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Authors: Robin Hathaway

BOOK: Sleight of Hand
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I decided to go back to the motel before heading for the hospital. I craved a shower and a change of clothes. I cursed the slowness of my bicycle. Of all days not to have my Honda. The ride seemed interminable. As I pulled into the lot, Paul came out of the office and waved me over. “We were worried about you.”
“Why is that?”
“Maggie was expecting to go to the farmers' mar—”
“Oh god.” I struck my head. “I forgot.”
“An emergency, right?”
“Right. Big-time,” I said truthfully.
“An accident?”
“No …” I paused, still feeling obligated to keep Max and his injury a secret. The less attention he attracted right now, the better. “Cardiac arrest,” I said, lying.
“Anybody I know?”
“No. An out-of-towner. But he's going to be okay,” I said. “Gotta run. Tell Maggie I'm sorry.” I ran up the steps to my room.
As I passed the massive mirror over my bureau (the only motel furnishing I hadn't replaced), I was shocked by my appearance. The operation had taken more out of me than I'd realized. And the
encounter with Paul had reminded me that I was still locked in my glass box, separated from my friends by this transparent but impenetrable barrier created by the secret I had to keep. Max's threats still hung over me, and I couldn't trust him completely until I knew he had nothing to do with that body down the road.
Brrring.
Phone.
Let it ring. But it might be a patient. It might be Max. I picked up.
“Hey!” Tom.
“Hey.”
“Free tonight?”
“Sorry. I'm beat. It's been a rough day.” I repeated the out-of-towner story.
“How about tomorrow? We have to make up that archery lesson.”
“Oh, right. Tomorrow would be good.” I had to keep up some appearance of normalcy during the next two weeks. I couldn't hold Max's hand the whole time. (Poor choice of words!)
“What time?”
“Uh … around three o'clock?”
“Great. At my place. See you then.”
I hung up and casually tucked my newly acquired revolver into my underwear drawer.
When I pulled up to the farmhouse that evening, the house was dark except for one square of light near the side door—the parlor window. Lolly drew me into the dim hallway. “Daddy's upset,” she whispered.
“What's the matter?” I hurried into the parlor, visualizing my patient tossing and turning with a raging fever, his hand swollen to twice its size.
He was lying pale and still on the sofa, eyes closed.
My god, is he dead?
I wondered.
I grabbed his good wrist and felt for a pulse. It was normal. His eyelids flew open. His startled expression was replaced by relief before his sullen mask fell into place. “What's the matter?” His tone was surly.
“That's what I want to know. Lolly told me you were upset.”
He cast his daughter a grim look.
“You
were
upset, Daddy,” she said.
“I just remembered I have a job due tomorrow,” he said. “Three hundred programs for a school play.”
“One color?”
“Yeah. Black on orange. An autumn theme. But how am I going
to do it?” He glared at his bandaged hand. “I can farm the rest of the jobs out, but there's no time—”
“I'll take care of it.”
He stared.
“My father's a printer, remember? I worked with him. I can run a one-color job on a Multi blindfolded.”
“I wouldn't try that.”
Was there a glimmer of humor? Probably my imagination. “Sit up,” I ordered. “I have to take off the sling and check your dressing.”
A trace of blood had oozed through the gauze, but nothing to worry about. I touched his bound fingers gently. “Does that hurt?”
He shook his head. If there had been any inflammation, his fingers would have been tender and he would have flinched. So far, so good. I readjusted his arm in the sling.
“Are you having much pain?”
“No.”
It was hard to tell if he was being macho or telling the truth.
Men!
“Did you have anything to eat?”
“He said he wasn't hungry,” Lolly broke in.
“I think you should sleep in your own bed tonight,” I said. “Not on this thing.” I cast a disparaging glance at the stiff Victorian sofa. “It's important that you get plenty of rest.”
“Okay.”
My god, he was docile. What had happened? “And if you want to wash, cover your hand and arm up to the elbow with something waterproof—like a plastic bag, The dressing must be kept dry during the recovery period.”
