Knife River, page 17
“When’s the last time you had something to eat?” I asked.
“I don’t remember.”
“Come with me.”
I PEELED off several bills and passed them to the cashier as I watched the man select a table near the window, balancing a plastic commissary tray piled high with steaming plates of food he’d gathered from the server behind the hot entrée line. By the time the attendant counted out my change and I topped off my Styrofoam coffee cup, my companion was halfway through his Salisbury steak and mashed potatoes, the thick brown gravy dripping from one corner of his mouth.
“You can slow down, pardner,” I said as I took a seat across from him, placing my hat crown-down on the empty seat beside me. “You’re not in the joint. Nobody’s going to take that grub away from you.”
He looked up at me, his dripping spoon halted in midair, inches from his lips. I watched him scan the mostly empty dining room, occupied by surgeons in white lab coats, orderlies, and nurses wearing colored scrubs. A private thought passed behind his eyes before he shoveled the laden spoon into his mouth and he watched me as he chewed. He wiped his mouth with a paper napkin and took a gulp of water, leaned back into his chair, and glanced out the window into the dark, our reflections rippling on the glass like apparitions.
“You know, you’ve never asked my name,” he said. “Not once. Why do you suppose that is?”
From the first time I had laid eyes upon the man and his cohorts at the Cottonwood Blossom, everything about his behavior and attire had placed me on high alert. His speech and mannerisms, and the body art he carried like a permanent biography, told me this man carried calamity and misfortune with him everywhere he went. But something had gone out of him tonight, hunched and bent and smaller than before, and I almost felt sorry for him.
“You never thanked me for your dinner, either,” I said. “Why do you suppose that is?”
He tipped his head to one side and studied me. Then he dipped his spoon into his mound of mashed potatoes and scooped it into his mouth without a word. Whether either one of us had been aware of it before or not, I now realized he had ceased to be an individual and had become a type to me. I watched as he devoured his dinner with all the efficiency and haste of a man too well acquainted with the penitentiary system. It was then that I experienced an epiphany of a sort that caught me unawares: I had failed to internalize that this man’s life had likely been an unending cycle of loss and heartache, defeat and deficiency a foregone conclusion of any given day. As a churchgoing man myself, I felt a twinge of shame that I had not discerned those facts before, then engaged in a form of self-absolution by acknowledging that I’m a sheriff not a priest.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
He threw back another gulp of water and wiped his wet mouth with the backside of his hand.
“Dewayne,” he answered.
“Dewayne what?”
“Dewayne Gomer. Don’t laugh.”
“I’m not laughing.”
He placed his utensils on the tray and leaned in closer, his elbows on the table.
“No, I can see you’re not,” he said. “Most people do. It’s ’cause of that stupid TV show. People laugh at me because of my name. My name ain’t a joke.”
That final utterance was one I had no doubt had led to bloodshed in his past.
“Everybody’s got a name, Dewayne,” I said.
“Amen to that,” he said, then he glanced at his own reflection in the window and resumed his meal.
“You say that like a man who’s been submerged.”
“I was baptized in a church that had a water tank inside it, like a little swimming pool,” he said between bites. “The preacher had a plastic bottle, and he said it contained water from the river Jordan. He poured some of it into the tank before he dunked me in it. Far as I’m concerned, I been river baptized in the same water where Crazy John baptized his cousin.”
Motion in the wide hall outside the cafeteria caught my eye, and I recognized the charge nurse, Cathie Fields, a clipboard tucked into the crook of her arm and making her way in my direction. Dewayne looked up from his plate and followed the direction of my gaze, and finding nothing there of interest to him, he returned his attention to a slice of warm peach pie.
“I’m not gonna tell you I saw Jesus on a piece of toast,” Dewayne said. “Or the Blessed Mother’s face on a moldy plaster wall, but I’m also not the man you think I am, Sheriff. Jesus found me in the yard at Huntsville, and I got myself immersed as soon as I got paroled. You want to believe me, that’s fine; if not, well, that’s fine, too.”
