Clear and Convincing Proof (6 page)

The storm had made Erica restless, unable to concentrate on a book, or the television, or anything else. What if the shingles blew off, or the new roof leaked, or a tree blew down? She heard the car in the driveway and went to a front window to see who was coming this late. She knew that Darren was home.
She always knew if he was in the apartment. When she saw Annie leave the car, look at the house uncertainly, then go around to the outside stairs, she burned with resentment, with an ache that started some place she had no name for.

 

“We have the next board meeting on Thursday,” Annie said. “I'll try to stall, but I'll probably have to vote. Think about it, Darren. He's going to win, one way or the other. He will. He always does. He's…he's like the storm, unstoppable until he gets his way.”

“We'll find something to do,” Darren said. “Greg, Dr. Kelso, I…we're pretty formidable, too, you know. We'll think of something.”

“Is it true, what he said? Drugs, prison?”

“It's true. One day, over a double chocolate malted milk, I'll tell you about it. Now you go on home. And thanks, Annie.”

“Oh, God! I haven't had a chocolate malted milk in years. Not since…”

Erica was in the kitchen when she heard the car leave. Darren was pacing back and forth, back and forth. Neither of them slept much that night. Darren paced and Erica listened to his footsteps while the rain beat on the house.

David was in bed when Annie got home a little after ten-thirty. David always went to bed at ten-thirty.

T
he low pressure front came in waves. The rain eased, fog formed and was very heavy in the morning. Then the sun came out and burned away the fog and brought up steam from roofs and pavement. A few hours later a new wave of rain rolled in and the sequence began again. Annie loved it. The front carried the smell of the ocean inland.

At lunch on Monday Annie toyed with her salad. David ate his with a good appetite. Neither of them had mentioned again the discussion about her vote. He had said, “Period.” That meant no more discussion, no compromise; the matter was settled.

David was saying, “I need those studies before two o'clock tomorrow. You'll have to leave as soon as you drop me at Greg's house in the morning. I'll have Naomi take me to the hospital.”

She nodded. It often happened that patients from an outlying area, Pleasant Hill, or Cottage Grove, someplace closer to Eugene than to Portland, were sent to the University Hospital in Portland for a diagnosis. If surgery was decided upon, they frequently opted to have it done in Eugene, where it was less of a burden on family members and patients alike. It also often happened that the Portland hospital failed to send the required lab results or X-ray studies to the doctor in Eugene. Several times each year Annie drove to Portland herself to collect them.

“It's going to be foggy again, and probably raining,” David said. “We'll get an early start. I'll sign Dwyer out at seven-thirty.”

He had to see his patient at the clinic, sign him out, leave follow-up orders with the nurse and then be at the hospital to make his own rounds by eight.

Annie nodded again. She was looking forward to the drive to Portland; she needed time alone to think. She felt as if her brain had been on strike for days, and no matter how resolutely she started, she kept stopping in frustration, unable to reach any decision.

 

When Erica arrived at the clinic that afternoon, she saw Annie outside one of the therapy rooms. Annie looked up guiltily, then motioned her closer to the door, holding her finger to her lips.

A woman was saying in a harsh furious voice, “I'm paralyzed, goddamn it! Don't give me any of that crap!”

“I know you are,” Darren said calmly. “And you're mad as hell and don't intend to take it any longer, so get out of the way, world. Right? Well, see, I'm pretty sore myself. You're too young, for one thing. It isn't fair. Lightning bolt stroke and zap, you can't move. But we accepted you as a patient, and we don't take anyone unless we can help. We're going to help you, and you're going to work harder than you thought you could.”

“Oh, Jesus! Just tell me what I'm supposed to when I can't do a fucking thing!”

