An Ice Cold Grave by Charlaine Harris

asked.
    â€œWe’re getting your prescriptions filled and then we’re leaving town,” Tolliver said. “What more could they want from us?”
    We stopped at the first pharmacy we saw. It was a couple of blocks from the hospital, and it was a locally owned business. Inside it was a cheerful mixture of smells: candy, medicine, scented candles, potpourri, nickel gum machines. You could get stationery, a picture frame, a Whitman’s Sampler, a heating pad, a magazine, paper party plates, or an alarm clock. And at a high counter in the very back, you could actually get your prescriptions filled. There were two plastic chairs arranged in front of that counter, and the young man behind it was moving with such a languid air that I was sure Tolliver and I would have time to find out how comfortable they were.
    My only exertion had been getting out of the car and walking into the pharmacy, so it was unpleasant to find how relieved I was to see those plastic chairs. I sat in one while Tolliver surrendered the prescription slips to the young man, whose white coat looked as if it had been bleached and starched—or maybe it was the first one he’d ever worn. I tried to read the date on the framed certificate displayed on the wall behind him, but I couldn’t quite manage the small print at that distance.
    The young pharmacist was certainly conscientious. “Ma’am, you understand you have to take these with food,” he said, holding up a brown plastic pill container. “And these have to be taken twice a day. If you have any of these symptoms listed here on this sheet, you need to call a doctor.” After we’d discussed that for a moment, Tolliver asked where we paid, and the pharmacist pointed to the register at the front of the store. I had to get up to follow Tolliver, and when we got to the checkout clerk, we had to wait for another customer to get her change and have her chat. Then we had to reveal to the clerk that our insurance didn’t cover a pharmacy bill and that we were paying cash for the entire amount. She seemed surprised but pleased.
    We’d actually stepped outside the store to get back in the car when the sheriff found us. We got so close to being out of Doraville.
    â€œI’m sorry,” she said. “We need you again.”
    It wasn’t snowing at the moment, but it was still gray everywhere. I looked up into Tolliver’s face, which seemed as pale as the snow.
    â€œWhat do you need?” I asked, which was probably stupid.
    â€œIt’s possible there are more,” she said.
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    WE had to renegotiate. The consortium hadn’t written me a check for the first successful episode, and I didn’t work for free. And the reporters were everywhere. I don’t work in front of cameras, not if I can help it.
    Since the parking lot at the back of the police station was protected by a high fence topped with razor wire, we got in the back door of the police station without anyone the wiser—anyone among the media, that is. Everyone on duty that wasn’t out at the burial site made an opportunity to walk past Sheriff Rockwell’s office to have a peek at me. With my arm in a cast and a little bandage on my head, I was something to look at, all right. Tolliver sat at my good side so he could hold my right hand.
    â€œYou need to be in bed,” he said. “I don’t know what we’re going to do about housing if we stay. I gave up our motel room, and I’m sure it’s gone by now.”
    I shook my head silently. I was trying to decide if I was up to any more bodies or not. There was always the fact that it was the way I made our living; but there was also the fact that I felt like hell.
    â€œWho do you think the bodies are?” I asked the sheriff. “I found all the locals that were missing.”
    â€œWe went over the missing persons reports for the past five years,” Rockwell said. “We found two