“Which is?”
“About two weeks,” I said, dispensing my newfound knowledge.
He grimaced.
“I'll be over early in the morning to change the dressing—and run that print job.”
He stared at me hard. “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why are you doing all this? You have my gun. I'm helpless. You can leave us anytime.”
I shrugged. “It's for Lolly. She was a big help to me today.”
Lolly beamed. “It's true, Daddy.”
“One good turn deserves another.” I began packing up my equipment. “Do you need anything? Food? Supplies? I could bring them tomorrow.”
“Lolly can take care of that.” His tone was sharp again.
I was relieved by the return of his gruff manner. The very submissive patient is often a very sick patient. I turned to Lolly. “You remember those pills I gave you in the kitchen?”
She looked blank.
Uh-oh. Short-term memory might not be one of Lolly's strong points, I realized. “I'll show them to you again before I go.” I scribbled my cell number on a prescription blank and handed it to Max. “Call me, no matter how late, if the pain increases, your hand begins to throb, or if you think you have a fever. Anything at all.”
He took the slip of paper with his left hand and stuffed it in his shirt pocket.
I went with Lolly to the kitchen and found the two Percocet tablets on the table where I'd left them. I filled a glass with water and carried the glass and the tablets back to the parlor. “These are for pain. Don't be afraid to take them. Do you want me to help you with the stairs?”
“No.”
“Okay. Okay.” Overkill, I thought. Back off, Jo. Time to leave.
 
 
I was going out the door when Lolly said, “Will the police be back today?”
I froze on the threshold.
“They came this afternoon—to talk to Daddy.”
So
that's
what upset him, I thought. Since my throat was paralyzed, she went on. “They said they were asking all the neighbors about the body down the road. They wanted to know if Daddy knew anything about it.”
“Did he?” It came out before I could think.
Lolly frowned, trying to remember.
“Did your dad know anything about the body?” I asked in a quieter tone.
She shook her head.
A wave of relief washed over me—until I realized this didn't prove anything. What else would Max say?
“If they come again, call me,” I told her. “Promise?”
She nodded, her expression solemn.
“Don't worry.” I gave her a quick hug. I wanted to tell her everything was going to be all right, but I couldn't be sure of that.
As I trolled down the darkening road, mulling over this latest development, I spied two small figures walking along the side. As I drew nearer, I recognized them. Bobby and Becca, two young friends of mine. I shut off my motor and coasted up to them.
“Hi, Jo!” Becca's face lighted up.
Bobby, more reserved, gave me a cautious smile.
“What are you two guys up to? Isn't it a bit late to be out on a school night?”
“We've done our homework,” Bobby said hastily.
Becca, the older—and cooler—of the two, didn't deign to answer my question. “We're planning something,” she said enigmatically.
“Oh?”
“We're planning a magic show,” Bobby said, letting the cat out of the bag.
“We're deciding what tricks to do. We have a book. See?” He held up a tattered paperback bristling with colored markers. I could just read the title in the twilight.
Magic Tricks: Fool Your Family and Friends.
“Sounds good. Where are you going to hold this show? In a barn?”
“We're performing in a talent show at the junior high school auditorium in November—just a few weeks from now,” Becca said haughtily. (No barns for her.) “But you better get your ticket soon. They're selling fast,” she warned.
“Wow! Am I impressed. When did you guys learn all this?”
“We've been practicing for weeks,” Bobby said proudly. “Ever since Becca found this book. She's the magician; I'm just her helper.”
“The helper's very important,” Becca said kindly. “I couldn't do it without you.”
Bobby shuffled his feet. But, recovering quickly, he announced, “We're doing card tricks and juggling, and even pulling a rabbit out of a hat!”
The headlights of a passing car illuminated their faces and I caught a glimpse of their excited expressions. “Well, I'll be in the front row. You can count on that,” I said.
They both grinned broadly. Even Becca forgot her cool.
I throttled down and took off with a wave. A brief encounter with people outside my glass box—normal people, with simple pleasures—did wonders for me. I slept like a rock.
