After the End: Survival (17 page)

Anyone watching Pete's face at this moment would have seen a slight, almost imperceptible change. But the difference was there.

Unbidden, his own personal coping mechanism was activated. And his mind became a cold and ruthless thing.

Through new eyes, he saw the scene before him. Blood and brain matter were sprayed across the desk to David’s left. Grasping the sides of the dead man's face, Pete turned the head slowly from side to side. The entry wound, complete with powder burns, was on the left side of David's head, above and forward of the ear. The exit wound was behind his right ear. Pete recalled seeing David the night before, eating and drinking with his right hand. To make this morning's scenario consistent with suicide, David would have held the pistol toward his head with his left hand. After pulling the trigger, he would have needed to drop the gun, then swivel around and lay his head neatly on the desk.

"Anybody moved anything?" asked Pete.

"No. What you see is the way it was when we got here."

"Who found the body?"

"Frank Klein, my River Road deputy," said the sheriff, using his thumb in a jerking motion to point to the hallway.

Walking back out through the doorway, Pete sat next to the deputy.

"Frank, we need to talk."

The man remained motionless for a long ten-count, then nodded.

"What made you stop here?"

"I was headed back up to River Road. Saw David's truck parked outside." His voice was unsteady and he cleared his throat.

"Did he say anything to you last night about needing to come here?"

"No. Him and Yolanda, they carried on like they always do. He had a few beers, but he doesn’t ever drink much. They left early, maybe ten o'clock, so they could pick up the baby and go home. Man, I can't believe this is happening."

"What could have brought him here?"

"I don't know. He didn't say anything about needing to come here or even coming into town, as far as that goes. Him and me are buds, all right? Whenever he drove into town he'd give me a shout on the radio and we'd meet for lunch or whatever. I know he was really bugged about the Shupe girl they found near Canyon. It’s his turf, right? He took it kind of personal."

"OK. You're driving back home this morning, you see David's vehicle. Then what?"

The deputy shrugged. "I walk through the front door. The lock had been forced, but looked like it'd been broke for a long time, you know, leaves and trash in the foyer. What with all the scroungers, that’s nothing new. I walk inside, don't hear anything, holler out David's name a few times, still don't hear anything. So I get a kind of bad feeling, draw my weapon and kind of tiptoe around till I find this." He jerked his head toward the doorway. His eyes narrowed, and he turned to face Pete. "He didn't fucking kill himself. He honest-to-God wasn't the type." His tone was challenging, as if he dared a rebuttal.

"I know. You're right. Excuse me for a minute."

Walking back into the office, he saw the sheriff on his hands and knees.

“What are you looking for?”

"The damn bullet."

"Good luck. I'll take him to the hospital for an autopsy. Frank doesn't think it was a suicide and I agree. I think we need to look at this as a possible homicide."

The Sheriff looked doubtful.

"Whatever. We'll see if fingerprints turn up anything. How long will you need the body?"

"Give me a few hours."

"OK. Call me when you're done. I need to take him down to Canyon. I am not looking forward to telling Yolanda."

"I'd like to go with you."

"That's fine. Keep me posted."

Using a collapsible canvas stretcher from Pete's SUV, they carried David's body outside. His head was wrapped in green plastic, ostensibly out of respect but mostly to prevent gore from dripping inside Pete's vehicle.

At the hospital he and Jay Flood took two skull x-rays and were able to trace the bullet's path. It verified Pete's original premise that the projectile had entered near the left temple of the deputy's head and had exited on the right near the back of the skull.

"Pretty tough shot to make no matter which hand he used, if he did it himself," Jay commented. They could find no other injuries. Pete radioed the sheriff to let him know they were ready to take David home. While waiting for him to arrive, Pete and Jay made rounds of the hospital's inpatients.

The man who had survived his appendectomy was semi-comatose. A raging fever was sapping his strength. He appeared to be losing his battle against infection from a ruptured appendix. Other than running IV fluids into a vein there was little else they could do. A young woman was wiping the patient’s brow with a cold wash cloth, speaking softly close to his ear. She glanced up once at the two men as they approached but otherwise ignored them. Both men knew the prognosis was grim.