Nurse Fields stopped short of the doors to the commissary, waited in the alcove, and gestured for my attention. I plucked my hat off the empty chair, put it on my head as I excused myself, stepped over to speak with her in a too-small waiting area adjacent to the elevators.
“Your daughter told me I might find you here,” she said. “I hope you don’t mind my calling you away, but I don’t recognize the man you’re sitting with.”
“I appreciate your discretion, ma’am,” I said. “How is Mr. Swann doing?”
“May I be candid?”
“Please.”
“As I explained to your daughter, Sheriff Dawson, Mr. Swann suffered not only a devastating set of injuries from the scaffolding that fell on him, but the trauma he sustained from the subsequent electrical shock burned him rather severely; what’s worse is that it’s threatening internal organ failure. Heart. Liver. Kidneys.”
“You told my daughter all this? The same way you just told me?”
Her expression remained neutral, but something softened in her eyes.
“She is a remarkable young woman, Sheriff. The truth is, the prognosis for Mr. Swann and the other gentleman is questionable at best.”
“I beg your pardon? What other gentleman? I was under the impression Mr. Swann was the only survivor.”
I had watched the ambulance attendant slide white sheets across the faces of Ian’s younger brother as well as the two men in matching nylon jackets.
“One of the stagehands still had a pulse when the ambulance arrived. They’re working on him now.”
I cast a glance over my shoulder at Dewayne Gomer, still hunched across our table like a carrion bird.
“The man I’m sitting with is an acquaintance of the stagehand you just mentioned. Would you mind speaking with him? I’m not certain whether he knows if his friends are alive or dead.”
Her hesitation and the momentary aversion of her eyes made my blood run cold. She had just described the two survivors’ prognosis as “questionable,” but it now appeared that might have been a prevarication of compassion.
“He’s in an extremely serious condition, Sheriff Dawson. Both of them are. The doctors are doing everything they can.”
I led her to our table, where Dewayne Gomer listened to Nurse Fields with rapt attention. She confirmed that only one of his colleagues had survived the accident and went on to describe the nature of the man’s condition and the uncertain outlook as to his recovery with a dignity and equanimity I found to be extremely admirable and sincere. When she had finished, Dewayne stood and thanked her, shaking her hand in both of his.
The sad smile she offered him was one familiar to professions whose main currency was grief, an expression well practiced by doctors, priests, and morticians.
“I take it you don’t live here in Meridian, sir,” she said. “Do you have a place to stay while your friend is in the surgical ward?”
“No, ma’am,” he said. “I got nowhere to be.”
She caught my eye and the tiny nod I gave her, and she touched Dewayne gently on the arm.
“That’s no problem,” she said softly. “I’m sure I can find an empty room for you where you can get some sleep. It’s likely to be several hours before we know anything further.”
“Thank you very kindly,” he said. “I would appreciate that.”
“You may also want to show him where the chapel is located,” I said.
She motioned for Dewayne to come along with her as she turned to leave, and I began to bus our table, stacking the dirty plates and napkins on the plastic tray. When I looked up, the two of them were halfway to the door, and Dewayne pulled up short and turned.
“Hey, Sheriff,” Dewayne Gomer called out.
“You forget something?” I asked.
“Just that I never thanked you for dinner.”
I tipped the remnants from the service tray into a rubbish can, stacked it with the others, and touched the brim of my Resistol.
“You’re welcome, Dewayne.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
I DIDN’T SLEEP that night, keeping one ear open for Jesse’s arrival home, which never came. The house felt lonesome, cold and empty, each of its three occupants consigned to our own personal disquiets: my daughter to sit her private vigil at County Hospital; my wife to complete her film work at the studio; and me to continue tugging on the threads of other people’s lives, threads that led to either restoration or destruction.
