“What’s the problem?” I said.
“No problem. Your CAT scan revealed signs of the previous hematoma. It had us confused for a few moments. We have it sorted out now.”
“It’s not funny. I almost died.”
“I know. I saw the two burr holes in your skull that they drilled to drain the fluid and alleviate the pressure. Fortunately, there’s nothing like that this time.”
“Am I good to go?”
“No.”
“No?”
“I want to keep you overnight for observation.”
“I feel good, I really do. Besides, I have things to do.”
“Whatever they are, they can wait. I want you quiet for at least twenty-four hours. The docs say it’s okay for you to be observed at home provided there’s someone available to check on you periodically. If you sleep, you may need to be awakened every two hours to make sure you can be roused to normal consciousness.”
“I understand.”
“Do you have any friends?”
Proudly, I answered yes. Unfortunately, they were hundreds of miles away and could not help me.
“Do you have any friends in Libbie that can look out for you?” Nancy said.
“The only person I know here is Tracie Blake.”
“She’s not the nurse I would have chosen, but if you want to call her…”
“Do you know Tracie?”
“Everyone knows Tracie.”
“I take it you’re not friends.”
“We used to be, until she started sleeping with my husband.”
She smiled when she said that, a surprising thing to do, I thought.
“I remember you,” I said. “I remember your smile.”
“You do?”
“Nancy Gustafson.”
“Yes.”
“You’re the chief’s wife. I saw your photograph in his office. You were gorgeous.”
The smile on her face stiffened just enough to tell me what a numbskull I was—I blamed it on the concussion.
“That didn’t come out right,” I said.
Still, there was little resemblance to the young woman in the photograph. The older Nancy’s hair was short now and streaked with gray, her smooth face had become lined with worry, her eyes looked tired, and she had gained at least forty pounds.
“The photograph was taken a dozen years ago,” Nancy said. “I asked him to get rid of it.”
“Why?”
Nancy stepped back and held her hands wide. She spun in a slow circle.
“I’m never going to be a size six again,” she said. “Or a size eight. Or a size ten. Maybe if I could work at it all day for half a year, but who has time? When I’m not here, I’m doing housework or cooking or shopping or—look, I just don’t have the time or energy to be a model.”
When she said “model,” she meant Tracie.
“I apologize, Nancy. I didn’t mean—”
“It’s okay, McKenzie.”
It wasn’t okay, and I would have said so except a nurse interrupted us.
“The chief is here,” she said.
“Send him in,” Nancy said.
“I want to see Saranne if she’s still around,” I said.
A moment later, Saranne came through the door, followed closely by Chief Gustafson. She surprised me with a hug.
“Are you okay?” she said.
“I am very much okay, thanks to you.”
“Me?”
“You’re my hero.”
“Shuddup.”
“You are. If you hadn’t looked out for me, who knows what would have happened.”
“What did happen?” the chief said.
I was about to answer; only Saranne beat me to it, telling the story quickly and furiously, without a thought to editing her remarks to her advantage. The chief listened carefully. He had a notebook open and a pen poised to write, yet I noticed he didn’t take any notes.
“The two men who followed you into the alley,” the chief said. “Can you identify them?”
“Yeah,” Saranne said. “Only they’re not the ones who hit McKenzie.”
“They’re not?” I said.
“No, they were across the street at the time. The man who hit you, he was wearing a black ski mask and carrying a wooden baseball bat.”
“Wooden, not aluminum?” I said.
“What difference does it make?” the chief asked.
“Wooden bats are harder to come by these days. Unless they’re playing pro ball, most people use aluminum.”
“It was wooden,” Saranne said. “That’s all I can tell you. I didn’t get a very good look at him before he started running. He wasn’t tall. About my height. That’s really all I can say.”
“He was right-handed,” I said.
“How do you know?” the chief asked.
I touched the back of the right side of my head. “He was right-handed,” I said again.
“Any idea who might have wanted to club you, McKenzie?”
My first thought had been the two men in the alley. My second was Church. Saranne’s statement eliminated both possibilities.
“No one comes to mind,” I said.
“If it’s not a revenge thing, it has to be something else,” the chief said. “Think it might be connected to the questions you’ve been asking about Rush?”
