Читать книгу Dangerous Conditions - Jenna Kernan - Страница 13

The state police had given Logan the terrible job of notifying Ursula Sullivan of her husband’s death. The man in charge, Detective Albritton, could not have been clearer that he did not want or need Logan’s help.

Logan had stayed with Mrs. Sullivan until her younger sister arrived and then headed to the office, leaving the two women to collect Ursula’s kids and tell them the terrible news. Logan covered the phones while the state police took care of securing the scene and began their investigation of the hit-and-run. They told him not to give out any information except that there had been a traffic fatality. But most folks calling already knew who and where and how.

No one knew who had hit Dr. Sullivan and left him in the muddy jeep track to bleed out.

And no one asked why. Except him. Why did such a good man have to leave his family?

There was a chiming sound like a child repeatedly hitting the metal panels of one of those rainbow-hued xylophones. His brain played tricks on him. Sound was the worst. The doctors explained that his hearing was perfect but the place where the sound was supposed to be sorted into useful categories was damaged. So he often couldn’t distinguish between a siren and a ringing phone.

He could tell the direction, and that helped. After that he just had to make his best guess. The office phone was easy as it had a flashing red light. His cell phone was more challenging. All the rings and dings and chirps sounded the same, so he didn’t know if he was answering a call, text or message.

He kept waiting to be what he was or what he thought he had been. His doctors said that wasn’t going to happen. There was no going back. Forward was the only option and finding what his doctors called “a new normal.”

But being the village mascot was demoralizing. He lifted his phone, saw nothing on the lock screen and then tried the office phone, which was flashing again.

“Hello. Constable’s office. This is Constable Lynch speaking.”

“Logan, what happened out there on Turax Hollow Road?”

Voices were another challenge. He could no longer distinguish male from female or familiar from stranger. It annoyed people, especially his father.

“There was an accident—” The caller cut him off.

“I know that part. Is Dr. Sullivan dead?”

“The names of those involved won’t be released until after the families are notified.”

“I’m your family, Logan. This is your brother, Connor, who is also village councilman. So tell me what happened.”

“Oh, sorry, Connor.” His problem caused some people to think he was no longer very bright, his brother included. He just wished he could get back to old normal.

“Okay. You’re sorry. Now, what happened?”

Connor was a village official, so he gave him the info. “Dr. Edward Sullivan was struck by a vehicle and died at the scene. Hit-and-run. That’s all I know.”

“Idiots,” muttered Connor, then to Logan, “Who is handling the investigation?”

Not me, thought Logan. “The state police, and I just saw the county sheriff’s vehicle drive past the window. So they’re all out there.” The light of the emergency vehicles drew his gaze from the desktop and the doodles on his blotter that looked like one of Paige’s pale blue eyes, framed with long, dark lashes. He stared through the storefront window of the former video rental place that had been turned hastily into the constable’s office here on Main Street after his position was approved. “EMS vehicle is coming up Raquette Road now.” He could see them reaching the junction of Main. “Seems like all the law enforcement vehicles, too, state police, and I think that’s the mayor’s Subaru. Guess they’re done at the scene.”

“Fabulous. Where are they going?”

“Owen’s,” he said, mentioning both the largest residence and only funeral home in the village.

There was a sound like a ringing or perhaps a song.

“Connor?” His brother did not answer.

Dial tone, he decided and returned the handset to the cradle. Then he stepped out of the office to watch the procession making the turn. The last vehicle was a white SUV driven by the sheriff of Onutake County, Axel Trace, who had not even bothered to check in with the village constable.

Logan stepped out to the street and removed his hat as they passed and came upon Paige’s daughter, Lori Morris, walking from school with her grandmother. With all the excitement, he’d lost track of time. He glanced at his watch and saw it was already a little after three in the afternoon.

He turned to Lori, dressed in a purple polar fleece jacket that added bulk to her thin frame. “How was school?”

Lori looked away from the retreating procession of official vehicles.

“Mr. Garrett got called away so we had Mrs. Unger,” she said and made a face.

Logan joined her, twisting his face as if he were poisoned. Mr. Garrett was Lori’s teacher, and a volunteer with the fire department. He was also a paramedic. And Mrs. Unger had been his primary school principal, as well. She had been universally disliked back then based mainly on her position of authority but also on her tendency to be nicer to her charges whenever a parent was around. Since leaving school, Logan had gotten to know Mrs. Unger, who also volunteered with the fire department, and had grown to admire her. She was silver-haired and tough as any US marine he had ever known.

“Still looking over her glasses at kids?”

“Yes!” said Lori and rolled her golden eyes and then did a fair imitation. “I don’t know what she was talking about. We’re studying plants and she was talking about comotosis and phototosis or something and I think that’s high school stuff. And she is so boring! She makes me comotosis!”

He laughed. Lori was funny.

“Mitosis and photosynthesis?” asked her grandmother, impatience making her voice tight.

“Maybe,” said Lori.

“And this—” she waved a finger at Lori before continuing “—is the sort of nonsense that caused me to have to speak to her after class.” Mrs. Morris turned to Logan. “I don’t see why I should be punished for my granddaughter’s disrespect.”

His brother’s new “dragon-orange metallic” Audi Q8 model SUV raced by, exceeding the speed limit. The color looked to Logan exactly like the orange flashing light on a snowplow. He frowned.

Mrs. Morris watched the SUV disappear after the procession. “You should give him a ticket.” Then she directed her cool gray eyes on Logan. “Shame about Dr. Sullivan.”

Word traveled fast.

“Did Paige call you, Mrs. Morris?”

“You can call me Beverly, Logan, as I’ve told you.”

He looked away, uncomfortable with that. He’d always think of her as Paige’s mom, Mrs. Morris, despite her insistence that he call her by her first name.

Mrs. Morris sighed. “Yes, she did call.”

“What happened to Dr. Sullivan?” asked Lori.

The two adults exchanged a look. Logan shook his head. He wasn’t speaking about this before an eight-year-old. The world had too many monsters, but the ones under her bed would do for now.

Mrs. Morris clearly felt differently for she answered the question.

“Your mother’s supervisor has been in an accident.”

“Is he okay?”

“No, I don’t think he is.”

“What kind of accident?” asked Lori.

“I’ll tell you on the way home.” Mrs. Morris set them in motion. Lori remembered to say goodbye and waved a hand sheathed in a mitten fashioned to look like a zebra puppet complete with a braided tail and pink lolling tongue. The googly eyes rolled, making it look as if it also had a head injury. Logan waved back. Then he replaced his hat and returned inside to the phones.

He made it only to the new wheelchair ramp and paused at the sound, unsure what it was. He could identify where it came from, toward the village library, on the corner of Raquette and Main, in the former home of the Hornbeck family. The village’s namesake had founded the bank back when the railroad stopped in this village. The sound reminded him of a fish thrashing in the river after it was hooked. But it turned out to be Paige Morris, hurrying along Main, passing the autobody shop and the antiquarian bookstore.

She wiped her face every few seconds with her gloved hands. Today was cold and windy, and Paige had a blocked tear duct. He remembered with perfect clarity in the winters of their childhood that the tears rolled down her left cheek and froze on the collar of her maroon nylon snow coat. Funny how he could remember that but not a minute of his time in the US Marines or a minute of his engagement to Paige.

But Paige’s tear duct dripping did not make a noise and she was making a noise. Was that pain? He crossed Main Street to intercept her. She usually walked home after five but was early today.

It wasn’t until he was nearly before her that she noticed him. The noise she was now making was obvious. Paige was crying.