Mrs. Shulman's arthritic talons clenched his arm. "Ha! I'm the only reason you're leaving town!"
The detective smiled suggestively. "You're going to miss me, aren't you?"
"Agghh!" Mrs. Shulman stumbled out of her slippers as she backed off.
Rolvaag quickly entered his apartment and shut the door. He logged on to the computer and clicked open the weather page for the Twin Cities. It was sixty-two degrees and brightly sunny in St. Paul; the glory of a midwestern spring. He wondered if his ex-wife had planted a garden, a hobby she'd abandoned in the suffocating heat of South Florida.
The detective took a can of pop from the refrigerator, sat down in the kitchen and emptied his briefcase. On top of the pile was the rental agreement for the green Chevrolet Suburban. Initially the manager of the car-rental agency had refused to fax it to the Sheriff's Office, but he'd changed his mind after Rolvaag offered to drive there personally and jump up on the counter and wave his gold badge for all the customers to see.
According to the contract, the Suburban had been rented on Joey Perrone's credit card three days after she went overboard from the Sun Duchess. Rolvaag placed the rental agreement side by side with a Xeroxed sheet of canceled checks provided by Mrs. Perrone's bank. The signature on the car contract and the signature on the old checks appeared strikingly similar. Next, the detective compared the handwriting on the car contract with that on the will delivered by Mrs. Per-rone's brother. Rolvaag studied the characteristics of the penmanship for a few minutes, then returned the documents to his briefcase. Telling Chaz Perrone would be a waste of time; the man was a goner, and there was nothing inside the law that Rolvaag could do to change that, even if he'd wanted to.
He phoned the Coast Guard station and tracked down Petty Officer Yancy. "You know that bale of Jamaican weed? The one we took the fingernails from?"
"Yes, sir. It's in the evidence warehouse," Yancy said, "as you requested."
"Tell them to go ahead and burn it. I won't be needing it after all."
"I'll fax you the paperwork, sir." Yancy paused. "Did they ever find that missing woman off the cruise ship?"
"Nope."
"That's too bad."
"Not necessarily," the detective said.
As soon as he hung up, he started packing for Minnesota.
Tool spent the night beside Maureen's bed at the convalescent home. She slept poorly, making small murmurs that could have been caused by bad dreams, or pain. Red Hammernut had called up angrily, ordering Tool to return to Chaz Perrone's house and keep an eye on the conniving little rodent. Tool had pretended the battery on the cell phone was dying and he couldn't make out what Red was saying.
No way was he leaving Maureen until she felt better.
He found the TV station that showed country-music videos, and that's how he passed the time. Some of the songs were depressing, if he listened too closely to the words, and other songs he couldn't relate to one bit. There seemed to be no end of stories about men who wouldn't stay put in one place, and the loving women they left behind. That's one good thing about farming, Tool thought-you've got a home and you know right where it is.
By daybreak his tailbone was so sore from the poacher's bullet that he had to get up and do some walking. "When he returned to the room, Maureen was awake. She looked up and gave a limp smile. The sun-
light slanting through the blinds made bright stripes across the bed, but Maureen's blue eyes, once star-like, seemed as dull and gray as lead. Tool noticed that she kept pressing the call button, so he asked what was wrong. She pointed at the IV bag, which was empty.
"I need a refill," she whispered.
"Where does it hurt?"
"They haven't given me a bath in three days. It's so annoying."
"Here." He took the call switch and mashed on it repeatedly with his thumb. They waited and waited, but nobody came.
Maureen said, "In the mornings they're short-staffed. Sometimes it takes a while."
"We'll see about that."
"Where are you going?"
Tool snatched the first person he found who was dressed like a nurse and hustled her into Maureen's room. The woman was startled and confused.
"Earl, that's Natacha," Maureen explained. "She works in the kitchen."
Tool did not release Natacha's arm. "Go fetch somebody to bring this lady some pain medicine. I mean right now."
"Natacha, I must apologize for my nephew. He worries too much about me," Maureen said.
Natacha nodded tenuously. Tool let go of her and she scooted for the door, Maureen calling after her, "That lentil soup was heavenly last night. I demand your recipe!"
Tool said, "Ain't they any damn doctors in this place?"
Maureen pulled the top sheet snug to her chest. "The woman can't do corned beef to save her life, but she is the grand diva of lentil."
"Lemme go fetch somebody else."
"Oh no you don't." Maureen wagged a finger. "If you make trouble, they'll ask you to leave. Just sit tight and relax. I'm fine for now."
Tool could tell that she wasn't fine. Gently he rolled her on one side and untied the string of her gown.
"Earl, don't," she said.
"Hush up."
He hiked the top of his lab whites, then reached behind his back and peeled off his last remaining patch. Carefully he centered it between Maureen's shoulder blades and pressed down firmly, so that it would stick.
When he turned her over, she said, "That wasn't necessary, but thank you."
"It ain't too fresh, but it's better than nuthin'."
"Earl, I want you to listen." She held out her hand, which felt cool to his touch.
"Some people give up when they come to a place like this," she said. "I see it in their faces-they just run out of fight. And the weaker you get, believe me, it's tempting… The painkillers they've got nowadays, goodness, the days and weeks slide by my window like a big warm river. But don't worry, I'm not ready to call it quits just yet."
"You can't!" Tool blurted. He felt mad, although he wasn't sure why. "When's the last time you seen your daughters?"
"It's hard for them to get away. The children are in school."
"That's a bullshit excuse."
Maureen laughed softly. "I'd slap you, Earl, if I had the strength."
He was at a loss. "You want, I'll try and give you a bath."
"You'll do no such thing!" She pinched his wrist. "Good Lord, I shouldn't have said a word."
Tool's mother had passed away barely a month after the doctors had told her she was sick. It was in the middle of a tomato harvest, and he didn't get back to Jacksonville in time to say good-bye. He heard himself telling the whole story to Maureen, who said, "Don't feel bad. I'm sure she knew how much you loved her."
"Your daughters oughta be here. It ain't that far away." He pressed the call button so hard that it broke apart in his fist. "Shit," he said. "I'm sorry."
"Earl, you need to calm down. I've got no intention of dying today."
At last a nurse came in with a fresh IV bag, two small vials of narcotics and a diaper for grown-ups. Tool stepped away from the bed to give Maureen some privacy. The nurse was a muscular pitch-black woman who spoke quietly to Maureen in an accent that Tool recognized as Jamaican. He thought about all the pickers from Jamaica that he'd yelled at and slapped around and ripped off, and he felt sort of shitty and low. The nurse who was helping Maureen might have been one of their sisters or cousins, or even a daughter. Her smile was as bright as a sunrise, and when she touched a hand to Maureen's forehead, Tool knew right then and there that he was done with crew bossing forever. He'd never be able to look one of them sweaty black boys in the eye and not think about this moment, about how jumbled and sour he felt toward himself. Somewhere in life he'd taken a wrong-headed turn, and most likely it was too late to back up. For sure he'd gotten in awful deep with Red Hammernut, who now wanted him to do something that would send him even further down the highway to hell. A week ago Tool would've said yes to any fool job, no matter how bad, as long as it paid in cash. But then he'd met Maureen.