Love Lies Bleeding (2 page)

The Troop C headquarters lay on the eastern outskirts of Ithaca, on Dryden Road where it intersected Baker Hill Road. It was a nondescript wooden building, very no-frills. It was just large enough to contain a captain, a lieutenant, a couple of sergeants, a few investigators, and the requisite number of troopers for the area.

He started a case file for the skeleton, trying to figure out how to cope with what he had seen. What he hadn’t been able to tell Ross, what had caused him to go temporarily numb, was what had been in the locket. When he’d opened it, his grandmother and grandfather had stared back at him, and he instantly knew that he was looking at the remains of his mother’s sister, Libbie Morgan. She had disappeared back in 1916, never to be heard from again. As he printed MORGAN in bold capital letters on the folder, he thought,
How the hell am I going to tell Mom about this?

The rest of the afternoon was spent dealing with the repercussions and paperwork from the previous week’s drug bust off Hanshaw Road. That evening, he would have to break the news.

All six stories of Cascadilla Memorial Hospital loomed above him. The building was white brick, constructed in the sixties, and lacking any personality as most buildings from that period did. Not only that, but it was infinitely cheerless in the way only hospitals could be, the antiseptic odors of disinfectant and alcohol overpowering every other smell in the place. Three wings stretched off a main corridor in the E-shaped building. Maude Morgan Conley was in room B-506 in the middle wing.

“Doctor Van Etten to recovery. Doctor Van Etten to recovery. Dr. McFall to X-ray. Dr. McFall to X-ray,” announced the loudspeaker as Frank hurried inside.

Once inside the main entry, Frank rushed past the visitors’ information desk, then the gift shop, chapel, and flower store that sat around the corner from it. The soothing aqua walls were not enough to assuage the nausea and sense of futility he felt whenever he entered. No matter how well you lived your life, how low your cholesterol was, how much you ran, how many salads you ate instead of cheeseburgers, your body would fall apart from something, and a place like this would be your final destination. Frank hated hospitals with a purple passion. In particular, room A-203 of this establishment, in which his father, Robert Conley, had taken his final breaths years ago.

The elevator was crammed full of visitors, including one old man who seemed to have a chronic case of pneumonia or tuberculosis, heaving and hacking and making no attempt to cover the coughs. Frank pressed himself as far into the back of the elevator wall as possible, even though his common sense told him that the germs were attacking him as he stood. He exited fast, since TB man was getting off on six.

His mother’s room was set at the end of another paler aqua hallway, with windows surrounding the small vestibule. Her door was ajar, and she was propped up with several pillows. Plants and get-well cards crowded the surface of her bedside table, their bright colors and printed slogans wishing her the best. A gaudy foil balloon hung at a limp angle, the helium in it ebbing as he imagined her strength must be. Frank’s sister Diana had purchased a decorative throw pillow to add to the sterile white ones from the hospital, and a yellow and pansy purple knitted afghan lay across Maude’s legs. The most recent issue of
Ladies Home Journal
lay open on her lap, but when he walked in, she was gazing out the window toward the parking lot and farther out in the direction of the lake.

“Hi, Mom.” He leaned down to kiss her.

“Hello, Frank,” she said, offering a cheek. The tone of her voice was not disapproving, but he heard reproof in it anyway.

“Why can’t you go to law school like your father did?” she’d always asked. “Or your grandfather? He founded Morgan and LaBarr.” Frank had chosen another path in the law enforcement area, but it had not been enough for her high expectations. The one thing Frank had inherited had been his grandfather’s craving for alcohol. DeWitt Morgan had preferred brandy to Frank’s Jim Beam and Coke, but the dependence was the same.

“Have you seen Shannon?” she asked. “I sent her a birthday card with some money and I haven’t heard anything back yet.”

“I’m sure she’s just been busy. They only finished with finals a week ago. I know she appreciated it. I’ll talk to her about a thank you card.”

