Читать книгу Grits And Glory - Ron Benrey - Страница 11

Ann stood behind Dave as he kneeled down and felt for the artery in Richard Squires’s neck. She knew Dave wouldn’t find a pulse. The way Richard’s body lay under the shattered boards and the empty expression on his face declared he wasn’t alive.

She sucked in two deep breaths to stop the churning in her stomach and glanced up at the clouds that were barely visible against the inky sky. She saw distant flashes of lightning and heard the rumble of faraway thunder.

Both the wind and the rain had subsided considerably since her last sojourn outside, but Gilda was still roaring loudly enough to make conversation difficult without yelling.

“Shift your flashlight a little to the right,” Dave shouted. Ann recalled with a shiver that this was the second occasion in less than three hours that she’d held a light for Richard Squires.

Only this time he was dead. All because he had done a good deed for the church and repaired the generator.

She moved her flashlight beam to the right of Richard’s head, revealing a glistening pink pool of blood mixed with rainwater. She felt like throwing up but managed to resist the urge. Instead she murmured a quiet prayer asking God to comfort the many people in Glory who knew and liked Richard.

Dave aimed his penlight into Richard’s eyes. “No pulse, no pupil response. He’s gone.” Dave climbed to his feet and added, “Richard must have been walking toward his car over there.” Dave pointed toward a compact sedan near the back of the parking lot. Ann could hear the anguish in his voice. “A board smashed the back of his head when the steeple fell.”

Ann switched her flashlight off. “Should we—” The question caught in her throat. She tried again. “Should we move him to the ambulance?”

“We don’t have a second gurney. I’ll come back for Richard’s body after I transport Carlo and Sean to the hospital.”

The ambulance’s rear door was open, the interior brightly lit. Ann could see Carlo, still unconscious, lying on a gurney. A thick white bandage covered his left eye. Sean, his face pale, sat near the door, leaning against another paramedic. The cut on his head had stopped bleeding, but a big bruise on his forehead was beginning to color.

She watched Dave climb into the ambulance. “Do you want to ride with us to the hospital?” he shouted. “You look more than a little shaky yourself.”

Ann ached to say yes. She didn’t want to be alone inside a sealed-up church—not with Richard Squires lying dead outside, half-buried under a pile of rubble. There was plenty of room for her next to Carlo and Sean. Everyone would understand if she bugged out.

Everyone except Ann Trask. The administrator of Glory Community Church had to stay at her post as long as Gilda threatened the town.

Ann shook her head. “I can’t leave.”

She expected Dave to argue with her, but he didn’t. “It’s a short run to the hospital. Expect us back in less than ten minutes.” He killed the three floodlights atop the ambulance and yanked the rear door shut. The vehicle’s white, red and amber warning signals spun to life, illuminating the jagged remains of the steeple piled next to the Storm Channel’s broadcast van and casting bizarre shadows in the parking lot.

Then the ambulance drove away, leaving almost total darkness in its wake. Ann wished that she’d remembered to switch on the exterior light above the church’s side door.

She tugged her rain hood forward and tightened the drawstrings. Not that the hood would make much difference. She was soaked to the skin inside her clothing—what were a few more drops of wind-driven rain dripping down her neck?

It hardly made sense to seek a few minutes of shelter inside the church, but she decided to check if anyone had telephoned in her absence. A quick glance at the answering machine in her office told her that no one had called. She made it back to the parking lot in less than five minutes, a moment before one of the police department’s four-wheel-drive SUVs, a boxy truck decked out with red and blue strobe lights, entered from King Street. Dave must have notified the emergency command center that Richard had been killed. She cringed. Why hadn’t she thought to call Rafe Neilson first?

Probably because you’re more shocked by Richard’s death than you’re willing to admit.

The SUV stopped next to the crippled broadcast van, inches away from Ann. Its headlights lit up the wreckage of the crushed steeple, making Richard’s red boots look especially garish compared to the mostly white chunks of smashed wood.

Rafe slipped out of the driver-side door and Phil Meade exited the passenger side. Their faces, alternately lit by blue and red flashes, seemed surreal, but Ann could see anger glowing in Phil’s eyes as he strode toward Richard’s body.

“Are you okay?” Rafe asked, approaching Ann. Ann took comfort in his strong, caring voice.

“I don’t think what’s happened has sunk in yet,” she said. “It doesn’t compute that Richard is dead. He was killed in such a weird way.”

