The Whale's Footprints - Rick Boyer Read online

"Of course it's personal, Joe. And you know why. Allan Hart would still be alive today if it weren't for me." I took a gulp of the Scotch and let it slide down my throat, burning all the way down. Joe lighted a Benson and Hedges and leaned back in the sofa, looking at the fire.

  "Know what it is, Doc? It's the goddamn curse. My goddamn curse is rubbing off on your family. That's what."

  "Aw, c'mon. Don't get going on that shit again. Give it a rest."

  So we sat there for maybe ten minutes, not saying anything, each of us feeling sorry for himself because he was such a jinx. We were a fine pair. The door opened and Mary came in.

  "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."

  "No you're not, Charlie. You're sensitive and loving and nurturing and all that. But really deep down, when you scratch through your mellow exterior, you're hard as nails. When you really get mad, or when you really want something, nothing stands in your way."

  I thought about this for a second.

  "Bullshit. I don't believe you."

  "Well it's true. Even Laitis told you that down in North Carolina. You didn't believe him, either."

  "I still don't."

  "Uh-huh. Well, have it your way. But I know. Laitis knows, too. You'd make a better cop than Joey. Anyway, he needed the cuddling; you needed a kick in the ass. Because there's only one person I know of offhand who's as tough as you."

  "Laitis Roantis."

  "No. Me. And don't you ever forget it."

  I kept tickling her back.

  "I don't believe you," I said.

  There was a long pause.

  "Charlie? Who were you calling tonight right before dinner?"

  "The medical examiner's office in the state lab. I don't think Andy died of a seizure, Mary. I think you doubt it, too. If he had skipped his medication, maybe. But he'd taken all of Friday's Dilantin-phenobarb capsules. And if by chance he did have a seizure, I doubt it would have been fatal. There's a chance he also had an undiagnosed weak heart—maybe a congenital defect—but it's unlikely."

  "Yeah, a weak heart would've surfaced by this time."

  "I think something else killed him."

  "Well, what?"

  "Maybe a different kind of medication. That's what the M.E. is looking for right now. For one, I suspect a strong diuretic, since Jack remembers Andy urinating almost constantly Friday afternoon. That would rapidly deplete his serum potassium."

  "Ahhh . . . and cause an electrolyte imbalance."

  "Right. Then maybe some kind of cardiac stimulant. Or say some . . . hell, I don't know. And I don't like not knowing."

  "But why would he take the wrong meds?"

  "Who knows? That's the part that's bothering me."

  FOUR

  IT RAINED HEAVILY for the rest of the night. Sunday morning brought a slow drizzle and lots of wind and fog. It was cold outside, a bone-chilling wet wind that went clear through you and made your teeth chatter. I sat at my desk and turned on the brass student lamp with the green glass shade.

  Tony's arrival at the Breakers had been postponed a day because of the storm, so we didn't expect him until afternoon. We had not told him of the tragedy yet. He would find out when he arrived. There was no word from the DeGroots either. This we didn't like. Had Jim, in his typical Dutch hard-driving manner, said to hell with the nasty weather and decided to race down across the bay from Cape Ann in hopes of outrunning the storm? If so, there was a chance we'd never hear from them again.

  Jack was down on the beach, casting bright nickel-plated spoons into the waves with a nine-foot surf rod. He needed the solitude and the peace of mind that comes with looking into the te
eth of huge crashing waves, listening to the shriek of gulls overhead, and hoping for the sudden quick tugs on the line that signal a monster bluefish or striped bass. He could do a lot of hoping; the surf fishing wasn't usually much good on our side of the Cape. He had to be soaked, even with his oilskins on, but he didn't seem to mind. Joe had gone back to Boston for the morning to catch up on his mail.

  I got out of my chair and went over and hugged Mary, who was cooking a big pot of clam chowder.

  "Well what do you think, Charlie? Is this mess going to work itself out?"

  "I hope so. Except of course for the poor Cunninghams. It sure was no fun to talk with them this morning. I haven't had to face that kind of grief since . . . since I quit general medicine."

  Mary kept stirring the bacon squares with the wooden spoon. She was impassive, as if she hadn't heard me.

  "Jack seems to be holding up pretty well," she said. "But I'm not sure how well Joe is coping with this. It's got to remind him of . . . of what happened."

  "You think he'll ever remarry?"

  "I really do," she sighed. 'Joey's too much of a family man at heart not to. And he's only forty-three. He's got time."

  There was a knock at the door and I opened it to see Officer Klewski standing in the rain, the water pouring off his plastic-covered hat. Next to him stood a man in a trench coat. He could have been a real estate agent or an insurance salesman. He could have been a lot of things, but since my brother-in-law is a plainclothes detective, I can usually spot one pretty fast.

  The man in the trench coat deftly slipped his hand behind the wide lapel and into his suit coat pocket, drawing out a leather folder with a badge on it.

  "Dr. Adams? How do you do; I'm Paul Keegan, state detective for Barnstable County. I take it you know why we're here. Is your son Jack around?" Keegan was pleasant, but not jovial. David Klewski, who'd been almost chummy earlier, wore a very straight face.

  "He's down on the beach surfcasting. I know it sounds silly in this storm, but that's where you'll find him, wearing a big yellow slicker."

  "We'd like a word with you, too, if you don't mind. May we come in?"

  I said sure, and soon the three of us were sitting in front of the fire, coffee mugs in hand. Mary joined us too.