"The murder of Larry Johnson may not be related to Crozet Hospital. You're jumping to conclusions."

"Perhaps but you see, Sam, he was my man on the inside." The color drained from Sam's face as Rick continued, "I believe the murders are related and I will prove it."

"You should have told me."

"What if you're in on it?" Rick said bluntly.

"Thank you for the vote of confidence." Sam's face now turned red, and he fought back his anger.

"Or Jordan Ivanic. He's in a position to pull strings-excuse the worn phrase."

"Jordan." Sam's lips pursed together. "No. He's a man devoid of all imagination. He does everything by the book."

"You don't like him?"

"Oh, he's one of those men who can't think on his own. He has to find a precedent, a procedure, but he's honest. We aren't the best team personality-wise but Jordan isn't a criminal."

"He has three speeding tickets in two years' time. Had to take a driver's course mandated by the state."

"That doesn't make him a criminal." Sam's patience was wearing thin.

"Did you know about the tickets?"

"No. Sheriff, why would I know? You're grasping at straws. You a.s.sume my hospital, and I do think of it as my hospital, is a hotbed of crime. You connect two murders which while heinous may not be connected. As for Larry Johnson being your spy, that still doesn't prove his murder's connected to the hospital. He may have had a secret life." Sam's eyes blazed.

"I see." Rick stared at his shoes for a moment, then looked up at Sam. "What about the hospital killing people through negligence?"

"I resent that!"

"It happens." Rick raised his voice. "It happens every day all over America. It has to have happened at your hospital, too."

"I won't discuss this without a lawyer." Sam's jaw hardened.

"Well, you just do that, Sam. You'd better hire a public-relations firm, too, because I won't rest until I find out everything, Sam, everything and that means just who the h.e.l.l was killed at your hospital because some bozo forgot to read their chart, gave the wrong medicine, or the anesthesiologist screwed up. s.h.i.t happens even in Crozet Hospital!" Rick stood up, his face darkening. Coop stood up, too. "And I'll have your a.s.s for interfering with a law-enforcement officer in the prosecution of his duties!"

Rick stormed out, leaving an angry Sam sitting in the library with his mouth hanging wide open.

Coop, wisely, slipped behind the wheel of the squad car before Rick could do it. She had no desire to peel out of the Mahanes' driveway, then careen down the road at eighty miles an hour. Rick drove fast anyway; angry, he flew.

He slammed the pa.s.senger door.

"Where to?"

"G.o.dd.a.m.ned Jordan Ivanic, that's where. Maybe that smart b.a.s.t.a.r.d will tell us something."

She headed toward the hospital, saying nothing because she knew the boss. The misery over Larry's death swamped him and this was his way of showing it. Then again, he had a good reason to be livid. Someone was killing people and making him look like a jerk.

"Boss, this is a tough case. Go easy on yourself."

"Shut up."

"Right."

"I'll nail Sam Mahanes. I will fry him. I will slice and dice him. You know patients have died from stupidity. It happens!"

"Yes, but Sam's job is to protect the reputation of the hospital. Covering up one or two mistakes is one thing, covering up a rash of them is something else-and Larry would have known, boss. Doctors may be able to keep secrets from patients and patient families but not from one another, not for long, anyway."

"Larry would have known." Rick lit a cigarette. "Coop, I'm stuck. Everywhere I turn there's a wall." He slammed his fist into the dash. "I know this is about the hospital. I know it!"

"Any one of our ideas could provoke someone to kill."

"You know what really worries me?" He turned his face to her. "What if it's something else? What if it's something we can't imagine?"

No sooner had Rick Shaw and Cynthia Cooper pulled out of the driveway than Sam Mahanes made a beeline to his shop, grabbed his cell phone, and dialed Tussie Logan.

"h.e.l.lo."

"Tussie."

"Oh, h.e.l.lo." Her voice softened.

"I'm glad you're home. Have you heard the terrible news about Larry Johnson?"

"No."

"He was found shot at Twisted Creek Stables."

"Larry Johnson." She couldn't believe it.

"Listen, Tussie, Sheriff Shaw and that tall deputy of his are going to be all over the hospital. We're going to have to cool it for a while."

