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Карр Робин
Whispering Rock
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Three
Sue and Doug Carpenter and Carrie and Fish Bristol—best couple friends—had been having an after-work beer at Jack’s a couple of times a week since he opened, so Mel knew them well. And Sue had called Mel to make an appointment for her sixteen-year-old daughter. On the phone she had said, “The girl is pregnant and we have to do something.” Well, this was Mel’s job—to give medical attention to pregnant women, whatever their age or marital status. And Sue was a bit put out that Mel insisted on seeing her patient alone first.
“What have we got, Brenda?” Mel asked, looking at the chart.
“I guess I’m pregnant,” she said. “Figures.”
Mel looked up from the chart. Brenda was a high school junior. From gossip between the Carpenters and Bristols at the bar, Mel had gathered that this girl was an honor student, cheerleader, student council officer—a leader. College bound; scholarship material. Nature certainly doesn’t discriminate, Mel thought. “Do you know how many periods you’ve missed?”
“Three. Can you get rid of it?”
Mel tilted her head, surprised by the caustic edge to the girl’s question. Brenda had always been soft-spoken, on the sweet side. The tragedy was usually that these young girls were ready to throw away their lives, their promising futures, based on some immature romance with a young boy. Didn’t sound as if Brenda was suffering from that syndrome. “You have lots of options, but first things first—how about I examine you to be sure that’s what’s going on.”
“Fine,” she said shortly. “Whatever.”
“Okay, let’s get you in this gown. Everything off. And I’ll be back. How’s that?”
Rather than answer, Brenda snatched the gown and didn’t even wait for Mel to leave before she began undressing.
Mel went to the kitchen, had a sip of her diet cola and ran this over in her mind. Maybe Brenda was just mad at her mother for finding out. Maybe the boy had taken off. Maybe a lot of things, she thought. She reminded herself to stick to the facts for now.
She gave Brenda a few minutes, knowing better than to stretch this out for too long. Brenda didn’t need to settle her nerves; she needed to get this over with.
“Have you had a pelvic before?” Mel asked her.
“No,” she said shortly. “Just do it.”
“Sure thing,” Mel said. “But let me get your blood pressure and listen to your heart first, if you don’t mind.”
“Whatever.”
“Brenda, excuse me, but are you angry with me?”
“I am angry in general,” she said.
Mel sat on her stool and looked up at the girl. “Because …?”
“Because this sucks.”
“Well, people make mistakes. You’re human …”
“Yeah? I could live with that if I knew I was making a mistake!”
“Okay, let’s back up a little. Want to tell me about it?”
“Why bother? Do it, okay? You’ll just think I’m as stupid as I already think I am.”
“Try me,” Mel said, crossing her legs, resting her arms on her knee.
“I went to a party. A kegger. I got drunk. I woke up sick. Puking sick. The guy I was with said he passed out and nothing happened. But obviously someone is lying if I’m pregnant.”
Mel couldn’t help herself—her mouth dropped open. “Brenda, you told your mother about this?”
“Not until two periods didn’t come, because how was I going to know? I did one of those home test things. I never thought it would be … positive …”
“Were you sore? In your vagina?”
“I was sore everywhere! Like I’d fallen down a flight of stairs! And so sick I wanted to die. My vagina was about the last thing on my mind!”
“When you woke up—you were dressed? Any evidence of rape?”
“Completely dressed. Right down to the vomit on my shirt. And in my hair,” she added with a shudder.
“And you were with friends? Anyone see anything?”
“I was with a couple of girlfriends and one useless guy. They were all as drunk as me. We’d never … It was like the first time for something like that. I’ve had maybe one or two beers, but I’ve never been to a kegger before. I’m obviously not much of a drinker.”
“Do you remember drinking a lot?” Mel asked.
“I don’t remember much of anything. A couple of the guys said I was totally shitty. Drunk out of my mind. And one of my girlfriends swears my date really did pass out right away.”
“Ever think there could have been a drug involved? Slipped into your beer?”
“What kind of drug?” she asked.
“What do you think happened?” Mel asked her.
“I think I got hammered and let some guy—Obviously I wasn’t in a position to make a good decision. Plus, these are my friends. Well, the girls I went with are my friends—they wouldn’t lie to me. I don’t hang out with the other ones who were there.”
“All of them were your friends?”