“Weird happens,” Rafe said, “both for the bad and the good. The broadcast van was in the wrong place at the wrong time. So was Richard Squires. But as far as we know, no one else in town, or the county for that matter, has been seriously injured. One dead and two wounded is a lot better than we hoped for a few hours ago.”

“Praise God for that.”

Phil’s booming voice overpowered the wind. “Praise God indeed for good news, Miss Trask, but not for the way that you deal with crises.” He brought his face inches from Ann’s, close enough for her to see raindrops dribble off his nose. “Your foolish stubbornness killed a wonderful man. I hope you’re satisfied.”

Ann flinched as the impact of his words hit home. Phil Meade blamed her for Richard’s death.

She pressed her lips together to control the fury she felt. No way would she give Phil a close-up view of her anger. She would behave like a professional manager, no matter what he said to provoke her.

Rafe stepped between Ann and Phil. “For the tenth time, Phil, you can’t blame Ann for Richard’s death. She didn’t bring down the steeple—that was Gilda’s doing. Hurricanes are dangerous. Everyone who stayed in Glory understood the risk. Including Richard Squires.”

“For the eleventh time,” Phil shouted, “there’s only one reason that Richard is dead. Ann Trask panicked when she couldn’t start the generator, because she’s too young and too inexperienced to handle routine problems.” He clasped his hands to his temples and shook his head, an extravagantly complex gesture that Ann read as a signal of his bewilderment.

“I don’t understand the leaders of Glory Community Church,” he said. “Why would you guys put someone in charge of your building during a storm if she can’t prime a simple diesel fuel pump?”

Ann felt her anger surge again when Phil spoke about her in the third person, as if she weren’t there. She leveled her index finger at him. “Richard kept the generator in good running order. We were supposed to call him immediately if anything went wrong.”

“If anything major went wrong,” Phil replied, with a generous wave of his hands, “or if circumstances truly required the generator to be operational. The very last thing Richard wanted to do this evening was leave his job at the emergency command center and deal with a trivial generator glitch. He did it because you don’t know diddly about diesel engines, and because you seemed scared stiff of the dark. That’s what he told all of us before he left.” He glanced at Rafe. “You were there—you heard Richard moaning and groaning about going to the church. Tell her I’m right.”

Ann’s anger quickly turned to concern. Rafe’s unhappy expression told her that everything Phil had said was true, which meant that Richard’s gracious “I should have tested the generator this morning” had been nothing but a polite fib, spoken to cover how he really felt.

That doesn’t change my reason for calling him.

Words came rushing out of her mouth.

“I called Richard this evening because I had to. A major hurricane was about to hit Glory. A backup generator is an essential piece of equipment at an emergency shelter. It has to work reliably. The generator was Richard’s responsibility, not mine. If he’d maintained it properly, I wouldn’t have needed his last-minute help.”

Ann watched a vein begin to throb in Phil Meade’s temple.

“You’re plainly inexperienced,” he said angrily, “but I didn’t expect you to also be mean-spirited. How dare you blame Richard for your own ineptitude?” He stretched to his full height and went on. “Shame on you! Richard deserves better than that.”

Phil spun around and made his way back to Richard’s body.

“I give up,” Ann said to Rafe. “Phil is determined to blame me.”

“Phil’s upset about Richard and not in a mood to listen to reason.”

She stood still as Rafe gently brushed away a little puddle of rainwater that had collected on the brim of her hood.

“Richard was in charge of the generator,” Rafe went on. “He often told people that keeping it running was part of his ministry at Glory Community Church.”

“Even so, I’d better smooth things over with Phil.”

“Good idea,” Rafe said, “but give him a chance to calm down before you try. He’ll come around after he’s had some time to cool off.”

Ann knew better. Phil might never “come around.” She had embarrassed him earlier by forcing him to back down. He was the sort of person who didn’t forgive and forget. Especially not now that he’d discovered her Achilles’ heel—her so-called fear of the dark.

“I started my new job at the church just a few months ago,” she murmured to herself. “The last thing I need right now is an influential enemy questioning my competence.”

God, why do You keep putting me in this position?

Sean felt something squeezing his arm. He opened his eyes and found a smiling nurse standing next to him, pumping a blood pressure cuff. A name tag clipped to her blouse identified her as “Sharon R.N.”

“How long have I been out, Sharon?” he asked with a yawn he couldn’t suppress.

“Six or seven hours, on and off. The doc stitched the cut on your scalp, ordered an MRI, and then decided you’d suffered nothing worse than a simple concussion and a painful bruise on your forehead. And in case you’re wondering why you’re yawning, we woke you up repeatedly throughout the night.”