"And little Brandon here has had quite a trip," Jay said, as they walked to the bed of the injured child. A thirty-something woman in a denim dress smiled nervously at the men.

"I sure wish he'd open his eyes," she said.

"I think Brandon's head will be fine, Mrs. King. We just need to keep him still to be on the safe side. That's why we gave him a little bit of Valium. Our big concern is the fluid in his lungs. We'll have a better idea by morning if he's going to develop pneumonia. How did he end up in that creek?"

"Lord, I wish I knew. We've got a baby calf in the barn we're bottle feeding. Brandon's kind of adopted the little fella." She glanced towards the boy. "He went out early this morning to feed him. It started raining real hard. I didn't think much of it. I just thought he was staying in the barn with the calf." Her eyes started welling with tears. "He must've gone down to the creek, exploring, I don't know. That creek gets so high, so fast, every time it rains. He must've fallen in and swum downstream till he got tired."

Yeah, Pete thought. Like I can swim down Niagara Falls. He made no comment, knowing how bad she felt, understanding her need to minimize the severity of the situation.

Understanding the importance of hope.

The two men walked over to the body of David Rodriguez and used the stretcher to carry him out to Pete's SUV.

“So how's the antibiotic situation coming along, Pete?"

"You mean since we last talked about it," checking his watch, "seven hours ago?" Actually, Pete was surprised at how late it was. The clouds had started breaking up, and the sun was hovering above the western horizon, bathing the world in a reddish glow.

"You telling me you've been busy?"

"Jay, I hope I don't have too many days like today."

The doctor reached over and squeezed Pete’s shoulder.

"Things always look better in the morning."

"Can I get that in writing?"

"Absolutely.”

The drive from the hospital to David's home in Canyon took almost thirty minutes. Pete's SUV became a temporary hearse. The sheriff followed in his vehicle, a white Suburban. David's head had been swathed in gauze, with a layer of plastic hidden underneath the wrapping to protect against leakage. Pete did not feel well-suited in his role as undertaker. For one thing, he mused, swerving to miss another pothole, I'm not jolly enough. The morticians he'd known, unless actually on the job, were pretty funny guys, the life of the party and all that. Like they were compensating for all the grieving they had to be around. Well, how about neurosurgeons or oncologists? They dealt with people who spent a lot of time at death's door. Were they mostly happy? Not particularly, not the one's he'd known. Especially not the neuro guys. How about preachers? They had to preside over a lot of funerals, deal with a lot of grief. No, they don't count, because they also get to be there for the happy stuff, weddings and christenings and such.

Pete's thoughts continued meandering, putting off dealing with David's death. Yet, one part of his mind remained clear and sharp, an incisive gleaming blade, calm, steady and patient, biding its time. Pete knew it was there but kept it subdued and safely out of sight.

Being underestimated has the advantage of delayed gratification.

The two vehicles drove down Eighth Avenue in Canyon and parked in front of David's house. Neighbors were outside in the cool dusk and observed them with interest. Fuel was limited even for those receiving an allotment from the city. Two vehicles together meant something out of the ordinary.

The men slowly walked up the sidewalk. Yolanda must have heard the car doors closing because she met them at the front door as they approached the house.

"Hi Sheriff, hello Pete," she said, wiping her hands on her apron. Her cheeks were a little flushed and Pete imagined she'd been cooking supper. "David's still not home, that man's been working, he even missed lunch. He told me he probably wouldn't make it for lunch, but I made him some anyway. It was just sandwiches because with David you never know."

Both men just looked at her, not knowing where to start.

"Well, you guys are sure quiet, you hungry? You want supper? I made some venison stew, I was going make cornbread pie, but Mr. Chesley? Down the street? He shot a deer just south of town and brought by some stew meat, so I thought, boy I sure can't let this go to waste. Those deer have been bad this year, getting into most everybody's garden unless you’ve got a tall fence, and we do, so we haven't had a problem." She paused, and looked closely at the two.