It was a perfect fall day. The blue sky curved smoothly overhead like the inside of a china cup, the soybean plants were the color of melted cheddar, and a brisk breeze blew wood smoke from a neighboring farm. It's rare when the weather fits your mood, but this day it was in perfect sync. It was a good kite-flying day—and I felt as high as a kite.
Why did I feel so good? I tried to analyze it. First off, I hadn't received any calls from my patient during the night, so I assumed he was okay. And, to my surprise, I realized I was looking forward to running this print job. I hadn't run a press for years, but I wasn't worried. Some things, like riding a bicycle or ice skating, you never forget. If the job went okay, I'd call Dad and brag a bit.
I decided to take a peek in the barn before I went to see my patient. When I stepped into the old building, the aroma of wood smoke was replaced by the more pungent smell of ink, ink solvent, and oily machinery. Beneath all that lay the more delicate scent of newly cut paper. Funny how scents evoke memories more strongly than even sights and sounds. There was a neurological reason for this, but it escaped me. I closed my eyes, inhaled deeply, and could
see my dad's print shop down to the smallest detail: the battered presses, folding machine, and paper cutter, the tall type cabinet with its small square drawers full of lead type and old cuts, harking back to his letterpress days. My favorites were a little girl in a Queen Anne dress, a horse and carriage, and a soldier in an old-fashioned uniform.
Dad's shop was also a museum—full of memorabilia that he had collected over the years, some of it dating back to the days of Benjamin Franklin. A Chandler Price platen press gathered dust in one corner. Other corners hid cartons of wood type for posters, discarded rollers, composing sticks, chases, and piles of furniture—those bits of wood you put around the type to make it fit snugly in the chase before printing.
Max's equipment was a little more up-to-date. He must have entered the trade when photo offset was in full swing. But even he was behind the times. I didn't see any computers or a camera. Maybe they were in the house. He could set his text by computer, and if he had an offset camera, he could make negatives of the pages, burn them onto the plates, and print them on the Multi. Even now, it wasn't cost-efficient to print long runs on a computer printer. For runs of over a hundred, the printing press was still the way to go.
Time to stop reminiscing and check on my patient. As I approached the house, Lolly came out to greet me. She was wearing a different housedress. This one bore pink primroses instead of blue butterflies. I wondered where she found such large sizes in Bayfield. There was no Wal-Mart nearby. “Nice dress,” I said.
She blushed and ran her hand down the front of her skirt.
“How's your dad?”
“Good. He wants to see you.”
I followed her into the house and was surprised when she headed toward the parlor instead of the stairs. “Didn't he sleep in his bed?”
She turned and spoke in a whisper, “Yes, but he came down early. He doesn't like it up there.”
I lowered my voice. “Why not?”
“Ever since Mommy's been gone, he doesn't like to sleep upstairs.”
“I see. Where does he sleep?”
“In the den.”
“Where's that?”
She pointed down the hall. “That's where the TV is.”
“Why doesn't he stay in there, then—instead of that musty old parlor?”
“He doesn't want you to see it.”
“Why not?” I was exasperated.
“'Cause it's a mess. And he won't let me clean it.” She shook her head disapprovingly.
“Well, maybe this is your chance to clean it, while I'm examining him. If you work fast.” I winked.
She grinned, happy to be part of a conspiracy, and lumbered off.
While I examined my patient, I heard the clank of bucket and mop. Max heard it, too.
“That girl's always cleaning,” he grumbled.
“That's good, isn't it?” I said quickly. “It helps you and gives her something to do.”
He didn't answer.
I put my stethoscope and other equipment away and changed gears. “Now, about this print job …”
“There's nothing to it. The plates are already burned. All you have to do is put them on the press, ink up, and run the job. The paper's already cut in the cabinet. Do you want me to—”
“No way!” I shuddered. All I needed was to have some ink or ink solvent find its way under his dressing. “If I have any questions, I'll come ask you,” I said.
