Part 20 (1/2)

Doc shook his head. ”No. I'll be quiet and let you drift off.”

”Th-th-thanks ... for ... c-c-coming.” The words stumbled out of my mouth.

”Not a problem.”

A few minutes later, I heard Milo return. He and Doc talked for what seemed a long time, but probably wasn't. I couldn't hear what they were saying. The words were disjointed and immediately floated out of my brain. My log cabin grew silent. I a.s.sumed Doc had left. The sheriff was in the kitchen, probably trying to find his dinner. I didn't remember anything else until I woke up almost three hours later.

Milo had the TV on, but the sound was very low. He was watching ESPN's baseball experts rehash an American League divisional play-off game between the Yankees and the Twins.

He clicked off the TV. ”You're awake?”

”Uh-huh. Who won?”

”Yankees in the eleventh, end of series, and on to the ALCS against the Red Sox. How are you doing?”

”I'm stiff,” I said, making an effort to move around a bit. ”I hurt, but not like I did earlier.”

The sheriff checked his watch. ”It's after ten. You're almost due to take that pain stuff I got at Parker's.”

I nodded as I got into a semi-sitting position and studied the directions on the methocarbamol. ”I'll take this muscle relaxant now. I'm hungry. What's left of the crab?”

”Not much.” Milo came to rearrange the pillows behind my head. ”A couple of legs and part of the stomach. There's some of both salads. You want to eat now? I can bring the food out here.”

”Please,” I said after swallowing a methocarbamol.

He started for the kitchen but stopped. ”Cal Vickers called. He can't do that job on your car and he doesn't have your kind of tires in stock. The Honda dealers.h.i.+p might have some on hand.”

”So what do I do? Have the car towed to Bert Anderson's place?”

”That's what Cal suggested. Bert doesn't work Sundays, though.”

”d.a.m.n.” I considered my options, which were few. I couldn't drive to Sunday Ma.s.s. I couldn't drive to work Monday. Maybe I couldn't even walk. I had to use the bathroom, so I'd find out if I could stand up.

”Oh,” Milo said leaning through the kitchen doorway, ”you've got to fill out that accident report. I want it dated today.”

”Great,” I muttered. Heaving a sigh, I threw off the afghan Milo had put over me while I slept. Taking my time, I managed to get into a sitting position, set both feet firmly on the floor, and steadied myself on the sofa arm. I hurt, but the pain was bearable. It took me a couple of minutes to walk the short distance from the sofa, past the end table, into the hall, and on to the bathroom. I refused to look at myself in the mirror. It was one thing to feel miserable. There was no point in confirming what I already knew: I must have looked frightful.

When I emerged a few minutes later, Milo was in the easy chair and my dinner sat on a serving tray I kept in the dining alcove's breakfront.

”Thanks,” I said, flopping onto the sofa.

”You must feel better,” he said. ”You look p.i.s.sed.”

”I'm not,” I responded. ”Well ...” I squirmed a bit, trying to get into a reasonably comfortable position. ”I am p.i.s.sed, at myself and that half-witted tart Holly. Of course she has to be poor or I could sue her.” I studied the items on the tray. ”I need some melted b.u.t.ter for the crab.”

Wordlessly, Milo went back to the kitchen. When he returned, he handed over not only a cup of melted b.u.t.ter but also the accident report form. ”You can do that while you eat,” he said, settling back into the easy chair. ”Try not to mess it up with your food.”

I shot him a dark glance. ”Why can't it wait a few minutes?”

”Because you're going to take more of that pain stuff and you might get goofy. I've had enough witness statements this past week from drunks and nutcases. I'd like to get one that makes sense for a change.”

”Fine.” Cautiously, I leaned to my right to pick up a pen from the end table. After putting in my name, address, the date, and where the collision occurred, I slathered a chunk of crab in the melted b.u.t.ter. ”I'm not sure about the time the accident happened,” I admitted.

Milo, who was using the remote to switch channels, looked up and scowled. ”You're off to a bad start. You called me about a quarter to five. Put down four-thirty or maybe a little later.”

I wrote in ”4:40 PM” as I chewed on romaine lettuce. ”Sorry,” I said a moment later, ”I don't know what kind of car Holly was driving.”

”Jesus!” Milo was exasperated. ”Dustin told me it's a 1982 Plymouth Caravelle. For a reporter, you don't seem to notice much.”

The sheriff was right. ”True,” I said. ”I must've been more shaken up than I realized.”

”Are you sure you can do the d.a.m.ned diagram?”

”Back off, will you?” I snapped. ”I'm starting to hurt like h.e.l.l.”

Milo ignored me and continued to change channels until he got to The Searchers. I stopped filling out the form and ate the rest of my dinner. By eleven o'clock, John Wayne had decided to let Natalie Wood live, though not necessarily happily ever after for either of them. Like real life, I thought. No guarantees. I finished my dinner but was still debating with myself about strangling the greedy, selfish Milo Dodge for eating almost an entire crab all by himself.

”Want to watch the news?” he asked.

”I want my pills,” I retorted. ”I won't finish this d.a.m.ned report until I get them.”

The sheriff clicked off the TV and hoisted himself out of the easy chair. ”I'll bring some water.” He stopped halfway to the kitchen. ”After I left Parker's, I stopped by my place and grabbed some stuff so I could spend the night. I'm getting up at first light to hit the river where the Tye meets the South Fork. If you have any problems, call Doc.”

”Fine.” I didn't bother to look up, but focused on the report, showing the position of my car and Holly's in the Safe-way parking lot. Ten minutes later, I'd downed the Demerol and finished the paperwork.

”Here,” I said, waving the report at Milo. ”I'm still lucid. Don't lose this while you're fis.h.i.+ng.”

Milo ambled over to the sofa. ”Can you get into bed by yourself?”

”I think so,” I replied, handing over the accident form. ”I'm not going to try it until the painkillers kick in.”

”How long?”

”I don't know. Ten, fifteen minutes?”

”Okay.” Milo crossed the room to reach behind the easy chair. ”I'll do my thing in the can now. Is Adam's room made up?”

”Yes.”

The sheriff had picked up a worn black gym bag and was heading for the hall. Guilt was seeping into my brain. It was remarkably generous of him to play nursemaid. I shouldn't have been annoyed because he'd eaten so much crab. I shouldn't have griped about the accident report. I shouldn't have stomped all over his attempt at flirtation. I should make sure he knew I appreciated not only his help but his friends.h.i.+p. Milo, more than anyone including Vida and Adam, knew my little log house so intimately.

I closed my eyes, wondering how to repay him. When I opened them, it was daylight and the sheriff was gone.

SHORTLY BEFORE NOON ON SUNDAY VIDA SHOWED UP ON MY doorstep. I still hurt, but the pain was bearable. It took me a long time to fix some breakfast and get dressed. Even as Vida charged through the front door, she was chastising me.

”I cannot imagine,” she said, taking off her black swing coat and hanging it on a peg by the door, ”why you didn't call me last night. I had to hear about your disaster from my nephew Billy at church. Surely you could have let me know. However did you manage on your own?” She paused, gazing down at me from under the brim of a brown velvet pillbox with a pheasant feather band. ”Or did you?”