"Where's David?" she asked.

"Yolanda," they both said, simultaneously.

"Where's David?" she repeated.

"I'm sorry, Yolanda," Pete said. "I'm so sorry."

"Where's David?" Her voice had risen, both in tone and volume.

Pete shook his head. Yolanda stared at him for a few seconds, and then rushed toward him, pounding his chest with her fists.

"No! No! No! No!" she screamed, punctuating each word with another blow. Then she stopped, tipping her head to the sky, releasing one long keening wail. She collapsed against Pete, sobbing into his shoulder. He held her in his arms and time stopped.

He became dimly aware of people moving around him. Two women, gently supporting Yolanda, led her into the house. Walking to a large elm in the front yard, Pete sat against its trunk, closing his eyes. When he opened them, he could see Rob Westlake helping two other men carry the body into the house. Through the large picture window he saw the silhouettes of several women inside. Around him under the tree, two groups of men had formed, their hands stuck in their pockets or across their chests. They murmured in low voices, their words indistinct. None spoke to Pete, yet he felt some comfort in their nearness. After a while his back became stiff. Standing, he walked to the front door and looked inside. David was lying out on the dining room table, covered with a blanket, his head resting on a pillow. Yolanda was in the living room, sitting sideways on a couch, her legs drawn up against her chest. She was facing a wall, oblivious to everything. There were at least a dozen women moving about house. On the kitchen table Pete could see plates heaped with food, and he could smell fresh coffee. Yolanda would not be alone tonight.

Walking to his car, several men nodded toward him and he wordlessly returned their nods.

Entering his own house that night, it was chilly and he lit some kindling in the fireplace to ward off the cold.

The jackrabbit nibbled delicately at the tender green shoots. He would pause every few seconds, lifting his head in a quick movement, nose quivering, listening, watching. Coyotes had always been a problem and there were the foxes, hawks and owls. Three nights ago in a small canyon, a foul odor had alerted him to the presence of some new danger. Under the moon’s shadow of a rock ledge he held perfectly still and saw a mountain lion slink slowly and soundlessly down the rocky gulch, passing not ten feet away. In his two years of life, the rabbit had never seen anything like it, but sensed that if this thing caught him, he would die.

It was always some damn thing or another.

The recent rain helped tip the odds in his favor. During dry weather, he was forced to feed in the low areas where the water collected. Even when the moisture had evaporated, or been sucked into the parched earth, the grasses in the low places stayed green the longest and held the most nutrients. Unfortunately, the predators also knew this and would watch, killing the unwary, the slow, or the unlucky.

Rain changed everything. The brown land took on hues of green, like a wizened old woman becoming young again, standing straight, swinging her hips flirtatiously as she sashayed through the late summer. And the green grass was everywhere, growing furiously that it might mature and reproduce before it was consumed by the heat or the herbivores.

For the rabbit, life depended on finding food with the least possible risk. Now, he could feed practically anywhere and would not have to venture far from safety to eat. Survival was a burden, but it was better than the alternative. Any relief from the continual stress was welcome.

A breath of wind from the south brought with it the faint, yet unmistakable odor of a female jackrabbit in heat. He stopped chewing for a moment to savor the smell. Another gust, the odor stronger this time. Torn between yearning and sanctuary, he looked furtively about, and then began moving upwind towards the source of his desire.

It was always some damn thing or another.

Summertime and the livin' is easy. Pete had slept well, woke up early and felt great. After a quick breakfast he went out to his garden, where he was surprised to find his scurvy patient from the day before. Bob Smith, a.k.a. Dr. Daniel Holtzmann was on his hands and knees, weeding around the tomato plants.

"Hey, Bob. What the heck are you doing?"

"Good morning, Pete. I woke up early this morning and thought I'd try to repay you for your gift yesterday of vitamin C in the form of these luscious tomatoes. You haven’t had much time to weed and I thought perhaps it was something I was capable of."

"I won't turn down the help. Have you had breakfast?"

"I ate an extra large tomato."