Bride & Groom

but only in the manner of a writer’s workspace. A computer and printer sat on the desk, the surface of which was thick with paper. Yellow legal pads were piled on the floor. Books leaned lopsidedly against one another on shelves. Paper spilled from a wastebasket. Hurriedly, I led the way to Judith’s bedroom. The bed had been made. All the drawers were closed. I opened the door to the big closet. No one was in it. The other two bedrooms on the second floor had evidently once been the children’s. In one, framed photographs of stringed instruments suggested Ian. The other room had a flowered comforter and matching pillowcases. Neither room looked used.
    “No one,” I said at normal volume. “Mac’s office is on the ground floor. I guess his bedroom is there, too. We probably should’ve looked there first.”
    We both ran down the stairs to the first floor, then down to the entryway, where we paused to locate light switches and illuminate the stairs that led downward. Foolish though it was, we again called out for Mac and Judith.
    This time, we heard a sound. It was difficult to identify. A soft groan? A sigh?
    As I was about to go straight ahead toward Mac’s office, Steve unhesitatingly opened a door on the left. We stepped into a large bedroom with off-white walls and a full bed with a handwoven rust-colored spread neatly tucked in. On the far side of the bed was a nightstand with a pottery lamp, a stack of paperback books, an empty glass, and a prescription vial, the kind of plastic bottle used to dispense tablets and capsules. Its cap lay next to it. Sprawled face up on the floor at the foot of the bed was Mac McCloud. He wore a navy turtle-neck sweater over khaki pants, and he had shoes and socks on, expensive-looking white running shoes and thick ragg wool socks. His eyes were closed, and his face looked lifeless; despite the sound we’d heard, my first impression was of death. Steve, however, dropped to the floor next to Mac and felt for a pulse. I didn’t need to see Steve’s face to understand that he’d automatically shifted to his professional mode; the set of his shoulders alone conveyed absolute concentration and effortless efficiency. As he checked Mac’s mouth and jaw to make sure that Mac had an airway open, he said, “Go see what’s in that bottle on the nightstand. Don’t pick it up. Don’t touch it.”
    “Steve, that's pointless. He’s obviously tried—”
    “Just read the label. Don’t touch the bottle.”
    I had to walk around Mac and Steve to reach the nightstand, and when I got to it, I had to bend down to make out the print. “Ace.” Needlessly, I added, “Acepromazine. The bottle is empty. The prescription is five years old. It was prescribed for Uli.”
    “Find a phone. Call nine-one-one. Do you know the address here?”
    “Yes.”
    “Give them the address, the phone number, his age. Any medical history? Heart?”
    “No. Nothing.”
    “Tell them that he’s apparently ingested an unknown quantity of acepromazine. Stay calm. Speak slowly. Call right now.”
    As I made my way back around Mac and Steve, Mac began to groan, and as I left the room, I heard him retch. In dogs, vomiting could mean a serious risk of aspiration. If there was anything Steve could do to minimize that risk, he’d do it. Adopting Steve’s calm manner, I suppressed the urge to dash frantically in search of a phone. Instead, I walked smoothly to Mac’s office, picked up the phone on his desk, dialed 911, and tried my best to give the crucial information as clearly as Steve would’ve done. “An unknown quantity of acepromazine,” I said. “The address is 89 Milford Street. The door will be open. There’s a flight of stairs on the left, going down. That’s where he is.”
    Still cool, I went up the stairs to the front door, opened it, and left it open. Then I returned to Mac’s bedroom, which now reeked of vomit. Steve had moved Mac to the bed and was holding him so that he leaned over with his head between his knees. One sleeve of Mac’s turtleneck was spattered, and on the floor where Mac had lain was a mess that I’ll avoid describing.
    “They’re on their way,” I said. “He waited until Judith left. He didn’t want her to be the one to find him. That’s what the message meant.”
    “This isn’t suicide,” Steve said.
    "Obviously not. He’s alive.” Even so, we spoke as if Mac weren’t there. Indeed, there was an absent quality about him. His eyes remained closed,