by Terry Odell
She grinned. “That’s not the payback I had in mind.” Inside, she moved toward the refrigerator. Stalling for time, she said, “Let me get the perishables put away.”
Together, they walked up the drive and across the footpath to Doris’ front door. She watched Graham pull himself to his full height, square his shoulders and arrange his face in an expression of sympathy.
The doorbell chimed and quick footsteps approached. The door opened and Doris’ blue eye appeared from behind the chain.
“Hello, Colleen,” Doris said. “What can I do for you?”
It dawned on her that Doris probably couldn’t reach the peephole to see out. Graham had positioned himself beside Colleen, out of Doris’ line of vision. Great. Now she was going to have to initiate the conversation.
“Doris, Deputy Harrigan is here with me. We need to talk to you. May we come in?”
The door shut, Colleen heard the chain being released, and then Doris pulled the door open. “Is this about Jeffrey again? I told you, he’s in Alabama. This isn’t a good time to talk.”
Graham moved over. “I’m afraid this is important, Mrs. Walters. May we come in?” Without waiting for an invitation, he stepped into the entryway. “I think we should sit down.”
Doris shuffled over to the couch, muttering, “Important. Pah! Do, this, do that. It’s always important.” Colleen sat beside her, and Graham lowered himself to one of the easy chairs across from them. “I’m afraid I have some bad news, Mrs. Walters. A body was discovered in a construction site, and it’s been identified as your nephew, Jeffrey. I’m sorry for your loss.”
Doris took off her glasses, held them up to the light, then replaced them without cleaning the lenses.
Colleen took the woman’s hand in both of hers. At that, Doris looked frantically around the room, as if Jeffrey might appear and prove them wrong.
“I’m very sorry, Doris,” Colleen said. “Would you like me to call one of your friends?”
Doris seemed to have shrunk to half her size. “No. He’s in Alabama. I have to keep the computer on. He’s in Alabama.”
Graham leaned forward. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Walters. With your permission, we’d like to take Jeffrey’s computer and some of his files. That might help us figure out what happened.”
Colleen picked up motion from the hall.
“Don’t move,” a male voice snapped.
Time stopped. Her heart beat against her ribcage. Her mouth went dry. Sweat pooled under her arms. As if in slow motion, she watched Graham leap from the chair, one hand at his holster. Colleen threw herself over Doris. Saw the muzzle flash. Heard a shot. Then another. The familiar roaring sounded in her ears, the disembodied feeling. She clenched her fists, digging her nails into her palms.
Feel the pain. Get back. No more zoning out.
The world refocused. Stuart Gravely knelt in the hallway, clutching his midsection. Blood oozed from between his fingers. Where the hell had he come from? Three feet from her, Graham lay on his belly, arms outstretched, his gun by his hand. She calculated the distance between her own fingers and the Glock, then to Gravely.
“Please. Please don’t shoot.” She dropped to the floor, her hands over her head, in what she hoped was a cowering posture. Her voice, squeaky and tremulous, didn’t require any pretending. “I won’t say anything. I promise. Don’t shoot.” With each plea for mercy, she inched forward, keeping her body between Gravely and Graham’s Glock.
Fighting to keep from hyperventilating, she reached the weapon. Gravely raised his. Colleen grabbed the gun, rolled and fired at Gravely. She saw a look of shock cross his face before he slumped to the floor.
“Doris! Call 9-1-1!” Colleen half-crawled to Gravely and secured his weapon. She turned and saw Doris, still lying on the couch where Colleen had left her. “Doris!” The woman stared into nothingness, but Colleen could see her breathing. Damn, she wasn’t going to be any help.
Colleen bent over Graham’s body. A thick red pool oozed from beneath him. The metallic smell of blood drove her down the path to the Bradfords’. She fought back. She could do this.
“No!” She felt for a pulse. “No! Damn it, Harrigan, you can’t do this to me!” She forced herself to be silent as she prayed to feel a sign of life at his carotid. Faint, but it was there.
“Mac?” Barely audible.
“Shut up. Don’t move.” Where was his damn radio? Underneath him? She raced to the phone in the kitchen and called 9-1-1. Somehow she managed to relay the critical information without screaming hysterically.
Damn. He was losing blood. “Where did he shoot you?” Could she turn him without causing more damage?
“Arm. Chest, maybe.” His eyelids fluttered.
“Graham. Don’t leave me. I need to stop the bleeding.” She managed to roll him enough to find the entry wound. Without thinking, she yanked her shirt over her head and pressed it against the wound.
“Hurts. Cold.”
