"You'd rather be at Boyd's place serving that search warrant, wouldn't you?" She takes another forkful of the bland chicken salad. It's got way too much mayo and celery and not nearly enough chicken, but she's too hungry to care.
Raylan tosses half of his soggy looking turkey sandwich down. "I'd rather be just about anywhere but here." He tugs the lid off the styrofoam cup and takes a sip of pop. He looks back at the glassed in room and she follows his gaze. They watch as Reverend Howard lays a hand on Arlo's head. Lips moving, face tilted upward, he closes his eyes and raises the other hand in the air.
"That's quite a prayer," Winona says. "He's been in there for awhile."
"Maybe he figures Arlo needs all the help he can get." Raylan raises an eyebrow. "If I get to Heaven and he's there, I'm gonna hold Reverend Howard personally responsible." He picks up the sandwich and sets it down again without taking a bite. "I wish that doc would show up."
"What're you going to do?"
He blows out a breath. "From everything they've told me, the ventilator is the only thing keeping him alive."
That's not an answer, but she doesn't press. She stirs her iced tea with the straw and scrapes her teeth over her bottom lip, fighting off the desire to tell him again how sorry she is. She doesn't know much about his relationship with his father, but she knows Raylan, and he's on the edge. Nervous energy rolls off him. His fingers drum on the table and he fidgets in the chair. He slides the hat on and picks up his cell phone. "I think I'll call Art and see how the search went. You okay here?"
Work. Of course. He uses work to lose himself and avoid feelings he doesn't know what to do with. She's known that for a long time, but to have it so blatantly displayed is almost humorous. "I could use some fresh air," she says. "Maybe I'll take a walk outside."
He shakes his head. "Wait a minute and I'll go with you."
"But the doctor might..." His eyes narrow and his finger hovers in the air, jabbing in her direction. "Just...wait." He pushes buttons on the phone and presses it to his ear.
The nurse shoots daggers at him and points to the hallway.
"Be right back," he says, over his shoulder.
Winona pushes the rest of the salad around on her plate. Ugh. She steals a potato chip from Raylan, munching on it while she watches him pace back and forth in the hallway talking to Art.
"Children are a joy and a blessing from God."
"I hope so," she says, her hand drifting automatically to rest on the bulge at her waist. She looks up at the reverend. His open face and cheerful expression put her instantly at ease. He must've been very good at his job.
"They're challenging, too, of course. My three, well, they're grown now, but they kept us hopping when they were younger. "Do you mind?" He pulls out the chair on her left and sinks into it before she can reply. "My wife died two years ago," he says. "The kids are married, scattered all over the place. It's one reason I'm doing this. Gets me out of the house, keeps me from thinking too much; dwelling on the past. I like to be busy."
He isn't giving her a reason to talk, so she sips her iced tea and nods.
"So, you're Raylan's ex-wife?"
"Yes."
"It's kind of you to be here for him, despite the circumstances."
He's not implying anything, but she flushes, feeling the need to explain. "It's complicated," she says. And he doesn't have anyone else, she thinks. Art, maybe, but he wouldn't intrude and Raylan would never ask.
"Betty Jo, that was my wife, she didn't always appreciate being married to a man of the cloth. Said it was like livin' in a fish bowl. And I was gone a lot, attending to parishioners and the like. Sometimes she felt...unimportant."
Winona figures he's making the assumption, not totally incorrect, that Raylan's job is a source of conflict, but comparing the ministry to law enforcement seems ridiculous to her. "You didn't get shot at much, I'd bet."
"Oh, maybe once or twice," he says with a wink.
She's about to laugh and call him on his fib when she remembers where they are. This is Harlan.
"Whew." He pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and mops at his forehead. "It's good to be off my feet. I was up all night. There was a car accident, and then a young woman had twin girls born premature." He meets her startled gaze and smiles reassuringly. "They're gonna be fine. They took them up to Lexington to the neo-natal ICU. It's amazing what they can do these days. How far along are you, if I may ask?"
"You already did," Winona points out. "Five and half months."
His brow furrows as he does a quick calculation in his head. "Ah," he beams. "A Christmas baby?"
