Heather opened the sliding glass door and went to her husband’s side. Kim followed part of the way, stopping inside the doorway. Madeleine remained outside. Gurney stood behind her.
The intensity of Heather’s focus on Rick began to make Gurney feel out of place. It soon appeared to have the same effect on Kim, who backed out of the enclosure. She whispered to Madeleine, “Maybe we should let her be alone with him?”
Madeleine nodded her agreement. Just then they saw Heather bending over the bed, the tip of her forefinger touching the back of Rick’s hand.
“I’m here with you,” she said gently. “I’m right here beside you.”
As Gurney was leaving the ICU, he noted that the cop and the nurse’s aide were still very much involved with each other. He stopped by the corner of the nursing station.
“Excuse me, Officer? Over here, please.”
The cop stared at him.
“Now. Please.”
The nurse’s aide raised an eyebrow and stepped away, saying something about making her rounds.
The cop’s stare got chillier as he approached Gurney. “What’s up?”
“I assume you’re here to protect Rick Loomis. Do you have any idea what you’re protecting him from?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You think you’re here to prevent unauthorized media intrusions, make sure no reporters get in, or try to take pictures, or try to talk to Loomis. That about right?”
His eyes narrowed. “What’s your point?”
“My point is that the media idiots are the least of your problems. There’s something about the shooting you need to know. The public version is that Loomis was shot by black radicals because he’s a cop. But the fact is he may have been shot for another reason. By someone who wanted him dead—not just any cop, but him in particular. If that’s true, there may be another attempt on his life. It could happen soon, and it could happen here.”
“Where the hell are you getting this from?”
“That doesn’t matter. What matters is that you understand what’s at stake here.”
The cop pursed his lips and nodded with obvious skepticism. “What was your name again?”
Gurney repeated his name. “Pass along what I told you to whomever relieves you. They need to understand what they’re here for.”
The expression on the cop’s face gave Gurney the feeling that his comments might or might not get passed along to the next shift, but they’d surely get to Judd Turlock.
Gurney left the ICU and headed for the visitors’ lounge. When he got there he found Madeleine waiting for him in the corridor. Kim was inside sitting on one of the couches. Madeleine led him away from the open doorway and spoke in a low voice.
“Is there anything else you need to do here?”
He shrugged. “I’ve done all I can for the moment. Which isn’t much. How about you?”
“Heather wants to stay here overnight. Kim wants to stay with her. I think that’s what I should do too.”
“Stay here in the ICU?”
“There’s a facility here on the grounds. The Mercy Visitors Inn, for family and friends of patients. It just feels right to be with them.”
“Do you want me to stay?”
“I’d like that. But I think Heather and Kim would rather you were off somewhere investigating—discovering the meaning of Rick’s note.”
“Isn’t tomorrow one of your days at the clinic?”
“I’ll call Gerry tonight. If she can’t cover for me herself, she’ll get someone.” She touched his cheek. “Drive safely. I’ll call you if anything changes.”
He made no move to leave.
She cocked her head and gave him a long sideways look. “There’s something you’re not saying. What is it?”
“I’d rather you weren’t staying here.”
“Why?”
“I think there’s a possibility of a second attempt on Loomis’s life.”
“Here?”
“It’s possible.”
“Is it likely?”
“I don’t know. The possibility scares me. It’s not a situation I want you to be in.”
She uttered a little one-syllable laugh and shook her head. “God knows I’ve been in worse situations. More than a few times. When we were running the abused women’s shelter at the clinic, we were getting horrendous threats all the time. And then there was that other little matter of the firebombing, when someone thought we were resettling refugees. Remember that?”
“Still . . .”
“The possibility you’re talking about isn’t going to convince Heather or Kim to leave. I feel strongly that staying with them is the right thing for me to do.”
“Then I really should—”
She cut him off. “Don’t even think about staying here for something that iffy. You’ve committed yourself to the investigation. Go do your job, and I’ll do mine. I’m serious. People are relying on you. We’ll be fine here. I’ll make sure that Romeo out there keeps his eyes open for strangers and off the nurses.”
He reluctantly agreed, wishing he felt better about it.
She kissed him on the cheek.
25
A nearly invisible drizzle began shortly after he pulled out of the hospital parking lot, requiring only a single swipe of the wiper blades every minute or two. The blades needed replacing, having developed a stuttering squeak that kept intruding into his thoughts. On the section of the interstate between White River and Gurney’s exit, there was virtually no traffic. On the winding road from there to Walnut Crossing, there was none.
For most of the drive he’d been turning Rick’s message over in his mind, with the assumption that it meant something and wasn’t just the equivalent of someone talking in his sleep. But whatever that sequence—T O L D C 1 3 1 1 1—might signify, it continued to elude him. It had the appearance of a coded communication, but it seemed a far reach to imagine that a barely conscious man who’d just taken a bullet in the head would have the presence of mind required to encode something. And even if he did, for whom would it be intended? John Steele was dead; and the code meant nothing to Heather.
But if it wasn’t a code, what was it? An abbreviation would be one possibility. If he were having a hard time writing, shortening the message as much as he could would make sense. But an abbreviation of what? And which letters were attached to which? Did the message begin, “To LDC”? Or was it “Told C”? Did the following number represent a dollar amount? An address? A quantity of something?
Gurney was getting nowhere as he turned onto the road that led to his property, so he decided to put the issue aside. Perhaps later he’d be able to see whatever he was missing now.
He parked next to the old farmhouse. He went inside, got some carrot soup and salmon out of the refrigerator, and put the soup in a pot to warm it. He went into the bedroom to exchange his sport jacket, button-down shirt, and slacks for a well-worn flannel shirt and faded jeans. Then he donned his old rain slicker and headed out to the chicken coop.
The hens were already up on their perch. He checked the nesting boxes for eggs, checked the levels of chicken feed and water, and redistributed some straw that had gotten pushed into a corner. On his return to the house he stopped at the asparagus patch. Using the miniature jackknife attached to his key ring, he harvested a handful of spears, brought them in, and stood them in a mug with some water in the bottom to keep them fresh. After hanging his slicker to dry, he put his soup in a bowl and his salmon on a plate and brought them both to the table.
As he was eating, his mind returned to the cryptic jottings on the index card. This time, instead of asking which letters and numbers might belong together, he asked himself what sort of information the man might have been trying to convey.