The Walt Longmire Mystery Series Boxed Set Volume 1-4 (91 page)

“You have one message.” I had none, but I was listening.

For the next two minutes, I listened to Devon Conliffe. He was in a spitting rage and referred to Cady as everything but a child of God; the language he used to describe her actions and person would have paled Vic. He threatened to do things to her that I hadn’t heard in a four-year stint with the Marines and close to a quarter century of law enforcement. Toward the end, he had become breathless but no less vitriolic, closing with one last salvo that promised a savage retribution if she did not appear within the next minute. The line went dead.

I closed the tiny cell phone; soundings from a very dark place began working their way to the surface. I knew the timber and the danger of these thoughts. My face cooled where a healthy heat had been, and a stillness crept over my hands.

I placed the cell phone in the front pocket of my jacket and hung it on the back of my chair. I pushed my hat back a little, crossed my arms, and looked directly at Cady; the smooth, steady movement of my actions raised a sliver of panic in the rational man who was abandoning me.

I wondered what in the hell she had been doing on the other side of town. Why would she be at the Franklin Institute instead of with me at her house in Old City? Had what happened been an accident and, if she and Devon had had an argument and he had pushed her, why hadn’t he called someone? Why wasn’t he here?

I pulled the phone from my pocket and listened to the message again.

I now knew some answers. The next questions would most likely be asked by the fifth largest police force in the country. I had no jurisdiction in Philadelphia. I listened as the sliver attempted to gain a little leverage and force some light into the emotional dusk, but darkness can be stubborn.

I sat there in the glare of the ICU and the murmuring of the machines and watched my child as all the shadowy things loosened themselves and began their steady ascent to open air where they could do the most damage. I suppose an hour had gone by when Dr. Rissman came back and checked her vitals.

He closed her eye and again looked past my shoulder. I felt like punching him for not looking at me directly but, instead, shook my head and cleared my throat. “No movement.”

“It’s still early.”

“I know.”

He gave a perfunctory nod and went out to the nurse’s station, and I was alone again.

It was approaching dawn, and the trauma physician had checked in five more times with the same results. The faint glow of the sun crept against the adjoining buildings, and it felt like I was in the turret of an unending castle. My eyes must have grown tired because, when I blinked, somebody else was in the room. I tried to focus, but the strain of the night made it feel like I was dragging 600-grit sandpaper over my eyeballs. I closed them and opened them again, but the image of the man kneeling by the bed remained blurred.

A small panic sparked, and I shifted in my chair, but he put out a hand and stilled me. It was only when the image shifted and I heard the intricate melody of the Cheyenne song that I knew it was Henry.

Epigrammatic whispers escaped from him as from a man possessed, and maybe it was the voices of ancestors winging their way onto the tongues of the living. I watched the broadness of his back drawing in the air of the room and swallowing the damage that had been done to Cady. There was a momentary stillness, and the song began again with a wailing tremble and ended with a final gasp.

After a moment, he turned to look at me, and I could see that he had been crying and that he must have been singing for some time. He wore a faded denim shirt that I had seen many times, and the collar was darkened with the tears that still streamed down his face. He didn’t stand but pivoted on one foot and sat on the floor by the bed. He didn’t wipe the tears away and gave me a tight-lipped smile as he folded his hands in his lap. “What has happened?”

I explained the medical situation as best I could.

His eyes stayed very steady. “How did this happen?”

I told him what Michael had told me.

His eyes still did not move. “Who has done this?”

I pulled the phone from my jacket pocket and tossed it to him. “There are twenty-six received calls on her phone, but only one message.” I stood as he pushed buttons. “The security code is BEAR.” I walked around to the other side of the bed to stand over Cady and looked for some sign that would give me hope that she would be in the 34 percent that made it back. I waited and watched, feeling the heat return to my face, the quiver to my hands.

He closed the phone with a distinct snap and sat there. His movements were deliberate as he stood and turned and studied me from across the bed. His voice was strained. “Do not do this.”

“Do what?”

“Do not do this thing.” He waited, but I didn’t say anything. “Do not do this thing, because I cannot save you from the man you would become, if you do this thing.”

I took a deep breath and could feel the rattle all the way down to my boots. “I guess it’ll all depend on what happens next.”

He leaned in, trying to get within my line of sight. “That is not what it depends upon.”

I looked at him, but his eyes were drawn to something behind me. I turned to look at the uniform, badge, gun, and Moretti standing in the doorway. “How ya doin’?”

“We’ll see.” I turned back to Cady as Henry made his way around the bed and extended his hand, quietly palming the cell phone into his left.

“Henry Standing Bear.”

They shook hands. “Michael Moretti.”

Henry held on to his hand and took a closer look. “I assumed Vic had eaten any brothers or sisters.”

He smiled. “Some of us made it.” The Bear followed the young man as he stepped to the foot of the bed. “Any improvement?”

“Not really.” We all stood there for a moment, and I’m sure I wasn’t the only one that could hear my heartbeat. “They say it’s still early…” I knew which question I was going to have to ask next, so I thought I’d get it over with. “Did you get a statement from Devon Conliffe?”

Every trace of the smile vanished. “Didn’t see her last night.”

I turned and looked at him. “What?”

He pulled out a thin black note pad and consulted his own writing. “I spoke with Mr. Conliffe this morning, and he stated that he had not met with Miss Longmire.”

I listened to my heart. “You spoke with him this morning?”

“Yeah.”

The thumping was like the traffic on I-95. “What about last night?”

“I tried his residence about a half-dozen times.”

I nodded. “Did he say where he was?”

