Monday morning came all too soon. Anne rode to the clinic with Margaret, and they left David and Wayne discussing painters and the problems of stripping the purple paint from the house and replacing it in the erratic November weather, and probably Joe Hansom, although both men were careful not to mention his name as Anne was gathering up keys and bag and coat.
Any Monday at the clinic, but especially one after a four-and-a-half-day holiday, ought to have been hectic. It was hectic, for about an hour and a half, but primarily because a half-dozen patients without appointments were waiting for the doors to open, and Nellie didn't show up. Working together, Anne and Margaret pulled files and shuffled patients from the reception area to examination rooms, filled out billing slips, and grabbed the phone. Eventually, though, the small crowd thinned, the phone quieted, and Margaret signaled she would make coffee as Anne saw the final waiting patient.
Bobby Preston sat on the examination table, bouncing his dangling feet back and forth as he drummed out a vaguely military rhythm on the metal base of the table with his heels. His mother stood against the back wall, holding his jacket and looking harried.
Anne leaned against the closed door and manufactured a stern frown for this tiny terror. "Well, tiger, what have you done this time?"
He held out his arm and the towel wrapped around it. "Darned old stitches just came out."
Anne glanced at his mother and lifted her hand to her mouth to try to hold back a chuckle. It wouldn't do to let Bobby think she was laughing at him; at eight, he had an abundance of male pride. Toni Preston understood that all too well. She had clasped her own hand across her mouth, and her eyes wore an expression of equal parts chagrin, frustration, and love for this male creature who seemed bent on driving her crazy. Anne exchanged a brief, surreptitious smile with her before she advanced on the boy.
"I guess I'd better see what damage those stitches did. Just came out, you say? All by themselves?"
"Well . . . almost."
Anne lifted the towel and studied her once neat row of sutures. "And the bandage? Did it come off by itself, too?"
Bobby gave another bang to the table with his heel and looked away from her, staring steadily at the bright red thumbtack she had stuck into the wall for her younger patients to focus on while she looked into their eyes. "I kind of . . ." His words got lost in a maze of mumble. Anne waited. When she remained silent, he grimaced at her. "I kind of sold it."
Anne choked. Toni Preston was having a similar reaction. "You . . . You kind of sold it? A bloody bandage?"
"Yeah." His face split in a gap-toothed grin. "I cut it up in a bunch of pieces. I got more for it than for just a look at my stitches."
Anne couldn't help it. She reached out an ruffled his hair. "Oh, Bobby. Bobby, Bobby, Bobby, what am I going to do with you?"
"Sew me back up?"
She nodded. "You've got that right. I hope you got enough out of your venture into capitalism to make this worthwhile, because it's going to hurt."
He nodded too, solemnly. "That's what Mom said. She promised me ice cream if I don't say any bad words." He stuck out his jaw. "So go ahead, Doc. I can take it."
Margaret slipped into the room as Anne finished replacing Bobby's bandage and pulled his sleeve into place over it. "Don't sell this one, Bobby," she warned. "And don't let those stitches escape. There's a limit to how many times I can stick a needle through your hide and still have enough skin to hold the thread."
He giggled at that, and Toni stepped forward to drape his jacket over his shoulder. "Don't worry, Dr. Locke. His father has already explained just what will happen if he sells anything else without getting permission first."
Anne chuckled again, and bent to give Bobby a quick hug. "See you in a week, tiger. And not a day before. Got that?"
He shrugged out of her hug but grinned at her. "Got it."
Anne started to follow the Prestons to the front desk to take care of the checkout procedure, but Margaret stopped her. "Exam room two," she said softly. "I'll take care of Toni."
Another patient? Anne hadn't heard anyone else come in. But then, she hadn't been paying a whole lot of attention to anything except an eight-year-old heart stealer.
No chart waited in the slot outside the closed door of exam room two. Anne frowned. This wasn't like Margaret. Still frowning, she opened the door
Nellie sat on the chair at the small built-in desk. Huddled there. With her face turned toward the wall, and her shoulders hunched.
