Fatal by Michael Palmer Page B

positive for blood. Perhaps cowed by the procedure, Kyle put up little resistance to swallowing a thin plastic tube, which Matt slid up one nostril and down the back of his throat into his stomach. Years of smoking potent homegrown cigarettes had done in his gag reflex, making the often difficult insertion a snap. The stomach contents aspirated through the tube were old blood (coffee grounds in appearance) and some streaks of fresh, bright red blood as well. Transfusions had quickly replaced the lost blood and circulating volume, so that by the time Kyle was wheeled into the GI Suite for an examination through gastroenterologist Ed Tanguay’s scope, he had recovered his color and stabilized his blood pressure.
    “So thet’s it,” Lewis Slocumb said as he and Matt walked together out of the ER. The dewy morning air was fragrant.
    “Just about,” Matt replied. “We’ll keep our fingers crossed that all Dr. Tanguay finds is some gastritis. That’s like inflammation of the stomach lining. If it’s a little ulcer, that’ll probably be okay, too.”
    “But if’n he got cancer he’s finished.”
    “Not necessarily. We can cure stomach cancer with surgery. But let’s not go there until we hear what Dr. Tanguay finds. We’re lucky he could do Kyle so quickly.”
    “If’n thet doctor sez ol’ Kyle has to stay overnight, Ah think he’d jes leave.”
    “I was thinking he ought to stay anyway, just to get some medicine for his stomach and maybe another transfusion.”
    “Ah tell ya, if’n he kin walk, they’s no way he’ll stay.”
    “I got him to let me do that exam, Lewis. I can talk him into staying.”
    Lewis Slocumb turned and looked up at Matt. The sharpness in his blue-green eyes was belied by the rest of his weathered, scruffy face.
    “Wer different, Matthew,” he said. “It’s a way we done chose fer ourselves an’ it don’ mean nothin’ ta us thet mos’ folks think wer crazy or sick or evil. Thet is, ’til we cross the line inta their world. It ain’t nothin’ we enjoy doin’, b’lieve me it ain’t. Kyle an’ me crossed thet line this mornin’. Now we want ta cross back as quick as possible. So yew make thet happen, Doc, an’ we’ll take our chances. Our kind, the mountain folk, unnerstand thet so long’s ya don’ hurt no one, ya kin be whoever ya want. Mos’ people down here in town ain’t none too pleasant ta us, an’ thet goes fer yer hospital, too.”
    Matt was so astonished, he could barely reply. Lewis Slocumb hadn’t called him anything other than Doc since his return with his M.D. He had also just spoken more words than Matt could ever remember.
    “Okay,” he managed. “I’ll do what I can to get Kyle out of here. But if I think he’s in danger, you’re going to have to sign him out against my advice.”
    “We’ll do thet. An’ donchew worry none. We ain’t gonna sue ya, no matter what.”
    He guffawed, coughed, and spat.
    Matt gazed east at the flush of morning sunlight brightening the sky from behind the hills. As he did so, he slipped his hands in his pockets and connected with the envelope.
    “Hey, Lewis, tell me what you make of this,” he said, handing it over.
    He felt pretty certain that all of the Slocumbs could read to some degree or another.
    “Don’ make nothin’ of it,” Lewis said.
    “You mean you don’t know what the guy who wrote this note is talking about? You don’t know where the cleft is?”
    Lewis scuffed at the ground with the toe of his worn high-cuts.
    “Ah mot know, then agin Ah mot not.”
    “Lewis, I just saved your brother’s life, and I’ve been coming out to the farm to check on you guys for years. This note is very important to me. It has to do with the mine.”
    “Ah know what it has ta do with. Ya really got a burr up yer butt fer thet ol’ mine.”
    “I have good reasons,” Matt said, suddenly exasperated. “My father and my wife, for two. A couple of dead miners, for two more . . . Lewis?”
    “Ah ’preciate