Going to the Bad (15 page)

Rod had been silent through the entire interview, so I said, “Is there anything you want to ask?”

He shook his head and relaxed his arms from where they'd been crossed in front of him. He looked like a man who'd been waiting for something bad to happen, but had somehow avoided it.

Hoyt and I exchanged contact information. Rod and I thanked him and started to leave.

“By the way,” Hoyt said as we neared the door. “How's your uncle? You said he'd been shot.”

“He's in surgery upstairs.”

Hoyt smiled. “I'll say a prayer for him.”

We left, but at the door I glanced back for a moment. The smile had vanished from Kelvin Hoyt's face. He no longer looked jovial or wry, just alone.

In the hallway the redheaded nurse stopped us. “Are you Mr. Hoyt's family in for the holidays?”

“No. We just had a few questions relating to his old job.”

Her face fell. “Oh. That's too bad. You're the first guests he's had for a treatment. Most people bring someone along at least some of the time.”

Rod glanced back toward the empty room. “Is it normal to schedule these things so late on Christmas Eve?”

She shook her head. “Mr. Hoyt actually rescheduled for our last appointment before the holiday. I think he's all alone and wanted something to do.”

I always volunteered to work holidays. What happens to workaholic loners who retire? Would a person actually schedule chemo so he'd be too busy throwing up on Christmas to notice he was all alone?

What was I saying? That was exactly what I'd do.

When Rod and I returned to the surgical waiting room, Annette was just ending a conversation with the nurse at the reception counter.

After checking on her still sleeping daughter, she joined us near the doorway. “The surgery is over. Someone will be out to speak with us soon.”

The upswing of her words telegraphed hope. It was there too in her face and nervous hands. She actually thought the doctor might have good news.

The instinct to run erupted like a volcano. Wasn't this moment exactly what I'd been trying to avoid all day?

Rod put his arm around me. It gave me more comfort than any words. It also trapped me.

Annette continued in her upbeat tone, “I remembered something too. Last summer, when the wildfire broke out up in the mountains, Bud mentioned an old army buddy.”

The fire had been big news, and Rod and I had covered it along with the evacuation of several mountain communities. Bud had been there selling doughnuts to the army of fire-suppression personnel, which had been a lucky break for Rod and me. Bud's knowledge of wildfires had probably saved our lives.

“I didn't want him to go.” Annette heard a noise and took a quick glance at her daughter in the waiting room. “We had a fight about it. Bud said he had to go help the wife of someone he served with. She owned a doughnut shop and needed another set of
hands in the kitchen. Bud said he had a responsibility to help her on account of her husband.”

I remembered the woman and her granddaughter but not their names.

“He never mentioned it again,” Annette said. “Sorry I don't know more.”

“No, this is great.” I felt my phone vibrating and checked the screen. I didn't recognize the number, but given all the leads I was pursuing, that didn't mean anything. “I'm sorry, I have to take this.”

Rod and Annette took seats while I stepped out into the hallway. “Hello?”

“I got this number from the pharmacy.” The voice was low, almost furtive. “Are you a reporter?”

I had visions of Woodward meeting Deep Throat in a parking garage. “I'm a shooter, but a lot of the time there's no reporter available and I do interviews by myself.” I paused. “Are you the owner of Pawn Max?”

“My husband and I own it together,” she continued quietly. Behind her I thought I heard the rumble of an engine or a blower. “I know you want to meet me at the pharmacy, but I can't leave home right now.”

“Can we make an appointment for tomorrow? I can come to your house.”

“I'd rather do it tonight, but I have a favor. I worked it out with the pharmacy so you can pick up my prescription and bring it to me. They close at seven.”

I glanced at Rod inside the waiting room. “I'm not free tonight. Tomorrow would be much better.”

“Please. I need that prescription.” A train whistle blasted in the background. “You have no idea how stressed-out I am. I'm begging.”

I tried to make sense of the different sounds. “Are you at home?”