A long pause followed. "I understand."

28.

The streets, alleys, and byways leading to the Lutheran Church were parked solid. The funeral service slated to start at eleven A.M. brought out all of Crozet, much of Albemarle County, plus the friends and family flying in from places Virginians often forgot, like Oklahoma.

At quarter to eleven some people were frantically trying to find places to park. Sheriff Shaw figured this would happen. He instructed the two officer escorts for the funeral cortege to ignore double-parking and parking in a No Parking zone. He did not waive the rules on parking by a fire hydrant.

Businesses opened their parking lots to everyone. The crush of people was so great that over two hundred had to file into the offices and hallways of the church, the church itself being full. At eleven there were still over seventy-five people standing outside, and the day turned crisp, clear, and cold.

The Reverend Herbert C. Jones, antic.i.p.ating this, hung up speakers outside as well as in the hallways. Yesterday had been Ash Wednesday, so he wore his Lenten vestments.

Herb had known Larry all his life. He pondered over his eulogy, pondered over the life of a good man being snuffed out so violently. As a man of G.o.d he accepted the will of G.o.d but as a friend, a human of great feeling, he couldn't help but question.

The upper-management staff of Crozet Hospital filled the left-hand, front side of the church. Behind Sam Mahanes, Jordan Ivanic, Dr. Bruce Buxton, and others were those support people who worked with Larry over the years, Tussie Logan, other nurses, secretaries, people who had learned to love him because he valued them. Larry hadn't had an ounce of sn.o.bbery in his soul.

On the right-hand side of the church, at the front, sat distant relatives, nephews and nieces and their children. Larry's brother, a lawyer who had moved to Norman, Oklahoma, after World War II, was there. Handsome people, the Johnsons shared many of Larry's qualities: down-to-earth, respectful, hardworking. One great-nephew in particular looked much like Larry himself at twenty-five.

When Mim Sanburne saw this young man she burst into tears. Both Jim and Little Mim put their arms around her, but this reminder in the flesh, this genetic recall, tore at her heart. Larry was irretrievably gone and with him, Mim's youth and pa.s.sion.

Harry, Susan, and Miranda sat together near the front on the right-hand side of the church. All three women wore hats, as was proper. In Harry's case the hat also served to cover the st.i.tches.

The walnut casket, closed, sat at the nave, down below the altar. The scent of the ma.s.sed floral arrangements overpowered those in the front. For those in the rear the sweet odors brought hopes of the not-too-distant spring, an exquisite season in the Blue Ridge Mountains.

The murmur of voices hushed when Herb opened the door behind the lectern. Two acolytes were already seated, one by the lectern, the other by the pulpit. When Herb entered, the congregation stood. He walked to the center, held his hands up, and the congregation was seated.

As the service for the dead progressed, those who knew the good reverend felt the force of his deep voice, felt the genuine emotion. By the time he read his sermon, liberally sprinkled with pawprints from his cats, people knew this was the greatest sermon Herb had ever given.

He eschewed the usual easy words about the deceased being with the angels. He spoke of a life well lived, of a life spent in service to others, of a life devoted to easing pain, to healing, to friendship. He spoke of foxhunting and fly-fishing, Larry's favorite pastimes. He recalled his record in the Navy, his youthful practice, his rapport with people. He argued with G.o.d, Herb did.

"Lord, why did you take Thy faithful servant when we have such need of him here on earth?" He read Psalm 102. "'Hear my prayer, O Lord; let my cry come to Thee! Do not hide thy face from me in the day of my distress! Incline thy ear to me; answer me speedily in the day when I call! For my days pa.s.s away like smoke and my bones burn like a furnace. My heart is smitten like gra.s.s, and withered; I forget to eat my bread.'"

As Herb continued with the psalm, Mrs. Hogendobber quietly recited it with him, her memory of the Good Book being a source of comfort to her and astonishment to others.

At the end of the service, Herb asked that people join hands and repeat the prayers with him. "Larry spent his life bringing people together. Whoever is on your right, whoever is on your left, remember that Dr. Larry Johnson has brought you together even in death."

After the service the church doors opened. People slowly left the church, almost unwilling to go because the emotions holding them there were so powerful.

