Tough Cookie

Amused and still on hold on the telephone, Tom gave a silent clap to my temperamental performance until he finally reached the person he was seeking. He asked about the location and duration of incarceration for Jack Gilkey and Barton Reed. He drew out his spiral notebook and jotted down something, thanked the person providing the information, then disconnected.

“Four years ago,” Tom told me in a low voice, “Cañon City was already running well over capacity. That’s when Reed began serving his fraud conviction. Because there was no room for him at the state prison, he was incarcerated at the Furman County Jail. And you already know that when Gilkey was found guilty of criminally negligent homicide two years ago, he was also sent to the county jail. They were in the same section, on the same floor, as John Richard Korman.” He flipped his notebook closed. “So you have to figure Gilkey hadn’t just heard a story about Reed being denied parole. He knew the story because they knew each other. When Jack was granted parole, I bet it didn’t go over too well with the former champion snowboarder.”

“Darn it,” I grumped, as frustrated by this information as I was with the schoolbook mess. “If only the Furman County cops could get evidence to see if Portman was dirty. The guy must have kept records. Well, maybe not. But if Barton Reed had some information about Jack Gilkey, or Doug Portman, that we could get out of him, it sure would answer a lot of questions.” And deal with the early-morning innuendoes from Reggie Dawson, I added silently.

Tom raised his bushy eyebrows. “Our guys are going through forty-six boxes of military memorabilia, Miss G. Lotta stuff in there, lotta places to hide things like files or computer disks.”

“I know, I know. But the more I try to figure out what happened with Doug Portman, the more questions come up. What’s the truth

about the death of Fiona Wakefield?” I looked out the waiting-room window. Dark, silver-edged clouds did not spell anything but more snow. “Who triggered the avalanche that killed Nate? Or was it even triggered by a person? If it was, where is that person? Why did Barton Reed try to kill somebody today? And exactly whom did he try to kill? Doggone it!”

Tom shook his head. “I forgot to tell you, that collage lady called you today. Boots Faraday. Wants to see you the next time you come to Killdeer. You’re supposed to give her a call.”

“Oh, peachy. I can’t wait.” I thought for a minute. “Have your guys talked to Barton Reed?”

“Not sure.”

“May I visit him? Am I allowed to?”

Tom pursed his lips and considered. Finally he said, “You can visit him. But he’s got a badly broken leg, he’s lost some blood, and he’s in pretty bad shape. He’s immobilized and can’t hurt you. I don’t want you

hurting him, though.” I gave him a sour look. “If Reed gets better, he may face criminal charges for assault,” he told me, then paused. “There’s a Jeffco deputy at his door. Room ten-nineteen. The deputy knows me, just tell him you’re my wife. The only person I’ve told him not to let in is Jack Gilkey.”

I didn’t need prodding. Tom promised he’d take care of Arch and Marla, and especially Todd, when they returned.

At the door of 1019, I identified myself to a young Jefferson County deputy and asked to see Barton Reed. The deputy inquired about ID, meticulously scrutinized my driver’s license, then told me to go on in. I knocked gently. From within came a groan.

If Reed didn’t want company, I would leave immediately. Even aggressively snowboarding convicts deserved hospital privacy. I pushed open the surprisingly heavy metal door.

A single small light illuminated the form in the bed. Barton Reed’s right leg was thickly bandaged and suspended. His head and left arm were also swathed in gauze. Flecks of dried blood clung to his forehead and cheek. All of his jewelry had been removed; tiny dark holes freckled his ears. The earrings lay in a dish on a metal bureau. On top was a silver cross on a tarnished chain.

“Barton?” I whispered.

He was breathing heavily. “Henh?”

“Do you want me to leave? I’m just here to visit.”

He mumbled something that sounded like, “Who you?”

“Goldy Schulz,” I replied. I moved closer to the bed so he could see me. One of his eyelids was blackened, swollen shut. The other eye—clouded and blue— opened and regarded me blearily. I went on: “I first saw you last summer. At Aspen Meadow Health Foods. You were getting an herbal cancer treatment.” He shook his head, and I wondered how much painkiller they’d given him. “And I was at Killdeer today. I saw the accident.”

His groan was deep and guttural. “You from … the church?”

The question took me back. “The church?”

His face was sheened with sweat. “I’m gonna die.”

“Of course you’re not,” I said, panicked. “Let me call a doc—”

“Nah.” The sole blue eye assessed me. “Why’re you here?”

“I just wanted to see you—”

He sighed. “Is she dead?”

I swallowed, then said, “Who?”