and waving to someone, maybe the photographer.
âYouâre supposed to like yourself,â Sally said, walking into the office. âItâs a sign of a healthy self-concept.â
Jack told her that he hadnât heard anyone use the phrase self-concept in years. âAre you sure thereâs not some new phrase for that?â
âI donât keep up,â Sally said. âIt doesnât seem worth it, somehow.â Then she changed the subject. âWeems is pretty upset with us, you know.â
âNo shit, Sherlock,â Jack said. And immediately felt like an idiot.
âSorry. I didnât mean to be crude. That just slipped out. Iâve been feeling a little weird ever since I hit my head on the floor in the automotive building.â
âItâs nothing I havenât heard before,â Sally said. âAnd the thought of having to talk to Weems would make anybody want to say a few bad words.â
Jack had avoided seeing Weems sooner by virtue of the fact that Sally had called the EMS on her cell phone while Jack sat by the wall and suffered in silence. As she had predicted, the phone hadnât worked inside the shop, but it worked just fine once they got out. She called the EMS first, then Desmond, and then Weems. The EMS had beat Weems to the scene by at least a minute and a half, for which Jack would be eternally grateful.
At the ER, heâd been poked and probed and X rayed and wrapped. To his surprise, he had only two cracked ribsânot broken but crackedâand while they hurt quite a bit, it could have been worse. The tape would hold him together for a while, and then heâd be fine. Or so heâd been told. Jack wasnât sure he trusted a doctor who looked so young that she could have passed for a student at HCC. Besides the cracked ribs, Jack also had a hard little knot on the back of his head, but there was no concussion.
He sipped at his Pepsi, then said, âWeems canât possibly believe I had anything to do with this murder,â he said. âCan he?â
âI donât see why not,â Sally said. âYouâre the one with blood on his hands. Youâre the one whose handprint is going to be right there on the floor by Thomasâs body in Thomasâs own blood.â
âI think it was something besides just blood,â Jack said, but he didnât say what it was.
He looked at his hand, palm up. It was clean now, but he easily could imagine that the blood was still there. He could practically see it trapped in the lines that crisscrossed his skin. He knew how Lady Macbeth mustâve felt.
âI shouldnât have told you about that,â he said. âThat Weems couldnât possibly think I had anything to do with the murder, I mean.â
âWhy not?â
âIt sounds almost like I was trying to create an alibi. When I think about it, I can see how Weems might figure it: I was supposedly in my office working on the lesson plans for Naylor, but in reality I was out in the automotive building killing Thomas.â
âWhy would you do that?â
âI donât have a clue, but Iâm sure Weems will come up with a reason. Thatâs the way his mind works.â
âYou donât have any history with Thomas, do you?â
Jack sighed and offered Sally a cheese cracker. She declined, so he ate it himself. The peanut butter gummed up his mouth, and for a few seconds he couldnât talk at all. He took a drink from the Pepsi can, swallowed, and said, âI might.â
âYou might? What do you mean by âmightâ?â
âI guess I mean that I sort of do.â
It was Sallyâs turn to sigh. âFor such a mild-mannered man, you seem to make a lot of enemies.â
Jack wondered whether it was a compliment to be considered mild-mannered. He decided that he wouldnât ask. He wasnât sure he wanted to know.
âWe werenât enemies,â
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