He sighed. “I guess that will have to do.”
On the television, the New England Patriots had marched down the field to score a touchdown.
“There’s one more thing,” I added quickly.
He laughed. “There’s always one more thing with you.”
“I want to go back to work. It’s only ten stitches, and they’re healing fast. Can you clear me to return to duty?”
“You’ll need to see a doctor first.”
“But I really do feel fine.”
“And if the doctor agrees, you can discuss the matter with your sergeant. Good night, Mike. Don’t take this the wrong way, but this has been one of the more unusual conversations I have had in my career.”
When I hung up the phone, I realized the agitation I had felt before was gone. I no longer wanted to pull out my hair or scratch off my skin.
Using a package of frozen moose meat from the freezer, I made chili while I listened to the television in the next room. Even the obnoxious announcers no longer bothered me. The Patriots were moving on to the next round of the championships. It felt good to hear other people celebrating.
*
Stacey never called back that night, and I couldn’t say it surprised me. She had never been forced by her superiors to see a counselor in the aftermath of a fatality or a traumatic event. No one had ever encouraged her to give voice to her grief and guilt. As a result, she maintained her heart as a sort of Pandora’s box. Keep everything locked inside, and it will all be fine. The problem was that sooner or later, that box was going to open, and that was when her demons would come flying out.
All I knew for certain was that talking with Captain DeFord had helped me. I felt better for having asked for help.
Even so, the thought of having almost lost Stacey kept me awake late. My mind churned around and around, reliving those terrible minutes between my conversation with Charley, when I had feared she was dead, and the near coronary experience of having the phone ring and hearing her voice on the other end.
After a while, I gave up trying to sleep and got up before sunrise to make coffee.
The kitchen windows were so dark, I could see my reflected self moving from sink to fridge to table. Until the doctor cleared me to return to duty, I was still in limbo. I couldn’t engage in any work-related activities.
I sat down at my laptop while I ate my cereal and checked my e-mail. Nothing from Stacey, but there was a message from Pulsifer, dated the previous afternoon, that I had missed seeing:
Heads-up. DeFord might be giving you a call. I didn’t tattle, so you shouldn’t have any problems unless you go out of your way to piss him off.
Wait, that means you’re definitely going to have problems.
Talked to Jim Clegg, too. He had been expecting you to call him. What happened there? Anyway, he spoke with Amber himself and she told him about the gun.
Another piece of news. Clegg said someone in the crime lab owed him a favor and expedited the test on the blood recovered from the Ranger. The type was AB positive, same as Langstrom’s. That’s a rare blood type, too.
Jim is headed back to Pariahville tomorrow. He has a couple more questions for Foss.
I scrolled down the list of other e-mails, most of which were department-related, until I came to a second message from Pulsifer posted later in the evening:
Just heard about the crash at Clayton Lake! How is it possible Stacey wasn’t on that chopper? Has she ever taken a sick day before?
I owe you an apology, too. Sorry I was so dickish this morning. I was mad at myself for slipping. It wasn’t you. I’d been building up to it for a while (ask Lauren). But I went to a meeting this evening and got my one day chip, which is the only one that ever matters.
I wasn’t ready yet to use the word friend to describe Gary Pulsifer. There was a dark side to the man that made me want to keep some distance between us. But he had made an effort at making amends, and I was grateful.
I checked out the Web sites of the Maine newspapers. The helicopter crash was the lead story on all of them, but there were no details in the reporting that I hadn’t already heard. The flying conditions had been close to ideal, so weather was unlikely to have been a factor. The pilot, Steve Cobb, was only fifty-six and had been flying since the Gulf War. His widow was quoted as saying he’d recently had a physical that showed his cholesterol was on the high side, but otherwise he was as physically fit as a middle-aged man could be.
At seven o’clock sharp, I called Stacey’s cell. There was no answer.
On a hunch, I tried the IF&W field office in Ashland, assuming that the crash investigation and recovery operations would mean someone was already in the office.
A woman with an unfamiliar voice answered. “Department of Inland Fisheries and Wildlife.”
“This is Warden Mike Bowditch. Can I speak with Stacey Stevens, please?”
“Oh, hello, Warden. Stacey isn’t here.”