Snow Day -- part 7
Apr. 25th, 2009 05:38 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rabidsamfanThe phone rang again, and Trapper gave up and brought the whole coffeepot out from the kitchen. "Mendocino South Ranger Station," he said, tucking the receiver between his ear and his shoulder so he would have both hands free to pour the coffee.
"I'm trying to reach John McIntyre?"
"Speaking."
"My name is Pat Flaherty; I'm with the San Francisco office of the Federal Bureau of Investigations. I've been talking to Lt. Bristow in Sacramento, and I just wanted to confirm some points with you. Is the Stanley Riverside you're looking for any relation to Stanley Riverside the businessman?"
"His son," Trapper said, grateful that the agent seemed to know that much at least.
"Ayuh, that's rich enough." The New England voice paused for a moment, and Trapper heard the scratching of a pen. "And what makes you think this might be a kidnapping? Has there been a ransom note?"
"No, no ransom note. To be frank, I'm hoping that it's a kidnapping because that would give us a better chance of not finding Stanley dead in a dumpster or alley somewhere."
"Well, now, we're not even sure yet that the fellow they found up in Sacramento is George Gates, yet. Don't you think that you're leaping to conclusions here?"
"Look, Mr. Flaherty," Trapper said testily. "I know all about the value of time. Sometimes you've got to start action on the basis of a guess, because if you wait for all the proof to come in you've lost your best chance of saving the patient. We're not talking about a pair of irresponsible kids missing, we're talking about two grown men, doctors, who are at least fifteen hours overdue, with no report of an accident, and a strong possibility that at least one of them has been kicked nearly to death. You know how rich Riverside Senior is. Don't you think it's possible that whoever hurt Gonzo might have recognized that Stanley's worth more to them alive? Don't you think you ought to at least try to find out if that's what's happened?"
"Take it easy, Doctor. I didn't say I wasn't going to start investigating, I'm just trying to find somewhere to start. Has anyone threatened either man, that you know of?"
Trapper spent the next twenty minutes answering questions, letting the cup of coffee go cold as he described his friends' lives and foibles to the unresponsive agent. It was very frustrating. Flaherty seemed to be asking questions from a script that had nothing to do with anything in Trapper's experience. Very seldom did the agent ask Trapper to elaborate on anything, and the items that did seem to interest him formed an offensive pattern. Trapper tried to hang onto his temper.
"Yes, Stanley did have a nervous breakdown earlier this year, but it was very mild. Yes, he was arrested for drunken driving, but it was just exhaustion; and no, I don't believe that he would hurt Dr. Gates, no matter how tired he was. For one thing, Stanley wouldn't resort to violence without tremendous provocation, and for another, if they did get into a fight, Gonzo would win."
"Do you think that Gates would start a fight?"
"No. I think they started up to the cabin, and something happened to them. Or someone. I know both of them pretty well, and believe me, whatever happened to Gonzo, Stanley didn't do it."
---
"I'm sorry."
"It's all right, Stan." Gonzo shifted position a little, and sighed. "I think we were both getting stupid from the cold. It's not your fault."
"Well, I could have steered better," Stanley mumbled, and settled the parka more carefully around Gonzo. He had made a cocoon, with the plastic sheet as outside, and their coats and the clothes from the bags as cushioning, with both of them at the center. And he had found the space blanket in the torn parka pocket, which helped reflect the heat back to the pair of them. It would have been pretty useless to wrap Gonzo without something warm, and Stanley was the only warm thing on the mountainside. The only problem was that now Stanley was almost warm, and he wanted desperately to go to sleep. Which he couldn't, not with his head throbbing the way it was. And he couldn't figure out whether or not to tell Gonzo about it. "I'm just no good at this," Stanley concluded mournfully.
"No good at what?" Gonzo asked.
"Outdoor stuff. Dad always says I should just stick to playing doctor anyway."
"He would," Gonzo said sourly. "Look, Stanley, how many times have you ever had the chance to do outdoor stuff?"