By the time morning arrived, it came so softly that it felt like a eulogy, the underlayment of the clouds glowing like coal embers for only the briefest of moments, soon swallowed by a still and steely sky that stole all but the ambient glow of sunrise. I brewed some coffee and, as I watched the bluebirds taking turns feeding their brood inside the bird box, glanced down toward the horse barn and saw one of my full-time wranglers, Taj Caldwell, smoking a cigarette alone beside the creek. A little farther along the escarpment, the windows of Caleb Wheeler’s cabin reflected a blush of copper light, and a single strand of woodsmoke floated from his chimney, not even a breath of wind that morning to disturb it. I poured black coffee into a speckled cup and briefly considered hiking down to visit with Taj or Caleb, but it already didn’t feel like that kind of day.
I PHONED Half Mountain Studio and, when I asked for Jesse, was told she had been given one of the guest accommodations for the night, and she hadn’t yet arisen for breakfast. I had no doubt she was exhausted and was operating on little more than adrenaline, willpower, and grit to complete the assignment she had been hired to do, having now been made all the more horrific for its tragic outcome. I considered reaching out to Cricket at the hospital, but thought better of that, too, not wishing to wake her on the off chance that she might have finally drifted off to sleep.
I made one final call to Captain Rose at the state police barracks. He picked up his line on the second ring, already agitated by a nine-car pileup on the interstate that had closed all but one of the northbound lanes; he had engaged a small cadre of troopers, EMTs, and fire personnel to sort out the mess.
“The shit never ends,” Rose said. “Of course, it only happens when I’ve gotten about two hours of sleep.”
Rose brought me up to speed on the follow-up from the concert venue after I’d left for the hospital. He and his troopers had collected names and contact information from the VIP attendees while my deputy, Sam Griffin, did the same with the musicians and stage crew, sorting out any useful witnesses and initiating the interview processes. The event intended as a celebration of the ascendency of a young star had now become a deathwatch.
“Did you hear anything from any of the witnesses to suggest it might not have been an accident?”
“Not outright,” he said. “For the most part, the crowd was understandably shook up. Sitting there watching a show, and a thousand pounds of lights and electrical rigging fall out of the sky and fry a bunch of guys. Yeah, I’d say they were in shock. Why? You thinking something else?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “It just seemed too …”
“Orchestrated?”
“The entire stage is empty except for Ian Swann and three poor bastards just doing their jobs. A job that should that have taken thirty seconds at the most. But when the scaffolding fails, it happens to be the only section that would land on top of all of them? Center stage, in the spotlight. You know how I love coincidence.”
“I’ll keep my ears open,” he said. “And I’m sure Griffin will let you know if he heard anything.”
“Copy that,” I said. “I’ll be in touch.”
“One last thing, Ty: I sent some of my guys down there to disperse the flower children who were camping out for Saturday’s show, but only a handful of them departed,” Rose told me. “I’m leaving a couple troopers behind in case the Swann kid doesn’t make it and their little fireside singalong turns into a Norse funeral. Or worse.”
I DROVE to Meridian and stopped off at Rowan Boyle’s diner to pick up a fried-egg-and-bacon sandwich and a doughnut to take to Cricket at the hospital. The sky pressed down like crenellated steel as I turned off the county road, where a road gang worked clearing the shoulder of debris and tails of smoke rose up from stump fires on the valley floor. I tossed a wave to the gang boss as I passed; after pushing along the twisting two-lane in silence for another fifteen minutes, I pulled into the lot at the hospital.
It was still early, and the reception desk was empty, so I made my way up to the burn ward and the room that had been assigned to Ian. The hiss and sigh of medical equipment filled the room, my daughter curled up and sleeping on a reclining chair at the foot of Ian’s bed, a thin blanket tucked under her chin. Ian Swann was lying on his back, eyes closed, heavily bandaged and heavily sedated, inside a bedsize prison cell whose walls were made of clear plastic sheeting.
Cricket’s eyes flickered open as I stepped into the room, and I knelt beside where she’d been sleeping and kissed her on the cheek. I showed her the bag I’d brought from the diner, and she followed me out of the room into the central nurses’ station. One of the duty nurses brought Cricket a fresh cup of hot tea while I set out her breakfast on a napkin on the counter.
