The Whale's Footprints - Rick Boyer (4 page)

"What the hell's this? What's with you two?"

We told her, and she ripped into both of us.

"Goddammit! You guys piss me off," she
hissed. "I see you need the stronger sex to get you on your feet
again. First you, Charlie. It was almost three years ago when I found
you sitting on the pier up in Wellfleet Harbor, moaning and groaning
about how you'd killed Allan Hart. Well BULLSHIT! How were you to
know that there were murderers and psychos aboard that trawler? Now
you did not kill Allan Hart. What you did was track down the guys who
killed him. You set things right, Charlie, even getting that monster
as he climbed up the wall to get you. Now I'm not going to go through
it all again, goddammit."

Her obsidian eyes bored into mine. Her jaw came
forward, and she frowned. Satisfied she had made her point, she
turned on her brother.

She walked over to him and put her arms around his
delicate nineteen-inch neck and kissed him on his stubbled cheek.
Lucky if she had any lips left afterwards.

"Joey."

His eyes drooped like a hound dog's and he looked
wonderful sad.

"C'mon, Joey.” He put his big arms around her
and rocked slightly. I went into the kitchen and washed my hands.
When I walked back, Mary was talking softly to her younger brother,
who was breathing in deep, ragged sighs.

Some vacation down on the Cape, eh?

"I know that you can't stand to think about it,
Joey. But sometimes you can't help it, and it won't let you alone. If
I had lost my family, I don't know if I could believe in God anymore.
But it was over twelve years ago, and you've done fine. And you've
got to go
on, Joey. Charlie and I both need
you. And now Jackie needs you, too."

"But it seems that everywhere I go I—"

"No. That's not true, and deep inside you I
think you know it. You've had some real bad times. I think they'd
have killed most people. But you've come through them, kid, and
you're gonna be fine. Now come sit with me in front of the fire. Do
you want another drink? Okay .... "

Before she even looked around to find me, I was there
taking Joe's empty glass and going back into the kitchen to refill
it. Looking out the window, I saw an Eastham Police cruiser pull into
the drive. Jack and the officer got out and were heading for the
house. I stopped back in the living room and gave Joe the drink. He
and Mary were sitting close together on the couch, talking softly. I
was outside, heading off Jack and the officer, before they reached
the front door. He introduced himself as Officer David Klewski. I led
them around the back way, which was the ocean side, and we went into
the screened porch off the deck. Everything out there was dripping
wet. I led them into the kitchen.

"How ah yah doin', Dr. Adams?" said
Klewski.

"Well, not so hot right now I guess. Jack, how's
it goin' buddy?"

The big blond guy didn't answer. He just stood there
leaning against the counter, his arms crossed tightly against his
chest, looking down at the floor. He shook his head back and forth so
slightly I could scarcely notice it. I went over and put my hand on
his shoulder. He didn't move. Rain dripped off his slicker. Officer
Klewski accepted a mug of coffee and took off his hat, which was
covered with what resembled a plastic shower cap.

"So what's happened?" I asked. "Any
more ideas?"

"We've got word that the remains have arrived at
the state lab in Boston, Doctor. What they're sayin' now, they're
sayin' it looks like a cardiac arrest. We should have definite word
tomarra, tomarra night. But then your son here told us something we
didn't know, and maybe it explains the Cunningham boy's death."

Jack finally looked up and stared at my face. His
eyes didn't seem to see me; they looked through me. He was immensely
tired.

"Well see, I never told you this, Dad, but Andy
had epilepsy.

He didn't want people to know because they're kinda
like afraid of it? So he didn't tell many people. But remember last
night when Mom offered him wine and he said no? Well he can't have
more than like a couple of beers because it interacts with his
medication. Well, I remembered that right after Mom left the station.
So now they think he might've had a seizure in his sleep."

It was my turn to lean against the counter. Upset as
I was about the boy's death, I felt a wave of relief pass through me.
For me and for Joe. There was a preexisting condition that had
affected young Andrew Cunningham. Apparently, he had died in his
sleep from natural causes. It had nothing to do with jinxes, curses,
or anything of the sort. I knew Joe would be relieved to hear it. But
a few stray thoughts—medical thoughts—intruded.

"So Andy had seizures? Were they grand mal
seizures?"

"I don't know. He just told me he used to have
seizures. You know—"

"Yes, but did he ever describe the nature of his
epilepsy to you? I mean there are grand mal seizures, the
convulsions, which could result in a cardiac arrest. But the other
forms of epilepsy aren't violent. One of those seizures, especially
in the safe confines of a bedroom, wouldn't result in a death. Which
is why I—did you say he was on medication?"

"Yes, that's why he couldn't have the wine."

I was already going up the stairs two at a time. Jack
followed. I guess David Klewski was still in the kitchen. I heard
Mary's heels clicking on the landing.

"Jackie? You home? Charlie? What the hell's—"

"If he was taking medication, it should still be
here," I said. "Do you know where he kept it?"

"I saw him put it in his shaving kit before we
left," Jack said.

As we took the kit from the dresser, I heard Mary,
Joe, and Officer Klewski coming up the stairs.

"All you guys know each other?" I asked
over my shoulder as I probed the small leather case. Toothbrush, nail
clippers, shaving cream and razor . . . no pills.

"Yeah," said Joe, "we've just met."
His voice was still weary.

"
Jack, why don't you tell your Uncle Joe what
the current thinking is regarding Andy's death?"

He did. Joe sat down on one of the twin beds and
eased back against the big brass tubes that took the place of a
headboard. I knew what he was thinking: no more jinx.

"Jack, where's the medication? It isn't in here
. . ."

