Chapter 37

Farrell and the officers aren’t in the emergency waiting room for five minutes before a woman in a bloodied lab coat comes looking for whomever is with the gentleman who was just brought in.

Markham waves. A pen and a metal clipboard are shoved in Farrell’s hands.

“We need you to sign this.”

Farrell sees the words on the paper, but she’s too spent to understand what she’s reading.

“It’s a consent form for surgery. We need to stop the bleeding. Don’t you want to sign it?”

The signature emerges in a wavy scrawl worthy of a ninety-year-old in bad shape.

The woman hurries to the double doors across the room, speaking in flight. “Wow, he knew where to cut to get the best flow. What is he, a doctor?”

Farrell’s in no mood to shout the answer.

At that moment, a man sporting scrubs and a nearly impenetrable foreign accent asks her if Effen is allergic to any drugs. She doesn’t think so. The man wants to know what he’s been using.

Markham intervenes. “That’s what we’re trying to find out.”

Farrell bites. “He doesn’t ‘use’ anything. Look, Todd, you can go back to that house and search until the cow jumps over the moon. You’re not going to find anything. Believe me. I’ve known him for three years, and I’ve been with him twenty-four hours a day for the past few days. There is nothing in that house.”

“He's using something; he's got needle marks up his forearm. Maybe he doesn’t keep it in the house.”

In a weeping huff, Farrell crashes into a chair. “Oh, go back and get your search warrant. Have the run of the house while nobody’s there.” She’s too tired and stressed to fight nature. The tears pour.

The foreigner, whose origin is utterly indeterminable, taps her on the shoulder. “Don’t cry. We’ll sew him up and give him some blood. He’ll be okay. Understand me? Good. Not everybody does.” The man waits until he’s on the other side of the room before shouting, “He knew where to cut good. What is he, a doctor?”

Farrell slaps her head as the man recedes behind the doors.

Markham proposes getting something hot for everyone to drink and goes in search of the coffeeshop.

Wilton pulls a chair close to Farrell, who’s graduated to blowing her nose in the handkerchief that one of Brandon’s staff gave her at Gustie’s funeral. “You know, I am seriously tempted to tell the next person who asks that Mr. Hume taxiderms people for a living.”

Farrell is beyond humoring. “He’s not an addict, Mike. He wouldn’t even take painkillers when he needed them.”

“Yeah, but was that before or after he lost his wife and kids? I don’t want to sound like a pessimist, but there’s no way on earth that he can be the same person you knew. Not now. Not after what’s happened to his family.”

“Why can’t you stop speculating?”

“Well, maybe it’s a good thing we were speculating. Who knows what would have happened if we didn’t go back there? You know what I mean? He could be dead on the street. Or someone, maybe you, could have found his body in the morning. You don’t know. It really was better this way.”

Farrell fingers the handkerchief, too aware that people on the far side of the room are watching and listening. She resents their curiosity. She also understands it. She came into the emergency room accompanied by two police officers. They’ve been speaking about a crime. Blood steaks their darkly colored outerwear like shadows of bare branches on the earth.

Wilton lowers his voice. “Look, Farrell, I remember you from when you worked for the newspaper. You know we’re human. We know that not everyone who runs afoul of the law is a hard-core miscreant. There are extenuating circumstances, as any lawyer can tell you. If we nab Mr. Hume for something he shouldn’t have, it’s for his own good. Sure, the judge will give him the sentence required by law. But I’ll bet my badge that the honorable won’t turn a blind eye to what’s been going on in his life. He’ll suspend the sentence and put him on probation with a condition to get help. It’s too bad he had to learn he needed help the hard way.”

Farrell’s stare is fearless. “Mike, you sound like you want me to do something.”

Wilton shrugs. “I don’t deny it would help everyone if you talked to him. Find out what the stuff is. Where he got it from. He might be able to work out a nice deal with the prosecutor. And, as I said, I’m sure the judge will show mercy. He’s a tough cookie, but he’s not without compassion. I know. I’ve seen him in action So have you.”

It sounds reasonable. Farrell says she’ll do what she can. She can’t imagine life without Effen, but at the moment she feels sorry for herself. She considers how awful it is that she’s walked into such a monstrous problem. She has a vision of getting a cab, retrieving her car from the Fair Mantle Village parking lot and driving home to Mercer County, never to look back.

She’s not the only person aware of her unhappy position. When Effen comes to his senses and sees her curled up on the chair beside his bed, he remembers where he is and how he got there. He has no doubt that Farrell is burdened with trouble that shouldn’t be hers. He expects her to leave him. He wouldn’t blame her if she does.

A little groan escapes his hazy disgust. The noise rouses Farrell into unfolding herself and going to his side. Sleepy, she rests her arms on the railing. She’s got dark circles under her eyes. Her eyes themselves … DaVinci eyes: big, dark and lashless. Wasn’t she wearing makeup the last time he saw her? How long ago was that? Yesterday? Two days ago? Last week?

“Hey, Owner, ça va?”

Owner? Matt and Ben call him The Owner, not Farrell. And since when did she start throwing French at him?

A truth drifts through him: She’s looking at me as though she doesn’t know me, and she doesn’t like what she sees.

“If you have a problem, forget it; nobody wants to be bothered with you.” Isn’t that what she said over dinner that night? She should go away and spare herself his misery.

Effen hears a brief, metallic noise close by. A strange male voice says, “Here, let me.” There’s a second sound as the railing comes down. Soft, light fingers brush tears from his eyelashes. Farrell creaks, “France, don’t.” She kisses his hair, his eyes, his cheek. She’s crying, too. The sound eases him back down to sleep.



Wilton drives Farrell to The House.

Her suitcases are at the back door. She can’t tell if they were put there by Elizabeth or by the peripatetic Bruton. Wilton carries them up to the flat, then asks Farrell to examine their contents to make sure nothing’s missing. Everything’s there, even her flutes and yesterday’s socks and underpinnings.

Wilton whistles low. “Wow, that lady couldn’t do you the courtesy of a laundry? She really wanted you out.”

Farrell thanks him for his help, then, in a move she thinks he’s been waiting for, offers to give him a tour of the flat and The House. He declines but says he won’t mind waiting while she looks around. She finds nothing. Wilton asks her to call him if she finds anything anywhere in The House. She promises she will.

Once Wilton leaves, she cries herself to sleep on the sleigh bed, too wasted to notice the specks of dried blood on the otherwise dignified, white flannel sheets.