 
 
I found the plates easily. Just two—one for the outside cover, one for the inside. Like he'd said, it was a simple job. I was hooking the first plate onto the drum when I saw the top roller—still loose and bloodstained. The horror of the past twenty-four hours rushed back to me. Was that all it had been?
I scrubbed the roller clean with solvent and replaced the three screws I'd removed the day before. I had trouble finding the ink can, but I finally discovered it in a cabinet in a dark corner of the barn. I inked up the press and ran a few test sheets on scrap paper. They looked okay, but to be on the safe side, I decided to take one in to Max for his approval.
I was whistling as I came in the door. Lolly was nowhere to be seen. I glanced in the parlor. The sofa was empty. The pillow and afghan had fallen to the floor. I went back to the hall and stood listening. I could hear the murmur of voices at the other end of the hall. TV voices. I followed the sound and came to a door that was half-open. I knocked. “Max?”
The TV went dead.
“May I come in?”
He grunted.
I stepped into a comfortable space with a sofa, a soft chair, and a TV console at one end, a desk with a computer at the other. The room was immaculate. Lolly had done her work well. Max was lying on the sofa.
“I wanted you to check this out.” I handed him the sheet I'd just printed.
He studied it carefully under the lamp. “A little too light here.” He pointed to a line of type at the bottom.
It
was
a little too light, but for a school program, I would have let it go. Max was a perfectionist. “I'll take care of it. What were you watching?”
“The Morning Show.”
“Any news?”
“Not a thing.”
“Where's Lolly?”
“I sent her to her room.”
“What for?”
“She disobeyed me. She had no business cleaning this room.”
“Oh … that's my fault … but”—I paused, looking around—“she did a nice job.”
“That's not the point. I told her to leave this room alone. This is my turf. She has no business fooling around in here.”
“Isn't that a little harsh? She was only trying to help.”
He turned on me. “Listen. When it comes to Lolly, you mind your own business. What do you know about retarded kids?”
“She's not retarded. She has learning disabilities. Actually, she's quite capable—”
“‘Quite capable'! Do you know what her IQ is?”
“I can guess. About eighty or ninety. But that's irrelevant.”
“Mind your own business. She has to be disciplined. I've never laid a hand on her. And I never will. But we have certain rules and she has to abide by them. The counselor told me that.”
He'd consulted a counselor? Good for him. “You're absolutely right. I shouldn't have interfered. I'll go do this job now.”
As I turned to leave, Lolly came in.
“What are you doing here?” Her father looked at his watch. “Your hour's not up yet.”
“I heard the lady, and—”
“My name's Jo.”
“Go back to your room,” Max barked.
“But …” She was on the verge of tears.
“Now,” he said firmly.
Eyes brimming, she turned to me.
“I'm sorry, Lolly. I didn't know the rules. Do what your father says.”
She went.
 
 
When I had printed the programs and stacked them in a box, I went in to ask Max about delivery.
“Lolly will take care of that.”
“But does she have a license?”
“She's done it for years. She knows the roads. There's no traffic. And she's careful.”
“What if something happened, like a deer—”
“What if the sky fell, Doctor? Everything's a risk.” His tone was bitter.
I let it go. “How's your hand?”
“Okay.”
“Any pain?”
“Not much.”
“Take those Percocets. I have plenty. Don't be macho.”
He didn't answer.
“Well, I'll be going.”
“When will you be back?”
Did I detect a hint of anxiety? “Tonight. Around six o'clock.”
He looked relieved. Then he blurted, “Want to have a bite with us, then?”
My face must have been a picture, because it was the first time I'd heard him laugh. It was a nice sound—low and rumbling.
“Er …” I stuttered, “but who's going to cook?”
“Cook, schmook. Lolly can fix something.”
“Well … okay. Can I bring dessert?”
He shook his head. Then his face lighted up. “How about a bottle of wine?”
Had I heard right? “White or red?”
“Since we don't know what Lolly's serving, maybe you better get both.”
I gave him a thumbs-up.

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