“Someone’s not—unless there was a guy there who also doesn’t remember.”
Mel leaned forward. It was in her mind to ask Brenda if she’d ever heard the term, whiskey dick. “An unfortunate reality for most males is that too much alcohol inhibits erection or ejaculation. Whoever did this remembers.”
“And is lying …”
“Well, somebody’s lying—and if you’re pregnant and can’t remember getting that way, it probably isn’t you. Brenda, you could have been raped.”
“Or—I could have been so stupid drunk I didn’t know what I was doing.”
“Same thing, in my mind,” Mel said with a shrug. “Have you talked to the police?”
“Yeah.” She laughed bitterly. “Right.”
Mel reached out a hand to touch her knee and Brenda flinched. Mel’s mind immediately flashed on Carra and she cringed inwardly. “You have DNA in you, Brenda. The person responsible can be revealed.”
“Uh-huh. That should be interesting.” She laughed again. “Real interesting.”
“Listen, Brenda …”
“I don’t want to know. Whoever it is will just say I wanted it. Why wouldn’t he? And I would never be able to say otherwise, since I don’t fricking know. Meanwhile not only the whole school, but the whole town would know Brenda is a whore. Brenda’s knocked up, Brenda would like everyone to believe she was drugged.” She laughed at Mel. “Who are we kidding? Huh?”
“Is that likely? Let me tell you something—girls who aren’t sexually active don’t usually have one occasion of getting drunk and waking up pregnant because they wanted it.” Brenda looked away. “Have you been sexually active? Not that it matters in this case.”
Her eyes came back and the anger had seeped away. “I had a boyfriend last year who. I really liked him a lot. But we didn’t go all the way.” She looked down. “I wouldn’t give it up. I wanted to be sure, wanted it to be special. You know?” Now there were tears in her eyes, but they vanished as quickly as they had come.
Mel touched her hand. “It’ll still be special, honey,” Mel said, standing up. “When you’re ready, it’ll be special. Let’s do an exam, test you for sexually transmitted disease, get a blood workup for HIV.”
“H-I-Vee?” she asked, stricken. “Oh, fuck!”
“One thing at a time, Brenda. Are you up-to-date on the hepatitis B vaccine for school immunizations?”
“Hepatitis B?” she asked. “What’s that got to do with anything?”
“It’s also an STD,” Mel said.
“Oh, God,” Brenda said weakly.
“Take it easy, sweetheart. Feet here, in the stirrups, slide down for me, that’s it.” She put on her gloves. “Take a deep breath, let it out slowly and relax your muscles as much as possible. There you go.” Mel took a look and noted some inflammation, tenderness. She did her pap slide, then inserted a swab in the cervical area to test for chlamydia and gonorrhea. “I’m going to let that swab sit for a moment. Listen, do you remember the people who were at that party? And where it was?”
Brenda put the back of her hand on her forehead and her chin quivered. “All I want to do is get it out of me and get on with my life. School already started and everything….”
“I understand that, but I’m worried. This isn’t a situation we should ignore. What if some other young woman is attacked like this, made pregnant without even consenting to sex?”
“Or remembering that she consented?”
“Do you remember any bruising? On your arms, pelvis, hips? Buttocks?”
“My chest was really sore, and so was my throat. I thought it was from throwing up.”
“Where?” Mel asked. Brenda put her palm against her upper chest, on her sternum, right above her breasts. “On the outside? Like you’d been hit in the chest by a … by a basketball or something?”
“Yeah,” she said, apparently surprised by how well the analogy fit.
Mel finished her exam and helped Brenda sit up. “Would you be willing to talk to someone about this? Like maybe one of the nurses at the family planning clinic? Give whatever details you can remember?”
“What for?”
“For the future protection of some girl who doesn’t know what dangers lurk at a kegger?” Mel said.
Brenda looked down miserably. “I don’t know.”
“No one’s going to expose you. No one’s going to confront anyone without charges being filed. But for right now—you deserve better than to have no idea what happened to you.”
“I don’t know. Maybe. I’ll have to think about it.”
“Okay. Get dressed. But first—will you tell me one thing? The party. Was it here? In Virgin River?”
“Yeah,” she said. “Right here.”
Mel had a long chat with a nurse in the family planning clinic in Eureka. She agreed that it was very important to interview this patient, but before that could even happen, Brenda miscarried. Less than a week later the test results came back positive for chlamydia.