“First thing every day will be hydrotherapy. Nice warm water, and you wear angel wings. It's really a flotation device. You couldn't sink or flip over if you tried. And Tony will put you through a series of exercises. That's to regain muscle tone, strength building, in the nearest thing to weightlessness we can come up with. You'll see. After that a little snack, and then Chris will guide you through an imaging session, meditation, self-hypnosis, whatever you decide to call it. That's hard, but it works. Lunch next, and in the afternoon I'll help you parachute jump.” He laughed, a low rumbling sound. “We omit the plane and chute, there's just the harness. That's to bear your weight. And underfoot a moving walkway, to remind your legs how to work.”

He paused a moment, then said, “You can see that you have a busy schedule lined up. After all that you might want to listen to our Rikki read. Most folks upstairs do. Her name's Erica but some of the kids started calling her Rikki—you know, like Rikki-Tikki-Tavi—and I guess we mostly all do now.”

Erica gave Annie a startled look; Annie raised her eyebrows and nodded.

“And if at any time during the day you feel like screaming,” Darren said, “do it. Or if you need a little something, say a margarita or a slug of gin, say so. Not that we can give you a liquid painkiller, but a magic pill or something will have the same effect.” His voice dropped lower, and no longer sounded amused or playful when he said, “Connie, we're going to make you walk again, and use your hand and arm, and control your body. We are. Any other questions?”

One of the other therapy room doors opened, and Annie looked at her watch in dismay. “I've got to go. See you around, Rikki.” She ran.

Erica continued on down the corridor toward the reception desk to check in with Bernie, thinking Rikki. She had never had a nickname before. They must talk about her, or maybe about her reading, which they seemed to think was helpful. They probably knew she was practically destitute, that Darren was her tenant. What else? What else was there, actually?

 

The clinic opened at eight each weekday morning, but Bernie arrived fifteen or twenty minutes early to check in staff and be ready for the first patients, some of whom were convinced that they had to show up at least ten minutes before their appointments. That Tuesday morning Bernie was surprised when Erica hurried in by way of the front door at a quarter to eight.

“I'm going to be late, and I parked in the van spot,” Erica said. “On my way to Santa Clara Elementary. Will you see that Tim Dwyer gets this? He said he's going home today.” She put a book on the desk and hurried back out.

Bernie glanced at it and smiled—one of the Harry Potter books—and then put it under the counter. Others were arriving, some stopped at the desk, some just waved. The first patient of the day came in, and she sent him and his wife to the waiting room. Another busy day had started.

 

Carlos Hermosa pulled into the gravel spot provided for his truck, leaving just enough room for a car to pass in the narrow alley. Rain or shine, he thought, getting out, and today it was rain and fog, rain and fog. But the bird feeders needed filling, the pump at the waterfall needed to be checked, slug bait had to be put down. The first rains brought out slugs and snails in hordes, and they woke up hungry. The cyclamen were starting to bloom, and he knew from experience that the evil critters would head for them straightaway. And, he reminded himself, he had to check the supports for the dahlias. Heavy blooms like they had, soaked now, would pull the plants right over if he didn't see to them. He was humming under his breath, ignoring the rain as he prepared two pails to take into the garden with his implements, birdseed, slug bait.

The gate was open, but that just meant that Dr. Boardman had already gone in. Either he or Carlos
unlocked the gate every morning. Carlos went into the garden and to the first bird feeder, manipulated by a cord and pulley, up high enough for the folks upstairs to look out and watch the birds. And the birds were real gluttons. He never had found out how much was too much for them. They ate whatever he put out.

At twenty minutes past eight, rounding a curve in the path, he came to a stop, then dropped his pails and ran to a man lying on the path. ‘'Madre, Madre,” Carlos whispered, crossing himself.

He backed up a step, and another, then turned and ran to the clinic. Inside the door he pulled off his rain hat and hurried down the corridor, dripping water, toward Dr. Boardman's office.

Darren and one of the young interns met him in the corridor and Darren said, “Carlos? What's wrong? Are you sick?”

“Dr. Boardman,” he said. “I have to see Dr. Boardman.”

“He hasn't come in yet,” Darren said. “What's the matter with you?”

