“I don’t think he does.”
As I consider what Hurley has just told me, things that have happened over the past few weeks start to make sense. “Is that why you’ve been kind of standoffish with me lately?”
Hurley shrugs. “The guy has a point. He did save my life.”
I ball my hands into fists and grit my teeth. I want to be angry with David for trying to manipulate my life, for his inability to put the blame where it belongs, and for being so blasé about the severity of his transgressions. But given his current situation, I can’t. Besides, after what Izzy told me at dinner last night, none of it matters anymore anyway.
“There’s more,” Hurley says, and I feel my heart do a little uh-oh beat. “When the firemen found the gas can in the kitchen of David’s house, they assumed it was evidence and put it out on the deck to protect it from any further fire or water damage. I got a good look at it and I’m pretty sure it’s mine.”
“Yours?” My mind struggles to understand the implications of this revelation but I feel too muddled to sort it out. “Why do you think it’s yours? And how can you tell? Don’t most gas cans look alike?”
“Not if they’re hand labeled like mine is to differentiate between the plain gas I use in the lawnmower and the oil and gas mix I use for the snowblower. I recognized the writing on the container. And mine is missing from my garage.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah, oh.”
“What are you telling me, Hurley? That you tried to burn down my house?”
“Of course not,” he says, clearly exasperated. “But someone obviously wants it to look like I did. I’m sure my fingerprints were all over that gas can when it was taken and with the way things have been going lately, I’m betting they still are. It’s just a matter of time before someone finds and runs them. Add that to the thing with Minniver, and Callie’s murder, and . . . well . . . the evidence says it all.”
“What the hell is happening, Hurley?”
“I don’t know,” he says sounding exhausted. He looks haggard and frustrated. “Two people are dead and you and David nearly ended up that way. Whatever the hell is going on, I’ve got to figure it out and put a stop to it.” He pauses and looks at his watch. “I need to get out of here. It’s only a matter of time before Richmond figures out the evidence all points to me, and if I get arrested my hands will be tied. I can’t let that happen.”
“What are you going to do?”
Before Hurley can answer, the curtain is flung aside and Izzy enters. His forehead is creased with worry lines and his expression is the most panicked I’ve ever seen him. “How are you?” he asks, coming around to the other side of my stretcher.
“I feel like I’ve been huffing from the chimney of the crematorium, but I’ll live.”
Izzy shifts his worried gaze from me to Hurley. “You feeling better?” he asks.
Hurley frowns at Izzy, looking momentarily stymied by the question, apparently forgetting that he’s been calling in sick the last few days. Then his expression relaxes as it dawns on him. “I’m fine,” he says, then he looks at me. “But I do have some things I need to take care of so I’m going to leave you in Izzy’s very capable hands. Call me if you need anything.”
Before I can utter a word, he’s gone.
“Was it something I said, or did you tell him about the nipple incident?” Izzy asks. “He lit out of here like his pants were on fire.”
“Given the day’s events, that might not have been the best choice of words,” I tell him, deftly deflecting his curiosity.
Izzy looks confused for a second before his mental lightbulb flicks on. “Oh, yeah,” he says with a guilty smile, looking chagrined. “Sorry.”
“I hear Dom has Hoover?”
“He does. The two of them were getting on quite nicely the last I saw them. In fact, I think Dom might try to dognap Hoover if you’re not careful.” His expression turns serious. “I heard that the fire was arson.”
I nod.
“Do they have any idea who or why?”
I shake my head. “Not that I’m aware of. The only person I know of who’s ever wished David dead is me.”
“I’ve heard that adage about a woman scorned, but burning down your house with your husband in it does seem rather extreme,” Izzy teases. He reaches through my side rail and squeezes my arm. “They said you saved David’s life.”
“I did what anyone would have done under the circumstances. But I’m not sure it was enough. They said he’s unresponsive.”
“Not anymore,” says a voice behind the curtain to my right. A second later Syph enters my cubicle with a big smile on her face. “David just woke up.”
“Is he okay?”
“He’s alert and oriented, though understandably groggy.”
“Thank goodness.” I breathe a sigh of relief.
“Don’t relax too much,” Syph says with a devious smile. “Despite the fact that he’s physically okay, I think he suffered some serious brain damage because the first thing he asked for was you.”
Chapter 24
Izzy instructs me to call him when I need a ride home and then disappears. As Syph helps me out of bed, I learn that I’ve broken two toes on my right foot, though I don’t know if it happened when I tripped over the tree root running through the woods or when I fell down the stairs with David in tow. I also feel a painful pull in my left hip and when I reach down to touch the area, I feel a neat little row of stitches.
“You cut yourself,” Syph explains. “The firemen said they thought you did it on a small glass shard that was stuck in the frame when you went through the basement window.” I recall the stinging sensation I felt there when I was trying to squeeze my butt through. “It took a few stitches but it was a clean cut. It should heal up fine.”
I settle into a wheelchair, sitting on my right side to favor the left hip, and let Syph steer me over to David’s room.
“I just gave him some Ativan, so don’t be surprised if he starts to fade on you,” Syph warns.
As we push aside the curtain around David’s bed, he manages a little finger wave. There is a fine dusting of soot on him that has him looking and smelling like a charcoal briquette.
“How are you feeling?” I ask.
“They tell me you saved my life,” he says, a total non sequitur.
“Actually it was the firemen.”
“Thass not what I heard,” he says with a beatific smile, his speech slurring. He blinks his eyes very slowly, clearly struggling to reopen them. “Any i-dee it started?” he mumbles.
“I haven’t heard,” I lie, figuring there’s still plenty of time to let him know someone might have wanted him dead. And as I watch his head loll to one side, I figure it’s unlikely he’ll remember anything I say to him now anyway.
“Is he going to be released?” I ask Syph.
“Not yet. They’re going to admit him to ICU for a while to keep an eye on his respiratory and neuro status. But if all goes well, there’s no reason he shouldn’t be home in plenty of time for Thanksgiving.”
Home. Based on what Hurley told me about the damage, David doesn’t have one anymore. I suppose I should feel saddened by the loss given that it was once my home, too, but oddly enough I don’t. Over the past few months, that house has served as a constant reminder to me of everything I’ve lost. The fact that it’s now gone feels strangely freeing and purifying, as if a monument commemorating the disaster has been destroyed.
I leave David to his Ativan dreams and after hanging out for another hour in my own bed, I check myself out of the ER at eight in the morning and use the ER phone to call Izzy for a ride. He arrives ten minutes later, looking concerned.