If Loomis believed he was dying, he might have wanted to leave a love note for Heather. Gurney imagined that if he himself were dying, letting Madeleine know he loved her would be the only thing that mattered. But if Loomis’s sense of his condition was less than fatal, what might he want the people close to him to know?
Perhaps the identity of the individual who shot him.
Perhaps the identity of the person he was going to bring to his meeting with Gurney.
Perhaps both of the above—especially if they were one and the same.
In that context, “Told C13111” might be a shortened version of “I told C13111 about my planned meeting with Dave Gurney.”
But how could those characters be read as someone’s name?
The thought occurred to him that they might be an ID number, perhaps belonging to a White River police officer. But then he recalled that Mark Torres’s badge number had three digits followed by three letters. So, if it was an ID number, what organization did it belong to? Gurney had no answer. In fact, he had the feeling it was the wrong question.
As for the possibility that the initial C might refer to the individual and 13111 be his zip code . . . that seemed such an unlikely way to describe a person he would have dismissed it without another thought, except that the number did fall within the range of zips for upstate New York. He recalled that he was about to check its location when he was at the ICU but couldn’t because of the cell phone prohibition. He realized his phone had been turned off ever since. He picked it up and turned it on.
It told him he’d received three voice messages in the past twenty-eight minutes. The first was from Sheridan Kline, the second from Madeleine, and the third from Dr. Walter Thrasher. He decided to listen to Madeleine’s first.
“Hi, hon. Kim and I just checked in to the Visitors Inn. Heather is still over at the ICU waiting for them to bring Rick back from radiology. We’re going to pick her up in a little while and get something to eat. There’s not much to report. A new cop replaced the other one. This one is a bit more alert than Romeo. I guess that’s it for now. Get some sleep. You were looking exhausted. Talk to you in the morning. Love you.”
He listened to Kline’s message next.
“Where are you? I expected to hear from you by now. When I finally got in touch with someone at the crime scene, I was told you left before the evidence search was completed. Because you got a call from Heather Loomis? Is that right? Christ, David, you’re working for me, not Heather Loomis. The point of your involvement was to give me your real-time perspective. Things are moving fast. We have data from the scene, from Beckert’s informants, from the traffic and security cameras, from the computer lab in Albany. It’s pouring in. And you decide to run off to the hospital and not answer your phone? Jesus!”
He paused and let out an audible sigh before going on in a less agitated tone. “There’s a team meeting tomorrow morning at nine sharp to review everything we’ve got—which may include a clear photo of the Corolla driver. And there’s new evidence implicating the Gort brothers in the Willard Park homicides. Please be at the meeting.” His tone became more confidential. “The elements of both cases are coming together beautifully. I’d like your concurrence that it all makes sense. I want our ducks lined up. Get back to me as soon as you can.”
People who talked about wanting their ducks lined up made Gurney uneasy. The phrase suggested a greater desire for order than for truth.
He postponed listening to the message from Thrasher. He assumed it would be related to the artifacts the man had borrowed for closer examination, and he had no appetite at that moment for discussing the archaeology of Colonial America.
He brought his empty bowl and plate to the sink, washed them, and put them in the dish drainer. By the time he was finished, the pasture, the coop, the barn, and the pond were disappearing into darkness.
He didn’t know if it was the suggestive power of Madeleine’s commenting on how tired he looked, but he did feel like closing his eyes for a while. He went into the den first to see if there were any messages on the landline answering machine.
There were three. The first was from a strident female voice offering big savings on his electric bill. The second was from a folksy male voice offering a preapproved loan for his nonexistent poultry company. The third was from the Walnut Crossing library informing Madeleine that a book she’d reserved was now available: Beetles of North America.
He went from the den to their downstairs bedroom, thinking a quick nap might take the edge off his drowsiness. He removed his shoes and lay down on the soft quilt they used as a bedspread. He could hear the faint yipping of coyotes above the high pasture. Then he fell into a deep dreamless sleep.
He was awakened at 6:40 the next morning by the ringing of the den phone.
He got to it just as Madeleine was starting to leave a message.
“I’m here,” he said, picking up the receiver.
“Oh, good! I’m glad I got you.”
“Is something wrong?”
“Rick has apparently suffered some kind of respiratory failure. He’s on full life support. Heather is falling apart.”
“Oh, Christ. Did anything specific happen?”
“I don’t really know anything. Just what the doctor told Heather. They’re doing some tests. They’re trying to figure it out. Maybe there was more brain damage than they realized at first? I don’t know.”
“I’m just trying get a sense of whether there was any outside interference.”
“David, nobody knows anything more than what I’ve just told you.”
“Okay. All right. Are you staying there with Heather?”
“With Heather and Kim, yes.”
“Okay. I have a meeting at police headquarters at nine o’clock. I’ll stop by the hospital on my way.”
After a shower and a change of clothes, he set out for White River. It was a heavily overcast morning, with patches of thick fog adding twenty minutes to his normal driving time. He pulled into the Mercy Hospital parking lot at 8:30 AM.
On his way into the building he noted a pair of WRPD patrol cars by the portico.
Madeleine was waiting for him just inside the main door. They hugged, holding each other longer and more tightly than usual. When they let go and stepped back she smiled, which somehow underscored the sadness in her eyes.
“Any news?” he asked.
“Nothing substantial. More tests, more scans. Another specialist on his way from somewhere. They’ve temporarily closed the ICU to visitors.”
“How’s Heather?”
“A complete wreck. Understandably.”
“Did they let her stay upstairs?”
“No. She’s down in the cafeteria with Kim. She won’t eat, but . . .” Her voice trailed off. “Oh God, this is so awful.”
A huge man with a neck brace and a bulging bandage covering one eye was making his way past them on a walker. Madeleine watched as he lumbered on, limping and grunting. Then she turned to Gurney. “You better get to your meeting. There’s nothing you can do here. If anything changes, I’m sure word will get to Beckert as soon as it gets to us.”
Maybe sooner, he thought.
Sheridan Kline, Mark Torres, Dwayne Shucker, and Goodson Cloutz were in their seats at the conference table when Gurney arrived. He sat, as usual, next to Kline, who gave him an icy nod—which reminded him that he hadn’t returned the man’s phone call.
With the back of his hand Shucker was wiping what appeared to be powdered sugar from the corners of his mouth. There was a container of coffee and an open paper bag in front of him. The printing on the bag said DELILAH’S DONUTS.