Killing Katie (An Affair With Murder) (Volume 1) (27 page)

“Go!” She pulled Michael and Snacks to her as I fled the house.

I could drive, after all. I found a strange serenity in the eerie quiet of my car. I only vaguely knew where the hospital was, having passed it on my way to the White Bear. But if Steve had been interviewing Nerd and had been shot, they would be coming from the station.

Shouldn’t they be at a different hospital?

“Were they at the library?” I questioned, but Mercy General was in the wrong direction.

And when I realized what must have happened, the familiar guilt of having caused Katie’s death stabbed at my gut. Again. My body went cold and every emotion disappeared as the stony horror of my actions continued to unfold. Steve hadn’t been at the station interviewing Nerd. Steve and Charlie had gone to the White Bear.

“Amy, what have you done?”

C
HARLIE TOOK ME
into his arms, where I stayed until I could catch my breath. The run from the parking garage and then through the labyrinth of hospital halls had left me winded. For a while, I didn’t know what to search for. Every wall, every floor, and even the ceiling looked exactly the same. And then I found colorful bands along the walls, giving some direction. I followed the rainbow, turning corner after corner, as colors peeled away one at a time until I was left with just three. From there, a map told me to follow the purple band. I tried running, tried lifting my heavy feet from the emotional quicksand that dragged me down. I found Charlie by the emergency room, swimming in a sea of police uniforms.

Sudden jolts of crying were of no help either. It was as if Charlie had some allowance for crying.

“Let it out, kiddo,” he said. And I did.

When I pushed my emotions down, I searched his face for hope. I searched for anything that would tell me Steve was alive and fine. I wanted him to say that it was a simple wound, a superficial wound, the kind they would be laughing about at the station tomorrow.
In one hole and out the other
, I could hear Steve joke.
Like air whistling through your ears
, someone would add. I needed to hear one of those jokes now, but Charlie’s eyes told a different story, a grim story. The faint glimmer of hope I was holding onto began to slip. My legs turned to jelly.

Charlie blinked and squeezed his eyes slowly with a short shake of his head, telling me that it didn’t look good.

“No!” I yelled, throwing a feeble punch against his chest. “No, Charlie. You tell me it was nothing. You tell me a joke about how silly Steve felt for getting shot.”

“I wish I could, Amy,” Charlie began. He didn’t call me kiddo, I noticed. My heart sank. “He’s strong, though. He’s in surgery . . . strongest guy at our station.”

“Where was he shot?” I heard myself ask. I knew I was slipping into a preservation mode. I’d seen it happen to the other wives. First there is the initial shock. And then the reality of your worst nightmare finally arriving, finally buckling you in for a horror ride. And last, there was the sanctuary of nothingness. All emotions shut down and you entered a surreal world where short nods and a shake of your head replace the use of words. I saw the waiting room behind Charlie where I was to take my place and began to make my way there, completing the transition to becoming a wife-in-waiting. “I need to sit. Is that okay, Charlie? Can I sit?”

“Yes! Please, please,” he answered and crouched down to sit with me. His legs made noises as he sat—the pain of it registered on his face with a brief wince. “Are you thirsty? Can I get you something to drink?”

I’d forgotten about drinking. In this mode, there was always a cup of water or coffee on offer. But it wasn’t for drinking, it was for taking small sips, enough to wet the back of your dry throat. After all, a drink meant the possibility of having to use the bathroom later—and the last thing a wife-in-waiting was going to do was miss the doctor calling on her.

“Sure,” I said. “Maybe some water. Thank you.”

“Baker!” Charlie yelled in my ear, causing me to flinch. He patted my shoulder, apologizing, and then added, “Sorry, dear. Baker, how about some water?” A young man in a fresh-looking uniform disappeared from the corner of my vision, following Charlie’s request.

“What happened? Where was he shot?” I asked again. Charlie pressed against the back of his chair, sliding over the seat. Then he raised his hand to take a radio call. Scratchy voices clicked on, spelling out a count of how many were dead, how many were in custody. The words rambled on in a familiar radio voice, and my ears went numb to the content until I heard the name Sam Wilts. Hearing that name twisted my stomach, confirming my fears that they’d gone to the White Bear. “Charlie! What about Sam Wilts? Was he involved in this? I thought Steve went to interview that girl’s brother?”

