Дэвид Балдаччи - The Guilty

“It has to tie in to what happened all those years ago. The kids in the shack. Henry Barksdale. Clancy.”

“And maybe this Jane Smith,” said Robie.

“It would be great if we could either positively ID her as Laura or eliminate her as being Laura.”

“And find out why Emmitt was her guardian and living under an alias.”

“Do you think Henry Barksdale is still alive?”

“He certainly could be. He’s my dad’s age.”

“Unless someone killed him, too.”

“Or he’s the one who’s been killing people.”

“What would be his motive?”

“He had a deal with Clancy that if it came out could mean the ruin of maybe the only thing he had left: his good name. So he killed Clancy. He found out Clancy might have told the Chisum girls. Or they found out about him and approached him to blackmail him. Remember Emma said Jane knew a big secret. And that she was going to meet someone about important people in town. She might have been referring to the Barksdales, though they didn’t live in Cantrell anymore. She could have told Sara. So he killed them.”

“And his son, Emmitt?”

“He knew what his father had done and had to die.”

Reel said, “I guess it’s possible but there are a lot of holes in that theory, including the cutoff penis. And it’s not like we’re trained detectives, Robie. We’re about as amateur as Driscoll when it comes down to it.”

“But we’re trained to obsess about the details and see what others don’t.”

“Well, all I see right now is a whole lot of fog.”

“And we have a killer out there who has nothing but a clear sight line.”

Reel looked at him and said, “So I wonder, who’s going to die next?”

Robie and Reel returned to the Willows, where they found Little Bill Faulconer waiting for them on the porch.

Robie said, “Everything okay?”

Little Bill shook his head and Robie could see his reddened eyes and puffy face.

“Is it your dad?”

Little Bill nodded and wiped his eyes. “He passed on this mornin’. Momma found him out in the Airstream.”

“I’m really sorry, Little Bill,” said Robie.

Reel put a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “It’s hard, I know.”

Little Bill said, “He was only forty-one years old. Damn young to die.”

“Too young,” agreed Robie.

“Funeral’s goin’ to be on Thursday if y’all want’a come.”

“We’ll be there,” said Robie. “Do you and your mom need anything?”

Little Bill shook his head. “We doin’ okay. I mean, we knew it was comin’, but still.”

“Yeah,” said Robie quietly.

Little Bill got in his old, battered car and drove off.

Robie watched him, the anger building.

Reel looked at him. “You okay?”

“I got somewhere to go.”

“You want me to come?”

“No, I’ve got this one.”

Thirty minutes later Robie pulled in front of Dr. Holloway’s office.

He marched right past the nurse/receptionist, who scrambled after him, protesting his intrusion.

Holloway was in his office going over some paperwork when Robie barged in.

He looked up at Robie and his nurse behind him.

She said, “He doesn’t have an appointment, Doctor. I tried to stop him from comin’ in here.”

Holloway said, “It’s all right, Gladys, I’ll see him.”

Robie closed the door behind him and stood in front of the doctor.

Holloway eyed the sling. “How’s the arm?”

“You heard?” asked Robie.

“About what?”

“About Billy Faulconer! He’s dead.”

“Yes, I did hear. Angie Faulconer phoned me.”

Robie looked a bit taken aback by this. “Angie called you?”

“Yes, she did. I was his doctor after all. Would you like to have a seat?”

“No, I’ll stand,” Robie said angrily.

“All right. Now, you seem to have an issue with my treatment of Mr. Faulconer. Is that right?”

“Yes, I do.”

Holloway nodded. “That’s why I asked for Mrs. Faulconer’s permission to share with you details of her husband’s diagnosis and treatment. HIPPA regulations do not allow me, without that permission, to discuss these types of things with outside parties.”

“I know that,” said Robie curtly. “But she said it was okay to talk to me about Billy’s condition and treatment?”

“Yes, she did. Please sit down, Mr. Robie. This might take a few minutes.”

Robie drew up a chair and sat.

Holloway said, “I know you’re from Cantrell and thus you understand well the history of our state, which has certainly had more than its share of, shall we say, misfortune.”

Robie said nothing.

Holloway steepled his hands. “My father, Mr. Robie, was also a doctor. And a good one. He was competent and professional and his bedside manner was very reassurin’.” He paused. “If you were white, that is. Now if you were black, he was none of those things, principally because he refused to provide medical care to those folks. And he would refer to them in the most repugnant terms you could imagine.”

“So he was a racist?”

“Absolutely. To the extreme. Not so uncommon in men of his generation from the Deep South. He would have been ninety-four this year if he had lived. I was the youngest of seven children. And the only one to follow in my father’s footsteps and become a doctor. Half my siblings took after my father’s views on race, and the other half marched resolutely into the twentieth and twenty-first century. I would count myself among the latter.”

“Okay,” said Robie impatiently. “But what about Billy?”

“When Mr. Faulconer came to me I did a thorough examination, which included X-rays, sophisticated blood testing, and other analyses as part of my diagnostic protocols. I may be a small-town doctor who does a little bit of everythin’, but I received an excellent medical education and was even an organ transplant surgeon early on in my career. I had dealt with many cancer cases, some hopeless, others treatable, over the course of my practice.

“But out of an abundance of caution I sent my findings on Mr. Faulconer to a good friend and professional colleague of mine who’s the chair of the Radiation Oncology Department at Ole Miss Medical Center. He’s a world-renowned authority in the field. He confirmed my diagnosis of stage IV non-small cell lung cancer that had metastasized irreversibly into other major organs, including Mr. Faulconer’s brain and liver, and also his bones. At that stage there are some treatment options, but no realistic possibility of a cure. This particular cancer was virulently aggressive and options were limited.

“Nevertheless, we explored the various options, includin’ radiation, chemotherapy cocktails, and a combination of both. I even looked into some experimental trials that were goin’ on in different states, but unfortunately, Mr. Faulconer, for various reasons, did not meet the test criteria. In any event treatment would have been physically arduous and, at best, would have bought him only a few more months of life, and hardly at a high quality. I discussed this at length with the Faulconers, and they ultimately made the decision to forgo any type of treatment. The decision was made to make him as comfortable and pain free as possible until the end came.”

“But Billy told me all he was taking was oxygen!”

“Billy did not understand many of the things that I explained to him. He was not educated in medical matters, and his brain had already been impacted by the cancer. His short-term memory was very poor and his grasp of details lackin’.”

“He remembered our championship football game in great detail,” interjected Robie.

“I’m not surprised by that. I said his short-term memory was impacted. But memories from long ago might very well be crystal clear. When the end draws near the mind reaches out for... some comfort. Some happiness. I suppose it makes it bearable.”