The Caretaker of Lorne Field

During the next three days, Durkin flitted in and out of consciousness. When he woke up, his fever had broken and he found his left wrist chained to the hospital bed and his injured ankle throbbing worse than ever. For a long moment he stared blinking, with no clue where he was. Slowly the cloud fogging up his head lifted a bit and he realized what was on his wrist, then he remembered where he was. He also knew that it must’ve been days since the Aukowies had been weeded. Unless first frost had come early, it was already too late.

A nurse came by a short time later and noticed he was awake. “You’re finally back among us,” she said, her tone flat, her eyes and mouth plastic and expressionless. “And how are you feeling?”

He tried to talk but his lips and throat were too dry for him to do anything but croak out a hoarse whisper. She held a plastic water glass for him so he could suck on the straw. With his lips and throat wetted, he tried to talk again and whispered that his ankle hurt.

“If you press the button next to you, you can control your pain medication,” she told him.

Durkin reached blindly as he searched for the button. When he finally got his hands on it he pressed it several times. He caught her looking at him no differently than the way a snake might. “How come I ain’t seen my lawyer yet?” he demanded.

“I’ll let the doctor know you’re awake,” she said without emotion as she turned and left the room.

It was hours later when the lawyer from the public defender’s office showed up. He looked like a kid, wearing a cheap suit that was two sizes too big, with a thick mop of unruly brown hair covering his head. He introduced himself as Brett Goldman and sat hunched over, grinning a lot, though he had trouble making eye contact. Durkin explained to him the history of Lorne Field, what happened that night with Dan Wolcott, and why it was so important for him to be let go. Goldman nodded regularly, grinning down at his hands as he rubbed them together as Durkin might if he wanted to start a fire with sticks.

“Why do they got to keep me chained to the bed like this?” Durkin complained bitterly. “With my foot cut off how the hell can I run off?”

“They have to, Jack. They’re just following regulations.”

“It’s Mr. Durkin to you. And quit rubbing your hands like that! You’re making me nervous.”

Goldman gave a lopsided grin and moved his hands awkwardly to his sides.

“Sorry, Mr. Durkin,” he said, sneaking a peek at his client before lowering his eyes. “I guess I’m a little nervous, too. Now, I’ve spoken to the doctor you saw when you were brought to the emergency room. He told me that you were a very sick man. Do you realize you almost died?”

“I realize I ain’t got my foot no more. That’s what I realize!”

Goldman smiled sympathetically. “I know, Mr. Durkin, and I’m truly sorry about that. According to Dr. Brennan you were very sick that day, and quite likely delusional. I know you think you know what happened at that field with Sheriff Wolcott, but the reality is that as sick as you were you didn’t know what you were doing and you didn’t know what you were seeing. We have a very strong case for temporary insanity.”

Durkin sat quietly while the lawyer spoke, a deep scowl folding his face. “I ain’t crazy,” he said.

“I’m not saying you are.” Goldman brought his hands together and absentmindedly started rubbing them together again. He caught Jack Durkin glaring at them and he shoved his hands into his pockets. “The important thing now is to get you released so you can go back to that field, right?”

“I know what I saw,” Durkin said slowly, “I ain’t delusional. And I ain’t letting you say that I’m crazy.”

“How about this,” Goldman said. “You keep telling people what you saw and let me take care of the rest.”

Durkin was going to argue with him that it was important for people to believe what happened, but the morphine and antibiotics had wiped him out. He sank back into his bed and closed his eyes. Before drifting off, he murmured to the lawyer to find out if first frost had come yet. That the fate of the world depended on him learning that.

Later that night Goldman was at a local brewery slowly working through his second nut-brown ale when he was clapped on the shoulder from behind. He turned with his lopsided-grin in place for William McGrale, the state’s attorney who was going to be prosecuting Jack Durkin.

“Goldman, how’d you get in here?” McGrale asked. “Let me guess, you used a fake ID?”

Goldman shook hands with McGrale. “Nah, I threw my fake one out years ago. I’ve been legal six years now. How are you doing, Mr. McGrale?”

“After three scotches, pretty damn good.” A slight sheen showed over the prosecutor’s eyes. “What do you say you grab that soda pop you’re drinking, and the two of us move over to a table and discuss your client.”

“Are you buying dinner?”

“Anything for a deserving young attorney.”