Dead Man's Song

“You’re not a very nice man,” Crow said.

Weinstock grinned as he put fresh dressings on each wound and secured them with white tape, then he dragged over a chair and sat down. Peering at the items on Crow’s bedside table, he selected an apple from a huge fruit basket that had just arrived from the Pine Deep Business Association and bit into it. Crow readjusted his clothes with some effort. “It’s all right, Doc, I can do it all by myself.”

“Okay,” Weinstock said, not having moved a muscle.

Val said, “I called Mark just before you got here. He said that you were planning on keeping Connie another couple of days. Is she okay?”

Weinstock shrugged. “Physically she’s just about fine, but psychologically—well…” He held his hand up and waggled it side to side.

“Mark’s not much better,” Crow said, and Val shot him a look. “Hey, sweetie, tell me I’m wrong. I’ve tried talking to him half a dozen times, and he just blows me off. That or he takes offense at anything I say. Thinks I’m blaming him for getting nailed by Ruger.”

“He’s ashamed,” Val said, and Weinstock nodded agreement. “Dad was old and Mark was starting to consider himself the man of the family. I know it’s juvenile, but in a lot of ways Mark’s just a big kid, all his business acumen notwithstanding. He was never a physical person, even when we were little. Never liked roughhousing with the rest of us. Considered himself too cerebral for that sort of thing. Then when Ruger came along, he was overwhelmed by the man. We all were. He never had a chance against him.”

“Few would,” Weinstock said.

“Crow did.”

“Hey, I had an edge,” Crow said and made a karate-chopping motion with his hands. “I got the kung-fu grip.”

“It doesn’t matter how many black belts you have, honey,” Val said, unsmiling. “Mark is measuring what he was unable to do against what you were able to do, and he doesn’t like how that makes him feel. So he’s taking it out on himself, and everyone around him.”

Weinstock nodded. “He’s clearly taking it out on Connie, too. Blaming her for nearly getting raped.”

“Which is pretty stupid—” Crow began, but Val cut him off.

“No it isn’t. Sad, but not stupid. Mark’s frustrated and angry—I can sympathize. You think I don’t blame myself for what happened to Daddy? And don’t you dare tell me that’s stupid, too, Malcolm Crow, or I’ll toss you out of this window.”

Crow mimed zipping his mouth shut.

“I’ve known guys like Mark,” Weinstock said. “Both in college and in business. Guys who either come from money or who have made themselves into very successful businessmen, like my Uncle Stanley. When you get powerful enough in business, when people jump because you tell them to—not because they’re physically afraid of you but because it’s your name on their paycheck and they’re living paycheck to paycheck—then you start equating that kind of power with physical prowess. The hype about ‘captains of industry’ and ‘boardroom lions’ is easy to swallow, and easy to equate with actually being a tough, powerful person. Then along comes a Karl Ruger who’s right out of the jungle and suddenly it’s all about real physical power—the power to hurt, to kill—and then all the illusions are just gone.” He snapped his fingers. “Mark believed the hype that he was a corporate tough guy, and maybe in the boardroom he is formidable, but down on the level of the predators he’s just somebody’s lunch. Now who does he have to measure himself against? Malcolm Crow, who is a short half-step away from village idiot…”

“Gee, thanks, Doc.”

“We’re talking Mark’s perception. You own a small shop in town—Mark owns half a dozen businesses and has interests in, what, ten more?”

“Over thirty more,” Val corrected. “Plus he runs the financial aid department of the college and has oversight on scholarships.”

“Right,” said Weinstock. “That’s power, as far his worldview goes. He has power over companies that make your little shop look like a street-corner pretzel stand. So, measuring himself against you on a daily basis he’s the alpha and you’re way in the back of the pack. Then what happens? Karl Ruger breaks in and roughs everyone up. Does what he pleases, touches what’s not his to touch, proves to Mark that anything he wants is his for the taking. Mark suddenly sees that no amount of corporate muscle is going to mean a thing…and when Ruger goes after Connie, there is nothing Mark could do to stop him.”

“In fairness, Saul, he was tied up!”

“You think that matters? Do you really think that Mark hasn’t thought of what would have happened if he’d been untied when Ruger tried to rape Connie?”

Crow looked at his fingernails.

Val said, “Ruger would have beaten him up again, maybe crippled him, he would still have raped Connie, and would then have killed both of them.”

“Right,” Weinstock said emphatically. “He’s probably mad at Val because she, at least, escaped from him out in the fields, and then was able to come back and attack Ruger in such a way as to save Connie.”

“He’d have killed me if Crow hadn’t gotten there. He was strangling me outside. I couldn’t fight him any more than Mark could.”

“Yeah, but Mark didn’t see that. He was still inside tied up, and you were outside. By the time he’d been freed Crow had shown up and had done what Mark could never have done—he fought and defeated Ruger. Mark, being tied up, could not even so much as hold his wife to comfort her. He had to just lie there, helpless. Essentially impotent. And Connie—she shares the same kind of warped perceptions of the world as her husband. She saw her husband fail to protect her. That she wasn’t actually raped doesn’t much matter, because she knows— she knows—that Ruger would have done it and Mark would not have been able to stop him. Imagine that rattling around in your head.”

“No White Knight anymore,” Val agreed, nodding.

“Great,” Crow said glumly.

Weinstock sighed and rubbed his eyes. “I’m keeping Connie in so my counseling staff can tag-team on her and try to break through at least the initial layers of the gunk that’s formed over her perception of herself and of her husband.”

Val looked skeptical. “You think you can do that in a couple of days?”

“Sadly, no. I think Connie’s going to need a lot of therapy for a long time. As for Mark? In a way he’s lucky he had some teeth knocked out because it gives me a tenuous medical reason for not kicking him loose. Between us, though, I’m keeping him in for ‘observation’ mainly because I’m hoping the therapists will help him realize that this was beyond his control—and that its okay because some things are beyond our control. All in the hopes that he and Connie will reconnect in a way that will rebond them and start some mutual healing.”

“That’s a lot to expect,” Crow said. “You might have to knock a few more teeth out.”

“Also, to send him home now, without Connie, would mean that he would have no choice but to interact with you two. I don’t know if he can handle it.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Val said. “We’re family.

Weinstock looked at Crow. “What about you, sport? You up for being there for Mark and Connie?”

Crow reached over and took Val’s hand, lifted it to his lips, and kissed the engagement ring he had given her. “Like she said…they’re family.”

Weinstock cleared his throat, finished his apple, and walked into the adjoining bathroom to wash his hands. When he came out he pulled his chair over closer to Val, his face composed. “Your turn, missy.” Val had a bandage wrapped around her head and a thick gauze pad covering her right eye. Weinstock removed the wrapping and examined the bruising. He shined a light in her eye and asked her to follow it as he moved it around. “Hmm,” he said. “Some good news for a change. The eye is fine, no loss of motor function, pupils dilate correctly, visual acuity appears to be unimpaired, tear ducts seem to be functioning normally. As you know, there is a hairline crack of the orbit but that’s not as bad as it could have been. What did he hit you with, anyway?”

“Just his hand,” she said.

Weinstock whistled.

“You wouldn’t believe how strong that son of a bitch was,” Crow said.

“Overall,” Weinstock said, “I’d say that you’ll be fine and with no lasting ill effects. Headaches for a while, of