“There's a dead man in the garden,” Carlos said in a hushed voice.

“What the hell…?” Darren muttered. “Show us.”

Carlos led the way to the path where the dead man was lying with rain streaming off his face.

“Jesus,” Tony Kranz whispered, gazing at David McIvey. There was no need to touch him, to feel for a pulse, no need to try to do anything for him. His
sightless eyes were wide-open, his skin as white as marble.

What had started as a normal busy day became much, much busier.

T
hat evening Naomi, Greg and Thomas sat in the living room of the residence and talked.

“It's been a madhouse all day,” Greg said, handing Thomas a glass of claret. “They didn't even remove the body until four this afternoon. And they'll be back tomorrow with more questions.”

Thomas nodded. And the next day and the next, he thought, right up until they made an arrest, probably. “Tell me about it,” he said. His wrinkled face became so creased when he frowned that he looked inhuman, and he was frowning ferociously.

“McIvey came by this morning to make sure Naomi could drive him to the office,” Greg said, “and to get the key to the gate. He was going to sign a patient out. Annie dropped him off at seven-thirty,
then left to go up to Portland to collect some X rays. Someone was waiting for him, or followed him, or he surprised someone who was already in the garden for God knows what reason. Anyway, he was shot in the heart at close range. The police kept asking exactly what time he arrived, what time he left, and I told them seven-thirty, then they wanted to know how I could be certain. God, you answer a question and they start pounding on the answer. The police wanted to know about the keys, who has one, when we lock up, when we open up. God knows how many keys are floating around. I don't. You have one, we do, Carlos. Joyce had one. Who else? I don't know.”

“Darren has one,” Naomi said. “He told them he doesn't know where it is, but he did have one.”

Greg nodded, then said, “So he left the house here, sometime around seven-thirty. That's about all I know directly.” He shook his head and went on, “The rest is what they call hearsay. You wouldn't believe the rumors that have made the rounds today.”

“I probably would,” Thomas said. “Let's have them.”

“Right. A patient says she heard what might have been a shot. She was in a wheelchair near her window waiting for breakfast, and she looked out and saw a dwarf in a shiny black cape and hood.”

“So are the police looking for a dwarf?” Thomas asked with a touch of sarcasm.

“Who knows what they think, what they're looking for? Carlos found the body sometime after eight.
He doesn't know exactly what time it was. And Carlos said McIvey had been dragged off the main path out of sight. The police haven't confirmed it, but if Carlos said so, I believe it. He'd notice something like that.”

“A powerful dwarf,” Thomas said. “Go on. What else?”

“Darren said he passed the open gate and saw an umbrella blowing around in the wind. He left his bike and walked in, closed the umbrella and leaned it against the building out of the rain. He didn't see anyone and didn't see the body. He thought the umbrella was mine.” He drew in a breath. “It was McIvey's. Anyway, Darren got here before eight, but he doesn't know how much before. Who pays attention like that?”

He got up to pour more wine. Thomas shook his head when Greg started to refill his glass. He never drank more than one glass of wine when he had to drive. He knew that at his age, if he was involved in any infraction of the law while he was driving, he might lose his license. He took no chances.

Naomi leaned forward in her chair and said indignantly, “The police searched the entire clinic and garden. They had someone in the pond, had blocked off the alley to search there, and even here, the residence and garden. I don't even know what else. They're looking for a gun, or for a shiny black cape or something. They intercepted Annie when she got to the hospital in Portland. An officer stayed with her when she picked up the X rays, and then drove her
back to Eugene. They didn't tell her anything, just that there had been an accident. What a nightmare that trip home must have been for her! And they got her to open the trunk of her car and the glove box for them to have a look inside.” Naomi's voice was tight with anger.

“Where is she now?” Thomas asked.

“Upstairs in the guest room resting. She can't stay alone in that condominium tonight. I took her over to get a few things. A detective went with us and put tape on the doors, sealed them.” She ran her hand through her hair, a gesture she used when upset. By now her hair looked like a straw bale that had come loose from a binding wire, standing out in all directions. “They acted as if they suspect her!”