“Yes, but don't let anyone see you.” She paused for emphasis. “Please be discreet. I'll meet you in the shed out back.”

She started to hang up, but I stopped her. “Wait. I may not make it to the pharmacy before it closes. I'll try, but I'm not promising.”

“Do your best.” She sighed again. “And while you're there, pick up some Pepto-Bismol.”

She hung up. Pepto? Prescriptions for stress? What exactly was going on in her life?

Before joining Rod and Annette inside the waiting room, I called information. Only one doughnut shop was listed in the city of Elizabeth. I immediately recognized the name Double Down Donuts and dialed the number.

On my third ring a man answered, “What?”

“Can I speak with the owner? My name's Lilly Hawkins. My uncle was there working last summer during the wildfire.”

“I am the owner. I just bought the place a couple months ago.”

“What happened to the lady who used to own the store? I think she was Korean.”

“Retired to a warmer climate. Arizona or New Mexico or something.”

“Do you have a phone number?”

“No.” He hung up.

I called again. No answer. I let it ring.

After a minute he picked up. “Lady, unless you're calling to buy doughnuts, I don't have time to talk to you.”

“You want me to go away, then I suggest you help me. Otherwise, I'm going to keep calling you all night. Tomorrow I'll come up there in person.”

He almost growled, but then relented. “Paik's got family still in town. Call them and ask where she is.” He gave me the number, but hung up before I could say thank you.

I dialed. Voice mail picked up, and a generic electronic voice told me to leave a message. I wondered if I'd been given a wrong number, but went ahead and left a message anyway.

Afterward, I joined Rod and Annette inside the waiting room. We sat in silence until a doctor entered through the double doors marked
SURGERY
. She wore clean scrubs, but her face was damp with perspiration.

We all stood and introduced ourselves.

“The surgery went well.” Despite the positive meaning of the words, her face and tone looked grim. “It was very long, but that's not unusual for this kind of extensive damage to the abdomen. We had to remove his spleen and left kidney, but we thought he'd made it through as well as could be expected for a man his age.”

Her expression further darkened. “We excavated him in the recovery room. Things were going well, but then suddenly he went into respiratory failure and cardiac arrest. Basically, he had a massive heart attack.”

I couldn't speak, but Annette said, “But he was in the hospital when it happened, so you were able to help him, right?”

“Mr. Hawkins had no Do Not Resuscitate order, so we spent fifteen minutes trying to restart his heart. We succeeded, but he's intubated now and breathing off a respirator. I'm sorry, Mr. Hawkins is showing signs of severe brain damage.”

“Is he conscious?” I managed to say.

The doctor's face gave nothing away, but her silence told me how ridiculous my question had been. Finally she said, “I'm sorry, but when a brain is deprived of oxygen for that long, it's almost impossible to recover. We'll watch him overnight for signs of brain activity, but it's very unlikely there'll be a change.”

Annette started crying. She was quiet, so as not to wake her daughter, but it created a chain reaction of emotion. Rod and I each tried to hold it together, but it was almost impossible.

“I know this is painful,” the doctor said. “But I suggest you all go home tonight and think about what Mr. Hawkins's wishes might be. If there's no improvement, we can discuss taking him off the ventilator tomorrow. In that scenario, he'd probably die very
quickly. With no brain function, Mr. Hawkins won't have the ability to pump air in and out of his lungs.”

“Can we see him?” Rod said.

“Yes. He's in the ICU now.”

I took Rod aside.

When I told him I wanted to go to the pharmacy, he was understandably upset. “Come with me to the ICU. Bud would want you there, and on a night like this you and I need to stay together. We need to support each other.”

“Please don't make me go in there. You heard what they said. There's no brain function. Bud isn't in that room anymore. It's just an empty body.” I finally lost control and started crying. “I'll fall apart if I go in there and then I won't be any use to Bud.”

Rod put his arms around me and I hugged him. I found that it was easier to be honest with Rod if I wasn't looking at him. “I have to know that I did everything possible to find out who hurt him. I can't let this be like my father's accident. I can't still be wondering about it in fifteen years.”