Charlie raised his hand and patiently offered a set of instructions, responding to the drone of radio voices. When he was done he clicked off the speaker, turning the black knob until the chipped line of paint reached the number zero.

“We never made it to the Sutherland boy’s interview. A call came in about a disturbance at the White Bear.”

“A disturbance?” I asked, interrupting him, but heard the annoyance in my voice. “You mean a fight. It’s a bar. People fight. That’s a call for uniformed patrol, not for you and certainly not for Steve.”

“Amy, please,” Charlie answered. He motioned to the younger man approaching with bottles of water. “Thank you, Baker. Why don’t you go back to the station and start writing up your report?”

“Ma’am,” the young man said. I braced myself, shifting in my seat, gripping my chest. His was going to be the first of many, I suspected. Many with empty faces and premature condolences, while my hope slowly withered away. His leather holster and shined shoes creaked as he shifted uncomfortably in front of me. “I’m so sorry that I caused this.”

“Baker!” Charlie snapped, raising his voice. “The report. Get to it, now!”

I flinched again, blinking rapidly, trying to digest what the young man had confessed. But by the time I could ask, Charlie had shooed him away. I could only watch his freshly pressed uniform shrink away into a rising tide of doctors and orderlies and nurses and other cops.

“What’s he talking about?”

“It’s what may or may not have started the shooting.”

“What are you not saying, Charlie?” I asked, hearing the pleading in my voice. He was being purposefully vague. He was being a cop when I needed a friend.

“We received word that Sam Wilts was holed up at the Bear. We had a warrant to serve him, needed to bring him in for questioning about your friend Katie.”

“And?”

“Couple of uniforms were already there, reporting on the disturbance call. But Sam wasn’t alone. He had a half-dozen guys with him, guarding him. Steve talked Sam into coming out and went to the front to escort him. I don’t know for sure how, but a shot was fired. I’m not saying who pulled the trigger, but Baker thinks that maybe he got anxious. An accidental—”

“And Steve got caught in the cross fire,” I finished for him. I began to weep and hated myself for doing so. If I started crying, I knew I wouldn’t be able to stop. “Charlie . . . Charlie, can you tell me how bad it is?”

But he didn’t answer. From the corner of my eye, I saw his lips tremble and a tear wet his cheek. I lost it then and shoved my face into my hands. Charlie’s bear-size hand lay warmly on my back, coaxing the tears to come forward, but they were endless. I was at that place I swore I would never be—slipping into a state of head nods and hopeful smiles, and all I could think of was how I would have to tell the kids our world was ending.

I
MADE THE
calls. All of them. Steve’s mother began packing, cutting her trip to Florida short, before I could finish telling her what had happened. I only needed to mention the word “hospital” and Steve’s name. The words sounded impossibly unreal coming from my mouth, like someone on television. I called my mother then, and she told me not to worry about Michael and Snacks, that she’d keep them busy. I heard Michael in the background, begging to take the phone. A shuffling of hands and plastic clanging came through my phone and then I heard the sound of Michael’s voice.

“He’s in surgery, honey.”

“Did you get to see him yet?”

“No, Michael. I won’t be able to see him until he’s in recovery.”

“Mom?”

“What is it, baby?”

“I’m scared for Daddy.”

“I am too, baby. You hold onto Snacks . . . give her some hugs and love from me. Love you.”

How many hours had passed?
I’d found the clock on the wall and appreciated the sight of the old-fashioned hands, but couldn’t remember where they had pointed when I first got here.
It was eleven in the morning,
I thought, counting the hours from our morning at my mother’s.
My phone,
I thought.
The time I’d gotten Charlie’s call would be on my phone. But did it matter?
The second hand swung around the circle, mindlessly passing the numbers without a care of what lie ahead or behind it.

“It’s all a big circle,” I heard myself mutter. Charlie leaned in toward me, thinking he had missed something I said. I waved him off, telling him to ignore me.

“All one circle,” I continued. John and Todd Wilts and then Katie and now Sam; they were part of the circle too. Only they didn’t make it around to the other side of the clock like the sweeping second hand.