Sean glanced at the window behind Sharon. He saw sunlight streaming through the panes and blue, cloudless skies. Gilda had moved on during the night, gifting Glory with a beautiful morning.

Her smile widened. “Are you hungry?”

“Not particularly.”

“Blame the concussion. Your stomach might be touchy for a few days. But I do suggest you eat a light breakfast. This could become a busy morning for you. Rafe Neilson wants to talk to you and a woman named Cathy McCabe at the Storm Channel began to call for you an hour ago.”

Sean had no idea who Rafe Neilson might be and didn’t really care. But Cathy McCabe, his producer, was another matter. “What did you tell her?”

“That I wasn’t your secretary and she should leave messages for you on your cell phone. She countered that she didn’t much like my attitude and that only an overzealous bureaucrat would refuse to give her any specific information about Carlo’s medical status.”

Sean chuckled. Like most executive producers, Cathy had a low tolerance for being rebuffed. He imagined the increasingly annoyed tone of her voice. There were a dozen different things she’d want to know—starting with Carlo’s health and moving on to the condition of the broadcast van and the pricey camera and control room equipment they carried. He decided not to call her until he had more information.

“What would you say to me if I asked about Carlo’s condition?”

“I’d ask you not to give me a hard time. You’re not Mr. Vaughn’s next of kin, are you?”

“Thankfully no.”

“In that case, all I can tell you is what we’ve told the forty or fifty reporters who’ve already inquired. We’re treating his injuries, which are not life threatening.”

She gestured toward an empty bed in the room. “He’ll be coming up from the ophthalmological treatment center in a few minutes, and then you can ask him yourself how he’s doing. I’m confident that he’ll be willing and eager to share.”

Sean laughed. “Ah. You discovered that Carlo can be a trifle full of himself.”

“A trifle?” She rolled her eyes. “You’re a master of understatement this morning. Fortunately, Glory is a gracious town, known for its Carolinian charm and civility. We strive to uphold our reputation even when challenged by an over-inflated northern ego.”

Sharon showed him a laminated menu. “Poached egg and some Jell-O for you?”

“Where’s the Carolinian charm in that?”

“All of our breakfasts come with grits and a biscuit,” she said.

“I stand corrected. Can I take a shower before breakfast?”

“Sure thing—and a stroll down the hallway if you feel up to it. There’s a bathrobe hanging behind the bathroom door and paper slippers in the closet. But don’t get dressed yet. The doc wants to give you a final check before we discharge you.”

Sean quickly got the hang of walking in paper slippers. Ten minutes later, he’d made it to the end of the corridor outside his room and reached a glassed-in balcony that overlooked downtown Glory. He tried to gauge the damage Gilda had caused. All of the windows he could see were intact, but roof shingles were missing here and there. Soon after Sean maneuvered past the heavy glass door and stepped onto the balcony, a tall, official-looking man introduced himself.

“I’m Rafe Neilson. I’m glad to see you up and about. You looked awfully shaky last night, and they wouldn’t let me speak to you.”

“What do you want to talk about?”

“The fatal accident at the church.”

“The fellow who took care of the church’s generator?”

Rafe nodded. “Richard Squires. I sang in the church choir with him. We’d become good friends during the five years I’ve lived in Glory.”

“That’s the one thing I hate about hurricanes—they kill people. No one told me that he was dead, but I guessed as much when I heard Ann Trask shouting.”

“I understand that you tried to start the church’s generator.”

“Ann asked me to.”

“Why do you suppose she did that?”

Sean shrugged. “I’d told her that we have a generator in our broadcast van. I guess she assumed I’d know how to work the church’s backup system. I showed her where the manual start button was, and things were fine for a few seconds. I gave up as soon as I saw the fuel system warning light blinking red. I had a broadcast coming up and didn’t have time to work on the engine. That’s when I told Ann to call Richard Squires.”

“How did you know about Richard?”

“A note tacked to the wall said to contact him if the generator didn’t work.” Sean felt a twinge of concern. The surprisingly formal tone of Rafe’s questions had put him on edge. “You’re beginning to sound like a policeman, Rafe.”

“Can’t help it,” he said with a grin. “I’m Glory’s deputy police chief. We don’t have many fatal accidents in our little town. I’m trying to understand everything that happened in Glory Community’s parking lot last night.”

“A gust of wind at the height of the hurricane tore the steeple down—a gust with a velocity of upwards of ninety miles per hour. The wreckage fell on Richard Squires and our broadcast van. What more is there to understand?”