Mel immediately got in touch with Carra Winslow. She was a little past caring if a parent answered the phone, but fortunately for Carra, it was she who picked up. Mel was straightforward—she told her there was a venereal disease making the rounds and it was imperative that Carra return to the clinic for testing.
She also tested positive for chlamydia. Mel fixed her up with antibiotics and made her promise to return to the clinic in a couple of months to follow up. Carra still refused birth control; she was no longer seeing the two-week boyfriend. And even though he had given her an infection, she still wouldn’t blame him or name him.
But this weighed on Mel’s mind mightily. She was afraid they might have a serious problem in her town.
September and October brought a time of year that Mel disliked, though it was good for the bar. Bear- and deerhunting season. Since there was no hunting inside the Virgin River town limits, the hunters they saw were those who passed through town en route to and from the lodges and camps in Shasta and the Trinity Alps where some of the best hunting was found. As a rule, these were a decent lot of men and even a few women, many of whom had been seen at Jack’s in previous years and made it a point to stop by to enjoy Preacher’s cooking. And Preacher went to a little extra trouble, knowing they’d bring their money and high expectations. They didn’t change the pricing of their food and drinks for the hunters—it was all sold on the cheap, catering first to the town. But Jack did lay in some of the finer liquors, like Johnnie Walker Blue, because this was a monied crowd who liked their drinks. And they always left a lot more money on the bar and tables than they were charged.
City girl that she was, Mel abhorred the sight of a beautiful buck tied to the roof of an SUV or tossed in the back of a truck. Having already been through one hunting season and being married to a man who happened to enjoy the hunt, she’d learned to say very little.
Jack and Preacher had always catered to the hunters and fishermen—it was one of the reasons Jack had built the place. During the season, the bar stayed open a little later if there were people around, and still opened at the crack of dawn. Jack usually stayed to help out until at least nine, sending Mel home to get David settled for the night.
At a time of day when Mel might already have been and gone from her dinner hour, she had a call to make with Doc, and brought the baby to Jack. Being over five months now, husky and strong, David was most often seen riding happily in Jack’s backpack as opposed to the front sling he had occupied in earlier months. As Mel slipped the straps over Jack’s shoulders, she said, “He’s fed and changed and I shouldn’t be too long.”
Mike was having his dinner at the bar when six hunters came in. Since Jack didn’t greet them as men he’d seen before, Mike assumed this might be their first time through town. These were young men, all in their twenties, and obviously having a good time. All six went up to the bar, made a few jokes about the bartender being part-time babysitter, which Jack took in good-natured stride. They eschewed dinner, opting for some drinks. Once Jack had set them up with beer and shots, they retired to a table, where they enjoyed rehashing every aspect of their hunt.
“Who do you think is the designated driver in that crowd?” Mike asked Jack.
Jack was watching, but said nothing. And Mike was watching Jack, because the latter had a good sense for things. Getting a little loud and rowdy was not frowned upon here, so long as you could keep your head. These boys were hanging in there, though they were ordering up more beer and shots; they wanted a pitcher and a bottle and were getting a little louder by the shot.
It wasn’t long before Paige came out of the kitchen. “Have you asked them about dinner?” she asked Jack.
“Last time I offered, they weren’t interested,” he said.
“Okay, let me just check before we close the kitchen.” She went to their table to ask them if they wanted anything to eat. “My husband has a great lasagna and garlic bread, but also some broiled, stuffed sturgeon fresh off the river and steamed vegetables, if you’re interested.”
“Husband?” one of them chortled. “Damn, my hunting sucks no matter where I go.”
She instinctively retreated a step and the man reached for her hand, pulling her back. “You can get rid of the husband, can’t you, sweetheart?” His buddies laughed at his brazenness and Mike thought, shit. This is not a good thing; you don’t want to mess with Preacher’s woman. He looked across the bar at Jack’s narrowed eyes. Oh, boy.
Paige simply pulled her hand back, smiled politely and didn’t grapple with them any longer over food. As she would have gone back to the kitchen, Jack stopped her and asked her to take David. He slid the backpack off his shoulders and into her hands and one of the hunters yelled over to Jack, “That the wife, buddy?” And Jack’s mouth curved in a slow smile as he shook his head—no, you don’t really want to meet her husband.
