door. A very young woman, maybe twenty, was perched in it, her arms full of a swaddled bundle. An older woman who had to be her mother was with her. The mother was herding a cart loaded down with pink flower arrangements, a pile of cards that were also predominantly pink, and some gift boxes. There was a pile of pamphlets, too. The top one was titled "So You're Taking Your Baby Home."
The new grandmother beamed at me, and she and my nurse began chatting. The young woman in the wheelchair looked over at me. "Look what I got," she said happily. "Man, the last time I was in the hospital I left my appendix. Now I get to leave with a baby."
"You're lucky," I said. "Congratulations. What have you named her?"
"We named her Sparkle," she said. "Isn't that cute? No one will ever forget her."
That was the absolute truth. "It's unforgettable," I agreed.
"There's Josh," the grandmother said and wheeled her daughter and granddaughter through the automatic door.
"Wasn't that the cutest little old girl?" my nurse asked. "The first grandbaby in that family." Since the grandmother had been in her late thirties, at the most, I was relieved to hear it.
I wondered if my lightning-fried body could produce a child.
Then it was my turn to be wheeled to the cut-down curb, and Tolliver leaped from the car to hurry around to help me. After I'd carefully eased into the car, he bent over to fasten my seat belt and then rounded the car again to get in the driver's seat.
The nurse leaned down to make sure I was sitting straight with all my bits in so she could close the door. "Good luck," she said, smiling. "Hope we don't see you back here anytime soon."
I smiled back. I was sure the other departing patient had felt sorry for me, but I felt much better now that I was in our familiar car and Tolliver was with me. I had prescriptions and doctor's instructions, and I was free to leave. That was a great feeling.
We turned right out of the hospital parking lot, and I didn't see any traffic out of the ordinary. No reporters. "Back to the motel, or can we leave?" I asked.
"We're getting your prescriptions filled and then we're leaving town," Tolliver said. "What more could they want from us?"
We stopped at the first pharmacy we saw. It was a couple of blocks from the hospital, and it was a locally owned business. Inside it was a cheerful mixture of smells: candy, medicine, scented candles, potpourri, nickel gum machines. You could get stationery, a picture frame, a Whitman's Sampler, a heating pad, a magazine, paper party plates, or an alarm clock. And at a high counter in the very back, you could actually get your prescriptions filled. There were two plastic chairs arranged in front of that counter, and the young man behind it was moving with such a languid air that I was sure Tolliver and I would have time to find out how comfortable they were.
My only exertion had been getting out of the car and walking into the pharmacy, so it was unpleasant to find how relieved I was to see those plastic chairs. I sat in one while Tolliver surrendered the prescription slips to the young man, whose white coat looked as if it had been bleached and starched—or maybe it was the first one he'd ever worn. I tried to read the date on the framed certificate displayed on the wall behind him, but I couldn't quite manage the small print at that distance.
The young pharmacist was certainly conscientious. "Ma'am, you understand you have to take these with food," he said, holding up a brown plastic pill container. "And these have to be taken twice a day. If you have any of these symptoms listed here on this sheet, you need to call a doctor." After we'd discussed that for a moment, Tolliver asked where we paid, and the pharmacist pointed to the register at the front of the store. I had to get up to follow Tolliver, and when we got to the checkout clerk, we had to wait for another customer to get her change and have her chat. Then we had to reveal to the clerk that our insurance didn't cover a pharmacy bill and that we were paying cash for the entire amount. She seemed surprised but pleased.
We'd actually stepped outside the store to get back in the car when the sheriff found us. We got so close to being out of Doraville.
"I'm sorry," she said. "We need you again."
It wasn't snowing at the moment, but it was still gray everywhere. I looked up into Tolliver's face, which seemed as pale as the snow.
"What do you need?" I asked, which was probably stupid.
"It's possible there are more," she said.
WE had to renegotiate. The consortium hadn't written me a check for the first successful episode, and I didn't work for free. And the reporters were everywhere. I don't work in front of cameras, not if I can help it.