Mim, in control now, walked to the car. From here the group would wind its way to the cemetery just southwest of town.

Harry reached her truck, stepped on the running board to get in, and noticed a dead chicken, its neck broken, in the bed of the truck.

She reached over, picking it up. There was nothing special about it except that it was tossed deliberately in the back of her truck.

She had an old canvas tarp which she pulled over the bird. It wouldn't do to drive to the entombment with feathers flying.

She knew in her bones this was a cheap warning.

29.

Mrs. Murphy's tail stuck out from under the canvas in the back of the truck.

"Throw it down to me," Tucker's bright eyes implored her kitty friend.

"No way, Jose." The tiger cat sank her fangs in one red leg, backing out, pulling the heavy chicken with her.

Pewter, also sitting in the bed of the truck, called out, "We aren't stupid, Tucker."

"I just want to sniff it. I can tell you how long it's been dead."

"Liar." Murphy inspected the corpse. "Been dead since this morning."

"It's cold. Maybe it's freezing up," Tucker called from the ground.

"Maybe." Murphy hopped over the side of the truck, softly landing on the ground.

Pewter chose the less athletic route. She carefully eased herself over the closed tailgate, her hind paws touching the b.u.mper. Then she dropped down on her front paws and jumped off to the ground.

The animals heard the story of the funeral and the dead chicken when Harry and Miranda returned to work. The post office front door was always unlocked but the back door and the counter divider could be locked. There was a pulldown door, like a garage door, which pulled to the counter divider, locking from the back side. Because stamps were valuable, Miranda and Harry had wrapped up everything tight before leaving for the funeral. It wasn't that anyone had ever stolen anything from the post office other than rubber bands and pencils but the murders inspired them to caution. Then, too, they had put the cats and dog in the locked portion along with a big bowl of water and crunchies on the small table out of Tucker's reach. As there was an animal door in the back of the post office, Harry had locked that, too.

Usually when humans returned, the animals bolted outside, but they wanted to hear the events. Once Harry told about the chicken they bolted and now they sat, fur ruffled against the cold with the northwest wind kicking up. Harry planned on taking the chicken home to feed the fox living on her land.

"I say we go to the hospital." Tucker was resolute. "It's a fifteen-minute jog." Tucker cut time off the trip to make it more attractive.

"We'll last five minutes. You know how fussy humans are at hospitals. Insulting, really. We're cleaner than they are. All those humans with diseases." Pewter shuddered in distaste.

"We won't go in the front door." Tucker knew Pewter was trying to get out of the walk in the cold to the hospital.

"Oh." The gray cat ducked underneath the truck to escape the wind. It was a good idea but the wind whipped underneath the truck as well as swirling around it.

"We go to the back door."

"Tucker, the back door is closed." Pewter didn't like this idea one bit.

"The loading dock isn't," Murphy thought out loud. "We could slip in there and work our way to the bas.e.m.e.nt."

"What if we get locked in? We could starve in there."

"Pewter." Mrs. Murphy maliciously smiled. "You could eat cast-off body parts. How about a fresh liver?"

"I hate you," Pewter spit.

"Well, fine, you big weenie. You stay here and we'll go." Tucker wanted to get over there.

"Oh sure, and hear from you two for the next eleven years about what a fat chicken I am." She thought about the chicken a moment, then continued, "Besides, you don't know everything. I see things you miss."

"Then shut up and come on. Time's a-wasting. Harry will be out of here at five and it's already one-thirty." Mrs. Murphy looked down both sides of the road, then scampered across heading north toward the hospital, the wind in her face.

The three animals stayed off the road, dashing through lawns, hopping creeks, and eluding the occasional house dog upset because three animals crossed his or her lawn.

They reached the hospital by two-ten. To test their luck they hurried to the back door first. The doork.n.o.b was reachable but the cats couldn't turn it.

By now they were cold so they ran around the side of the building to the loading dock, one level up from the back door. It was child's play to elude the humans working the dock. There was only one truck and one unloader. Neither noticed the animals. Once inside the building, grateful for the warmth, the three headed away from the dock.

Murphy led them to an elevator pool.