in on the eggs deal, but my sisters were chatting back and forth about chicken varieties, pleasant with each other for the first time in weeks. In the interests of peace and financial security, I said, “Not now for specialty chickens. Spending fifty bucks for a fertile egg or a hatched chick is a gamble for the future.” I ladled stew and set the bowls on the table, thinking, gamble for the future. My future and my sisters’ futures were major gambles. For starters, it was time for my pregnant sister to grow up. And to be protected. She would have to do the former on her own, but I could help with the latter.
After dinner, I called Daddy and put a toe into the water with a long discussion about counseling sessions for Jed and Esther, and who he should petition for the counseling. Daddy didn’t like it. He was reluctant to drag Jedidiah and Esther before the church elders’ court, since Jed had already demanded divorce and Esther had leaves. I didn’t push it. Not yet.
Then I mentioned requesting back her dowry and Daddy went dead silent. Quietly he said, “Tradition is a strong thing in a church life. Asking for a dowry to be returned is a mighty rare occurrence. There might be . . . repercussions.”
“I imagine so.” I finished the call with the words, “Thank you. I just wanted to know our options, which include fighting this divorce tooth and nail. Or getting back Esther’s dowry. Options are good things. ’Night, Daddy.” Touching the cell’s face, I ended the call.
I was thinking like a townie woman, modern and self-sufficient and sneaky. And it was about dang time.
* * *
* * *
Sunday morning meant a leaf-scaping for Esther and me, and a drive to the church for devotionals and church services under the protection of the Nicholson patriarch. It was dawn, and my legally adjudicated custody requirements meant Mud attended church on Sundays. I attended with her, except when I had a case. The Stella Mae Ragel case meant a quick escape. I dropped my sisters off at the Nicholson house and drove away fast, before Daddy could call me in and talk some more about the brewing Esther-war.
On the way from church to HQ, JoJo texted me that Catriona had been officially charged with murder. I might have cussed just a bit, but when she sent an order to detour to the University of Tennessee Medical Center, that cut my reaction short. Her text informed me that everyone, including Tandy, was in Cookeville interviewing the dozens of people involved in Stella Mae’s life. FireWind was deeply involved in trying to stop the FBI SAC’s witch hunt, while simultaneously using his position to get her daughter turned over to Etain, the child’s aunt. This was my solo mission. Except for Tandy, who hadn’t been his best self, no one from PsyLED had been there yet.
I had been to UTMC before to interview patients and it was never fun. I wouldn’t have minded had Jo sent someone else. Except there was no one else.
The University of Tennessee proper was on one side of the Tennessee River and the medical part was on the other. It was a sprawling hospital, with insufficient special parking for law enforcement, but it was Sunday, with few scheduled procedures and surgeries, and it was early enough that the church folk were still in church, so my trek to the paranormal unit wasn’t too onerous. As I entered the para unit, I passed by the portable null room trailer, which was parked at a side entrance with caution cones all around. It looked empty, though with no windows, who knew?
In the paranormal unit, I showed my ID at the nurses’ station and asked to talk with whichever paranormal hospitalist was on duty. The doctor was busy, so I dressed out according to instructions and meandered down the hall until I found the first patient, Stella Mae’s drummer, Thomas Langer. Thomas was the man in the ambulance who had waved at me a little less than forty-eight hours ago. It seemed a lot longer. He was a heavily tattooed, bearded black man with dreadlocks. I loved dreadlocks. Normally they looked alive and vibrant, but not so much now. Thomas was on life support, a ventilator whooshing and ticking. His hands were bandaged and wrapped with sticky wrap so that I could only see the tips of his middle fingers, but they were green, and