Priced to Move

“It was really strange.” Her voice can’t hide her exhaustion, or maybe it’s pain I hear. “We were riding along just fine, but then when Mona tried to slow down to make a turn, nothing happened. She couldn’t get that crazy car a’ hers to slow or stop. We were going down this small hill, a bitty thing, you know. It shouldn’t’ve done much to speed us up, but the problem was them brakes. They just wouldn’t grab, so Mona couldn’t get the car to stop.”

I reach for her hand. “I can imagine how scared you must have been.”

“And Mona.” A tear rolls down her pale cheek. “I feel right awful about all this. I’m the one who came up with the idea for that safari today. We should’ve just stayed put. She wouldn’t be so bad off if she’d gone ahead to the studio like she planned to do.”

“How is she?”

“They told me she’s in critical condition.”

“That’s what they told me too.”

“But, Andie? I didn’t need any one a’ them to tell me anything. I couldn’t wake her after we hit that light post. She . . . she hadn’t come to, even when we got here.”

“Hey! You’re the one who always tells me to hang on to my faith. Where’s yours hiding out today?”

She draws a shuddery breath. “You didn’t see her yet, did you?”

“What’s that got to do with God?”

“She looked . . . she looked dead.”

“Don’t think about that, Miss Weeby,” Max says from the doorway. All of a sudden I realize how quietly he walks. Hmm . . .

Oblivious to my suspicions, he goes on. “I just checked with the nurses, and they say she’s in critical but stable condition. She hit her head, so they have her sedated. They want to make sure there’s no hemorrhage around the brain.”

“Oh, that sounds awful. Poor Miss Mona.” I reach a hand out to my aunt. “Let’s pray.”

We bow our heads, and, as we’ve done so many times, we turn to our Lord, lift Miss Mona’s condition to him, pray for his blessing upon her, for guidance and wisdom for her doctors. As always, Aunt Weeby ends by saying, “Your will, Father, yours and not ours. Amen.”

The deep, masculine “amen” catches me by surprise. “You were praying too?”

“What?” He looks uncomfortable and defensive. “Are you the resident expert on that too? Or can mere mortals reach out to God for the sake of a nice lady who’s badly hurt?”

That really zings me. “Sorry, Max. I keep forgetting how stupid it is to assume stuff about people.”

“I have gone to church since I was a kid.”

“That’s not the same thing—”

“Miz Weeby!” Chief Clark tumbles through the door and comes to the side of the bed, leans over, and my aunt wraps her arms around his neck. “How’re you doing? You did give us one awful big scare.”

“I’m fine.” Her voice cracks just a bit. “But Mona’s not. They still have her out . . . and she’s still in critical condition.”

I glance at the doorway, and sure enough, his shadow’s hanging there. Who is that guy?

But before I get a chance to ask, the chief says, “Now, you know these doctor types really know a lot. I’m sure they won’t let anything go wrong with her.”

“It’s in God’s hands,” she murmurs with more resignation than hope.

Not good.

Then she adds, “What brings you here, Donald? I already told that other officer all he wanted to know about the crash. There’s not a whole lot I remember. It all happened too fast.”

He drags off his hat. “I saw all that in the witness report, so you don’t need to go over it again and again. You’re pretty clear on what happened, and there’s no need to doubt you.”

Wish he’d go that easy on me.

“Then what’d you come over here for? It isn’t the most cheery place to spend a day, you know.”

“I do know, and that’s what makes coming here worse. I . . . I have something to show you.”

He reaches into his uniform pocket and pulls out a ziplock baggie with a folded piece of paper inside. “The investigating guys gave me this. I thought you should see it, and maybe you might could give me an idea who’s done this.”

“I’ll give it a try.” She lifts her head just a little bit. “Let me tell you, Donald, I can’t wait until you get your hands on the little creep what did this to us.”

The chief pulls out a pair of latex gloves from his other pocket, slips them on, and then opens the bag. He unfolds the paper so he can hold it out for Aunt Weeby to read.

Shadowman steps into the room, silent as always.

Aunt Weeby reads, and then turns, if possible, even paler. “Oh no! This is dreadful. Sick! Sick, sick, sick. Why would someone do such a thing? And who? Who would do it? What are you going to do about it, Donald?”

“I’m trying, Miz Weeby. I’m trying as fast and hard and everything I can.”

I come up to his side. “Could I read it, please?”