Mr Peanut - Adam Ross [84]
“I was up at six,” Sheppard said.
“Even though it’s a Saturday.”
“Yes.”
“And you head to the hospital.”
“I was there just before seven.”
“Your father founded the hospital, didn’t he?”
“He did. My brothers, Richard and Stephen, worked there as well.”
“You run into Stephen in the parking lot and talk about your plans for the holiday weekend.”
“He was going to spend the day on his sailboat, and I reminded him about the interns’ party. I’d invited him and his wife, of course.”
“And then you both head into surgery.”
“It was a pretty routine morning.”
“Until they bring in the boy.”
“Yes,” Sheppard said. “Around ten that morning a boy was brought into the OR who’d been hit by a utility truck.”
“He’s not breathing.”
“He lost consciousness and stopped breathing as soon as we got him on the table.”
“So you crack his chest.”
“Yes.”
“And massage his heart.”
“That’s right.”
“What does a heart feel like?”
“Like a tennis ball,” Sheppard said. “It’s harder than you think. It springs back to shape no matter how hard you squeeze it.”
“Interesting,” Mobius said.
Sheppard shrugged.
“But the boy dies.”
“Yes.”
“And when you inform the father, he berates you.”
“The father told me his boy couldn’t be dead because he spoke to him right after the accident. That he was lucid and that I must’ve murdered him.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I told him it was the nature of internal injuries. That they kill in secret. That you could be functioning normally until the moment your organs shut down. And I told him I was sorry.”
“Then what?”
“After finishing up at the hospital, I stopped off to see my mother and father.”
“And after your visit?”
“I went home. I did some work around the boathouse. We were having the hospital’s interns over the next day and there’d be skiing, so I checked the outboards, made sure they had enough gas for the party. Got the towlines together, the skis, the life jackets. Then it was time for cocktails.”
“What time was that?”
“Around a quarter till seven. Then we went over to our neighbors’, Don and Nancy Ahern’s, to have some drinks.”
“But I thought they were coming to your house for dinner.”
“It was an odd habit we’d fallen into. The girls said that if we drank at one house and ate at the other it split up the mess.”
“They lived nearby.”
“Right down the street.”
“What did everyone drink?”
“The girls had whiskey sours. Don and I had martinis.”
“What’d you talk about?”
“I told Don about my day. About the boy who’d died.”
“You were troubled by it.”
In the waiting room, the boy’s father took two steps back from Sheppard and pointed at him, then looked around the room at the other people, his eyes wild. You, he said. You must have killed him somehow. I was talking with him driving over here. He sat next to me in the car. He was fine. He shook his finger again. You wanted my boy dead! He stretched out both his arms. None of you let this man near your family! He’s a killer, do you understand? He killed my child!
“Yes,” Sheppard said.
“Then what happened?”
“Marilyn left to go finish dinner.”
“How much longer did you stay?”
“A few minutes, maybe. I got called in to the hospital.”
“Why?”
“To look at x-rays. A boy who’d broken his leg.”
“What time was it?”
“Around half past eight.”
“You were back quickly?”
“I came back as soon as I was done,” Sheppard said.
“Did you eat right away?”
“No, Marilyn was running behind. Don was listening to the Indians game, so I took the kids to the basement to hit a punching bag I’d installed down there while the girls finished up.”
“Where did you eat?”
“On the patio.”
“What about the kids?”
“In the kitchen.”
“It was a nice night.”
“There was a gorgeous sunset.”
“Marilyn made a good dinner.”
“Cottage ham, green beans. Blueberry pie.”
“What about afterward?”
“After dinner we watched the fireworks. There was a big pre-Fourth show. Then Don took the children home and put them to bed.”
“What time was it?”
“Around ten thirty.”
“Did he come right back?”
“Yes.”
“Then what?”
“The girls cleaned up the kitchen. Don finished listening to the Indians