Rafe shook his head. “Probably nothing. Take care of yourself. Don’t overdo.”

Before Sean could reply, Rafe pivoted on his heels and began to walk away.

“Hey, Mr. Deputy Police Chief. I have a question for you. How badly did Glory get hit last night?”

“Not badly at all,” Rafe said over his shoulder. “A handful of large trees are down, a few windows broken here and there, several dozen roofs were damaged, and the streets nearest the Albemarle Sound were flooded, including part of Front Street. We got off lucky except for Richard’s death and the fallen steeple. Other than you and your colleague, there were no injuries requiring hospitalization.”

Rafe departed, leaving Sean to speculate what had prompted the string of odd questions. He returned to his room and sat down on the visitor’s chair in front of his bed. A short time later a nurse’s aide arrived with his breakfast tray and placed it on a wheeled table next to the chair.

“I’m not usually a grits person but these look good,” Sean said as he grabbed a spoon to dig in.

The door squeaked open and Sharon propelled Carlo, sitting regally in a wheelchair, into the room. Sean noted that Carlo’s forehead and left eye were both bandaged, the dressing on his eye smaller than the bandage Sean remembered from the night before.

“Here you go, Mr. Vaughn,” she said. “This is your room. Can you manage to climb into bed, or do you need me to help you?”

“I wouldn’t dream of saying no to anything you offer, Sharon,” Carlo said, punctuating his smarmy reply with an utterly sincere gaze. “Please, please, please call me Carlo.”

Sharon seemed to tolerate Carlo’s obvious flirtation, although Sean could barely avoid throwing a spoonful of grits at him.

“Good morning, amigo,” Sean said. “You look much better than you did last night. What did the doctors tell you?”

Carlo gestured toward his bandaged eye. “This is the worrisome injury. A glass splinter scratched my cornea and lifted a small flap of tissue. It should heal cleanly—but there’s always a risk of infection.” He touched his forehead. “I also have a concussion,” Carlo said. “Worse than yours, but I’ll probably survive. The MRI didn’t show any long-term damage.”

Sean bit back a snicker. They’d looked inside Carlo’s head and found nothing.

“Glad to hear it. So far so good.”

“The docs want me to stay in the hospital two or three more days.”

“The nursing staff requested a whole week,” Sharon said, winking at Sean, “but Carlo’s insurance company wouldn’t agree to cover more than three days.” She helped him climb into bed. “Would you like breakfast?”

“No thanks. My stomach feels too wonky to eat.” Carlo’s voice oozed angst and made known the enormity of his self-sacrifice. Sharon smiled as she left the room.

Carlo pointed at Sean’s tray. “I see that you’re able to eat breakfast.”

“Eagerly, in fact.”

“Good. I’d hate unnecessary guilt to put you off your feed.”

“Why would I feel the least bit guilty?”

“You chose the parking place last night, not me.”

Sean ate more grits. There was no point arguing with Carlo when he got hold of a loony idea.

Someone knocked on the door.

“Come in,” Sean said.

The door opened, revealing Ann Trask. Sean realized that Ann was petite—five foot three and a hundred pounds, at the most. But the strength that radiated from her blue eyes made her seem a foot taller.

“Hello, gentlemen,” Ann said.

“It’s Mizz Ann Trask,” Carlo said, “come to visit the halt and the lame. A very churchy thing to do.”

It was rare for Carlo to offer a verbal joke, so Sean kept it going. “We’re both a tad halt today, Ann, but no more lame than usual.”

He expected Ann to react, but she didn’t even crack a smile. She probably didn’t feel like laughing so soon after Richard Squires’s death. But he saw another emotion in her somber expression. Something beyond grief that looked like worry.

Carlo must have also registered Ann’s mood. He offered a high-voltage smile and said, “I haven’t forgotten my promise to put you on the Storm Channel. What’s your schedule like during the next day or two?”

She responded with a small smile of her own. “Let’s wait until your bandages are off. If I’m going to debut on television with Carlo Vaughn, I insist on the unadorned original.”

“You shall have him, although a black eye patch can be an intriguing fashion accessory. I may adopt the buccaneer look. What do you think?”

Sean felt like retching, but Carlo’s cornball patter had amplified Ann’s smile and chased the worry—if that’s what he had seen—from her face.

“You’d make a great swashbuckling buccaneer,” she said, making Sean wish that he had the skill to say magic words that could alter a woman’s frame of mind.

Even more to the point, he wished that Ann smiled at him the way she smiled at Carlo.