Thomas waved that away. “Well, they do. They always suspect the surviving spouse in a homicide. But, Greg, Naomi, if they decide she couldn't have moved him, if indeed he was moved, you know they'll suspect both of you, me maybe. We all will benefit from this untimely death, I'm afraid. Not as much as the widow, certainly, but enough. And we have to decide how much to tell them of the hassle we've been going through. I hope the subject hasn't already been raised.”

Greg snorted with derision. “They asked the group first, then when they questioned us separately. ‘Do you know of any enemies he had, anyone who might have wanted to harm him?' Not a soul in that lounge stirred, except maybe to shake their heads. Nope, we don't know anything like that.”

Thomas regarded Greg for a moment, then he said, “I suggest we keep it that way. If they want to know about the only board meeting David attended, I believe Annie can provide the tape for them to listen to. I explained their duties to the three new shareholders—David, Annie and you—and then I proposed that we consider creating a foundation. We adjourned without further discussion.” His gaze was unwavering. “Is that your recollection of our meeting, Greg?”

The tape would not reveal the flush of rage that had colored David's face, or his tight-lipped silence, his curt nod…. “That's how it was,” Greg said.

 

In the upstairs guest room Annie lay on the bed staring dry-eyed at the ceiling, remembering how happy she had been living in this room, in this house years before. How safe she had felt. She could not recapture any of those feelings; the girl she had been was out of reach, so distant she seemed dreamlike.

Tomorrow she would have to go home, she thought dismally. The detective who questioned her had said that it was part of the routine to look over the victim's papers, check his computer; he might have received a threatening letter, something of that sort, without mentioning it for fear of alarming her. With near panic she thought of her diary, several diaries by now. She would have to put them away before the police saw them. But she wouldn't have to face the police alone. Her mother would come to stay with her for a while, she had said on the phone, help
her through this terrible time. She would be there by ten; by then Annie and the detectives would be there.

She was glad that her mother was coming. They would go out for lunch or for dinner. They might eat at six or not until nine. They could go shopping together and pay no attention to the clock. She would never keep a real schedule again as long as she lived.

She was free, Annie thought in wonder. Her servitude had ended.

 

Erica drove straight to the clinic from school that afternoon. She was stopped at the entrance to the staff parking lot, where a uniformed officer asked for ID, checked her against a list, then called someone on a cell phone. The lot was full of police cars, the alley blocked off with crime tape, and some television vans parked as close as they could get. The officer waved her on.

Inside the entrance to the clinic she was stopped again, this time by a plainclothes detective.

“Ms. Castle? I'm Detective Mike Clarkson. I'd like to ask you a few questions,” he said.

“It's true, then?” she said. “Someone shot Dr. McIvey? I heard it on the news on the car radio.”

“It's true,” he said. “We're using this office.” He escorted her to Naomi's office.

“Why me?”

He was middle-aged and polite, but straightforward to a fault. He didn't wait for her to sit down before he started. “We're asking everyone who was in the clinic between seven-thirty and eight this
morning. That's not your usual routine, I understand. Why were you here?” He flipped open a notebook.

She moistened her lips, startled by his brusqueness. “I usually come in the evening, around four-thirty, to read to the patients upstairs. One of them, Tim Dwyer, told me yesterday that he would be leaving today. I knew he would be gone before I got here. I dropped off a book for him, so he could finish it at home.”

“Okay. Tell me about it, what you did, where you parked, everything you recall.”

“There's nothing to recall,” she said. “I parked out front under the overhang, where the medic vans usually stop. It was raining and I knew I'd only be a minute, long enough to run in, leave the book and go back. No van would be by that early.” She stopped and took a breath. “Anyway, that's what I did. I came in and gave the book to Bernie at the reception desk, and I left again and went to Santa Clara Elementary School. I was afraid I'd be late because of the rain and fog. I was in a hurry.”