“How long has Ian been out of surgery?” I whispered to Cricket.
Her face was drawn, color leached out from her skin from stress and dread and exhaustion. The look she showed me nearly broke my heart.
“They brought him in around one o’clock this morning, I think,” she said. “Five hours of surgery for his burns. The doctor said they’re keeping an eye on his heart and kidney function because of the electrical shock. He said they’d probably have to take him back to surgery again today, depending.”
I didn’t want to make her explain to me what “depending” meant, so I asked her if she’d been able to speak with Ian instead.
Cricket took a sip out of the paper cup of tea, her index finger looped into the flimsy paper handle. She grimaced at either the temperature or the flavor of her beverage and placed it on a corner of the napkin I’d laid out on the Formica.
“Ian’s been unconscious—sedated—since he arrived here. I haven’t been able to speak with him at all.”
“I’m sorry, Cricket,” I said. “Would you like me to drive you home, so you can maybe take a shower, put on some fresh clothes?”
She appeared grateful for my offer, but I could tell she had no intention of leaving Ian’s side. I asked her if there was anything she wanted me to bring to her from home, and she wrote out a short list of sundries that I promised to bring back to her when I returned. I waited with her as she girded herself at the threshold of the door to Ian’s room, watching as she looked into his nearly lifeless face, as well as at the tubes and wires that snaked across his cheeks to help him breathe and those that trailed beneath his bloodstained bandages and soiled gown to monitor his organs. I felt her draw a deep breath as she stepped across the doorsill, turning to whisper a soft “Thank you, Dad” into my ear before she moved inside.
THE RECEPTIONIST was settling at her desk as the elevator doors opened up before me on the ground floor. I inquired as to whether either the coroner or the charge nurse had arrived yet for the day as the young woman, gazing into a handheld compact mirror, finished applying pink lipstick.
“I’m sorry, Sheriff Dawson,” the receptionist told me. “But I do have a message for you, I think.”
She reached into a numbered mail slot and withdrew an envelope with my name printed on it. I tore it open and stepped into the light beside the glass doors and read the note that Nurse Fields had written out for me in the small dark hours of the morning.
Dear Sheriff Dawson,
I wanted you to know that Mr. Gomer’s friend’s surgery was unsuccessful, and he passed away on the operating table at about 2:00 this morning. Mr. Gomer was very upset, but I was able to give him something to help him sleep. I set him up in room 199B, so you should find him there. I am terribly sorry. Please let me know if there is anything I can do.
“Is everything okay?” the receptionist asked me as I folded the note into my shirt pocket, and I wondered at the vacuity of such a question in such a place and circumstance as this.
“Can you please direct me to room 199B?” I asked her.
The entire hospital seemed to be in the process of waking at this hour, so I treaded lightly down the dimly lit corridors until I found the number I was looking for. I opened the door as quietly as I could and peeked my head around the doorframe and into the darkened room.
And when I moved inside, I discovered that the room was empty, the bed pillow had been wadded in a ball, and the covers tossed aside. Dewayne Gomer was gone.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
THERE ARE DRINKING establishments where the customers possess no memory of names or faces, places where the time of day is irrelevant and conversation consists of monosyllabic utterances inside clouds of smoke from cigarettes lighted from cardboard matchbooks or from a butt left smoldering in a cheap glass ashtray. The passage of time is measured differently there, as are the value and the relevance of life and loss and death.
I stepped through the door of just such a place, located at the western edge of Meriwether County, just outside of town boundaries and across the street from the Cayuse Motel, itself a seedy relic of the postwar automobile travel boom. It didn’t even have a name, only a hand-painted signboard screwed into the cinder blocks that read simply bar. There were no windows in the place, save for the small diamond of wire glass embedded at eye level in the front door, the only other illumination emanating from lighted neon beer signs and a half-dozen mismatched fixtures dangling from the ceiling at uneven lengths from knots of electrical wire.
