“It was a cold, bright morning, so bright I couldn’t see at first. The whole world was just a white blur for at least a minute. I’ve thought about that a lot in the time since. The men they gunned down—they must’ve been staggering around blind while they got shot.
“When my vision cleared I could see the brick wall was shot to shit. Most of the bodies were up against it, but a few had tried to run. At least one guy made it twenty feet across the lot before his head got blown off.
“They had a town truck backed up to the rear of the building. They handed us rubber gloves and told us to get working. They wanted to get the bodies off to Portsmouth for ‘disposal.’ The guy I told you about, Devon, the birthday boy who brought us beers that time? He was out there, too, with a clipboard. He checked us off as we collected our gloves and would have to check us off again when we went back to our cells. He looked like a different man. He looked like he had had ten birthdays in the last month, not one.
“At first it was easy throwing the bodies into the back of the truck, but after a bit, the Mazz and I had to climb up to arrange them and make room for more. Cold as it was, they were already going stiff. It was more like moving deadfall than you might think. I turned over Junot Gomez, who died with his mouth open, like he was going to ask someone a question. Maybe he was going to ask them what they were serving in Concord for breakfast.” Gilbert Cline laughed at that, a single, harsh sound that was more jarring than a sob would’ve been. “We had about forty of the corpses piled in the truck when the Mazz grabbed my elbow and pulled me down with him. He drug Junot’s body over the both of us. Just like that. No discussion. Like we planned it. It never even occurred to me to have second thoughts.
“Well. I don’t know that there was anything to think about. The guards thought we were healthy for the moment, and they wouldn’t figure on two healthy men squirming in with a pile of infected corpses. And it wasn’t like it was safer to stay. Sooner or later they’d shoot the rest of us, for one reason or another. They’d shoot us and tell themselves it was the right thing to do, that they saved us from starvation, or burning alive, or whatever. The people in charge can always justify doing terrible things in the name of the greater good. A slaughter here, a little torture there. It becomes moral to do things that would be immoral if an ordinary individual did ’em.
“Anyway. There isn’t much more to tell. We hid under bodies while the other prisoners kept throwing more in. No one seemed to notice we were missing. Then, just as they were finishing, I heard someone jump into the truck and start wandering around. Bootheels clanging on metal. The bodies didn’t fully cover us and I could see between them and suddenly I was looking up at Devon and his clipboard, and damn if he wasn’t looking right back at me. We stared at each other for the longest second in the history of recorded time. Then he nodded, just a little. He got down out of the truck and banged the tailgate shut and it started up. One guard shouted to Devon and asked if everyone was accounted for and Devon said yes they were. He lied for us. He knew we were in the truck and he lied so we could slip away. Someday this is all going to be over and I’m going to find that guy and buy him a beer. No one ever deserved one more.”
The fire whistled and seethed.
“Then?” Carol asked.
“The driver threw it into first gear and hauled out of there. Half an hour later we pulled into the big lot in Portsmouth where they were burning the dead. The Mazz and I got out of the truck without being seen, but we only made it as far as a culvert on the edge of that pond there. And then we were stuck. We couldn’t get across the pond and we couldn’t get across the lot. I’m not sure what would’ve happened if the Fireman didn’t show up. I guess we either would’ve frozen to death or given ourselves up and been shot. I hope I get a chance to thank him. It must feel pretty good to have him on your side. You almost feel sorry for anyone who goes up against him.”
A prolonged, awkward silence followed.
“Thank you, Mr. Cline,” Carol said. “Thank you for sharing your story. You must be tired after all that talk. Jamie, will you take him back to the lockup?”
“The handcuffs, Jamie,” Ben said.
Jamie stepped forward and Mindy rose to her feet and they moved in on Gil, one on each side of him. Gil looked from Carol to Ben, his gray eyes weary and hooded. He stood and put his hands behind him. The handcuffs made a ratcheting sound as Jamie snapped them onto his wrists.
“I was going to ask if there’s a chance I might be transferred out of the meat locker and in with the other men,” Gil said. “But I guess not.”
Carol said, “I’m very grateful to you for how forthright you’ve been. Grateful—and happy. Happy you are with us. Happy you don’t have to fear being hauled out into a parking lot and gunned down. But Mr. Cline, after what Mr. Mazzucchelli did for you, I am not sure it’s in the interest of this community to let you out. He helped you escape and you seem like a loyal soul. How could you not want to help do the same for him? No. Back to the lockup, Jamie. It may seem like horrible treatment, but you understand why it’s necessary, Mr. Cline. As you said yourself, the people in charge can always justify doing terrible things in the name of the greater good. I think I know pretty well what you were implying when you said it. I think we all knew you were taking a dig at me.”
The corners of Gil’s mouth went up in a little smile.
“Ma’am,” Cline said, “I hid under dead bodies less cold than you.” He glanced at Harper and gave her a short nod. “Thanks for the water, Nurse. See you around.”
Jamie thumped him in the small of the back with her broom handle. “Come on, sexy. Let’s get you back to the honeymoon suite.”
When she opened the door, the wind blew snow in halfway across the room. Mindy and Jamie escorted Gilbert out, the door thudding shut behind them. The house creaked in the gale.
“Your turn, Harper,” Carol said.
10
“Tell me about my father,” Carol said. “Is he dying?”
“His condition is stable right now.”
“But he won’t wake up.”
“I’m hopeful.”
“Ben says he should’ve woken up by now.”
“Yes. If it was a subdural hematoma with no complications.”
“So why hasn’t he?”
“There must’ve been complications.”
“Like what? What kind of thing is a ‘complication’?”
“I couldn’t say with any certainty. I’m a nurse, not a neurologist. A piece of bone in his brain? Or just a deep bruise on the brain. Or maybe he had a stroke while we were operating. I don’t have any of the diagnostic equipment I’d need to figure it out.”
“If he wakes up”—Carol began, and her breath seemed to hitch before she could go on, although her face remained slack, expressionless—“how retarded will he be?”
They didn’t use the word retarded to discuss brain damage, but Harper didn’t think it was the time or place to correct her. “He may suffer no impairment at all or he may be severely damaged. At this point I’d just be guessing.”
“Would you agree, though,” Carol said, “that he should’ve recovered by now? This is an unexpected outcome, isn’t it?”
“I was hoping for better.”
Carol nodded, slowly, almost dreamily. “Is there anything you can do for him?”
“With what I have on hand? Not much. I rigged up a way to pass him fluids—watered-down apple juice—but that will only sustain him for so long. If the infirmary was better stocked, though, it would open up a range of options to improve his care. It would give me more flexibility with other patients, too. That’s what I was hoping to talk to you about. I spoke with John—”
“Yes,” Carol said. “So I heard.”
Harper continued as if there had been no interruption. “—and he has a plan to get us the supplies—”
This time Ben broke in.