"Hopefully before that. I'm due around the ninth." She glances around, but Raylan has disappeared, pacing far enough down the hallway that she can't catch his eye.
"Winona," he says. "It is Winona, right? I meet so many people sometimes names go right out of my head, but yours is unusual enough that it stuck." He pauses and when she doesn't correct him continues. "I'm afraid your ex-husband is going to have a difficult decision to make."
"We're aware of that," she says. "He and his father aren't close."
"He made that clear, in his own way." Reverend Howard nods. "Still," he pats her hand. "I'm glad there's someone here with him. This isn't something that anyone should have to go through alone."
-o-o-O-o-o-
When he finishes filling Art in on the details of Arlo's condition there's a long pause from his boss's end. "I'm real sorry you're havin' to deal with this, Raylan."
"You 'n me both," Raylan says.
"You need some company down there? I can be there in a couple hours, or I can have Tim or Rachel..."
"No," he answers quickly. The last thing he needs is more people milling around oozing misplaced sympathy. "Winona's here."
"Well, that's...good." Another pause. "Isn't it?"
"Yeah, I guess. Listen, have you heard anything from Tim and Rachel? How did it go at the bar with the warrant? Did they find anything?"
"How'd you even know about that?" Art asks, his tone suspicious.
Too late, Raylan realizes he's opened another can of worms. He explains about finding Boyd and Ava waiting when they'd arrived at the hospital. He leaves out the part about Boyd landing on his ass in the ICU waiting room.
"How'd Boyd know about Arlo?"
"How does Boyd know anything?" Raylan huffs. "We know he backed Shelby in the election. Information is probably the least of the perks he's getting from the Harlan County Sheriff."
"They found guns. Of course, they'd probably find guns at the preschool down there in Harlan." Art says.
"What kinda guns? How many?"
"Three rifles, a sawed off, and a couple of pistols. We got 'em all. We'll compare the rifles to what we got from Pitts' autopsy."
"Good. You might show the guns to Johnny, too. He was there. He might know which one Ava used. He okay?"
"Gettin' a little antsy." Art chuckles. "Asked Tim last night if he could call him a hooker."
"Did he?" Sometimes Raylan thinks Tim could use a hooker himself. Or a steady girlfriend. Then again, maybe not. "Tell Johnny that if this all comes out the way we think, it won't be much longer."
"Already did." There's a clicking sound on the line. "Listen, Raylan, I got a call here from the ATF I gotta take. You do what you need to do down there. Take tomorrow, too. That's not a request. I don't want to see you in the office before Monday. But you can call me, if you want."
For the second time in twenty-four hours his boss's tone brooks no argument. "Yeah, okay, thanks Art," Raylan says. He slips the phone back in his pocket and leans against the wall by the elevators, closing his eyes. He hadn't told Art about the confrontation with Boyd, there seemed no need. His eyelids are heavy and it's a struggle to open them and push away from the wall. Head down, he walks slowly back toward the ICU waiting room.
"Sorry that took so long," he says, taking a seat beside Winona.
"Reverend Howard kept me company for awhile. He's kind of nosy, isn't he?"
A corner of Raylan's mouth turns up and he shrugs. "It's a small town. Everyone is nosy. Especially about strangers."
"And I'm a stranger."
"Not to me." He lays a hand over hers on the table and she turns her palm up, linking their fingers. "How about that walk now?"
-o-o-O-o-o-
"It would be a lot simpler if we had an end-of-life directive," says Dr. Singh. The tall, dark skinned neurologist is obviously Indian, but he speaks with a clipped British accent. Raylan wonders if there is any such thing as a Kentucky doctor anymore.
"I told the guy I talked to last night..."
"That would be Dr. Jameson, the emergency room physician."
"Yeah," Raylan says, hand on his hip. "I told him Arlo didn't have anything like that; at least not that I know of."
"Sometimes parents don't like to discuss those things with their children, although everyone should have one, no matter their age," Dr. Singh says. "I see here that he was incarcerated at the time of the incident. Do you have access to his home, or to a lawyer who might know if such a directive exists?"
