Chapter Sixty

Keller wheels Rick to the car, where the awkward business of getting from wheelchair to front seat will be enacted. Pax is close by to lend moral support and Francesca is bringing up the rear with a bagful of his belongings. There is always something noxious about personal items brought home from the hospital, and she’ll be tossing everything into the washer as soon as they get home.

The little pouch that holds his crossword puzzle books and pencils, and the precious trove of little white pills, isn’t attached to the wheelchair, and Rick scans Keller’s face to see if there is any suspicion; if, in giving his chair a good cleaning, Keller has found the twenty-one little pills safely resting at the bottom of that cloth pouch, hiding like fish beneath the reef of a crossword puzzle book. Keller betrays no hint that he’s found out Rick’s secret. But there is a tension in his jaw, something that makes him look like a man with something on his mind.

Keller wedges him into the front seat and Francesca leans in to kiss him, as if she’s staying behind, not climbing into the backseat with the dog. Her lips are warm despite the frigid air, as if she’s held on to some of the warmth of the indoors. But she doesn’t look at him.

*   *   *

It’s on his bed, the little pouch. The crossword puzzle book is there, and a newly sharpened pencil. He can’t help himself: He grabs it almost as soon as Keller wheels him into his room. He dips his fingertips in the pouch and closes his eyes. They’re there. He’ll count them later, just to make sure, but it feels right. He doesn’t even care if Keller is watching, curious.

“Missed your crosswords so much?”

“It’s pretty boring in there.”

“I’d have brought them. Why didn’t you ask?”

“Hey, no problem. I just thought of an answer I missed; I can complete one of the hard ones.”

Keller still has that tense look.

“What’s on your mind, Nicholson?” Get it out in the open, deal with the consequences.

“I need a little time.”

“You’re entitled. You never take a day off. I mean, for things other than funerals.”

“No, just the afternoon. I have some stuff I have to do.”

“Go. We’re fine.” Relief blunts any curiosity. If any man needs some downtime, surely Keller does.

“Okay. Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me. It’s not like I’m not going to dock your paycheck.” Rick smiles, broad and real. But Keller doesn’t and that tense look migrates across his face.

“Tell Francesca I’ll be back by dinnertime.”

“Fine.”

Keller stands in the widened doorway. “She’s a good wife. Don’t you ever forget it.”

Rick nods, perplexed and a tiny bit annoyed. Keller has stepped a little over the line. Pushed himself a tiny bit too much. Of course Francesca is a good wife. What’s his point? Rick slides his hand into the pouch and begins to count his pills. What if Keller found the morphine? Would he have told Francesca? Or would he just have put them back in the vial, which he’ll keep out of both Rick’s and Pax’s reach? Honor among thieves? Honor between veterans of the same killing fields? She’s a good wife. Are they teammates or are they rivals?