Upside Down (14 page)

29

Sean had made Winter's travel arrangements, so even though the plane was only half filled with passengers he flew first class. By the same token, he would be staying at a luxurious hotel. Left to his own devices, he would have flown coach and stayed at the first motel he saw. The truth of it was that nothing mattered but the task awaiting him in New Orleans. It was a bonus that he knew the city, had once been a resident, so he wouldn't need maps.

Winter spent the entire flight deep in black-cloud thought. He was in a dangerous mental place, suppressing an anger as intense as any he had ever felt. The closer the jet drew to New Orleans, the farther it was from his family and the blacker his thoughts became. How had this horror happened? Who was responsible? How would he deal with whoever was responsible when he got to them? Could he find Faith Ann?

Never had his job felt like a more futile enterprise. No matter how hard lawmen worked, seriously twisted people popped up faster than they could be chased down and dealt with. He was happy to let those who still believed they could win a lasting victory have it all to themselves. He would be content to simply protect his own.

At the end of his flight, Winter rented a gray sedan. After leaving the interstate and taking a couple of wrong turns because his mind was running in ten directions at once, he found a place to park on Tulane Avenue, a block from the hospital.

Charity Hospital was a concrete building constructed by the WPA during the Depression. The state-supported hospital owed its founding to infamous Governor Huey P. Long, whose philosophy, before his assassination in 1936, had been to give the common man what the rich had always enjoyed—or more likely just to convince the poor guys that such was his intention.

As he entered the building, Winter immediately spotted Nicky Green standing alone reading a folded newspaper. The private detective was easy to spot, since he was bald and wore a dark red leisure suit adorned with yellow piping and a cowboy hat. A walking cane leaned against his leg, a toothpick was clenched between his front teeth. Green glanced up, saw Winter, and folded the newspaper.

“Nicky?”

“You must be Winter.”

“I am. It's a pleasure to meet you.” Winter offered his hand and forced himself to smile.

Green gripped Winter's hand and shook it vigorously. “I been waiting for you to show up. The sons of bitches won't tell me what color the sky is.”

“And Millie?”

“Morgue. Kimberly Porter's there too. Thank God Millie didn't suffer. The initial impact killed her. I expect they'd want to be buried in Texas with their people, but I don't reckon it's up to me to make a decision like that. I know there are cousins all over Texas, but I don't know any of them by name. I reckon somebody will have to look through the Porter house or something to find names.”

Winter didn't know of any close relatives of either Hank or Millie, aside from Kimberly and Faith Ann. “I expect we can wait to see what Hank wants to do,” he replied.

“I sure hope you're right. I should have told them I was related, but I didn't.”

“Let me see what I can do about getting us in,” Winter said. He went to the kiosk and gave the woman the administrator's name along with his own. She handed him a laminated red pass and told him that a doctor would meet him just outside the intensive care unit.

“I'll need one for Mr. Green,” he told her. The receptionist eyed Nicky suspiciously, called someone, and gave Winter a normal white visitor's badge from a box on the desk for Nicky. Winter and Nicky walked to the elevator bank.

“They think you're family?”

“My wife has a way with people,” Winter said truthfully.

The doctor was waiting at the double doors outside the ICU. He shook hands with Winter and Nicky.

Winter was glad the doctor used language he could follow without having a medical degree. “First of all, it's a miracle that Mr. Trammel is still alive. He is so broken up inside by the impact that we're forced to keep him in a drug-induced coma. The best we can tell from the tests we can safely perform, he has multiple fractured bones, most of his organs are certainly bruised, he has a serious concussion, and two vertebrae in his neck are broken. There's no massive internal bleeding that would call for opening him up. There's brain swelling we're dealing with, and we have no idea yet how the pressure will affect him down the road. If we do anything in the next forty-eight hours, it will only be because it is absolutely necessary to save his life.”

“You mean like he might be a vegetable?” Nicky asked.

“I won't sugarcoat Mr. Trammel's condition. He could remain in a coma even after we try to bring him out, or have a stroke at any moment. Any number of things could bring about his death.”

“We'd like to see him,” Winter said.

The doctor handed them masks, and they slipped them on and followed him toward Hank's cubicle. Except for a symphony of machines, the ICU unit was as quiet as a chapel. A frail man who looked like he should be in a hospital bed of his own was seated by the bed of an elderly woman. He nodded impassively to the three men as they passed.

The rooms were arranged around a nurse's station so the medical staff could sit there and see each of the patients. The rooms were without windows or front walls. In the unlikely event that privacy was necessary, a curtain could be pulled.

What Winter saw lying in the bed broke his heart. Hank's swollen face had no more surface depth than a pizza—the texture of his skin was like the inside of a grapefruit after the pulp had been eaten. A plastic tube entered the islandlike tip of his nose. An I.V. delivered clear liquid to a needle taped to the back of his hand while cords carried electric impulses of information up into the monitoring equipment. The trademark mustache, if it still existed, was covered by the tape that held a breathing tube in Hank's mouth. His legs were shrouded in clear plastic braces that inflated and deflated every few seconds to keep blood clots from forming.

