While Mr. LaRue put a call through to the county sheriff’s department, I found myself folding up like a jackknife on the lumpy couch in his living room, overwhelmed by sleepiness. My head was pounding. My neck was stiff from whiplash, my rib cage bruised. I felt cold and little, as I had just after the accident in which my parents were killed. In a singsong voice, inexplicably, my brain began feeding back to me the text I’d read in the morning paper. “Palms grow to 70 feet and can produce 300 pounds of dates. A mature palm will grow 15 to 18 bunches of dates. Each cluster, when the fruit has reached the size of a pea, must be protected with brown paper covers to ward off birds and rain. . . .” What I couldn’t remember anymore was where I was or why I hurt so bad.
Carl was shaking me persistently. He’d apparently placed a call to the hospital emergency room and had been told to bring me in. His wife, whose name kept slipping away, had soaked a washcloth in ice water so she could dab the dirt and crusted blood off my face. My feet had been elevated and I’d been wrapped in a down comforter. At their urging, I roused myself and shuffled out to the car again, still wrapped in the puffy quilt like a bipedal worm.
By the time we reached the emergency room, I had come out of my stupor sufficiently to identify myself and make the correct answers to “How many fingers am I holding up?” and similar neurological pop quizzes I took while lying flat on my back. The ceiling was beige, the cabinets royal blue. Portable X-ray equipment was wheeled in. They X-rayed my neck first, two views, to make sure it wasn’t broken, and then did a skull series, which apparently showed no fractures.
I was allowed to sit up then while a young doctor peered at me eye to eye, our breaths intermingling with a curious intimacy as he checked my corneal reflexes, pupil size, and reaction to light. He might have been thirty, brown curly hair receding from a forehead creased with fine horizontal lines. Under his white jacket, he wore a buff-colored dress shirt and a tie with brown dots. His aftershave lotion smelled of newly cut grass, though his electric mower had missed a couple of hairs just under his chin. I wondered if he realized I was noting his vital signs while he was noting mine. My blood pressure was 110 over 60, my temperature, pulse, and respirations normal. I know because I peeked every time he jotted anything down. In a box at the bottom of the page, he scrawled the words “postconcussional syndrome.” I was happy to realize the accident hadn’t impaired my ability to read upside down. Various forms of first aid were administered and most of them hurt, including a tetanus shot that nearly made me pass out.
“I think we should keep you overnight,” he said. “It doesn’t look like you sustained any major damage, but your head took quite a bump. I’d be happier if we could keep an eye on you for the next twelve hours, at any rate. Anybody you want notified?”
“Not really,” I murmured. I was too battered to protest and too scared to face the outside world anyway. He moved out to the nurses’ station, which I could see through an interior window shuttered for privacy by partially closed rust-red venetian blinds. In the corridor, a sheriff’s deputy had appeared. I could see horizontal slats of him chatting with the young female clerk who pointed over her shoulder to the room where I sat. The other cubicles in the emergency room were empty, the area quiet. The deputy conferred with the doctor, who evidently decided I was fit enough to answer questions about how my car came to be sitting in an irrigation ditch.
The deputy’s name was Richie Windsor, one of those baby-faced cops with an uptilted nose and plump cheeks reddened by sunburn. He had to be a rookie, barely twenty-one, the minimum age for a sheriff’s deputy. His eyes were hazel, his hair light brown and cut in a flattop. He hadn’t been at it long enough to adopt the noncommittal, paranoid expression that most cops assume. I described the incident methodically, sparing no details, while he took notes, interjecting occasional enthusiastic comments in a borrowed Mexican accent. “Whoa!” he would say, or “Get real, kemosabe!” He seemed nearly envious that someone had tried to kill me.
When I finished my recital, he said he’d have the dispatcher broadcast a “be on the lookout” in case the Dodge was still somewhere in the area. We both knew the chances of intercepting the man were slim. If the guy was smart, he’d abandon the vehicle at the first opportunity. As the deputy turned to leave, I found myself snagging impulsively at his uniform sleeve.
“One thing,” I said. “The doctor wants me here overnight. Is there any way we can keep my admission under wraps? This is the only hospital in the area. All the guy has to do is call Patient Information and he’ll know exactly where I am.”
“Good point, amigo. Let me see what I can do,” he said. He tucked his pen away.
Within minutes, the admissions office had sent a young female clerk over with a wheelchair, a clipboard full of forms to be completed, and a patient identification strip in a cloudy plastic band, which she affixed to my wrist with a device that looked like a hole punch.
Carl LaRue and his wife had been sitting patiently in the corridor all this time. They were finally ushered in to see me while last-minute arrangements were being made for a bed. The deputy had apparently cautioned the old couple about the situation.
“Your whereabouts is safe with us,” Carl said. “We won’t say a word.”
His wife patted my hand. “We don’t want you to worry now. You just get some rest.”
“I appreciate everything you’ve done,” I said. “Really. I can’t thank you enough. I’d probably be dead if you hadn’t come along.”
Carl shifted uncomfortably. “Well, now. I don’t know about that. I’m happy to be of help. We got kids of our own and we’d want somebody helping them under similar circumstances.”