"What if I don't?"
Dr. Singh glances down at the chart in his hand, then over Raylan's head into the cubicle where Arlo lies. "Then things get complicated. Because your father was in state custody, in order to cease the life support we would need to have the state's attorney sign off on it."
"So I need a court order."
"Essentially, yes." Dr. Singh nods. "Still, I would do a through search of his home, contact anyone who might have knowledge of a plan of some kind for this event. Legally, it may take anywhere from a few days to a few weeks if the state drags its feet."
Once again, Raylan thinks, timing is everything. If only Arlo had been discovered just a bit later he'd be talking to a mortuary instead of a doctor. "I suppose I could go to the house and look," he says. "But I'm not countin' on finding anything."
"I'll notify the court of his condition," Dr. Singh says. "That way they can get the paperwork started."
-o-o-O-o-o-
Raylan turns to her when they pull up in front of the house. "You wanna just wait in the car? There's only a couple of places it might be. It won't take long."
The only other time she was at this house was for Helen's funeral. Then it was crowded with people, the kitchen counter and dining room table covered with food. Now it's empty, hollow. It's been less than a month since Arlo's arrest and even from the outside it already has the air of someplace long abandoned. She can't let him go in there alone, no matter how much he thinks that's what he wants.
"I've been sitting most of the day," Winona says. "It'll feel good to stretch my legs."
"We took a walk, remember?" His head is down, his hands still wrapped around the steering wheel. The twitch along his jaw let's her know he doesn't like her answer.
"I could use a drink of water."
"Alright then, come on," he sighs.
The inside of the house is surprisingly neat and clean for a man living alone like Arlo was. Someone was helping him, Winona realizes. Probably Ava. The kitchen is spotless, the countertops clear, towels folded neatly over the edge of the sink. Raylan leaves her, wandering into the living room without a word, and she hears drawers opening and closing.
She finds the glasses in the cabinet beside the refrigerator and runs the faucet for a moment to let the water cool. She sips, wrinkling her nose at the metallic taste of the well-water. Thinking it might be better with ice, she opens the freezer. There's a plastic bowl with ice cubes, fused together and covered with frost. She smacks the bowl on the counter and breaks off a chunk, sliding it into the glass. The water still tastes awful, but at least it's cold. Opening the freezer again, she looks over the contents as she sets the ice back inside. Six or seven square plastic containers are stacked one on top of the other, each one labeled with a date and the contents. Vegetable Soup. Bean Soup. Tomato sauce.
"That's Helen's handwriting." Raylan's voice from behind her makes her jump. "She always put up things from the garden for winter. I'd imagine there's canned stuff in the cupboard, too."
He reaches past her and opens the door to reveal surprisingly well-stocked shelves. There are the typical store-bought cans of soup and vegetables, but mostly the cupboard holds rows of glass mason jars full of relish, beets, green beans, peaches. Raylan takes down a jar of peaches. A date is scrawled on the metal lid, in the same broad handwriting as the containers in the freezer.
Raylan twists the lid off the jar and gets a fork from the drawer. "Here," he says, spearing a section of peach. Winona opens her mouth and he slides it in. The tangy sweetness is welcome after the sharp taste of the water. "Ummm. Cinnamon?"
"Yep." He takes a bite for himself and smiles. "Helen always put a little cinnamon in with the peaches. Apples, too. She used to make apple sauce." He reaches into the cupboard again. "Yep. Two jars."
They share the peaches and Raylan washes out the glass, setting it upside down in the drainer.
"Did you find what you were looking for?"
"Nope, no papers. But I did find this." He dangles a small key on a chain in front of her.
"What's that to?"
"I'm betting it's to a safety deposit box. I thought we'd swing by the bank on our way back to the hospital."
"Alright," Winona says. "You know, you could take some of this with you. I mean, no one's going to be here to eat it. It'd be a shame to have it go to waste."
"That's a good idea." Raylan squints at her, the fine lines gathering around his eyes. There's a look there that makes her stomach do a flip. She swallows hard and he breaks the gaze, turning away from her. "I'll look for a box for these and then we can head to the bank."