"Nellie?"
The young woman turned slowly. When Anne saw her face, she crossed the few steps and knelt in front of her. "Oh, God, Nellie. What happened to you?"
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have come here. I didn't know where else to go."
"Oh, honey." Carefully, not knowing the extent of Nellie's injuries, Anne took the young woman in her arms.
Nellie held herself erect within Anne's loose embrace. "I thought I was free of him," she said in the emotionless voice of one who had endured too many violent emotions. "I thought at last I could make a life for myself and for Lilly."
"A man did this to you?" Anne asked in shock. But she wasn't really surprised, was she? David's words of Thanksgiving day played through her mind. "Someone you know did this?"
Nellie's only answer was a stifled sob.
"Is Lilly all right? Where is she?"
"I couldn't risk taking her to her regular sitter. I called Gretta Tompkins and asked if she could keep her today. I didn't tell her why. I didn't get out of the car when I took her out there. I told her—I told Lilly not to say anything. I can't put my baby through this. What am I going to do?"
Anne drew back and brushed Nellie's hair away from her battered face. "First, I'm going to examine you and treat what needs to be treated, and then we're going to call Blake and have him put that bastard where he belongs. Behind bars."
"No!"
The sheer panic in Nellie's voice rocked Anne back on her heels. "No?" she asked softly. She heard the exam-room door open and looked up to see Margaret slip inside and lean against the closed door. "Nellie, you can't let him get away with this."
"No." Nellie grabbed her arm. "You don't understand. He'll take Lilly away from me. He promised me that."
Anne glanced up at Margaret. "He can't do that, honey."
"Yes. Yes, he can. He got me evicted. I don't have a home. I can't work—"
"Sshh." Anne rose to her feet and held out her hand for Nellie. "It will be all right," she promised. "Somehow we'll make it all right. Now let's get you put back together."
Anne's tiny office contained a couch, which had as its only redeeming factor a sublime comfort. After assuring herself that Nellie's injuries were painful but not threatening, Anne gave the young woman acetaminophen and a mild muscle relaxant and insisted she lie down. Now Nellie slept a tortured sleep, covered by a light afghan that one of the grandmothers Anne treated had given her as a welcoming gift.
Margaret had finally found the time to make coffee. Anne joined her near the coffeepot in the supply room at the back of the building and held her mug in both hands, aware of the chill in the unfinished room. Aware of the chill in her.
"I want to hurt someone," she said. "I never thought I'd say that, but I think I would take great pleasure in hurting whoever it was who did this to Nellie."
"Yes." Margaret didn't say more. She didn't have to.
"She says she's been evicted. She needs a place to go. I have the room . . ."
"That's not a good idea, Anne."
"I know. I can't jeopardize her or Lilly by bringing them into that house until we—" She broke off abruptly. Margaret didn't know; no matter how much it seemed as though she was as deeply involved with the man in the closet as Anne, she wasn't.
"Yes," Margaret said again.
"Do you know who it is?" she asked, suspicious of Margaret's easy acquiescence. And then another doubt struck her. "We can keep her safe, can't we? We can protect her?"
Margaret stared up at the ceiling. "We have room for them; we can see that no one harms them."
"But Wayne—Excuse me, Margaret, but I got a clear impression that Wayne is extremely careful about who he allows near him. How will he feel about you inviting two almost strangers into your house?"
Margaret gave her a twisted smile. "Wayne knows suffering, and he knows refuge. He's really much better than when he first came home. Besides, he's a real sucker for a little kid, and Lilly's already captured a piece of his heart. It will be all right. It will be more than all right. It just might be what he needs to finish bringing him back into the world."
The town fathers' generosity hadn't extended so far as to provide carpet for the unseen portions of the clinic so the sound of a man's booted footsteps echoed through the hallway. Anne glanced in alarm at Margaret, forgetting immediately that she hadn't completely answered her questions. Margaret calmly reached across the counter and picked up a new, unopened bottle of ketchup by its neck and held it up loosely, warily, more or less like a baseball bat.
