was just as well. Cole had stayed too long in Grand Rapids. The gray of the winter skies had gotten under his skin and set his mood to match. If he sold off his pony trailer, Daisy's saddle and harness, and one trunkful of his costumes, he thought he might get enough money to get away. Maybe he'd wind up in Ocean City or Myrtle Beach in time for the tourists. He'd figure it out on the way. He'd hold on to his cameras until worse came to worse.
Once he got settled again, he could even sell his car. Cole was a vagabond by choice, and he knew his feet and his thumb would serve him as well as four wheels he could not afford to keep in gas and tires. But he was a photographer by blood, and no amount of squaring his fingers and clicking his throat could substitute for his Canon and a roll of film.
There was plenty of trunk space in the wheezing Buick, once blue but now mostly rust. Even packed with all of the belongings Cole could salvage after his scramble for funds, there was room enough to sleep back there, which he might someday soon be forced to do.
Or to transport a rug-wrapped body to a burial with the fishes. He immediately regretted the thought. The image gave him a prickling chill. He let his imagination get the best of him. He slammed the trunk lid hard three times to get it to latch, then rolled his shirtsleeves down to cover his goose bumps. It was time to go to someplace warm, away from this chronic winter turning him morose and unsettled.
He should call his father first, or rather leave word with his father's custodians where he could be reached. Necessity might push him into a decision on where that might be.
On second thought, he might as well visit. At least it would give him a direction to head when he drove out of town.
Four hours later, Cole turned up the circular drive around the St. Vincent's statue, a pigeon perched on its alabaster head, surrounded by tulips just beginning to nudge their green shoots out of the ground. It was not visiting hours, so parking was plentiful, but just to be perverse Cole pulled into the spot marked "Reserved for Chaplain."
The reception hall had its familiar smell of floor wax, old carnations, and urine. He always marveled at the shine on the black and white tile. Cole smiled at the armed guard at the door who acknowledged him by removing his finger from its search up his nose to stick it under his armpit, never changing the scowl wrinkling his face.
"Cole Brewer. I'm here to see my father, Duncan Brewer," he said in a hushed voice to the receptionist.
Without looking up, she answered in a nasal drone, "Visiting hours are one to three and seven to eight-thirty. Visitors must have a pass from the attending doctor."
"That's just it. I received a call from him and was told to come right away," Cole lied. "He said he'd leave a pass at the desk."
Heaving a huge sigh, the broomstick of a woman eyed him over her glasses. "What's his name?"
"Duncan Brewer."
"The doctor's name," she whined.
"Oh, sorry," Cole flashed her one of his usually irresistible smiles to no effect. "Doctor Lorenzo Fitapaldi."
"I shoulda guessed." With a show of elaborate irritation, she checked a file folder then pulled a pad from under her blotter. "I'm writing you a temporary pass. It is good for today only. You are to turn it in to me when you leave. But first Doctor Fitapaldi has left a standing order you should see him before visiting your father."
"Thank you. But I have very little time."
Her pen stopped scratching and she cocked an eyebrow up at him. "Well, then, there will be no pass.
Cole looked down at the floor and saw streaks of grime trapped in the thick wax. "I'll see him."
Five minutes later, he sat across from Fitapaldi, screening out most of the doctor's words with daydreams of the Carolina shore.
"Naturally, we do not need your consent, but I feel you should be informed. This new drug is experimental and the treatment plan will be carefully monitored. Your father's participation could lead to a way to return patients to functional life."
"Return?" The word brought Cole to attention and he felt all the blood drain from his face.
"Oh, not your father's return, of course. The terms of his conviction preclude that.