Since the parking lot at the back of the police station was protected by a high fence topped with razor wire, we got in the back door of the police station without anyone the wiser—anyone among the media, that is. Everyone on duty that wasn't out at the burial site made an opportunity to walk past Sheriff Rockwell's office to have a peek at me. With my arm in a cast and a little bandage on my head, I was something to look at, all right. Tolliver sat at my good side so he could hold my right hand.
"You need to be in bed," he said. "I don't know what we're going to do about housing if we stay. I gave up our motel room, and I'm sure it's gone by now."
I shook my head silently. I was trying to decide if I was up to any more bodies or not. There was always the fact that it was the way I made our living; but there was also the fact that I felt like hell.
"Who do you think the bodies are?" I asked the sheriff. "I found all the locals that were missing."
"We went over the missing persons reports for the past five years," Rockwell said. "We found two more, somewhat over the age range of the boys in the Davey homesite."
"The what?"
"That house and garage and yard used to belong to Don Davey and his family. Don was a widower in his eighties. I barely remember him. He died about twelve years ago, and the house has been empty since. The relative who inherited lives in Oregon. She's never come back over here to look at the property. She hasn't made any move at all to dispose of it. She's about eighty herself and very indifferent to the idea of doing anything at all with the land."
"Did anyone offer to buy it before?"
Rockwell looked surprised. "No, she didn't mention anything like that."
"So where is this other place?"
"Inside an old barn. Dirt floor. Hasn't been used in ten years or more, but the owners just left it to fall down."
"Why do you think there might be more bodies there, specifically?"
"It's actually on the property of a mental health counselor named Tom Almand, who never comes this far back on the property. With all the to-do at the Davey place, the next-door neighbor, a deputy named Rob Tidmarsh, thought he'd check it out because it meets the same criteria as the Davey place: secluded, not in use, easy to dig. The barn floor's mostly dirt. Lo and behold, Rob found some disturbed spots on the floor."
"Have you checked it out yourself? "
"Not yet. We thought you could point us in the right direction."
"I don't think so. If the spots are that easy to make out, just sink a rod in and see if smell comes up. Or go for broke and dig a little. The bones won't be that deep, if the surface disturbance is so easy to see. It'll be a lot cheaper, and I can get out of Doraville."
"They want you. Twyla Cotton said they had money left, since you found the boys in one day." Sheriff Rockwell gave me a look I couldn't read. "You don't want the publicity? The press is all over this, as you found last night."
"I don't want any more to do with this."
"That's not my call," she said, with some apparently genuine regret.
I looked down at my lap. I was so sleepy, I was worried I'd drift off while I sat there in the sheriff's office. "No," I said. "I won't do it."
Tolliver rose right along with me, his face expressionless. The sheriff was staring at us as if she couldn't believe what she was hearing. "You have to," she said.
"Why?"
"Because we're telling you to. It's what you can do."
"I've given you alternatives. I want to leave."
"Then I'll arrest you."
"On what grounds?"
"Obstructing an investigation. Something. It won't be hard."
"So you're trying to blackmail me into staying? What kind of law enforcement officer are you?"
"One who wants these murders solved."
"Then arrest me," I said recklessly. "I won't do it."
"You're not strong enough to go into jail," Tolliver said, his voice quiet. I leaned against him, fighting a feeling of terrible weariness. His arms went around me, and I rested my head against his chest. I had a few seconds' peace before I made my brain begin working again.
He was right. With a cracked arm and a head that hadn't healed, I wouldn't have a good time even in a small-town jail like the one in Doraville. And if the town shared a jail with other nearby towns, as was probably the case, I might fare even worse. So I'd have to do what "they" wanted me to, and I might as well bite the bullet and get it done. But who were "they"? Did Sheriff Rockwell mean the state police?
I had to pull myself away from Tolliver. I was accepting his support under false pretenses, and sooner or later I'd have to admit it.
"You need to eat," he said, and I thudded back down to reality.
"Yes," I said. I did need something to eat, and it would help if we had a place to stay afterwards. I'd need to rest, whether or not the result was a fresh crop of bodies.
"All right then," I said. "I'm going to go eat something, and then we'll meet you."
"Don't think you can get out of town without us seeing you," she said.
"I really don't like you," I