"Well, I did go to camp when I was a kid."
"That's summertime, Stan. And besides, it depends on what kind of camp it was. I mean, some camps have lots of outdoor stuff and other camps don't. I went to one camp one year where all we ever did was swim in the lake and make junk out of pine cones and plastic laces."
"I liked making things," Stanley said. "I made a wallet for my dad once. There were little hammers and dies to make patterns in the leather. And I liked making lanyards. I could work on them even when I was sitting in the nurse's cabin."
"Why would you be in the nurse's cabin?"
"Asthma," Stanley shrugged. "They still thought that exercise was bad for it back then. I wasn't allowed to go on hikes or stuff, so I had to wait in the nurse's cabin a lot with Hubert DeGroot and Murray Feinster. They had asthma too."
"The only time I had to go to the nurse was when I had poison ivy," Gonzo said. "Mind you, I was pretty good at finding poison ivy. There was one summer I had so much calamine lotion on me the other kids started calling me 'Pinky'."
"Really?" Stanley had a hard time picturing it. "Did you mind?"
"I hated it," Gonzo's voice still held a little of that long ago indignation. "But they were bigger than me, so I just had to grin and bear it. I was only nine."
"They called me 'Stinky'," Stanley said.
"That's pretty lousy," Gonzo said.
"Well, they called Hubert ‘the Gook' and Murray got stuck with ‘Little Boy Blue' because he went cyanotic one time when the counselors didn't want to listen. I hate nicknames."
"Well, there aren't any nursery rhymes about anybody named Stanley," Gonzo pointed out. "By the time I started calling myself ‘Gonzo', I was so sick of hearing ‘Georgie Porgie pudding and pie,' I was ready to punch somebody."
"Well, the girls don't cry when you kiss them now," Stanley said, ready to switch topics if it meant not thinking about three skinny outsiders sitting on a splintery bench, watching the rest of the kids playing.
Gonzo shrugged. "Hey, you know what they say; practice makes perfect."
"That's what dad says," Stanley said. "I've never been able to understand it. It's like he doesn't feel anything. When I was with Carson, she was all I could think about. I wanted to marry her, I really did. But she said no. Even after I asked her the second time."
Gonzo stiffened a little, listening more carefully. "Your dad doesn't feel anything?" he repeated.
"I guess not. It's not like he ever stays with any one girl for very long. Sometimes I think that when my mom ran away it made him not trust women or something like that. Like he just wants to blot out anything that has to do with her. Even... even pictures and stuff." Stanley fidgeted with a flap of cloth. "I'm never going to forget Carson, I don't even want to. I mean she was the first girl who ever..."
"Stan, you're babbling," Gonzo said firmly. "What's wrong? Where are you hurt?"
"I've got a concussion," Stanley's innate honesty answered before his censors could come back on line. "I mean...well... probably anyway. It hurts like a concussion."
"Stan! Why didn't you tell me?"
"I didn't want you to worry. You can't do anything about it, and I thought it would just make things worse." Stanley said unhappily. "I'm sorry. I can't do anything right."
"Oh, don't get all upset about it," Gonzo said exasperatedly. "It's not like you did it deliberately. It's just one more thing to have to deal with, that's all."
"But...but..."
"How bad is it? Can you describe the symptoms? Any blurred vision or hemiplegia?" Gonzo put on his best bedside manner.
"Not severe," Stanley said, responding to the medical terminology. "There's pain, of course, and some light sensitivity. And I've got a fairly large contusion on the back of my head, just over the lambda fontenelle. Some nausea, and dizziness, but I can keep them under control if I move slowly. But I'm afraid to go to sleep, and I can't tell if the numbness in my extremities is from the concussion or the cold."
"Did this happen last night or just now?" Gonzo asked, remembering how Stanley had thrown up earlier in the morning.