Now, what none of these idiots knew was that Jack hadn’t had a nice summer. His sister’s trauma was not that long past and he’d been in a real mood. There was a side of Jack that was all soft, crushed concern and a side that wanted to kill someone. This was not a great time to screw with him. Since Jack had shed the baby, a telling move, Mike thought it might be worth it to try to head this off. He stood up from his meal at the end of the bar and walked over to their table. He flipped around a chair from a neighboring table and, straddling the back, he said, “Hey, boys. You have a good hunt?”
They eyed him suspiciously. One of them said, “One buck—young. Not much to brag about. Who are you?”
“Name’s Mike—how you doing? Listen, I just thought I’d mention—you don’t want to overdo it. Especially if you’re driving out tonight.”
They started to laugh, meeting eyes with each other as though sharing some kind of private joke. “That a fact?” one asked. “And who put you in charge?”
“I’m not in charge of anything,” he said. “But gee—I’d hate to see anyone get hurt. These roads,” he said, shaking his head. “Sometimes pretty tight around the curves going down. And real, real dark. No lights. No guard rails.”
Right then, Mel came into the bar, hung her jacket on the peg inside the door and jumped up on a stool in front of her husband, elbows on the bar, leaning toward him for a kiss.
“Holy shit,” one of the men said. “Look at that one. Talk about a doe I’d like to bag.”
Jack straightened before meeting his wife’s lips. The look on his face wasn’t a pretty one.
“You know,” Mike said, laughing uncomfortably, “about our women. You boys don’t want to be giving the women around here any trouble. Trust me on this, okay?”
That set up a round of hilarious laughter at the table of hunters and one of them said, unfortunately too loudly, “Maybe the girl wants to get bagged. I think we should at least ask her!” But oops—glancing over his shoulder, Mike saw Jack had heard that. And probably so had Mel. And after what those two had been through earlier in the summer, comments like that were not taken lightly.
And that’s when Mike became convinced that these guys had been pretty well oiled before they hit Virgin River. They had absolutely no judgment. Hunting and drinking was a thing he disliked—frowned on by him and his brothers, both the Mexican brothers and Marines. Drinking after the hunt—that was another story. Especially if the shooting was done, the guns unloaded and stowed, and all you were going to do was walk out back to your camper.
He looked back over his shoulder in time to see Jack whisper something to Mel. Mel jumped off the stool, disappeared into the back and Mike thought, oh fuck. He stood. “Okay, boys. Settle up for your drinks and hit the road. While you can still see straight. Okay?”
“Relax, chico. We’re not quite done here.”
Chico? He hated it when people did that. You don’t want to call a Mexican man a little boy.
Out of the corner of his eye Mike saw him. He’d known he would. Preacher had come out of the kitchen and stood behind the bar next to Jack, arms crossed over his massive chest, those big, black eyebrows drawn together in a frown that only Preacher could effect with such a look of menace. The diamond stud in his ear seemed to twinkle. Jack had sent Mel for him. They were ready to mix it up with these guys, defend the place.
Mike absently worked his shoulder a little bit, loosening it up. He couldn’t remember hearing about a bar fight around here. Certainly not since Preacher had come on full-time. You’d have to be drunk and stupid to get into it with him.
These guys looked pretty fit. Lots younger by average than Jack, Preacher and Mike. But they’d been doing a lot of drinking, whereas that evening shot before closing had yet to be poured for the crew running the bar. The home team had been on coffee.
As Mike knew, Jack hated it when his bar got messed up. It was a sacrifice he’d make if threatened, but it made him very unhappy. Maybe he’d stay behind the bar and just let them wander off. Or maybe he’d enjoy a little fight, having had the kind of summer he’d had.
“Come on, boys. Get going. You really don’t want to mess this place up.” Mike said.
The hunters exchanged looks, then slowly stood. They began to move away from the table, having left no money to pay for their drinks, which was a sure clue trouble was coming. The one in the group closest to Mike whirled suddenly, landing a blow right to Mike’s face. It sent him skittering backward, his hand to his lip, ending up against the bar. He said, “Oh, you’re going to hate yourself.”
He wound up and hit back, left-handed, sending his assailant flying into his boys, knocking two of them off balance.
