” Tommy Lee asked.
The man nodded.
“You’ll need to speak up,” the sheriff instructed.
“Cause I got drunk and disorderly.” He spoke the words like a penitent five-year-old.
“Yes. And you were trying to force your way in to see Commissioner James.”
“I wanted to tell him my daddy didn’t know what he was doing. That I was sorry.”
“Why did your daddy try to shoot James?”
Sonny gnawed on his lower lip for a few seconds. “Because he said our apples weren’t no good. We couldn’t even sell them for juice.”
“And you didn’t feel that way about the commissioner?”
“I was upset, but I’d told daddy we shouldn’t use them old chemicals. He should have used his money to buy the legal stuff.”
“Why didn’t he?”
Sonny shrugged. “He said he couldn’t borrow any more money.”
“He borrowed money? Where was he getting it?”
Sonny shifted uncomfortably in the metal chair.
“Where was he getting his money?” Tommy Lee persisted. “I know he was on food stamps and last year’s crop failed as well.”
Sonny dropped his gaze to the recorder. “I don’t know. He wouldn’t tell me.”
“He was getting money from Rufus Taylor, wasn’t he?”
The man’s head snapped up and his eyes widened. “No. Not from Rufus.” He emphasized the word from, which sounded odd to my ear.
“Who then?” Tommy Lee demanded.
Secret Undertaking Page 4