His hand reached past mine and picked up a long,
rectangular plastic case from the dresser top. I had assumed it was a
toothbrush case. But when he handed it to me, I recognized it as
medication dispenser. It was really seven individual hinged
compartments in a row. Each compartment had a big embossed letter on
it, one for each day of the week: SMTWTFS.

"See Dad, I guess the medication is strong. He
knew it would be dangerous to accidentally take more than the
prescribed dose. And he couldn't forget it, either."

"Uh-huh. These are empty though, I don't—wait
a sec . . . no, the last compartment has three capsules in it. So we
have Saturday's dose still untouched, which means he took all of
Friday's medication. Don't you assume that's what it means?"

"I know that's what it means, Dad. I watched him
take those pills every night about an hour before he went to bed."

"All three pills? All three at once?"

"Yeah. See, the prescription really says take
one after each meal. But they're downers, or act like downers. Andy
said he liked to take them at night so he wouldn't be drowsy during
the day. And at night they'd act like a sleeping pill. He'd take them
and just crash."

I shook the three capsules out into my palm. They
were white, with a black band around the middle of each capsule. On
each side of the band was written PD 531.

"Parke-Davis. I think I know what these are.
C'mon everybody, let's go back down."

So we trundled downstairs and I went over to my desk
in the study corner of the living room, opened one of its large lower
drawers, and drew out my Physicians' Desk Reference. The PDR is found
in the office of every doctor, nurse, and pharmacist. I have three
copies: one each for office, home, and cottage. Distributed by the
drug manufacturers, the book describes all American-made medicinal
drugs. There's even a color photo section of products, so that the
pharmacist or doctor can identify medications by appearance. Under
Parke-Davis, I found my capsule. As I suspected, each contained
Dilantin, with a half-grain of phenobarbital added. Powerful
anticonvulsant medicine. The usual dose for adult patients was three
or four capsules per day. The mean lethal dose for this medication,
the PDR said, was between two and five grains, or the equivalent of
between twenty and fifty capsules.

I sat and looked out the window. Rain lashed along
the glass, smearing sideways and falling down in wavy streaks.

"What's wrong, Charlie?"

"Well, I guess I think it's unlikely that Andy
could have died of a convulsion in his sleep. He took his Friday's
medication, and all at once before going to bed. Jack, did you hear
anything in the night?"

"
Nope. But I sleep pretty hard."

"Yes. And no doubt the storm outside would mask
some noise. But think again, do you remember any noise?"

"No. But wait a minute. Two things come back to
me now. One was that he didn't feel good yesterday; he kept having to
stop on the way up here. He had to take a leak, oh, it seemed like
every ten minutes. And his stomach was upset, too. Remember, Dad? The
second thing is that I did hear him get up out of bed once. I think
it was about two-thirty in the morning. He went into the John and
came back, and I heard him like kinda groaning. I asked him what was
wrong, and he said, 'I just feel shitty.' "

"That's all he said?" asked Mary. "Did
he mention an aura? Did he say he felt like there was a seizure
coming on?"

"No. He once told me not to worry about him—that
he hadn't had a seizure in over three years."

"Then it's mighty curious," I said. "Mary,
you're a nurse; you know that a seizure isn't as fearsome as most
people imagine. But do you think it would go unnoticed by someone
sleeping in the next bed?"

'
Jackie, you didn't have a lot to drink last night,
did you?" she asked.

"No. I wasn't drunk, if that's what you mean."

"Didn't think so. If Andy had a seizure that
proved fatal, you would've heard something. So I agree, it's very
strange. Except for the possibility of cardiac arrest. Did Andy have
a bad heart, Jackie?"

"No. I'm sure he didn't; he would've told me."

"Look, we're making too much out of this thing,"
said Joe as he struggled out of the overstuffed chair near the
fireplace. "He died. That's all there is to it. It's a damn
shame, but there it is. People die. Everybody dies. He was a sick boy
and his illness finally caught up with him. Mare, I'm gonna make some
more coffee. David, you want a mug?"

"Love it," said the policeman, and followed
Joe into the kitchen.

After Officer Klewski left, I sat at my desk, turned
off the lamp, and watched the rain outside. I listened to the distant
roll of thunder, saw the far-off flashes of lightning over the bay,
and heard the snare-drum roll, the cozy tattoo, of rain hitting the
roof and walls. It made me sleepy.

"Dad?"

"
Hmmm?"

"Well? Do you think that's what happened? That
he just died in his sleep."

"No. No, Jack, I don't."

I called Joe back from the kitchen, where he and Mary
were cooking something that smelled terrific. My watch said
six-fifteen.

'
Joe, is there somebody I can speak with in the
forensic lab right now?"

"Sure. Never closes. We got the day crew and
then the night crew. When they're doing autopsies and forensic work,
they do it around the clock because of the decomposition of tissues."

"Give me the number
then," I said. "I've got a few hunches, and I want the M.E.
to be looking for some substances in Andy's body."

* * *

Mary snuggled up next to me and put her bare leg over
mine. I tickled her back softly and I could feel the goosebumps under
my fingertips.

"Oooooooo, that feels nice," she said.

"Hey."

"
Hey what?"

"How come today, when you came home and found
Joe and me down in the dumps, you treated us so differently? You
lashed out at me. Then you went over to Joe and cuddled him. Why?"

"Two reasons. The most important reason is this:
Joe's tragedy was real. He's been permanently traumatized by it. I
can't imagine anything more horrendous happening to anyone. But your
moping about Allan Hart is unjustified. So therefore, I've got much
less patience with you. Secondly, Joe really is sensitive underneath.
The fact that all that death happened to him makes it all the more
more unbelievable. You, on the other hand, are pretty tough inside."

"How can you say that? I consider myself pretty
much of a pussycat underneath."