"Anne? Annie? Are you back here?"
Both women relaxed when they recognized David's voice. Margaret smiled sheepishly and looked at the bottle in her hand.
"Yes. Back here," Anne called out before cocking an eyebrow at Margaret. Stately looking Margaret. "Neat trick," she said. "I'll have to remember that."
Margaret shrugged. "A long-necked beer bottle makes a fine weapon. At least it did back in the days of my misspent youth. There is a resemblance."
Anne had both hands over her mouth to stifle her laughter, and Margaret was still looking with dazed confusion at the ketchup bottle she gripped by the neck when David rounded the corner.
He glanced first at Anne and then at Margaret. Anne saw the moment he considered the bottle as a weapon and then dismissed that idea. Margaret. No way. Or was there? "Is everything all right back here?"
And suddenly it wasn't funny anymore. Anne shook her head. "Someone beat up Nellie."
"Son of a bitch! How is she? Is Lilly okay? What did Blake say? Has he caught the bastard?"
Margaret quite carefully replaced the bottle on the counter. "Lilly is fine, or at least safe with Gretta Tompkins. Nellie won't let us call in the police."
"Why the hell—"
"Sshh," Anne whispered. "Nellie's asleep in my office."
"Was it the same guy?"
Margaret cocked her head at David in a silent question.
"David told me Thanksgiving day he thought Nellie had been abused," Anne told her before answering David. "I don't know. Probably. She said she thought she was free of him."
"Damn!"
Which echoed Anne's sentiments exactly. "What brought you down here? Something wonderful, I hope, like telling me to pick out paint colors."
"Oh. Oh, hell."
No. Not wonderful. She braced herself.
"Frances called. She's set up a meeting."
Anne slumped against the cabinet. "Oh, hell." That, too, echoed her sentiments. "When?"
"Today. This afternoon."
"This afternoon? I can't take the time right now—"
Margaret looked from David to Anne. "Does this have something to do with that room upstairs and the reason why Wayne has been patrolling your house but barely tolerates my being there?"
"Yes." Anne's voice was almost gone. "Yes."
"Then you can take the time. You only have two firm appointments this afternoon. Neither one of them is critical. I'll call and reschedule."
"Why today, David?" Anne asked. "Why not tonight? Or Wednesday afternoon?"
"She said this was the only time the museum rep could make it."
"And you believe her?"
"Yes. It's the rep I'm not too sure about."
"So what do we have to do?"
"Excuse me," Margaret said. "Do you really want me hearing this?"
At their stunned silence, she grimaced. "Thought so. Go. Talk about it in private. But do one thing first. I'll keep Nellie with me, but I took a look out the back door a while ago. Her car is there, and unless I miss my guess, she managed to get back in her house long enough to grab what's really important to her. The car doesn't need to stay in sight, here, or anyplace else, until we're sure she's safe. Take it back to your place and stash it. Okay? Then go do what you have to do, and if it's half as dangerous as Wayne's actions make me believe, then for God's sake, be careful."
Anne drove Nellie's Escort to her house. David followed closely. When she reached the top of her driveway, she glanced around. Even behind the house, the car could be spotted if someone were really looking for it. She hesitated only a moment before she drove to the old barn at the back of the drive and stopped in front of its doors.
David walked to the side of the car, and she cranked the window open. "Inside?" he asked.
She wondered at the reluctance she heard in his voice. "Isn't the building sound enough?" she asked.
"Yeah," he said. "Yeah. I guess it is that."
He unbarred the doors and opened them, and Anne drove through them into the shadowed interior. She'd forgotten how grim it was inside, had almost forgotten the hole in the roof. She stepped out of Nellie's car and locked it before giving in to a curiosity that approached reluctant fascination to look around.