His wife tucked her arm in his. “We best get a move on. They’ll want to put you to bed.”
As soon as they departed, I was whisked up to the second floor by freight elevator to a private room, probably on the contagious-disease ward where no visitors were allowed. It was only three in the afternoon and the day looked like it’d be a long one. I didn’t get zip for painkillers because of the head injury, and I wasn’t allowed to sleep lest I slip into some coma from which I might never wake. My vital signs were checked every hour. The meal carts were long gone, but a kindly nurse’s aide found me a cup of muscular cherry Jell-O and a packet of saltines. I pictured the ward clerk filling out a charge slip for twenty-six dollars. I could probably hold my hospital bill down to seven or eight hundred bucks, but only if I didn’t need a Band-Aid or a safety pin. I had insurance, of course, but it offended me to be charged the equivalent of the down payment on a car.
My eye lighted on the telephone. There was a telephone book in the bottom of the nightstand. I looked up the area code for Carson City, Nevada (702 all locations, in case you really want to know), dialed Information, and got the listing for Decker/Dietz Investigations, which I dialed in turn. The phone rang five times. I half-expected a service to pick up or a machine to kick in, but someone picked up abruptly on the sixth ring, sounding brusque and out of sorts. “Yes?”
“May I speak to Robert Dietz?”
“I’m Dietz. What can I do for you?”
“I’m not sure if you remember me,” I said. “My name is Kinsey Millhone. I’m a friend of Lee Galishoff’s and he suggested I get in touch. I called you about a year ago from Santa Teresa. You helped me locate a woman named Sharon Napier . . .”
“Right, right. I remember now. Lee said you might call.”
“Yeah, well it looks like I’m going to need some help. I’m in Brawley, California, at the moment in a hospital bed. Some guy ran me off the road—”
He cut in. “How bad are you hurt?”
“I’m okay, I guess. Cuts and bruises, but no broken bones. They’re just keeping me for observation. The car was totaled, but a passing motorist came along before the guy could finish me off—”
Dietz broke in again. “Where’s Brawley? Refresh my memory.”
“South of the Salton Sea, about ninety minutes east of San Diego.”
“I’ll come down.”
I squinted, unable to repress a note of surprise. “You will?”
“Just tell me how to find you. I have a friend with a plane. He can fly me into San Diego. I’ll rent a car at the airport and be there by midnight.”
“Well, God, that’s great. I mean, I appreciate your efficiency, but tomorrow morning’s fine. They’re probably not going to let me out before nine A.M.”
“You haven’t heard about the judge,” he said flatly.
“The judge?”
“Jarvison. They got him. First name on the list. He was gunned down this morning in the driveway of his house.”
“I thought he had police protection.”
“He did. From what I understand, he was supposed to be sequestered with the other two but he wanted to be at home. His wife just had a baby and he didn’t want her left alone.”
“Where was this, in Carson City?”
“Tahoe, fourteen miles away.”
Jesus, I thought, it must have happened just about the same time the guy here was after me. “How many people did Tyrone Patty hire?”
“More than one from the sound of it.”
“How’s Lee doing? Is he okay?”
“Don’t know. I haven’t talked to him. I’m sure security on him is tight.”
“What about the killer? Did he get away?”
“She. Woman posing as a meter reader in a little truck across the street.”
I could feel outrage flash through me like a fever. “Dietz, I hate this. What the hell is going on? The guy who tried to kill me brought his kid along.” I took a few minutes then to fill in the details. He listened intently, asking questions now and then to clarify a point. When I finished, a short gap in the conversation suggested he had paused to light a cigarette. “You have a gun?” he asked. I could almost smell the smoke drifting through the line.
“In my handbag. A little thirty-two. It’s not much of a weapon, but I can hit where I aim.”
“They let you keep that?” he said with disbelief.
“Hey, sure. Why not? When you check into a hospital, you get quizzed about meds. Nobody thinks to ask about your personal firearms.”
“Who knows you’re there?”
“I’m not sure. It’s a small town. I asked the deputy to keep it quiet, but word gets around. Actually, I was feeling secure until I talked to you.”
“Good. Stay nervous. I’ll get there when I can.”
“How will you find me? They’re not going to let you roam around up here in the dead of night.”
“Don’t worry about it. I got ways,” he said.
“How will I know it’s you and not another one of Tyrone Patty’s little friends?”
“Pick a code word.”
“Dill pickle.”
He laughed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. That just popped into my head.”
“Dill pickle. Around midnight. Be careful with yourself.”
After I hung up, I eased out of bed and crept out to the nurses’ station, clutching my hospital gown shut with one hand behind my back. Three nurses, a ward clerk, and an aide sat behind the counter. All five looked up at me, eyes straying then to a spot just behind me. I turned. The rookie deputy was sitting on a bench against the wall. Sheepishly, he lifted a hand, a blush creeping up his face.
“You caught me. I’m burnt,” he said. “I thought maybe somebody oughta keep an eye on you in case this dude comes back. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Are you kidding? Not at all. I appreciate your concern.”
“This’s my girlfriend, Joy . . .”