I pulled back and wiped tears from my eyes. “I'll meet you at your house later, I promise.”

Christmas Eve, 7:21 p.m.

I
had to take a few minutes in the van to pull myself together
. Kincaid's Pharmacy had closed by the time I got there.

The security guard recognized me and unlocked the door. “Sorry, I can't let you in. Mr. Kincaid is counting out the register and getting the deposit ready.”

“I tried to get here sooner, but I had a personal emergency.”

“Don't worry.” The guard reached back inside and returned with a bag. “All paid for with a credit card over the phone. Address is on the bag.”

It felt heavy, but I asked anyway. “Is there Pepto—”

He smiled. “It's in the bag, along with some bath salts and spa stuff.”

Mrs. Pawn Max didn't live far from the store. The address sounded familiar, but I couldn't remember what story I'd covered there. It could have been anything from a grisly murder to an interview with a homecoming queen, or both at the same time.

I followed the GPS, but about two blocks before the actual house I had to stop. Cars were backed up in a single line all the way down the street. The one in front of me held a family of five. The children were dressed for the holiday, and everyone was singing a joyous Christmas carol.

I suddenly knew why the address was familiar. I'd done this story two Christmases ago.

I parked and walked. I couldn't tell you what the actual house looked like because little of the physical structure was visible. The entire property had been turned into a G-rated version of Christmas on the Vegas Strip.

I stopped at the curb and stared at the spectacle of color and light. The display had expanded considerably in the two years since I'd seen it. The reds, greens, and blues overwhelmed me. I shook my head, afraid I might have a seizure.

A man carrying a sleeping child passed on his way to his car. “Can you imagine what their electric bill is like?”

I didn't answer. The sound of a train whistle had drawn my attention.

“Best Christmas ever,” a child screamed. His fellow passengers on the miniature train agreed as they chugged their way around Santa's Village—also known as the left half of the front yard.

I elbowed my way through the adults gathered on the sidewalk and set up the tripod. I got some nice footage of kids having a snowball fight courtesy of a shaved-ice machine. They chased each other around a blue, neon menorah, then took up defensive positions behind animatronic reindeer.

When that was done, I packed up my equipment. A big part of me wanted to leave. The entire setup here was weird and off-putting. Who instructs journalists to bring their meds to a utility shed? A crazy person, that's who.

I made my way to the backyard not because I wanted to, but because the series of events that had led to Bud's shooting seemed to have been started in motion at the pawnshop. This was my chance to speak directly with the owner. I might not get another.

I turned the corner into the backyard and almost ran into a life-size snow globe. Frosty the Snowman was inside waving. A fan continuously stirred Styrofoam peanuts as though someone had just shaken the globe. That and a North Pole bouncy castle had attracted fifteen to twenty kids and their parents, none of whom noticed me crossing the edge of the yard.

I found the shed, despite its being camouflaged in strings of icicle lights, and knocked. The door opened a crack and an eye peeked out at me.

“It's Lilly from KJAY.” I didn't bother whispering. There was so much background noise, I could have screamed and no one would have noticed.

The door, and its lights, swung open and I hurried in.

“I thought you'd stolen my Ativan.” A woman locked the door behind me. She wore a red Mrs. Claus dress and a gray wig that sat slightly askew on her head.

The air in the shed was a mixture of cinnamon, chocolate, and potting soil.

“Sorry. I got delayed with a personal emergency.” I took the pharmacy bag from my gear bag. “Here you go.”

She grabbed it like a drowning woman reaching for a rope. “You have no idea the state I'm in. Between the store getting robbed and all this Christmas insanity, I'm at the end of my rope.” She sat down on a box in the corner and dug into the bag.

There was nowhere for me to sit so I knelt. “I'm not actually here about the robbery. Did a man named Bud Hawkins come into your store yesterday?”

She nodded. “He's a regular customer. Kind of a southern hippie.”