Fallen leaves. Pieces of discarded furniture. An open, abandoned trunk. An ancient, dead car.
Almost without realizing what she was doing, she circled Nellie's Ford and headed to the other Ford that sat neglected and lonely, lord, so lonely, beneath the overhanging loft.
"Annie?"
David had waited at the doors. Now he entered the barn and put his arm over her shoulder, stopping her forward progress.
"That car?" Anne asked. "I wonder how long it's been here."
"It hasn't been tagged since 1941."
"'41? When Marian fell? Do you suppose it was hers?"
"Maybe. That might explain it. It was a pretty spiffy model when it came out back in '35. Would it have been in Ellie to let it sit here and rot, maybe remind Marian every once in a while that it was out here?"
"Or like Mom said, for Marian to refuse to allow her to sell it?"
She felt a shudder work through him. He was wearing a windbreaker, but in here, out of the weak sun, the air seemed colder than outside. Much colder. "Let's go in the house," she said on a shudder of her own. "I want to hear what Frances said."
"Yeah. Good idea. Go on in and I'll get these doors closed."
Anne hesitated on the back porch and looked back at David as he worked at putting the bar back across the now closed doors. Firmly putting it back. But when he joined her on the porch and they went into the warmth of the kitchen he said nothing about his puzzling actions.
Wayne nodded at her and left them alone in the kitchen.
David put his hands on her shoulders. "The rep wants to see a picture of the burial, and a few of the actual pieces."
It took a moment for his words to register. "A few of the pieces? The whole idea was to find someplace where it wouldn't have to be separated, ever, and their representative wants to see a few of the pieces?"
"Yes. That's what he wants. Actually, he was more specific than that. He wants samples of shell, pottery, copper, and the skeleton itself."
She couldn't do it. She couldn't go in that room and tear loose a bone for someone to poke and pry at. But somehow, worry for her safety and David's seemed a more valid argument than her reluctance to play ghoul. "And just how are we supposed to get them there without getting ourselves killed?"
"We don't have to go, Annie. We can bring him here. For that matter, you can call Joe, tell him where his grandmother's treasure is and let him have it and the responsibility for it today. Right now. But I thought you wanted to find a way, a safe and reasonable way for him to be at peace and yet of value to the scientific community. And it seems to me that Frances's call might be that way. Or it might not. The only way we're going to find out is to meet with this man. Away from here, in case he's not able to meet your requirements. And the only way he's going to be sure of what we have is if we take him samples."
"And how do we do that? How in God's name do we do that?"
"I think I know."
She stepped back, just looking at him. He dropped his hands from her shoulders and let her go.
"Why didn't something happen to us when we brought the pieces downstairs, or to you or Margaret when you took them to be mailed, or for that matter to an unsuspecting mail carrier?"
"All right," she said slowly. "Why?"
"I think it must have something to do with the dirt that's so prevalent up there. I'm not sure what, but something. We didn't clean the pieces. But when they came back, they had been cleaned. Maybe the dirt—I know it's crazy, but what the hell about this whole thing isn't? Maybe the dirt acts as some sort of connective tissue. As long as it's there, with the piece, some . . . supernatural force tells the cats it's okay. Or maybe just doesn't tell them it isn't."
"So as long as we leave an amount of dirt on each piece, we should be safe?"
"Yeah."
"And if you're wrong?"
"I'll go alone. But I'm not wrong."
He'd go alone? Did he really think she'd let him do that? Take the risk of being trapped in a closed car on a mountain road with—with . . . Oh, no. If nothing else, she'd go just so she could throw everything out the window if they were threatened. But she'd argue that later. "How can you be so sure you're not wrong?"
He looked at her in stark despair. "Because I'm a stupid, arrogant, ignorant son of a bitch, Anne. Because in spite of what had already happened, I didn't realize the danger I was putting you in. I've already proved this theory."
"What?"
"Yeah. Saturday. I took a gorget with us when we went to Spiro."