Free The Ridge by Michael Koryta Page A

rights, understand that your patient is dead. He committed suicide yesterday, Dr. Mitchell.”
    “Oh, my.”
    “Yes. I’m not interested in his medical records, I’m trying to investigate the circumstances of his death. There are some questions around it, and I’d appreciate your help.”
    “Within proper limits, of course.”
    “Do you know if there’s anyone I should contact on this matter? It doesn’t appear that he has any family. Are you aware of any?”
    “There is no one,” Dr. Mitchell said with quick confidence. “I just had that discussion with him. He told me he was very much on his own.”
    “You just had this discussion.”
    “That’s right. You want to know if there was a medical reason that might have motivated him, don’t you?”
    “I’m curious, yes.”
    “Absolutely. In fact, I’m sorry to say that I’m not surprised to hear this news. Mr. French was dying, deputy. He had liver cancer.”
    Kimble felt an odd sense of relief. It was a sad situation, certainly, but this brought a clarity that had not been there before.
    “I see,” he said. “That’s very helpful. You’d informed him of this recently?”
    “Last week. The prognosis was not good. Very grim. He did not seek regular medical treatment, and I believe he lived in a fashion that was quite abusive to the liver. Quite abusive.”
    “You’re correct.”
    “I was worried about him, frankly. Beyond the illness, I mean. I don’t mind telling you that I’m a little relieved to hear that the situation is what it is. I know that sounds terrible, but—”
    “You were afraid he might be a threat to someone besides himself?”
    The doctor hesitated. “Yes, that’s exactly it.”
    “Why?”
    “I’ve given a number of terminal diagnoses over the years, deputy. It’s always sad, and the reactions are always varied. Mr. French’s stands out, though. He asked the standard question—how much time. I told him specialists would be more certain, but it was likely that he was down to six months to a year. He responded by telling me that if he had only six months, then that meant someone else had less time. His words, I believe, were, ‘If my clock’s winding down, then somebody else’s is spinning faster. I can’t leave this world without settling that.’ I asked him what he meant by that, and he declined to elaborate. I don’t mind telling you that it was… somewhat chilling. I had the distinct impression that he meant it as a threat. Not to me. But to someone.”
    The sense of understanding and relief that Kimble had just felt was fading. He said, “I appreciate your telling me that. Itcould be quite important, doctor. It could be more important than you know.”
    The doctor’s voice changed, a note of alarm in it now. “I thought you said it was a suicide, and that was all.”
    “I know it was a suicide,” Kimble said. “And I hope that was all.”

11
     
    T HE DOCTOR HAD PUT FIVE STITCHES in one incision on Roy’s palm and six in the other, given him some pain pills, and sent him on his way. When he woke the next morning his hand throbbed dully, and he washed another round of pain pills down with coffee and then stared out at the street, looking at his neighbors’ front porches and thinking that it was the first time in more than a century that they’d awakened on any day but Christmas and found no newspaper to greet them.
    He did not know what he should be doing with his day. Everyone else at the paper had completed résumé and cover-letter tasks months ago, and most of them had jobs. That wasn’t an option for Roy. At sixty, he was hardly the commodity a newspaper wanted to add to the staff, but he didn’t want to leave his home anyhow. The newspaper buyout had been larger than most, though it was hardly something to shout about from the rooftops. If he lived with a miser’s eye, he’d be fine. But finances weren’t his concern. Identity was. For almost forty years he’d been Sawyer County’s