It started. Preacher and Jack were around the bar before Mike even delivered his first blow. Preacher knocked two heads together, Jack landed a blow to one gut, another jaw. Mike grabbed up his attacker, decked him again and then sent him into another guy, downing them both. Someone came at Jack with a ready fist, which Jack caught easily, twisted his assailant’s arm around his back and shoved him into his boys. In less than two minutes, six partially inebriated young hunters were on the bar floor, spread over some broken glasses and amidst toppled chairs and two tables. All of them were moaning. Besides that first blow to Mike’s face, they hadn’t even managed contact. The heartiest of the bunch got back on his feet and Preacher grabbed him by the front of his jacket, lifted him off the floor and said, “You really wanna be this stupid?” He instantly put up his hands and Preacher dropped him.
“Okay, okay, we’re out of here,” he said.
“It’s too late for that, guys,” Mike said. He yelled, “Paige!” She stuck her head into the bar. “Rope!”
“Aw, come on, man,” someone said.
“Just get ‘em the hell out of here,” Jack said, disgusted.
“Can’t,” Mike returned. Then to the hunters, “Hell, I tried to warn you. You don’t want to mess with the women. You don’t want to fight. Not around here. Jesus,” he said in disgust. “Shit for brains.”
Mike explained to Jack that not only were these boys too drunk to drive down the mountain, they might get down the road and claim they’d been jumped. Since they had all the bruises and the home team had only sore knuckles, it just wouldn’t be smart to take that kind of chance. Better to let the police handle things now. Fifteen minutes later each one of them was tied to a porch rail out front, and a half hour after that three sheriff’s deputies were standing around the front of the bar, assessing the damage.
“Merciful God,” Deputy Henry Depardeau said. “Every time I turn around, somebody’s getting beat up or shot around here!”
“Yeah, Henry, we’re awful sorry,” Jack said. “We hardly ever have any trouble.”
“And what was it this time?” he asked impatiently.
“That one,” Jack said, pointing. “He threw the first punch. That was so frickin’ rude, don’t you think? You can see, it was just out of line. You know?”
“You’re taking up way too much of my time!”
“I’ll buy you dinner one of these days, how about that? You and your boys just drop in anytime.”
“Yeah, yeah. All right, let’s load ‘em up. I sure hope you boys have yourselves licenses and your deer tag.” By the droop of one hunter’s head, it looked as if there were going to be more fines. It made Jack laugh. “Aw, man,” Henry said. “Poachers are usually quiet and polite so they can slip in and out of here unnoticed. I should book you for stupid.”
Hope McCrea, a feisty old widow, was almost a daily visitor at Jack’s. She liked to have a Jack Daniel’s and a cigarette at the end of the day. She’d often sit up at the bar next to Doc, but there were times Mike talked with her a while.
“You know I hired Mel to come up here, right?” Hope asked Mike one night.
“I heard that, yeah,” he said.
“I’d like you to come out to the house to talk about something. A proposition.”
“Well, Hope.” He grinned. “That sounds real interesting….”
“A job, you young fool,” she said, pushing her too-big glasses up on her nose. But she had a toothy smile for him just the same.
“I don’t want a job, Hope,” he said.
“We’ll see. Jack will tell you how to get there. Tomorrow. Four o’clock.” She stamped out her cigarette and left.
Mike drove out to Hope’s house the next day because Jack had said it might be at least worth listening to. Hope was seventy-seven and had been widowed for over twenty years. She had given Mel a contract for a year, paid her out of her own accounts plus the cabin she was living in, now with her husband and child. After that one-year contract was exhausted, Doc had pulled Mel into his practice and they’d managed a modest salary for her without help from Hope, which was exactly what Hope had intended. Mike had learned this from Jack.
Now, according to Jack, what she wanted was a town cop, and she hoped the same thing would happen—that she would pay him a salary from her savings for a year and the town would realize it was a positive addition and manage to pull together enough for his salary.
Hope lived about five miles out of town in a big old Victorian home that she and her husband had bought fifty years ago. They’d never had children and so had filled the place up with junk. “I’ve never been inside,” Jack had told Mike, “but the rumor is that Hope hasn’t thrown away a thing in seventy years.” After her husband died, Hope had sold off the acreage to her neighbors for farming and grazing land.