"Well, I hit it last night, but it wasn't too bad, just a bump and a headache mostly. But now it's worse." Stanley was too miserable to pretend that he was all right now, and he felt the familiar tightness of failure in his chest. "I'm sorry, Gates. I meant to take care of you."
"Who says you haven't?" Gonzo exclaimed, surprised. "Stanley Riverside, if you haven't been taking care of me since last night, then I'd like to know who the hell has been bandaging my eyes, leading me down a mountain, and keeping me from dying of shock."
"But I've never done any of this before! I'm just faking it!" Stanley exclaimed.
"Well, so am I!" Gonzo's voice was nearly as high as Stanley's was. "I've never been blind before. I've never had an avalanche dumped on my car or been stranded in the backside of nowhere. Every other time I've ever been in the woods somebody has known exactly where to come looking for me if I get in trouble, and I've never gotten into trouble worse than a couple of bee stings and a broken arm. Of course I'm faking it. I'm just glad I'm not alone."
There was a very long silence while Stanley absorbed that. Finally he said, very quietly, "I thought you would be unhappy enough, having to lean on me. I didn't want you to think I was a broken stick."
"Stan, you're not a stick, you're a friend. And I'm not unhappy about depending on you, because I know that I can."
"But that's just it," Stanley protested. "What if I black out? What if I start getting incoherent?"
"I'll cross that bridge if we come to it," Gonzo said. "But in the meantime, I think we should start walking again. Unless you've seen helicopters or planes searching that I haven't heard."
"No. I wish I had." Stanley started the process of sitting up and repacking the bag. "Do you think John is ever going to find us?"
"He'll find us. But if we're at the bottom of the switchbacks we've only got about three and a half miles to the end of the pass road, and after that it should be plowed all the way to the cabin. Think what a surprise it would be for us to walk in." Gonzo sat up and tried to help with the packing.
"I suppose so," Stanley said. "John must be very worried by now."
---
"Is that lunch I smell?" Mike came out of the bathroom, still drying his face with a towel.
"It's just the chili," Trapper said, setting out bowls and spoons. "I was getting to the point where I couldn't drink any more coffee without something in my stomach."
Mike nodded and settled himself into one of the chairs, eyeing his houseguest shrewdly. "You don't look like you've gotten any definite word, but something's got you by the short hairs. What's happened?"
Trapper's mouth twisted, "Well, I may have the FBI hunting down Stanley for Gonzo's murder, which has me a little bugged, but other than that it's been a pretty lousy morning. How are you?"
Mike got up, went to the cupboard, and came back with a bottle of scotch and a small glass. He poured a couple of fingers into it and handed it to Trapper. "Here. I'm not going to let you get drunk, but a quick jolt might help." He waited until Trapper had knocked back the liquor before he settled back into his chair again. "Now, why would the FBI be involved, and what makes you think that Gonzo's been murdered?"
"Almost murdered," Trapper said, when he was sure his voice would sound more normal. "The Sacramento P.D. found a man in a dumpster who fits -- at least, might fit -- Gonzo's description. And there's no sign of Stan or the jeep. I thought a kidnapping, maybe, or a robbery -- Gonzo would fight back. But the FBI agent I talked to seemed to think that Stanley flipped out, just because he had a little nervous breakdown a while back." Trapper rubbed at his face, "And the longer I sit here trying not to think about the idea the more reasonable it seems. But it's nuts. Stanley wouldn't hurt Gonzo. Not to the point of nearly killing him. I don't think he could if he wanted to."
"How do they get along, mostly?"