There were a few more questions. She had seen Dr. McIvey a few times, but had never met him. She didn't know any reason anyone would have wanted to harm him. She had not seen anything out of the ordinary that morning, no strange cars, or strangers. She had not heard anything that might have been a gunshot. She pointed out that she wouldn't have known if a car was strange or not, since she was never at the clinic at that hour normally. He took her name, address and phone number, then snapped his notebook closed and stood up. Interview over.

She hurried to the lounge, where, as she had expected, people were clustered at the windows, trying to see what the police were doing now, and talking in low voices. The stop-and-start rain had started again.

People moved slightly to let her edge in, and she heard the various rumors that were flying throughout the clinic.

“Haven't moved him yet, just left him out in the rain all day.”

“They put a tarp over him.”

“And a tent all along the path.”

“Mrs. Johnson said it was a dwarf dressed in black. Now she's saying it was a demon sent to collect his soul.”

“Carlos is beside himself. They're destroying his garden. He says McIvey interrupted someone trying to steal the koi.”

“Those koi are worth a thousand dollars.”

“Darren made them move all their cars and everything around to the back. Poor Dr. Boardman was in a dither and Darren just took over. They were scaring patients and visitors away.”

“Naomi and Greg have Annie under lock and key.”

“They were after drugs. Come in, grab a bunch of drugs and get out before many people were up and about.”

“A gang that robs pharmacies and doctors' offices, looking for drugs.”

“You ever try moving a dead weight like he was?
Believe me, a woman couldn't have done it unless she was built like a wrestler.”

Erica pulled her coat more tightly about herself, chilled, when men with a gurney entered the garden and headed up the path toward the tarp that had been put over the body of David McIvey. A hush settled over the observers.

 

That night the fog moved in again, and Erica felt so cold she shook. The fog did that; it crept in and got to you no matter how tight the house was. She took a hot bath, then turned off the lights and stood gazing out a window at the fog-dimmed lights across the way, like earth-bound glowing clouds without definition. She could hear Darren's footsteps, back and forth, back and forth. Or maybe she didn't hear him, she thought. Maybe she sensed him moving back and forth, the way mothers were said to sense when their infants woke up, long before they heard them. She began to shiver again and went to bed where she lay awake a long time, listening to Darren's footsteps.

 

Across town on Crest Drive, Lorraine McIvey stood at her windows gazing out at the fog. Hers was a beautiful house, with a lot of Port-Orford cedar and a cathedral ceiling in the living room, and one wall that was almost entirely glass, overlooking all of Eugene when the weather was clear. She had liked that when she and David bought the house. “It's spread out at our feet,” she had said and they both had laughed.

“You shouldn't have come tonight,” she said over her shoulder to Pier Longos. “It's too dangerous driving in that kind of fog.”

“Had to come,” he said. “To comfort you in your bereavement, and all that. How are the kids taking it?”

She shrugged and turned to face him. She was a tall, graceful woman with lustrous auburn hair that, to her annoyance, had started to show some gray. She kept it touched up. At forty-four she was still handsome, almost as slender as she had been at twenty, although she had to work at that, also.

“They'll survive,” she said. In fact, neither her daughter, Caitlin, nor her son, Aaron, had displayed grief at their father's death, although both had been curious and even morbidly interested in the fact of his murder. It was not surprising that they were as indifferent about him, his death, as he had always been about them, everything about them. Aaron had asked if they would be broke now. Aaron was seventeen.

Caitlin had said, “I warn you, if you marry Pretty Boy Pier, I'll leave.” She was fifteen.

Pier was good-looking, Lorraine thought absently, but not as good-looking as he thought he was. He had curly black hair, black eyes with long lashes, a wonderful athletic body, great cheekbones. And he was a bad artist, although enough people bought his paintings to keep his ego aloft even if he never had a cent to show for his efforts. She had no intention of marrying him.