There was a stirring in the bushes to the left. Then a deafening bang. One side of the attacker’s head blew clean off.
Joyce screamed.
Clive Duncomb emerged from the brush, gun in hand.
“Got the son of a bitch,” he said.
Thirty-one
“Hi,” I said, extending a hand to Dr. Jack Sturgess in Marla’s hospital room.
He took the hand, gave it a firm shake, and said, “Marla really needs her rest.”
“Sure,” I said. “I understand that.”
“You were with her this morning,” Sturgess said, keeping his voice low, drawing me toward him out of Marla’s range of hearing. “You found her with that woman’s child.”
“That’s right.”
He raised his index finger, a “give me two seconds” gesture, then stepped around me and approached Marla. “How are you feeling?”
“Okay,” she said.
“I’m just going to see your cousin out; then I’ll come back and check on you.”
I guessed that meant I was leaving. Sturgess led me into the hall, let the oversize door to Marla’s room close, and said, “I just wanted to thank you for looking out for her this morning.”
“I didn’t really do anything. I was just trying to sort out what happened.”
“All the same, thank you. She’s in a very delicate condition.”
“Yeah,” I said, nodding.
“What did Marla tell you about how she got hold of that baby?”
“Same as she’s told everyone else, I suppose,” I said.
“Yes, yes, the mystery woman who came to her door. A delusion, more than likely.”
“You think?”
The doctor nodded. “I’d say yes. But it might be helpful, in understanding her state of mind, to know just who she believes it was who delivered this child to her.”
“I don’t know if I’m following you.”
“Well, let’s say she saw a tall, dark stranger. That might signify something totally different than if she’d seen a six-year-old girl.”
“Dr. Sturgess, are you Marla’s psychiatrist?”
“No, I’m not.”
“If anyone should be trying to read anything into Marla’s fantasies, wouldn’t it be her psychiatrist?”
Sturgess cleared his throat. “Just because I’m not Marla’s psychiatrist doesn’t mean I’m not interested in her mental health. A person’s mental state is very much related to their physical well-being. For God’s sake, I’m treating her for a slit wrist. You think that doesn’t have something to do with her state of mind?” He gave me a withering look. “I’m trying to help this girl.”
“So am I,” I said.
Eyebrows shot up. “How?”
“I don’t know. Any way I can.”
“Well, coming here, visiting her, letting her know you care, that’s good. That’s a very good thing to do. She needs that kind of love and support.”
“I was thinking of doing more than that,” I said.
“I don’t understand. What else could you possibly do?”
“I don’t know. Ask around, I guess.”
“What does that mean? ‘Ask around.’”
“What it sounds like,” I said. “Ask around.”
“Are you some sort of private detective, David? Because if you are, it’s never come up. I’m sure someone would have mentioned it.”
“No, I’m not.”
“My recollection is... didn’t I used to see your byline in the Standard? But that was a long time ago. You were a reporter once?”
“I used to be at the Standard. Then I was at the Globe, in Boston, for a while. Came back here to write for the Standard just as it closed down.”
“So, this asking around, then, it’d just be something to do to keep busy?”
I gave myself a couple of seconds, then asked, “What’s your problem with this, exactly?”
“Problem? I didn’t say I had a problem with it. But since you’ve asked, in case you haven’t noticed, the police are very much involved in this. They are doing plenty of asking around. That’s kind of what they do. So I don’t see what purpose there would be in your going around troubling people at a time like this with a bunch of questions. And that would begin with Marla. It’s great, your stopping by to say hello, but I don’t want you subjecting her to some kind of interrogation.”
“Really.”
“Really. The last thing anyone involved in this horrible business needs is some amateur sleuth poking his nose into things.”
“Amateur sleuth,” I said.
“I mean no offense,” Sturgess said. “But Marla’s in a delicate condition. As is Mr. Gaynor. The last thing he needs—”
“Wait,” I said, raising a hand. “You know Bill Gaynor?”
Sturgess blinked. “I’m sorry?”
“You know the Gaynors?”
“Yes, yes, I do,” he said. “I’m their family physician.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Well, why would you? What business would it be of yours to know who my patients are?”
“It just seems like quite a coincidence,” I said.
Sturgess shook his head condescendingly. “Promise Falls is not that big a place. It’s hardly shocking that I could end up treating two families with a connection. Oh, look.”
Aunt Agnes was striding down the hall, her husband, Gill, a few steps behind her. Her eyes landed on me and she offered up one of her rare smiles.
“David,” she said, giving me a quick hug and a peck on the cheek. “Have you been in to see Marla?”
“I have. She seems... good. Tired, but good.”
Gill joined his wife at her side, extended a hand. “Dave, good to see you.”
I nodded. “Uncle Gill,” I said.
Jack Sturgess spoke up. “Your nephew and I were just having a nice chat. David here has expressed his intention to make some inquiries into the circumstances of the day’s events, and I suspect he’s decided to do this without consulting either of you.”
“Is that true?” Gill asked.
“Well, what I was thinking—”
Agnes said, “What do you mean, inquiries?”
I raised a cautious hand. “I just want to do whatever I can to help Marla. The police may already’ve made up their minds about what happened, but maybe if I ask a few questions, I might be able to turn up something that would make them think twice.”
I braced myself for a verbal assault. I figured that even if Agnes accepted that my intentions were honorable, she was such a control freak she wouldn’t want anyone doing anything for a member of her family without her direct supervision.
So when she reached for my hand, squeezed it, and said, “Oh, thank you, David, thank you so much,” I was caught off guard.
“Yes,” Gill said, laying a hand on my shoulder. “Anything you can do, we’d be most grateful.”
I glanced at Dr. Jack Sturgess. He did not look happy.
Thirty-two
Barry Duckworth was beginning to think he would never get home.
He was in his car, headed in that direction, still trying to get his head around what he’d seen at the coroner’s office, when he got a call on his cell.
“Duckworth.”
“Detective, it’s Officer Carlson. Angus Carlson.”
“Officer Carlson. I thought I might be hearing from you. You been talking to the chief?”
“I heard from her a few minutes ago. About lending a hand to the detective division.”
“Yeah,” Duckworth said.
“I’ll be reporting to you.”
“Yup.”
“I’m looking forward to the opportunity.”
“Sure. See you in the morning.”
“There’s another reason why I’m calling,” Carlson said.