“Phillies game and then his parents’.”

“A baseball game.”

“Yeah…” He glanced back at the notebook. “I’ve got two witnesses, and his parents corroborated. His firm’s got a box, and he said he’s got it today at 12:30 for the businessman’s special.”

I thought about it. “He lives here in the city?”

“Yeah.”

“Any word on why it is he would have gone to his parents’ house to sleep?”

“No.”

Henry was watching the two of us, finally speaking when the silence got to be too much. “He went from the ballpark in South Philadelphia to his parents’ home on the Main Line and then back in this morning to go to work?”

“That’s what everybody’s saying.”

“He did a lot of driving around last night.” I’m sure the pounding in my chest was causing my shirt to jump. “Did he seem concerned that his girlfriend was lying at the University of Pennsylvania Hospital in a coma?”

The young man closed his notebook and watched me for a moment. “Mr. Conliffe conveyed to me that the relationship between himself and your daughter was not of the serious nature you might have believed it to be.” He pushed the notebook into the inside breast pocket of his jacket. “He stated that he had been out on a couple of dates with her but that he had ended the relationship because it was far too serious on her part.”

I looked at Henry, who was watching me closely. Devon had lied and, if his parents and two other people had corroborated, then they had lied, too. I nodded, and Henry tossed the phone to me. I punched the necessary buttons and handed it to Michael. He glanced at the two of us and then held the phone to his ear. The young man stared at Cady’s feet, covered with a sheet and a polyester blanket, for the full two minutes. His expression didn’t change; he pushed the disconnect button and closed the phone.

I watched him and then spoke very slowly. “There are twenty-six received phone calls from Devon Conliffe from 5:11
P.M
. through 10:03
P.M
. last night, ending with the message you just heard.” I took a breath, pointed to the cell phone, and continued. “To me, that doesn’t sound like a man involved in a relationship he doesn’t take seriously.” I could barely talk. “And I didn’t hear any baseball game in the background of that message.”

He held the phone close to his chest. “Do you mind if I take this?”

“I think I’ll insist.”

His smile was grim, and I was liking him more and more. He nodded and placed the phone with his note pad. “I may not be the one who talks to you about this next.”

I looked at my daughter. “That’s all right, as long as somebody does, and damn soon.”

After Michael left, we sat in chairs on either side of the bed and watched Cady. “It was the right thing to do.”

I had been listening to him think it for so long, I wasn’t sure if I needed to reply. “Yep.”

He glanced over to me. “Why am I not so sure that you believe that?”

“Maybe it was the halfhearted response you just got.”

“Maybe.” He waited. “Is there anybody you want to call?”

“Not yet.”

He nodded, his eyes returning to her. “You should get some sleep.”

“No.”

“You are not doing anybody any good falling asleep in a chair.” I looked at him. “You might as well lie down.”

“No.”

“How about something to eat then.”

“I’m not hungry.”

He sighed a large sigh. “Then go take a walk, anything, but do not just sit here brooding.”

“I’m not brooding.”

“Planning then.” I looked at him, the man who knew me better than I knew myself. “Concentrate on walking, breathing, eating, drinking, anything but this.” I could still see the streaks on his face. “I will watch her. Go.”

I didn’t make it very far, but I made it outside and, with the number of hallways, elevators, and stairwells I had to use, that was a miracle in itself. I walked through the revolving doors and onto the University of Pennsylvania campus. It was spring, even in the winter of my discontent, and all the freshmen were hurrying to their eight o’clock classes. They looked as asleep as I felt.

There were a few roach-coaches across the street, and I figured I could get a cup of coffee from one of the food carts without contracting a disease. As I stood in line, I noticed people looking at me, and I figured I’d strangle the first one that made a smart remark about my hat. I stepped up to the counter and asked for a large one, which cost me two bucks.

“Here ya go, Tex.”

I let him live.

I wandered back across and sat on one of the low cement walls that had flowering shrubs planted behind them. My back hurt and my shoulders ached. I took off my hat; even Atlas shrugged. It was a gorgeous day, and the apple and cherry trees were exploding in a riot of effusive color. I pulled in a deep breath. As a westerner, I’m always amazed at the balm of eastern air, the coursing, life-giving humidity. Even on the busy street, I could feel the trees, the river, and maybe just a little bit of the ocean off the coast of New Jersey, not so far away.

I took the top off to allow the coffee to cool when someone moved my hat and sat on the wall beside me.

Lena Moretti looked a lot better than I did. She was wearing a simple floral-print sundress and was carrying two small bags that she set on the concrete. She placed my hat on her head, and it dropped down over her ears so that I could barely see her eyes. “Didn’t trust me to bring breakfast, huh?”

“I forgot.”

She tipped my hat back and pointed to the cup in my hand. “Is that coffee?”

I looked at the cup. “I’m just waiting for it to cool.”

She reached out a hand. “Here, I’ll show you what to do with that.” I handed her the cup, and she poured it out on the sidewalk. A young woman, slouched over with the weight of her backpack, was walking past and gave her a dirty look.

“That was my coffee.”

“No, this is your coffee.” She handed me another lidded cup from one of the bags, and I held it with both hands. She opened her own and took a sip. “I took your dog for a walk this morning.”

“Thank you.” I had forgotten about him. “Where did you find a leash?”

“I used an electric cord.” She crossed her legs at the ankle. I was beginning to think that she was capable of just about everything.

I opened my coffee and looked at the decisively dark brew. “This looks strong.”

“Espresso, tall, double-shot. I thought you could use it.” She looked at me. “How’s she doing?”