The nurse’s aide flashed a smile at me and I was introduced to the other four women in turn. “We’ve alerted security,” one of the nurses said. “If you want, you can get some sleep now.”
“Thanks. I could use some. There’s a private eye named Robert Dietz, who said he’d be here later on. Let me know when he gets here and make sure he’s alone.” I told them the code word and his estimated time of arrival.
“What’s he look like?”
“I don’t know. I never met the man.”
“Don’t worry about it. We’ll take care of it,” Richie said.
I slept until dinnertime, sat up long enough to eat a plate of hospital food concealed under an aluminum hubcap. My vital signs were checked and I slept again until 11:15 that night. At intervals, I was aware of someone taking my pulse, fingers cool as an angel’s pressed against my wrist. By the time I woke, someone had retrieved some of my belongings from the car. The portable typewriter and my duffel were tucked against the wall. I clenched my teeth and slid out of bed. When I bent over to unzip the duffel, my head pounded like a hangover. I pulled out fresh jeans and a turtleneck and laid them on the bed. The drawer in my bedtable held soap, toothbrush, toothpaste, and a small plastic bottle of Lubriderm. I went into the bathroom and brushed my teeth, grateful that all of them were present and accounted for. I took a long, hot bath in a tub with handholds affixed to the wall at every conceivable point. I needed them. Getting in and out of the bathtub only made me aware of multi-hurt places distributed randomly all up and down my bod.
While I dried myself off, I checked myself in the mirror, disheartened by the sight. In addition to the bruise on my forehead, my eyes were now dark along the orbital ridge and streaked with red underneath, perfect for Halloween only six months away. My left knee was purple, my torso sooty-looking with bruises. Combing my hair made me wince, sucking air through my teeth. I moved into the other room and took my time getting dressed, resting between articles of clothing. The process was exhausting, but I plugged on doggedly. Whatever damage I’d sustained in the accident was taking its toll.
I stretched out on the bed again with a glance at the clock. Midnight straight up. I figured Dietz would arrive any minute now. Somehow I assumed he’d want to hit the road right away, which suited me fine. If I’d suffered a concussion, it must have been mild. I wasn’t even sure I’d lost consciousness and I wasn’t aware of any post-trauma amnesia—though, of course, if I’d forgotten something that thoroughly, how would I really know? My head still hurt, but so what? That might go on for weeks and in the meantime, I wanted out. I wanted someone in charge—preferably someone with a big gun and no hesitation about using it. I noticed I was skipping right past the notion of Judge Jarvison.
The next thing I was aware of was the soft pinging of the hospital paging system and the rattle of the breakfast carts out in the corridor. It was morning and some female was addressing me. It took me a minute to remember where I was.
“Miss Millhone? Time to take your temperature . . .” I automatically opened my mouth and she slipped a cold, wet thermometer under my tongue. I could taste lab alcohol that hadn’t been rinsed off properly. She took my blood pressure, holding my right arm against her body while she secured the Velcro cuff. She placed the silver dollar of the stethoscope against the crook of my arm and began to pump the cuff. I opened my eyes. She was not one I’d seen before: a slender Chicana with bright red lipstick on a plump mouth, her long brown hair pulled up in a ponytail. Her eyes were pinned to the gauge as the needle descended counterclockwise. I assumed my blood pressure was normal, as she didn’t gasp aloud. It would help if they’d tell you things about yourself now and then.
I turned my head toward the window and saw a man leaning against the wall, arms folded across his chest. Dietz. Late forties. Five ten, maybe 170, in jeans, cowboy boots, and a tweed sport coat with a blue toothbrush protruding from the breast pocket like a ballpoint pen. He was cleanshaven, his hair medium length and showing gray around the ears. He was watching me with expressionless gray eyes. “I’m Dietz.” Husky voice in the middle range.
With a ripping sound, the aide removed the bloodpressure cuff and made a note in my chart. With my free hand, I took the thermometer out of my mouth. “What time’d you get in?”
“One fifteen. You were out like a light so I let you sleep.”
The aide took the thermometer and studied it with a frown. “You didn’t keep this in long enough.”
“I don’t have a fever. I was in an accident,” I said.
“The charge nurse is gonna fuss at me if I don’t get a temp.”
I tucked the thermometer in the corner of my mouth like a cigarette, talking to Dietz while it bobbled between my lips. “Did you get any sleep?”
“In this place?”
“As soon as the doctor comes, we can get the hell out of here,” I said. “The guy with the kid was in the same motel. I think we ought to go back and see what we can find out from the desk clerk. Maybe we can pick up the license number of his truck.”
“Sir, I’m gonna have to ask you to wait in the hall.”
“They found the truck. I called the county sheriff from a pay phone when I got in. The vehicle was abandoned outside San Bernardino. They’ll go over it for prints, but he’s probably too smart for that.”
“What about the local car lots?”
“We can try it, but I think you’re going to find out the truck’s a dead end.”
The aide was getting restless. “Sir . . .”
He flicked a look at her. I started to object, but Dietz pushed away from the wall at that point. “I’ll go down to the lounge and grab a cigarette,” he said.