“Duck, Mel,” Johnny said. “I don’t know yet, but not that. Satyr wants Mel dead, period. Mockerie’s a better bet to want me taken out, but I’m not convinced that’s the answer, either. Gomer’s got something.”
Or someone, Melia reflected with a shudder of revulsion.
The heat and humidity pressed down on them. It was like walking through thick water. Each step required a gargantuan effort. Only Gomer, and Johnny to some extent, seemed immune.
Gomer barked again and lifted his head to face them.
“D’you see anything?” Laidlaw demanded.
“Yes,” Johnny called back. “It looks like someone’s been digging here. So here’s where we look. Did you bring tools?”
“In my pack. Two shovels and a hoe.”
Melia glanced back. No wonder he was grumbling. Even portable tools would weigh a ton in this extreme heat.
She used the hoe. Johnny and Laidlaw worked with the shovels. Gomer looked on and let out the occasional bark.
Laidlaw swiped an arm across his sweaty forehead. “We’d better not find a butcher’s bone at the end of this, or that dog’s canned food. What?” He scowled at Melia, who was three feet to his left.
She sighed, felt mildly sick as she pointed downward. “That’s a human hand. I’m going to say male, judging from the size of it. It looks like part of it’s been burned.”
With his shirt off and his skin slick, Johnny took the hoe and turned her around. “We’ll do the rest. Go sit down on that stump over there.”
Exasperated, she turned back to stare at him. “You do know I’ve seen corpses before, right? I actually cut them up during my residency.” She gestured at the arm and shoulder Laidlaw had exposed. “Let’s just get this over with and figure out why, where, and how after we’re done.”
…
It took less than fifteen minutes to reveal the person Johnny had expected to find. Lowell Felcher.
They rigged up a stretcher to get him to Laidlaw’s truck. Once he was lying in the back, Melia examined him.
“Bullet hole through his Adam’s apple,” she said while Johnny guzzled water.
“Well, that took all of thirty seconds.” He poured the remainder of the bottle over his head and chest. “Only one hole?”
“Just the one. Whoever killed him is an excellent shot. Or a very lucky one.” She pulled off her latex gloves. “Okay, you’re up. I’ve covered the how. Best guess as to the when would be twenty-four to thirty-six hours ago, leaning toward thirty-six. Don’t make me go into detail there.”
“No, don’t make her do that,” Laidlaw agreed. He used his bandana to mop his face. “What’re you thinking, Johnny?”
“Not much. Not yet.”
“He’s mulling,” Laidlaw said to Melia. “I recognize the look. He’ll be a crappy conversationalist until he finishes.”
“Tell me about it.”
Johnny spotted the regret on her face when she looked over at Lowell Felcher’s body. “His hands are badly burned. That had to be done deliberately. Makes an ID more difficult for the local authorities if they happened to be the ones who found him. It’s a thing, Mel. People who kill for a living use all kinds of delay tactics. It buys time and adds confusion to an investigation.”
“I get that, but still. Whatever Felcher did, I can’t think he deserved a fate like this.”
“Maybe not,” was Johnny’s only reply. “Do what you have to, Laidlaw. Travers won’t know how to deal with this, and I don’t want State getting involved, or worse, the FBI. Mockerie has someone working that end of things for him. Until we know who, they’re stonewalled.”
He made a head motion at Melia. “Time to go. I’ve got a lot of mulling to do.”
She didn’t pepper him with questions, which he appreciated, and he didn’t volunteer any information, which undoubtedly frustrated the hell out of her. But, hey, he was what he was. Even if she hadn’t known exactly what his work entailed when they’d gotten married, she’d had the hutzpah to respect it.
They were less than a mile from home when her cell phone rang.
“It’s the guesthouse number,” she said and answered. “What is it, Gert?”
Johnny heard a dramatic squawk before she put the call on speaker.
“I’m sorry, Dr. Rose, but I think I might be dying. The pain in my—her—our stomach is unbearable.” It was Bette talking in a sob-choked response. “Please, can you come, quickly? I— Oh!”
The phone on the other end hit the floor. They heard a retching sound and Melia motioned for Johnny to speed up.
He glanced at her. “Serious, do you think?”
“They were probably drinking a lot last night. Mai tais can do quite a number on an empty stomach. Gert’s usually pretty good about knowing her limit, though.”
“Maybe Bette’s gaining the upper hand.”
“Maybe.” Melia reached for her medical bag.
They found Gert in the guesthouse, surrounded by movie magazines and vomit. Johnny toughed it out despite his aversion to all things regurgitated. Because Bette through Gert continued to insist she was dying, Melia went with the safe option: gave her a shot of something, then something else, and contacted the paramedics in Bellwater. An hour later, Gert was unconscious in the ER. She had IV needles inserted in both arms.
“What the hell’s going on?” Johnny demanded when Melia came out of Emergency.
“Doctors aren’t sure yet. They’re treating her for a possible toxin while they wait on the lab results.”
“Do you think it was the chicken Mabel sent home with us?”
“I doubt it, but maybe. Bette does tend to like exotic food—with the exception of oatmeal every morning. Gert ordered duck embryos for her once from Hong Kong. I’ll look around the guesthouse, see what I can find, and send anything suspicious to the lab in town for testing. I’m not thinking food’s the culprit, though. Not in the traditional sense. But we’ll see.”
Johnny looked at the swinging doors behind her. “Will she be all right?”
“I hope so. They’re flushing her system and countering the toxin with more of the same drug I gave her. She threw up a lot of what was bad back home.”
“Yeah, I noticed that.”
Melia faced him. “How can a man who’s put bullets in God knows how many people be so squeamish over a little regurgitated food?”
“Mel, unless you want to see a whole lot of regurgitated food in this hallway, you’ll change the subject now. Gert’s being taken care of. While you were busy with her, I went up and talked to Pappy Laundy. He asked me to bring him more whiskey. I said I would next time we came to Bellwater. Now it’s mulling time. Your life means a helluva lot more to me than Lowell Felcher’s, but we both know his death is tied in to Satyr’s crusade, however loosely.”
“Are either or both of those things tied in to the attempts on your life?”
“Smoke and mirrors, babe. Potentially.”
“Bullshit.”
He grinned. “I love it when you talk dirty. Why bullshit?”
“Because I know how your mind works, or a small part of it, anyway. You don’t want me to worry about you any more than I already am. Ergo, you have or are formulating a plan to draw whoever’s after you out, get it done, and move on. You’re also thinking whoever that is is likely linked to the person or people who are after me. Potentially.”
He chuckled. “You have the making of a great cop.”
“But not quite a member of McCabe’s team of mysterious agents?”
“Hey, that takes time and a really bad attitude. You’ll never have the attitude, so accept the compliment and let’s stop somewhere for food. I’m hungry.”
“Of course you are.” She pulled out her phone.
“Who are you calling?”
“Joseph. He’ll have Linda’s number. She might be willing to fill in for Gert for a few days.”
Johnny frowned. “Why do you need a replacement for Gert? You never had help when we were together.”
“Small-town doctors are hard to come by. So some places offer perks. In this case, they provide money for me to have a housekeeper. I employ one and somebody gets a job out of it.”
“Doesn’t Gert get sick pay?”
“Of course she does. But Linda could use a little extra cash, and I make more than enough to cover it. Plus, I’m running the clinic out of my house right now.”