“I was on the police force.”
“Was, as in past tense?” she asks, standing as Mick stands too.
“That’s correct, I’m no longer active.”
“It’s their loss,” she says, smiling and extends her hand. “I’m sorry about the circumstances, but it’s a pleasure meeting you.”
And with that, she turns around and retraces the path on the well-worn floor until double doors shush closed behind her retreating white lab coat.
Mick’s tired step triggers sensors hidden under the massive, black rubber mat and the automatic sliding doors of the emergency room glide open. As he steps between them, he’s welcomed by a blast of fresh night air and a gravelly smoker’s voice. “Hey, buddy.”
Mick turns to see Skip, the lead paramedic on Cynthia’s ride to the hospital, also a poker-night friend. His head is shrouded in cigarette smoke.
“Even though it stopped raining, I figured you might want a ride back home.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it.”
The sole of Skip’s shoe pushes him away from the wall he’d been leaning against while waiting for Mick, and the two men fall into step as they head for the ambulance.
They ride in companionable silence most of the way. Arriving at the massive wrought-iron entry gate—Welcome to Pines & Quill—Mick thanks Skip for the ride. “I’d prefer to walk the rest of the way to clear my head before answering what’s sure to be a boatload of questions when I get to the main house.”
Watching the taillights, extinguished by the dark distance, Mick opens the gate that separates hearth and home from the rest of the world. Before starting down the long road, he stands still and draws in the peaceful, after-storm calm.
A trio of deer wander silently as ghosts on a berm behind rain-drenched trees.
When he looks up, he sees a sliced moon through leafy branches.
Inhaling deeply, he breathes in the night air appreciatively and contemplates. In all of the busyness, a person can forget that there are times and places so wondrously still.
With that thought buoying his mind, Mick walks home through the night-dark woods.
“Oh, my God!” Emma’s hands fly to her panic-stricken face. “The tea kettle. We were waiting for it to boil when Mick got the call from Niall and we bolted,” she says over her shoulder, already halfway out the door. “I’ll be right back.”
She rushes down the ramp, arms pumping the pushrims on her chair as she barrels toward Austen cottage, grateful for the glow of the subtle walk lights along the way. The rhythmic slap of rubber wheels against the rain-soaked path is hard-pressed to keep pace with the pounding of Emma’s heart.
Fueled by hate, Jason transitions his heels over the edge of the horizontal surface. Without a rope, my only chance of reaching the bottom in one piece is to stay upright.
With his back against the sheer rock wall, he uses his heels for leverage, pulling closer, then lowers his legs over the side until his calves are against the cliff face.
He knows that gravity is going to work against him as he slides, gaining speed, to the bottom of the precipice. And with that knowledge, injured arm tucked tightly to the front of his torso, he shoves off.
It feels like someone’s tightening a vice-grip on my head and holding a hot iron to my thigh, Cynthia thinks. Through barely slit eyelids, she scans the dim room illuminated by a soft light over a door with a small window. Her gaze takes in a raised bedside table playing host to a short stack of individually wrapped clear plastic cups, a yellow pitcher, and a matching, kidney-shaped emesis basin. Next to the bed, two upholstered chairs stand sentinel, and a partially opened door reveals a handicap rail attached to the wall next to a toilet.
Her continued inspection drifts down, taking in her hands—fingers and wrists absent of jewelry—resting on top of a sterile white sheet, and a thin green blanket folded neatly over her legs. From an IV pole, a clear bag of fluid hangs half empty with a tube running to the inside of her right arm. A call button attached to the metal railing around the bed confirms that she’s in a hospital room.
“Where’s Emma?” Libby asks when she and Dr. Sutton enter the kitchen.
“She’ll be right back,” Fran says. “She remembered they left the tea kettle on in their hurry to get here.” Shifting her gaze from Libby’s tired face to Dr. Sutton’s, Fran asks, “Is Hemingway going to be okay?”
The vet nods. “Yes. With Libby’s help we got him cleaned and stitched up, and now he’s sleeping comfortably until the anesthesia wears off. He’ll be very sore for a while, but right as rain in a few weeks.”
Dr. Sutton turns to Libby. “Do you still have the Elizabethan collar from Hemingway’s last adventure?”
“Yes,” Libby confirms.
“When he wakes up, you’ll need to put it on him, so he’ll leave the dressings alone.”
“What’s an Elizabethan collar?” Fran asks, her brows scrunched.
Niall answers. “It looks like a big plastic funnel from his neck, outward, like a giant halo around his face. We called him ‘Bucket Head’ the last time he wore it. It kept him from getting at ointment he would have licked off otherwise.”
Turning to the vet, Niall says, “Hey, Doc, can I get you some coffee?”
“I thought you’d never ask. And are those biscuits I smell?”
“They sure are, let me get you a plate.”
“Libby,” Officer Chris says, patting the empty seat next to her, “I know you’re tired, but Herb and I need to ask you a few questions to get your perspective on the situation. We’ve already taken statements from Niall and Fran. We’ll try to keep it brief.”
“Okay. But first, is there any word from Mick?” she asks, looking at Niall.
Setting a frothy cup in front of both Libby and Herb, Niall says, “Mick called a while ago to let us know they’re keeping Cynthia overnight for observation. He’s catching a ride
