| |
Days creep by following his luck with the merchant at the grocery store. No one’s called asking for prizes. His faith in the scheme falters. He reminds himself cereal doesn’t sell out the day it’s stocked. Parents buy boxes and take them home, hiding them in dark cabinets out of reach of greedy children.
It’s only a matter of time. He needs to be patient. The reassurance does absolutely nothing to quiet the anxiety building inside him.
When the phone finally rings, it isn’t the burner he’s dubbed the AA phone in honor of the cereal he’s using as bait. The ruckus comes from his regular cell. When he answers, the now-familiar message from the prison down south plays in his ear. He hits the button to accept the charges before the automated woman finishes speaking. The line clicks as it connects, but it’s strangely quiet on the other side.
“Dad?”
Heavy breathing leaks through the line. Ollie clears his throat a couple times before speaking. “Hen, I’ve got pneumonia.”
Peter sits up straight, frustration melting into concern for the weak, raspy sound in his father’s voice. “Have you seen a doctor?”
“They’re talking about sending me to the hospital,” his father wheezes. “The staff wants to avoid the security risk. But the on-duty nurse is afraid I won’t make it if they leave me here.”
“When did it start? You seemed fine at the video store.” Peter tries to remember how long ago that’s been. The snow has long since melted, replaced by the familiar pounding of Portland’s winter rain. The days blur together. It’s been at least a week since Peter last saw his father. Possibly two.
“A couple days after our outing, I came down with some crazy flu. Hit me hard, even though I got the shot.” A coughing fit overwhelms him. The hacking lasts a long time. When it’s finally over, Oliver’s voice is barely a whisper. “I thought I was getting better, but two days ago I woke up and felt like I had a bowling ball tied to my chest. It got worse from there.”
“Is there something I can do to help?” Peter scrambles toward the closet to get his coat.
“The best thing you can do for me is keep working that project of yours. I’ll have someone let you know when they’ve got me checked in. After I’m settled, you can come tell me how things are going.” The old man’s next cough racks him so hard, it resembles crying.
“I’ll call Dougy. He’ll get you out of there.” Peter starts to tell his father goodbye, but he can tell Ollie can’t hear over his lungs convulsing. He hangs up, looks through his phone, and selects Inspector Douglas’s number. Soon the line rings in his ear.
“Peter!” Dougy’s voice is loud. Almost cheerful. “It’s rare I see your number on the caller ID. What’s happening?”
“Dad needs to get to a hospital. I don’t know if the corrections people have told you, but they think he’s got pneumonia.” Peter leaves the closet door open, his jacket disheveled on its hangar. He drops to the sofa.
“Dammit. Hang on.” Peter hears a rustling through the phone. Dougy returns, suddenly breathing like he’s rushed across the house. “Do you think he’s faking it?”
Holding a hand over his forehead to stave off the stress headache threatening to bloom, Peter answers. “The sound of his lungs attempting to exit through his eyeballs is convincing. I want you to make a call and push them to let him go.”
“I’m sure they’ve got it under control.” All excitement has drained from the inspector’s voice. He sounds distracted, as if he’s looking something up even as he says, “They’ve got some of the best prison medics in the state.”
“Just call them!” A burst of anger races through Peter. He leans back and takes deep breaths, clearing his mind. Maybe he can pull this from another angle to make Dougy do what he wants. “We need him alive to keep closing cold cases. He’s the only one who knows where the victims are. If you lose him, you’ll spend your whole retirement waiting for people to stumble across all the other bodies by accident.”
Inspector Douglas grunts. “I never thought I’d see the day you had to talk me into working these cases.”
“Me either. And yet, here we are.”
“I’ll get Mac on it,” the inspector finally concedes. “She’s more diplomatic than I am. The folks down there like her better.”
“Thank you, Inspector.”
“You’re welcome, Henry. I’ll call you soon.” Inspector Douglas hangs up, leaving Peter cradling his phone against his ear, listening to the silence.