He pulled up to the remarkable old house and found her on the porch with her coffee and cigarettes and a folder full of papers. When he stepped up on the porch, she greeted him with a victorious smile and said, “I knew I would get you eventually.”
“I don’t know what you’d be getting, Hope. I have no idea how to be a small-town cop.”
“Who does? But you have lots of law enforcement experience, and clearly we can use it. Lately we seem to have had our share of problems.”
“Not from Virgin River people, however.”
“What’s the difference? If it happens in Virgin River, it becomes our problem.”
“What have you got there?” he asked, indicating the folder.
“Just paperwork. I had to get a little legal help from a county attorney. Here’s what I can do—I can hire you as a local security officer, a constable. Even though you’ve graduated from one of the toughest police academies in the country, you wouldn’t be recognized by the state as an official law enforcement officer, but that really doesn’t matter. If you run across a lawbreaker, you detain them and call the sheriff, just like you’ve been doing. You’re not prevented from investigating. Hell, any private investigator can do the same. You should visit the sheriff’s department, Fish and Game, California Department of Forestry, the Highway Patrol and some of our neighbor towns who have their own local police departments. Introduce yourself. Believe me, they’ll all appreciate any help, with all the territory they have to cover in these rural towns.”
“And what do you expect me to do?” he asked.
“Well, you don’t have to worry about speeding tickets.” She laughed. “You’ll figure it out. Assess the needs of the town. It’s a law-abiding place—there shouldn’t be too much stress. But, as has happened a couple of times too recently, if we get some real trouble, I want an experienced police officer around.” She lit another cigarette. “You don’t have to keep a jail. You shouldn’t need flashing lights or a bulletproof vest.”
“When would you expect me to be on duty?” he asked.
“I expect, if you’re around, you’re on duty. I understand everyone needs time off, needs to get out of Virgin River sometimes. If you’re around five or six days a week, that’s five or six more days a week than we’ve had. Let’s just hope our crime sprees fall on your work days.”
All that came to mind was a trip to Santa Rosa for lunch every couple of weeks. Something he hoped would become even more frequent. “Sounds like a paid vacation,” he said.
“With any luck,” she said. Then she opened the folder and showed him a one-year contract that displayed a pathetic salary.
“Not exactly a paid vacation,” he said. But then, he’d been looking for something to do, and it wasn’t necessary that he find work. He had his retirement and disability income, plus a little savings. “Why do you do this?” he asked. “First Mel, now me?”
“Hell, someone has to mind the needs of this town. This town is disorganized—I have to think what to do about that. And we’re growing, if only a little.” She took a drag. “I’m not going to last forever, though sometimes I’m afraid I might.”
She slid a badge across the table to him. It said Virgin River Constable. “I had that made five years ago. Nice, isn’t it?”
“You expect me to wear this?”
“You want to keep it in your pocket until you need it? You don’t have to wear a uniform or anything. You wouldn’t be the only guy in town carrying a sidearm or rifle. But I recommend you generate some forms so you can write up reports when you actually do something. There ought to be records. Want me to buy you a filing cabinet?”
He grinned at her. “Yeah. That would be nice. It doesn’t have to be big. And business cards, please. So I can be sure anyone who might need to call me knows my number.”
“Done.” She smiled back at him, holding out her pen. “For now, just drive around. Sit on the porch at the bar and talk to people. Fish a little and think. Think what your job is going to be—you’d know more about that than me.”
What a kick, he thought. The constable. Hah. For six hundred completely law-abiding citizens. “I feel like Andy of Mayberry,” he said.
“That’s a damn good place to start,” she said, pointing the pen toward him.
He didn’t take it. “Not just yet,” he said. “Let me get the lay of the land, then we’ll talk about this contract.”
“You planning to try to negotiate?” she asked suspiciously.
“Oh, I have a feeling that would be useless. But before I make a commitment to you, to the town, I’d like to find out how receptive my fellow cops are to having someone like me in the mix. Let me visit around a little. Lotta type A’s in law enforcement, Hope. Some wouldn’t take a rope from a guy like me if they were in quicksand. If that’s going to be the case, I should just save you the time and money.”
“I don’t really care what anyone else thinks about a guy like you.”
He stood up. “Well, you should. I could probably help out a little, but cops don’t work alone. You might not have local police, but you don’t want this new idea of yours to drive away the coverage you have. One thing at a time.”
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