“She wouldn’t forget if you were still around.”

“I know. Little late for that.”

“Allison was the best thing that ever happened to you.”

“Yes, Mom, I know.”

Right now, he could at least pretend to be a dutiful son. They’d found the cancer several weeks ago, but they still weren’t sure what her prognosis was. Maude was keeping up a brave front for her children and her grandchildren. Frank, Diana, their brother Seth, and the grandchildren were all spelling each other at the hospital, but he’d caught them between shift changes.

“Did Diana just leave?”

“Yes. Seth is supposed to be here soon. They both work so hard,” she said.

Frank thought of the endless stakeouts he’d worked the previous four months, busting a medium-scale drug op over in Ludlowville, and bit his tongue. It didn’t matter how hard he worked, he wouldn’t measure up. Diana had married well, donated to charity, and attended benefits for various causes. She and her husband had spent a fortune on renovating and preserving the old Douglas home up in Trumansburg. Seth had followed his father and grandfather into law school and owned a successful practice down in Horseheads. Frank often wondered what his mother thought cops did.

Maude still had some of the spark left in her blue eyes, but her shiny black hair had turned cottony white years ago. Diana had been helping her to wash it and keep it styled in spite of her environment. Maude’s gown seemed to dwarf her, and Frank noticed how much weight she had lost.

“How are you feeling, Mom? Are you in pain? Should I call someone?”

“It’s not too bad,” she said, but she winced as she shifted positions. Her face was drawn and haggard-looking. He could tell she was lying.

“Has the nurse been by lately?” He picked up the clipboard at the foot of the bed and reviewed the schedule of visits listed there.

“I’m fine. I don’t want to disturb her. She has so many people to take care of.”

“Do you need anything?”

“Could I have a cup of tea?”

Same old Mom. “I’ll check for you, okay?” He paused for a moment. “Mom, we need to talk.” He grabbed the chair in corner of the room and pulled it next to the bed, sitting down and taking her hand.

“What is it?”

“It’s about your sister. Aunt…Libbie.” He stumbled over the words, hardly having conceptualized his aunt before now. “I think we’ve found her.” He tried to say it in a comforting, gentle tone, but there was no easy way to relate the fact that a girl who had been missing for seventy years had been found at last.

Maude started, turning to him with wide eyes. “What? Libbie? Where is she? Why didn’t you bring her with you? Where has she been all this time?” In her drug-induced state, her first thought was that they had found her sister alive.

He patted her hand. “She’s dead, Mom. Up at Buttermilk Falls. A hiker found her. She’d been buried all this time.”

“Oh,” she said, deflating. “But how do you know it’s her? You could be wrong.”

“She was wearing a locket—with pictures of Grandma and Grandpa Morgan inside. And the clothes were the correct style. I’m pretty sure it’s her.”

“Can you tell how she died?”

He sighed. “We’re checking. But I’m not sure we’ll ever know.”

She lay back on the pillow, defeated, her eyes faraway.

“I need you to tell me about her. I need to know more to be able to figure out what happened to her. You never talk about your sister, and I want to understand why.”

“I can’t…” she whispered, her voice hoarse and ragged. “I just can’t. I’m sorry.” She sat for a moment with tears pooling in her eyes, then grabbed a Kleenex and wiped them away.

“If I was just your son, I might still accept that. But I’m not. I’m in law enforcement. This is a case, and keeping information from me is not helping us to solve it. It’s called ‘obstruction of justice.’”

She pulled her hand loose. “I’m your mother. Please don’t speak to me that way.” She looked at him sadly.

Frank opened his mouth to speak, but Maude continued in a whisper.

“You’ll never understand what it was like having Libbie for a sister.”

“Then tell me, and I can try to,” he said, trying not to lose patience.

She pulled at a loose thread on the thin hospital blanket with single-minded determination.

“I’m not ready to talk about it yet,” she said. “Give me time.”

