He loaded the snake’s empty crate into the trunk of his car, to dispose of later. He spoke to Tillie again as he squeezed her wrist. She wasn’t making this easier. Because of her dedication to fitness she weighed only 110 pounds, and for this he was grateful. He managed to fling her over his shoulder, stagger down the front steps, and toss her into the rear seat. She did not make a sound.
Poplar Bluff was an hour away and had a nice regional hospital. He planned to arrive well after midnight and hopefully the A-team would be gone. He drove as slowly as possible and took several wrong turns. Not a sound from the back seat. At the edge of town, he stopped at an all-night convenience store for a coffee to go. With no one looking because there was no one else to be seen, he reached into the rear and checked her pulse again. He breathed a sigh of relief.
Tilda Malloy, his quarrelsome wife of forty-seven long and unhappy years, was finally dead.
Bolton hurried on to the hospital and wheeled into the emergency entrance.
（22）
The snake had not fled the house. He was coiled on the kitchen floor having a snooze when the crew arrived and saw him. They kept their distance as they searched the house and found no one. Oddly, all doors were open, all lights were on.
The dispatch log would reveal that the call from Mr. Malloy came in at 11:02. The EMTs reported arriving at 11:55, after several wrong turns. They secured the house, closed the doors, and checked out at 12:20.
And they took the snake with them. The unit chief had a thing for reptiles, enjoyed collecting them, and often did a Serpent Safety routine at area schools. He had never seen such a beautiful, and rare, speckled king snake and had no trouble capturing him. He assumed he was not a pet, but would readily bring him back if so requested. No request would ever be made.
The ER records would show that Mr. Malloy arrived at 1:18 a.m., with his nonresponsive wife in the rear seat. She was put on a stretcher, rushed into an exam room, and promptly declared dead.
A nurse quizzed Mr. Malloy and got the basics. She noticed his swollen and bandaged hand. He waved her off and said he had injured himself working on the deck the previous afternoon. A doctor insisted on looking at his hand and was intrigued by the odd semicircle of bite marks. Mr. Malloy insisted he had not been bitten by anyone or anything, and became uncooperative. The nurse noticed blood on the deceased’s nightshirt and asked Mr. Malloy about it. Of course it was his. His hand was bleeding when he had no choice but to haul her from the bedroom to the car. The doctor asked if they could take photos of his wound and he refused.
Two deputies arrived with an injured drunk driver, and their presence emboldened the doctor. He asked Bolton again if he could photograph his wound, and when he angrily declined the doctor nodded at a deputy. The two came over and had a look at Bolton’s left hand.
“Looks like a snakebite,” one of them said. “Nonpoisonous. A rattler and you’d have two deep fangs and swelling out your ass.”
The other deputy concurred and said, “A perfect row of tiny teeth. Big constrictor. I’d say either a corn snake or a king snake.”
Bolton waved them off with “Please, guys, I’ve just lost my wife. Could I have some privacy here? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Sure. Sorry.”
“Yes, sir. Sorry.”
They left and Bolton puttered around the hallway, waiting for someone to tell him what to do next. The hospital wasn’t busy and he grew irritated at the delay. About an hour after he’d arrived, the same doctor pulled up a chair and asked if he wanted coffee. It was almost 2:30 in the morning, not his usual coffee hour. The doctor explained the protocol: At around 8:00 a.m., the funeral home director would come to the hospital and discuss the death. Bolton would be needed to verify the identity of the deceased and discuss her medical history. When satisfied with the cause, the funeral home director would then prepare a death certificate.
“She wanted to be cremated,” Bolton said gravely. She did not. Tillie wanted a full-blown Catholic Mass, with communion. Bolton was secretly opposed to this because he was afraid of a sparse crowd.
The doctor replied, “Well, under Missouri law you have to wait twenty-four hours before you can cremate a loved one.”
“I know Missouri law,” Bolton said rudely. “I’ve practiced it for forty years.” Which was true, though he had never specialized in cremations. He was now sharp on that little niche in the law, because he had mentally rehearsed this scenario a hundred times.
The doctor was patient and said, “Okay, why don’t you get some sleep and meet me and the funeral home director here at eight?”