Trapper thought about it. "Pretty well. When Gonzo first came I think Stan kind of resented him, and Gonzo thought Stan was an officious jerk, but they know each other better these days. I mean, Stanley got accused of maltreating a patient, and Gonzo went to a lot of trouble to clear his name. Mind you, Gonzo was the one who thought Stan might have messed up in the first place." Trapper bit his knuckles. "Stan can be a real pain. He's fussy, and sometimes he is an officious jerk, but he can also be incredibly generous. And I've never known him to hold a grudge. He got conned by a couple of old ladies, his old nanny and a friend of hers, into thinking that the friend was his real mother. And Stanley wants someone to love so much he fell right for it. Hook, line and sinker. I've never seen him so happy. Naturally, the whole thing fell apart. They rooked him for twenty grand, and when Stanley figured out that he'd been taken he was really crushed, but did he hold a grudge? Not Stan. They bought this little diner, and he goes out and eats there at least once a week, just to talk to them. The nanny's got cancer, and Stan's paying all her medical bills on the QT. Now does that sound like a man who would beat someone -- kick someone -- nearly to death?"
"Nope," Mike said simply, getting the chili pot and dishing some into each bowl. "What about Gates? Would someone want to beat him up besides Stanley?"
Trapper snorted. "Not lately. He's been a little more discreet since the paternity suit and the sexual misconduct accusation."
Mike raised an eyebrow. "I take it he's a ladies' man, then?"
"Oh, yes. Gonzo makes the most of bachelorhood. If it weren't for the simple fact that he works every damn bit as hard as he plays and more he'd cause more trouble than he's worth. Mind you, he doesn't poach, and he doesn't push, and he's fallen off the deep end once or twice but it's never worked out. I don't know anyone he's upset lately, but he can be obstinate and opinionated, and tactless, so he's certainly gotten people ticked off at him. Sometimes seriously." Trapper shook his head. "But not Stan. I mean, not seriously. Gonzo might irritate Stan sometimes, but all he ever has to do is pour on the charm, and Stanley always forgives him."
"I think," Mike said, "that you've been having to entertain ugly possibilities all morning, and so now, when you're tired, you're starting to let your imagination get the better of you. Go lie down for a while, and I'll mind the phones."
"But..." Trapper started to protest.
"If something definite comes up, I'll wake you," Mike promised. "But the deal was that I would take a nap and then you would, remember?"
Trapper sighed. "I suppose you're right."
"I know I am." Mike took the bowls to the sink and turned on the water. "People start jumping to wild conclusions when they haven't had any sleep, John. They make poor decisions. We need to prevent that. The one thing that will make things even worse is if we stop thinking clearly."
---
"I'm trying to reach John McIntyre?"
"Speaking."
"My name is Pat Flaherty; I'm with the San Francisco office of the Federal Bureau of Investigations. I've been talking to Lt. Bristow in Sacramento, and I just wanted to confirm some points with you. Is the Stanley Riverside you're looking for any relation to Stanley Riverside the businessman?"
"His son," Trapper said, grateful that the agent seemed to know that much at least.
"Ayuh, that's rich enough." The New England voice paused for a moment, and Trapper heard the scratching of a pen. "And what makes you think this might be a kidnapping? Has there been a ransom note?"
"No, no ransom note. To be frank, I'm hoping that it's a kidnapping because that would give us a better chance of not finding Stanley dead in a dumpster or alley somewhere."
"Well, now, we're not even sure yet that the fellow they found up in Sacramento is George Gates, yet. Don't you think that you're leaping to conclusions here?"
"Look, Mr. Flaherty," Trapper said testily. "I know all about the value of time. Sometimes you've got to start action on the basis of a guess, because if you wait for all the proof to come in you've lost your best chance of saving the patient. We're not talking about a pair of irresponsible kids missing, we're talking about two grown men, doctors, who are at least fifteen hours overdue, with no report of an accident, and a strong possibility that at least one of them has been kicked nearly to death. You know how rich Riverside Senior is. Don't you think it's possible that whoever hurt Gonzo might have recognized that Stanley's worth more to them alive? Don't you think you ought to at least try to find out if that's what's happened?"
"Take it easy, Doctor. I didn't say I wasn't going to start investigating, I'm just trying to find somewhere to start. Has anyone threatened either man, that you know of?"