“Hang in there, Hank,” Winter said softly. Beneath the calm words, anger boiled inside him. The taste of bile filled his mouth. Hank could die, and he was afraid of the hole that would leave in his life. When his own father had died, Winter had felt the sort of relief one gets at the end of a grueling weight-lifting session. James Massey had abandoned his family and had been living with a barfly in a flophouse in West Memphis, Arkansas, when he died of cirrhosis. Winter had only known Hank for seven years, but their relationship felt as if it had lasted a lifetime. Winter had transferred to Hank the affection his father had rejected, and Hank had treated him like the son he had lost.

He put his fingertips against Hank's shoulder. “Hank, you just get well. Nicky and I are going to take care of everything else. I promise you that.”

30

Assumption Parish, Louisiana

Each time the battered pickup truck hit a low spot, a great gout of brown water erupted into the air and a wave of slippery mud covered the windshield of the Blazer with the light bar on its roof. The wipers could only swipe a couple of times before the truck launched the next curtain of mud. Sheriff Toliver cursed, and pumped at the washer knob until the reservoir was empty of cleaning fluid. The road looked as though great herds of feral pigs had rooted in it. In places, it came within inches of the sharply sloped bayou bank.

The sheriff looked up in his rearview and saw that the other county car, a prowler, was staying far enough back not to be splashed by his vehicle. His wife, belted into the passenger seat, kept telling him to hang back, but he was too mad to pay her any mind, and he wasn't about to admit that he
was
driving like an “damn idiot.” Her sudden yelp brought his eyes back to the windshield, and upon seeing the red lights in front of him he slammed on the brakes, sending the Blazer sliding sideways. The sheriff barely missed slamming into the truck, which was no stranger to having its body smacked. The squad car trailing the sheriff stopped, and four deputies poured from its interior like hounds itching for something to chase after.

“You stay put,” the sheriff said to his wife. He put on his cap and stepped out. “It's muddy.”

She replied, “Make it fast, Buddy Lee.”

“Won't take long. Wrecker's on the way.”

“Yeah, right. I'm not kidding around, Buddy Lee.”

They had been on their way to breakfast when the call came in. Helene Toliver peered out at the bayou like it was something that could attack her. She was not a patient woman; every time they were doing something together Buddy Lee always had some emergency call, and she became a prisoner of time, sitting like a lump in the prowl car.

The driver of the battered truck and his passenger looked like the same person at two different ages and weights. Father and son lacked meaningful chins. Their suspicious eyes, long pointed noses, pronounced overbites, and sloping foreheads gave them the profiles of small unpleasant mammals. The son's hair had a curiously crusty appearance. Both wore matching outfits with the overalls folded up into cuffs and flannel shirts with rolled-up sleeves. The Herberts—pronounced “Ay-bears”—were commercial fishermen and trappers, but their hands and clothes looked like they belonged to men who stood in close proximity to burning tires while they overhauled diesel engines.

“Where?” Buddy Lee asked the Herberts, wondering which of the father's eyes was the good one.

The lanky sheriff rarely spoke when a gesture would suffice. His features were all sharp edges, the cheeks and edge of his nose trying to slice their way out, the bags under his eyes filled with something heavy.

“Ri-chonder,” the father drawled, starting to raise his hand.

“Yonder,” the son added. He jerked his hand up and aimed a finger out at the scummy water.

Standing among the knee-high weeds, the sheriff peered out at the wedge of metal breaking out through the algae. A cottonmouth as big around in the center as a quart jar glided along on the water's surface, unafraid of the men standing on the bank twenty feet away.

“Sa cah,” the older Herbert said.

“Black 'un,” the young man added in case his father wasn't believed.

“Appears somebody drove it off in the water,” the sheriff said to the deputies and the Herberts. “Insurance fraud.”

“Maybe he drove off and he's still in it?” a deputy suggested, almost hopefully.

The sheriff frowned, shook his head.

“Mine fi shoot dat snake?”

The sheriff turned to watch the older Herbert pluck a weathered shotgun from the cab of the Ford and break it to load in a single shell. “Okay, just don't shoot the damned car.”

There was a boom and the water moccasin, halved by the blast, sank out of sight.

By the time the diver and the tow truck arrived, Helene Toliver's breathing had fogged all the Blazer's windows. All Buddy Lee could see was the suggestion of his wife's yellow hair, which looked like cotton candy.

The diver hooked a cable to the submerged vehicle. The tow truck's gears ground as it dragged the water-filled Rover, on its left side, up the steep slope.

“It hit something pretty good,” a deputy said, pointing to the damaged front end. He cupped his hands trying to see through the opaque windows. “Charlie, I'll boost you up,” he told another deputy as he locked his hands to form a stirrup. “It looks to be all burnt up inside. Wait a minute. I can see something moving, but it's too dark to make it out. I need a flashlight.”

The sheriff went to his Blazer for his Mag-Lite.

“Just a few more minutes,” he mumbled. His wife had the look of a woman about to ask him to check the bottoms of his boots for what she was smelling.

Buddy Lee handed his Mag-Lite up to the deputy, who aimed the beam down into the Rover's interior.

“Sure was set on fire. It's a man in it, looks like a nigrah! His clothes was burnt right off his back.”

“Was a bulletin this morning about a dark blue Rover involved in a hit-and-run in New Orleans last night,” the sheriff said. “Said it would have front-end damage—a busted light and turn signal.”

“What you saw moving?” a deputy called up.

“Damn, Roy, it was in the bayou, what the hell you think it is?”

The young fisherman looked at his father, raised his hands up and mimicked claws pinching the air. “Trabs,” he said, smiling like the word made him hungry.