Free Death Spiral by James W. Nichol Page B

Not a pretty picture, is it?” Doc put his glasses back on and refocused on Wilf’s face.
    “No.”
    “He probably lost consciousness before he slipped under the water though. Let’s hope that’s the way it went.”
    “Did you do an autopsy?”
    Doc looked a little surprised. “There was no need for an autopsy, Wilf. I know what happened.”
    “All right.” Wilf got up out of the chair.
    “You’re feeling reasonably well, are you? Not too much discomfort?”
    “No. I have pills, Doc. I’ll bring them in to show you.”
    “I feel bad about it.”
    “I’m all right.”
    “Not you. Cruikshank.”
    “Why is that?”
    “Why? Because I talked to him on the phone the day he died. The snow was already coming down to beat hell. That’s why I didn’t want to make a house call. He said he was out of his pills and he was having some pain. I said I’d send a bottle of his pills around by cab. Told him to call if things didn’t settle down and to be sure to come in and see me the next day anyway, it wouldn’t matter that it was Sunday. He said he would.”
    Doc turned and stared out his office window as if he expected to see the snow begin to fall again. “I sent the pills. He didn’t call. And I forgot.” He pushed away from his desk and stood up, “I should have got in my car and drove through the goddamn storm. That’s what I should have done. Put him in the hospital.”
    “You didn’t know, though.”
    “What didn’t I know?”
    “That he’d have a full-scale heart attack.”
    “Why didn’t I? I’m supposed to.” Doc got up, walked over to the sink and began to wash his hands.
    “I’m sorry about it, Doc.”
    Doc nodded.
    Wilf let himself out the door. He drove the car by his father’s house, past the high school and the hospital, and all the while he could see Old Man Cruikshank laying on a stainless-steel table in the basement, water pooling darkly inside his gaping mouth, trickling out. It drove him on.
    This time he was travelling north toward Galt, the last town of any size within a half-hour’s drive. The wind had come up and snow was beginning to blow across the road as high as the hood of the car. The car rocked a little. And it all fit. The Cruikshanks, father and son, had had their fight on the porch. The old man went back into the house and looked for his heart pills. He called Doc. The cab delivered them and the pain settled down. Maybe he ate a light supper, read a magazine in his easy chair. Couldn’t concentrate, decided to have a warm bath instead. He eased himself down in the hot water. The wind was whistling outside, the snow closing off the house, wrapping it around like a giant white curtain. And his son was standing at the side door with a copy of Mary’s key in his trembling hand.
    “Hey Tommy, you work on a key like this?”
    The owner of the first shop Wilf walked into held up Mary’s key. A young man, wearing a pair of tinted goggles on the top of his head and an exasperated expression on his face looked up from his bench. “How would I know, Pop? I work on all kinds of things.”
    “Come here. It’s a special lock. A Chelsie Star. Double action.”
    The young man came over and took the key from his father. “Are you a cop?”
    “Just a lawyer. Asking questions for a client.”
    “Is that right?” The young man grinned and looked at the key more closely. He looked back at Wilf. “Yeah, I made a copy of this baby.”
    Wilf was surprised to feel himself ambushed by tears. A rush of relief. He fought them back. “When? About two months ago?”
    “Shit, no. First of last week maybe. Something like that.”
    “What did he look like?”
    “You mean, she. Short, young and sweet. A regular little fox.”
    “Now, now,” his father said, “have respect.”
    “I’m just wondering,” Wilf said, “could you tell me the colour of her hair?”
    “Upstairs or downstairs?”
    The older man shook his head and retreated to the back of the shop. “If your mother