Trapper spent the next twenty minutes answering questions, letting the cup of coffee go cold as he described his friends' lives and foibles to the unresponsive agent. It was very frustrating. Flaherty seemed to be asking questions from a script that had nothing to do with anything in Trapper's experience. Very seldom did the agent ask Trapper to elaborate on anything, and the items that did seem to interest him formed an offensive pattern. Trapper tried to hang onto his temper.
"Yes, Stanley did have a nervous breakdown earlier this year, but it was very mild. Yes, he was arrested for drunken driving, but it was just exhaustion; and no, I don't believe that he would hurt Dr. Gates, no matter how tired he was. For one thing, Stanley wouldn't resort to violence without tremendous provocation, and for another, if they did get into a fight, Gonzo would win."
"Do you think that Gates would start a fight?"
"No. I think they started up to the cabin, and something happened to them. Or someone. I know both of them pretty well, and believe me, whatever happened to Gonzo, Stanley didn't do it."
---
"I'm sorry."
"It's all right, Stan." Gonzo shifted position a little, and sighed. "I think we were both getting stupid from the cold. It's not your fault."
"Well, I could have steered better," Stanley mumbled, and settled the parka more carefully around Gonzo. He had made a cocoon, with the plastic sheet as outside, and their coats and the clothes from the bags as cushioning, with both of them at the center. And he had found the space blanket in the torn parka pocket, which helped reflect the heat back to the pair of them. It would have been pretty useless to wrap Gonzo without something warm, and Stanley was the only warm thing on the mountainside. The only problem was that now Stanley was almost warm, and he wanted desperately to go to sleep. Which he couldn't, not with his head throbbing the way it was. And he couldn't figure out whether or not to tell Gonzo about it. "I'm just no good at this," Stanley concluded mournfully.
"No good at what?" Gonzo asked.
"Outdoor stuff. Dad always says I should just stick to playing doctor anyway."
"He would," Gonzo said sourly. "Look, Stanley, how many times have you ever had the chance to do outdoor stuff?"
"Well, I did go to camp when I was a kid."
"That's summertime, Stan. And besides, it depends on what kind of camp it was. I mean, some camps have lots of outdoor stuff and other camps don't. I went to one camp one year where all we ever did was swim in the lake and make junk out of pine cones and plastic laces."
"I liked making things," Stanley said. "I made a wallet for my dad once. There were little hammers and dies to make patterns in the leather. And I liked making lanyards. I could work on them even when I was sitting in the nurse's cabin."
"Why would you be in the nurse's cabin?"
"Asthma," Stanley shrugged. "They still thought that exercise was bad for it back then. I wasn't allowed to go on hikes or stuff, so I had to wait in the nurse's cabin a lot with Hubert DeGroot and Murray Feinster. They had asthma too."
"The only time I had to go to the nurse was when I had poison ivy," Gonzo said. "Mind you, I was pretty good at finding poison ivy. There was one summer I had so much calamine lotion on me the other kids started calling me 'Pinky'."
"Really?" Stanley had a hard time picturing it. "Did you mind?"
"I hated it," Gonzo's voice still held a little of that long ago indignation. "But they were bigger than me, so I just had to grin and bear it. I was only nine."
"They called me 'Stinky'," Stanley said.
"That's pretty lousy," Gonzo said.
"Well, they called Hubert ‘the Gook' and Murray got stuck with ‘Little Boy Blue' because he went cyanotic one time when the counselors didn't want to listen. I hate nicknames."
"Well, there aren't any nursery rhymes about anybody named Stanley," Gonzo pointed out. "By the time I started calling myself ‘Gonzo', I was so sick of hearing ‘Georgie Porgie pudding and pie,' I was ready to punch somebody."
"Well, the girls don't cry when you kiss them now," Stanley said, ready to switch topics if it meant not thinking about three skinny outsiders sitting on a splintery bench, watching the rest of the kids playing.
Gonzo shrugged. "Hey, you know what they say; practice makes perfect."
"That's what dad says," Stanley said. "I've never been able to understand it. It's like he doesn't feel anything. When I was with Carson, she was all I could think about. I wanted to marry her, I really did. But she said no. Even after I asked her the second time."