My mind wandered as Charlie got up, gently squeezing my shoulder before leaving. He’d left before, stayed away for hours. I was sure of it.
Needed at the station
, he’d said.
But I’ll be back
. Time seemed to disappear into a blur of unfamiliar faces. Then I saw John’s wife. The look in her eyes was more telling than anything I’d heard. She pierced my heart with what she didn’t say. I cried into her shoulder for as long as she could stand to be there. I was grateful that she came. I know how hard that must have been.

In his place, a steady stream of uniformed officers and detectives came and went like a tidal flow. Rising and then ebbing, the tide always thoughtful, telling me how strong Steve was, how much of a friend he’d been when they were new to the force. And the wives and friends too, my hand cramping from the squeezes, my cheek sore from the brushes of stubble. And always the same words: “He’ll pull through—you just wait and see
.
” I hated when someone said that. I hated that single statement most of all. Of course I’d wait.

What else was I going to do?

After a while, I could no longer distinguish the faces from one another or the voices of those speaking to me. My senses had become numb, had gone on autopilot. I nodded, shook hands, leaned forward for a supportive kiss on the cheek. The bottle of water I held onto was a third gone. Dozens of tiny sips kept my throat wet. I’d grown terribly thirsty, having refused the idea of the bathroom for fear of missing the doctor.

“Mrs. Sholes?” I heard, and then I felt someone sit down next to me. The smells of the hospital became stronger, fresher. “Mrs. Sholes, I’m Dr. Aahana Lu.”

“Yes! Yes, Doctor. How is Steve? How is my husband?”

The doctor paused. Her caregiving eyes seemed to search deep into mine, as if seeking out the strength I’d need to hear what she had to say. The younger doctor was stunning—striking golden eyes and short brown hair. When she spoke to me, I heard a slight accent in her voice that sounded like a melody. She picked up my hand in hers. She had warm, delicate fingers that I couldn’t help realizing had been inside my husband’s body just moments before, working to save his life. She squeezed reassuringly and nodded, telling me he would make it. I dipped my head forward, pleading to learn more.

“He’s a fighter and should make a good recovery. The next forty-eight hours are going to tell us more.”

My arms were around the doctor’s neck then. Sobs came to me and stole anything I could have said. She rose from the chair and led me toward an ominous-looking set of double doors. I stretched my neck, craning to see through the small opening slinking between the panels. I’d done the same a thousand times during Steve’s surgery, waiting. I saw fluffs of white, equipment on wheels, and the occasional eyeball peering back at me, searching the waiting room. Patients and doctors and all kinds of hospital staff came and went without pause, slapping the large square button on the wall or choosing to muscle their way through the swinging doors.

Doctor Lu took my elbow and guided me to the doors. I hesitated, afraid to finally pass to the other side.

“It’s okay,” she assured me. “Just through these doors.”

I tried to swallow, but my mouth was too dry. Passing the threshold felt like I was crossing over into some forbidden sanctum where the healing came as a judgment of good or bad, saved or unsaved.

Steve is a good person,
I told myself.
Steve was saved.
And that’s all that mattered to me.

We passed through the doors, which opened up onto a deeper hospital room. What I found inside was a world filled with anything but waiting—it held the opposite of the waiting room’s hushed and anxious pacing. Hospital scrubs and lab coats hung from shoulders, the colors of white and green and blue moved around quickly on Croc-covered feet. We only had to stand there as a swarm adapted and moved around us. It was like a magnetic field that repelled and received the bodies at the same time.

I heard the sound of respirators and saw yellow and green winking lights atop equipment bursting with round dials and clear tubing that passed through black-pleated bags that inflated and fell like a bellows. And then I saw even more men and women gathered around a central counter, clamoring with one another, shuffling clipboards and shuttling bags of medicine and blood back and forth, anxious to go, their feet moving in place. Along both walls there were curtained stalls, some with lights glowing behind them and darkness behind others.

Steve’s behind one of those
, I told myself. I felt a twinge in my chest.

“This is recovery?” I asked, searching the few open stalls, hoping to see something familiar, something that told me Steve was alive in there. His shoes, maybe, or socks? But I only saw gurneys holding legs and feet that I didn’t recognize. “He’d hate it if his feet were sticking out like that—especially if they’re uncovered.” I wasn’t sure why I told the doctor that, but it was true. Steve hated it when his feet were uncovered.