“Mom, it’s been seventy years, for God’s sake. Whatever’s bothering you, have you ever thought that if you told someone, it might make you feel better?”

“It wouldn’t.”

“How do you know? You’ve been living with this burden for most of your life. Whenever anyone asks you anything, you shut down and start crying so they’ll drop it. Just let it go. Tell me about your sister.”

“No.”

“This is important,” he said, trying to project sternness when all he could accomplish was annoyance. “I’ll let it go today, but we are going to hash this out. You and me. So think long and hard, and then I’ll talk to you about it later.”

“They gave me the news today, Frank,” she said in a feat of diversion.

His breath caught, and he tried to prepare himself for what might be coming.

“It’s terminal. They’ve given me about six months.”

He hung his head, suddenly feeling sick and very powerless.

Frank pulled into a spot outside The Dive Bar and killed the engine. It was a small, nondescript white clapboard building next to the Cayuga Diving Club near Myers Point. Not wanting to drink alone, which he considered the mark of someone out of control, Frank found that the bar filled a need. It was a place to go when he needed a drink and a bit of company, but not the trendy booming bass and lights of the clubs in town catering to the college students. An amateurish hand-painted sign outside jibed with the name, announcing the complete lack of pretense. A row of Harley Davidsons was parked next to the dejected hedge that divided the parking lot from the tattered front lawn and announced the presence of the Cayuga Knights, a local motorcycle club.

The smell of cigarette smoke clobbered him like a sledgehammer the minute he opened the door and stepped inside. The loud click of billiard balls in the corner announced that a game was in progress among the Knights. The head knight, who bore the unfortunate moniker of Stanley, but who insisted on being called “Snake” for obvious reasons, was lining up a two-rail reverse.

Shelly was at the bar as usual, wearing a low-cut peach tank top, black denim mini-skirt, and cropped pixie boots. Shelly was at least twenty years younger than he was, but she had a hot little body, and she liked older men. Frank didn’t argue. She never asked anything of him, and that was more important than any other qualification at this point in his life. He needed something uncomplicated that wouldn’t interfere with his work, which was about all he had left. And even that had lost much of its fascination.

As Shelly topped off a draft, she was gyrating to “Skin Tight” by the Ohio Players, and half the patrons were licking their lips, clearly thinking lecherous thoughts. He had asked her once why she wore such sexy outfits to the bar, since he was worried about her safety.

“Duh. Bigger tips,” she’d told him without a second’s hesitation.

“Hey, Frank,” echoed several voices around the bar.

He raised a hand in greeting to them all and sank onto his favorite stool—the one at the end of the counter facing the windows overlooking the lake. Shelly came and flashed him her million-dollar smile, emphasized with plenty of apricot lip-gloss, then paled for a moment.

“Wow. You look like shit.”

“Thanks.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I’d rather not talk about it right now,” he said, running a hand through his hair.

“Jim and Coke?”

“Yeah, thanks.” He accepted it with a grateful half-smile and let its sweetness and warmth travel through him, numbing the pain and the sadness. He downed it in seconds, then ordered another, which he took a little longer to finish.

He had been nursing drink number four for a while when he sensed Shelly pull up a stool next to him. When he looked up, he noticed that most of the biker patrons had moved on. The lone remaining Knight, Rhino, was named for his nose, which had been broken multiple times. Rhino tended to be very docile. Left with two customers, Shelly slid onto the seat next to Frank and pressed him for information.

“Can I help?”

“Not really,” he said, crunching on a piece of ice.

She brushed a lock of hair off his forehead. “Are you at least ready to talk yet?”

He sighed.

“Guess not.”

“My mother is dying.” He felt like a balloon that had been pierced and abruptly needed to expel what was inside.

“Oh God, Frank, I’m so sorry.” She embraced him, resting his head on her breast in its tank top. “Is there anything I can do?”

“Take me home,” he said, exhaustion oozing out of him. He just wanted to forget for a night.