Gonzo stiffened a little, listening more carefully. "Your dad doesn't feel anything?" he repeated.
"I guess not. It's not like he ever stays with any one girl for very long. Sometimes I think that when my mom ran away it made him not trust women or something like that. Like he just wants to blot out anything that has to do with her. Even... even pictures and stuff." Stanley fidgeted with a flap of cloth. "I'm never going to forget Carson, I don't even want to. I mean she was the first girl who ever..."
"Stan, you're babbling," Gonzo said firmly. "What's wrong? Where are you hurt?"
"I've got a concussion," Stanley's innate honesty answered before his censors could come back on line. "I mean...well... probably anyway. It hurts like a concussion."
"Stan! Why didn't you tell me?"
"I didn't want you to worry. You can't do anything about it, and I thought it would just make things worse." Stanley said unhappily. "I'm sorry. I can't do anything right."
"Oh, don't get all upset about it," Gonzo said exasperatedly. "It's not like you did it deliberately. It's just one more thing to have to deal with, that's all."
"But...but..."
"How bad is it? Can you describe the symptoms? Any blurred vision or hemiplegia?" Gonzo put on his best bedside manner.
"Not severe," Stanley said, responding to the medical terminology. "There's pain, of course, and some light sensitivity. And I've got a fairly large contusion on the back of my head, just over the lambda fontenelle. Some nausea, and dizziness, but I can keep them under control if I move slowly. But I'm afraid to go to sleep, and I can't tell if the numbness in my extremities is from the concussion or the cold."
"Did this happen last night or just now?" Gonzo asked, remembering how Stanley had thrown up earlier in the morning.
"Well, I hit it last night, but it wasn't too bad, just a bump and a headache mostly. But now it's worse." Stanley was too miserable to pretend that he was all right now, and he felt the familiar tightness of failure in his chest. "I'm sorry, Gates. I meant to take care of you."
"Who says you haven't?" Gonzo exclaimed, surprised. "Stanley Riverside, if you haven't been taking care of me since last night, then I'd like to know who the hell has been bandaging my eyes, leading me down a mountain, and keeping me from dying of shock."
"But I've never done any of this before! I'm just faking it!" Stanley exclaimed.
"Well, so am I!" Gonzo's voice was nearly as high as Stanley's was. "I've never been blind before. I've never had an avalanche dumped on my car or been stranded in the backside of nowhere. Every other time I've ever been in the woods somebody has known exactly where to come looking for me if I get in trouble, and I've never gotten into trouble worse than a couple of bee stings and a broken arm. Of course I'm faking it. I'm just glad I'm not alone."
There was a very long silence while Stanley absorbed that. Finally he said, very quietly, "I thought you would be unhappy enough, having to lean on me. I didn't want you to think I was a broken stick."
"Stan, you're not a stick, you're a friend. And I'm not unhappy about depending on you, because I know that I can."
"But that's just it," Stanley protested. "What if I black out? What if I start getting incoherent?"
"I'll cross that bridge if we come to it," Gonzo said. "But in the meantime, I think we should start walking again. Unless you've seen helicopters or planes searching that I haven't heard."
"No. I wish I had." Stanley started the process of sitting up and repacking the bag. "Do you think John is ever going to find us?"
"He'll find us. But if we're at the bottom of the switchbacks we've only got about three and a half miles to the end of the pass road, and after that it should be plowed all the way to the cabin. Think what a surprise it would be for us to walk in." Gonzo sat up and tried to help with the packing.
"I suppose so," Stanley said. "John must be very worried by now."
---
"Is that lunch I smell?" Mike came out of the bathroom, still drying his face with a towel.
"It's just the chili," Trapper said, setting out bowls and spoons. "I was getting to the point where I couldn't drink any more coffee without something in my stomach."
Mike nodded and settled himself into one of the chairs, eyeing his houseguest shrewdly. "You don't look like you've gotten any definite word, but something's got you by the short hairs. What's happened?"
