The Murder of Janessa Hennley by Victor Methos Page B

doctor kept him an extra day for observation. When he released Mickey, he gave him plenty of pain pills and some white fluid that was supposed to coat and soothe his stomach. They brought him outside in a wheelchair, and the sheriff was there with her Tahoe.
    “Need a ride?”
    “Looks like it.”
    “Where are you staying?”
    “Bed and breakfast in town. I can’t think of the name.”
    She opened the passenger side door. “I know the one, but you’re not going there. Give me your keys. I’m gonna get one of my deputies to go get your truck. You’re staying with me.”
    “I can’t impose like that, sheriff. Any hotel is fine.”
    “Nonsense. I got a huge house and just me to fill it. You’ll stay in the guest bedroom as long as you like.”
    “If you insist, I won’t say no.”
    She helped him get into the Tahoe. Pulling himself up into the passenger seat was an ordeal in itself. He had to lean the seat all the way back to avoid the crushing pain deep within his stomach. He started to put on his seatbelt but thought he would rather go through the windshield than have that thing suddenly jerk into his stomach, so he left it off.
    The house was as she’d described. It sat away from the street, separated by a massive lawn covered with apricot trees that had withered away. The large front porch held a swing-chair and couch. Suzan helped him up the steps and into the house.
    The home smelled like Mickey’s grandmother’s house when he was a kid. Somewhere between dust and plastic with patchouli in a bowl somewhere. The decoration appeared like his grandmother’s house as well, with old rugs, mirrors, and paintings of dim landscapes.
    “Not what I thought for you,” he said.
    “This place has been in my family for four generations. My great-grandfather built it with his own hands. It’s just passed down from one person to the next. I thought about getting a condo in town last year, but I just couldn’t leave the place. I mean, my mom was born in this house and died  up in the bedroom. How can you sell something like that?”
    Mickey followed her through the kitchen and to a guest room at the rear. The bed was a king with several throw pillows, and the room had its own fireplace. He dropped his bag by the bed.
    “This is more than generous of you. Thank you.”
    She shrugged. “I feel responsible.”
    “Why would you feel responsible?”
    “We have only one hospital. Obviously he’d know that’s where you were. I should have had a deputy there.”
    Mickey sat down on the edge of the bed. It was soft and gave way easily. “You couldn’t have known he would do that. That move was unpredictable, which means we’re not dealing with someone who thinks rationally or linearly. You can’t guess his next moves, and you’re no more responsible for them than you are the weather.”
    “Well , I appreciate that, but I still feel responsible. Anyway, make yourself at home. I have to run back to the station, but if you need anything don’t hesitate to call me. You still got pain meds in your system, so I wouldn’t drive. Just call me, and if I can’t make it down I’ll send someone to drive you around.”
    “Again, thank you.”
    “Sure.”
    When she had left , Mickey looked out through the patio glass doors that led to a garden. Gray light seeped in and clouds covered the sun. He opened the doors and let the cool air inside. A crow sat on the fence in the backyard. It didn’t move for a long while, and then it lifted into the air and was gone.

23
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    Mickey occupied himself by going into her family’s library and reading. Most of the books were first or second editions, coated in dust with gold speckled spines and worn leather covers. He read an old edition of Moby-Dick for most of the afternoon before he heard a key in the door. Suzan walked in carrying a brown paper bag. She glanced at him on her way to the kitchen.
    “Hey,” she said, “got some Chinese. Hope that’s