Grave Secret - Charlaine Harris [76]
Tolliver was looking tired, I realized, and it was Manfred who located the copy of the certificate. “Dr. Tom Bowden,” he said. I called information for the little town next to the Joyce ranch, but he wasn’t listed. Next, I tried Texarkana, but no Dr. Tom Bowden was there. Manfred went into our bedroom and came back with the huge phone book. He looked up “Physicians” in the Yellow Pages, and he told us with an air of triumph that there was a Dr. Bowden listed.
“We’ll have to go see him tomorrow,” I said. “Tolliver needs to rest.”
“Oh, gosh, sure,” Manfred said, disarmingly apologetic. “Sorry, Tolliver. I was forgetting you were on the disabled list.”
Tolliver scowled. “I’ll get better every day,” he said.
“Of course,” Manfred reassured him. “In the meantime, since I still have plenty of energy, I’ll track down this doctor’s office.”
“Are you sure you ought to do that?” I said. “Maybe it wouldn’t be such a good idea.”
“Ah, I’ll just have a look-see,” Manfred said. “I’ve got that GPS now, so I better put it to good use. Thanks for supper.” He put the cart out in the hall for me as I helped Tolliver up. For the first time in hours, Tolliver took some pain medication along with his other pills. I chided myself silently for not realizing how tired he was getting.
I helped him with the undressing process, and he was finally settled in bed, covers pulled up, with his pajama bottoms on and a full complement of medicine. I found Law and Order and settled in. Tolliver was asleep in ten minutes or less.
My brain was tired. I’d thought about the Joyces, about Mariah Parish, about poor Victoria and her daughter. Other people had filled my head all day, and I had to add Rudy Flemmons’s grief on top of that. I didn’t want to think anymore, or bear the burden of other people’s emotions. It was a sheer relief to go out into the living room area and watch the stupidest movie I could fine. I also painted my toenails and fingernails. I called my little sisters and talked to them for twenty minutes, before Iona said they had to get in the bathtub. Iona tried to steer the conversation over to my relationship with Tolliver, but I kept on course and didn’t go there. I hung up feeling pleased with myself, a good feeling to have after the unhappy events of the past few days.
Thinking of unhappy events, I called the hospital and asked about Detective Powers. The switchboard connected me to the waiting room, and I asked the man who answered if I could speak to Beverly Powers.
“She can’t come to the phone. Parker just died,” said a man’s voice, and he hung up the phone. He was crying.
No matter how often I told myself I hadn’t killed Parker Powers, I knew he would not have died if he hadn’t been trying to protect me.
There was no magic formula that I could use to make this all better. There was no philosophy that would diminish the pain his family and friends were feeling. There was no way I could erase the memory of his collapse, the blood pouring from his wound, the way I’d cowered in the shadow of the car. That was especially galling, that I’d had to hide from the man who’d done such a despicable thing.
That was pride speaking; it only made sense to hide when someone was trying to kill you. Of course it did.
I had this image I needed to conform to, though, maybe culled from the comic books I’d read as a child or the tough-woman fiction I read now. Every female private eye and cop was able to protect citizens without a second thought, able to shoot the evildoer after tracking him down. Every comic-book heroine was able to perform fearlessly, able to commit acts of heroism in the cause of protecting mankind.
I’d let myself be protected by a broken-down, none-too-bright ex-football player, and it had killed him.
He knew he was in danger. He knew that was his job. He was willing to take the risk, my common sense told me.
And I was willing to let him, I had to admit. I tried to think of something else I could have done. If I’d insisted on running by