Trapper's mouth twisted, "Well, I may have the FBI hunting down Stanley for Gonzo's murder, which has me a little bugged, but other than that it's been a pretty lousy morning. How are you?"
Mike got up, went to the cupboard, and came back with a bottle of scotch and a small glass. He poured a couple of fingers into it and handed it to Trapper. "Here. I'm not going to let you get drunk, but a quick jolt might help." He waited until Trapper had knocked back the liquor before he settled back into his chair again. "Now, why would the FBI be involved, and what makes you think that Gonzo's been murdered?"
"Almost murdered," Trapper said, when he was sure his voice would sound more normal. "The Sacramento P.D. found a man in a dumpster who fits -- at least, might fit -- Gonzo's description. And there's no sign of Stan or the jeep. I thought a kidnapping, maybe, or a robbery -- Gonzo would fight back. But the FBI agent I talked to seemed to think that Stanley flipped out, just because he had a little nervous breakdown a while back." Trapper rubbed at his face, "And the longer I sit here trying not to think about the idea the more reasonable it seems. But it's nuts. Stanley wouldn't hurt Gonzo. Not to the point of nearly killing him. I don't think he could if he wanted to."
"How do they get along, mostly?"
Trapper thought about it. "Pretty well. When Gonzo first came I think Stan kind of resented him, and Gonzo thought Stan was an officious jerk, but they know each other better these days. I mean, Stanley got accused of maltreating a patient, and Gonzo went to a lot of trouble to clear his name. Mind you, Gonzo was the one who thought Stan might have messed up in the first place." Trapper bit his knuckles. "Stan can be a real pain. He's fussy, and sometimes he is an officious jerk, but he can also be incredibly generous. And I've never known him to hold a grudge. He got conned by a couple of old ladies, his old nanny and a friend of hers, into thinking that the friend was his real mother. And Stanley wants someone to love so much he fell right for it. Hook, line and sinker. I've never seen him so happy. Naturally, the whole thing fell apart. They rooked him for twenty grand, and when Stanley figured out that he'd been taken he was really crushed, but did he hold a grudge? Not Stan. They bought this little diner, and he goes out and eats there at least once a week, just to talk to them. The nanny's got cancer, and Stan's paying all her medical bills on the QT. Now does that sound like a man who would beat someone -- kick someone -- nearly to death?"
"Nope," Mike said simply, getting the chili pot and dishing some into each bowl. "What about Gates? Would someone want to beat him up besides Stanley?"
Trapper snorted. "Not lately. He's been a little more discreet since the paternity suit and the sexual misconduct accusation."
Mike raised an eyebrow. "I take it he's a ladies' man, then?"
"Oh, yes. Gonzo makes the most of bachelorhood. If it weren't for the simple fact that he works every damn bit as hard as he plays and more he'd cause more trouble than he's worth. Mind you, he doesn't poach, and he doesn't push, and he's fallen off the deep end once or twice but it's never worked out. I don't know anyone he's upset lately, but he can be obstinate and opinionated, and tactless, so he's certainly gotten people ticked off at him. Sometimes seriously." Trapper shook his head. "But not Stan. I mean, not seriously. Gonzo might irritate Stan sometimes, but all he ever has to do is pour on the charm, and Stanley always forgives him."
"I think," Mike said, "that you've been having to entertain ugly possibilities all morning, and so now, when you're tired, you're starting to let your imagination get the better of you. Go lie down for a while, and I'll mind the phones."
"But..." Trapper started to protest.
"If something definite comes up, I'll wake you," Mike promised. "But the deal was that I would take a nap and then you would, remember?"
Trapper sighed. "I suppose you're right."
"I know I am." Mike took the bowls to the sink and turned on the water. "People start jumping to wild conclusions when they haven't had any sleep, John. They make poor decisions. We need to prevent that. The one thing that will make things even worse is if we stop thinking clearly."
---
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