Ed Gorman: Bad Moon Rising

At the time I had no idea what she hit me with. Nor did I have time to think about it. My skull felt as if it had been cleaved in half. A headache that seemed to instantly shut down my entire body left me unable to defend myself when she yanked me backward and struck me with even more force a second time. I have no idea what happened next.

In high school Alan Nevins was inevitably called “Four Eyes” because of his thick glasses. We were friends because we read science fiction. I doubled up on Gold Medal novels of course, but since all the books and magazines we wanted could be found at the same drugstore-specialists in cherry Cokes-we always ran into each other. He was a relentless smart-ass. He was also now my doctor. He’d taken care, good care, of my father in his last two years. He was Wendy’s doctor as well. I was sitting on a bed in a large room filled with three gurneys and cabinets on every wall filled with various drugs and implements. Alan was sewing nine stitches into the back of my head and obviously enjoying the hell out of me wincing.

“He’s too cute to die, doctor. Is he going to make it?” Wendy said.

“Yes, he is pretty cute, now that you mention it. But it’s going to be touch and go,” the good doctor said as he finished his work.

“Very funny, you two.”

I hadn’t planned on coming back to the hospital in which my father died for a long time. Years, hopefully. But here I was, as much confused as hurt. I had a ghost memory of being put in the flower power van out at the commune and taken here. The memory extended to clutching a phone in my hand and telling Mike Potter about the Mainwaring girl and where he could find her.

“Do you think an injury like this could change his personality, doctor?”

“I’m afraid not. He’d have to be hit on the head a lot harder than he was tonight.”

“I think I could arrange that.”

I couldn’t help it. I laughed, and when I laughed my skull cracked right down the middle again. I pressed my hands to my temples, as if I could crush the pain.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Sam,” Wendy said, taking my hand. “You should’ve seen your face just then. No more jokes.”

Then there were three of them. Mike Potter, in his police tans, had joined them. He was a short, wide, fierce-looking man who needed to shave three times a day. The mild, reasonable voice emanating from that baleful face always surprised people and put them at their ease, sometimes at their peril.

“How you doing, Sam?”

“I guess Doc thinks I’ll live.”

“I know a lot of people who won’t want to hear that.”

“Another comedian.”

He smiled. Of all Cliffie’s gendarmes, Potter was the most streetable one. His years as a Kansas City homicide detective had given him a professional manner not usually seen on the streets of Black River Falls. He looked at Wendy and Alan. “I’d like five minutes alone with Sam here if you wouldn’t mind.”

“No problem,” Alan said.

“If you’re going to beat him, could we stay and watch?”

“I won’t beat him right away, Wendy. But when you hear him start screaming, feel free to come back and watch.”

“This is like comedy night on Ed Sullivan,” I said.

Wendy very carefully placed a tiny kiss on my forehead and then disappeared with Alan. Potter went over to a coffeepot I hadn’t noticed and poured himself a cup. He waggled an empty one at me. I started to shake my head but it hurt too much so I just said “No.”

He pulled up a chair next to my bed and sat down. His military-tan shirt was sweated through in many places. “I think those hippies set a record for contaminating a crime scene in that stall where the girl was.”

“You noticed that, huh?”

“They really that stupid?”

“Not stupid. Just-they were curious is all.”

He set his coffee cup on the floor, then yanked a package of Viceroys from his shirt pocket. I did the same with my own brand. His Zippo got both of us smoking.

“In case you’re interested, the Powers girl had a thick steel rod stuffed into the back of her jeans. That’s what she hit you with. She’s a tough little cookie. Sort of mannish.”

“I take it her brother escaped.”

“That’s what hitting you was all about. Give him time to get away.”

“And nobody at the commune went after him?”

“They’re not what you call upstanding citizens.”

Most times I would have defended them. Right now I wasn’t feeling gracious.

“You know this Neil Cameron?”

“Yeah. I defended him a few times in court.”

“The boys at the station tell me he’s a real bastard.”

“He can be.”

“Enough of a bastard to kill Vanessa Mainwaring?”

“I can’t say.”

“Can’t or won’t? He’s your client.”

“Can’t. I haven’t been asked to defend him in this case, anyway. And besides, I don’t think you’ve got enough to arrest him. All you can do is bring him in for questioning.”

“The chief thinks we’ve got our man.”

“The chief always thinks that.”

“He wants to see you, by the way. Tomorrow morning at your convenience. Which means as early as possible.” He picked up his coffee. It was cooler now and he drank it down. He got up and carried the cup over to the sink. He came back and said, “You and Paul Mainwaring are friends, I’m told.”

“Not really friends, friendly I guess you’d say. We agree on a lot of things politically and so we wind up at meetings sitting together and talking.”

“Gee, the chief says you two are Communists.”

“Does he still carry that photo of Joe McCarthy in his billfold?”

Potter smiled. “I stay away from politics. I hate them all. Anyway, you go see the chief first thing tomorrow, all right?”

“Sure.”

“Sarah Powers is in our jail now and she’ll stay there until somebody bails her out. I doubt the hippies can raise the money but maybe they’ll surprise us.” He went to the door and said, “Glad you weren’t hurt, Sam. But those kids were bound to get in trouble. I suppose a lot of people have told you that.”

“Just a couple thousand.” To his back, I said, “Thanks, Mike.”

He opened the door and stood aside as Wendy and Alan came back in. She watched him out and then closed the door. “He’s so nice.”

“He’s so nice as long as he thinks you haven’t done anything wrong. Then he’s not so nice at all.”

They came over to my bed.

With his acne gone and his style of glasses more fashionable, Alan had grown well into his medical whites. He had a red Corvette and a number of girlfriends. The only thing he lacked was hair. Two years from a bald pate for sure. He put his hand on my shoulder. “You’re going to have your headache for at least twenty-four hours, maybe longer. I’ve given you some pills that will help. I’d say right now let’s have Wendy take you home and make you comfortable.”

“You did such a great job on Sam, Alan.”

“I inflicted all the pain I could on him, Wendy. I did the best I could.”

Wendy was of course delighted. She giggled.

“He’s all yours, Wendy. Good luck. Sam, I gave her instructions on what to watch for and how to take care of you. She’s got my card. I wrote my home number on the back of it. If anything changes, call me. Now I’ve got some really sick patients to see.”

Just as the door closed, Wendy said, “I’ve never been in charge of anybody before. This’ll be fun. I’ll be back in a minute. While I’m gone, don’t do anything dumb, Sam.”

“Such as?”

“Such as trying to walk. Alan told me you’d be unsteady on your feet.”

“Yes, boss.”

Her lovely red lips bloomed into a smile. “I like the sound of that.”