Shit. Shock. Keep him warm. There was a blanket on the back of the couch, half under Doris. Colleen yanked it out, covered Graham, then resumed exerting pressure. First aid training swirled though her mind in bits and pieces. Touch him. Contact. Keep him focused. Talk.
“You’re going to be fine, Harrigan. You promised me Thanksgiving dinner. I’m holding you to it.” She kept her voice steady.
When the sirens pierced the air and she heard the door open, she called out to the paramedics. They took over, working with a clean, efficient rhythm, hooking him up to machines, inserting IVs, and talking to him in soothing tones. More noises and more people moved through the room, but her world tunneled to Graham and the paramedics.
“We’ll need a little more room, ma’am,” one medic said.
Half-dazed, Colleen stepped back and tried to take everything in. Two uniforms sat on the couch talking to Doris. Two paramedics had lifted Gravely to a gurney and were wheeling him out the door. No IV, no machines.
“Is he … Did I …?” Her legs threatened to give way. She felt a hand at her elbow and looked up into the concerned eyes of a familiar face.
“Are you all right, Miss McDonald? Colleen?”
She searched her memory, trying to place him.
“Lieutenant Roger Schaeffer. We met during your break-in investigation.”
Unable to do more than nod, Colleen locked her knees. She was not going to pass out.
Schaeffer pulled off his jacket and draped it over her shoulders. She looked down and realized she was covered in blood, wearing nothing but her sports bra above her jeans.
“They’ll have Harrigan at the hospital in no time. The medics are good. He’ll make it.” Schaeffer’s voice was calm, filled with authority.
“I need to go there.”
“Can you answer some questions first?”
“At the hospital.”
He hesitated, but not for long. “I’ll drive.” He said something to one of the deputies, grabbed a scrub shirt from the ambulance as he helped her to his car. He eased his jacket from her. “Put this on.”
She stared at the shirt for several long seconds before understanding what to do with it.
Colleen sat in Schaeffer’s car while he spoke to the deputies. Scanning the street, she couldn’t see Gravely’s BMW, or any other cars. How long had he been there? She had no doubt he’d been in Jeffrey’s office looking for anything to implicate him in the murders.
The adrenaline had burned off, leaving her shaky. Thoughts of Graham bleeding on the floor whirled through her mind, and her vision narrowed. She was aware of Schaeffer getting into the car, and then of his hand at the back of her head.
“Put your head down,” he said. “It’s worse when it’s over, isn’t it?”
She felt a little better and sat up. “I’ll be all right. Let’s go. Please.”
The ride to the hospital was a blur. Numb, she let Schaeffer guide her to a seat in the emergency waiting room. She waited as he spoke to someone at the counter, then came back and sat beside her.
“He’s with the doctors. They’ll let us know as soon as they can. We’ll need your statement, but it can wait a while longer, I think.”
She had no idea how long she’d been sitting there before a woman in bloodstained scrubs came over to them. Schaeffer stood. “How is he?”
“Right now I’d say he owes his life to the paramedics. Normally, we’d airlift him to the trauma center downtown once he’s stable, but they’re overloaded.”
Schaeffer put his hands on his hips. “You can handle this here, right?”
The doctor stood straighter, her lips narrowed, as if Schaeffer had insulted her. “Of course we can. He was lucky. Another few millimeters lower and the bullet would have penetrated his heart. As it is, it damaged an artery. He’s going up to surgery now so we can repair it. It’s a delicate and difficult procedure, but I assure you, he’s in good hands.”
“How long?” Colleen asked. “I want to see him.”
“I can’t tell you how long it will be,” the doctor said. “There’s a surgery waiting room on the second floor. You’re welcome to wait there.”
The surgical waiting room proved to be slightly more hospitable than the stark one for the emergency room. Trying to take her mind off the waiting, Colleen concentrated on her surroundings. Chairs with padded seats, tables, a coffee maker with burnt-smelling coffee, dog-eared magazines. She picked one up. Set it back on the table without opening it. A television mounted on the wall in a corner was tuned to the news. Nobody was watching. A gray-haired volunteer at the desk took their names and promised to call them as soon as she had any information.
Colleen sat and waited. Schaeffer hadn’t left her side, and she could see he was as worried as she was. From time to time, he’d step into the hall and use his radio. She caught snippets, but none of the words made sense. One time, when he came back, he handed Colleen her hobo bag.
“Deputy Logan got this from your place. He said not to worry, he locked up.”
She grabbed it from his hands and dug through it, finding Graham’s handkerchief, as if by holding it, she held him. Twice, she fought off panic attacks and finally managed to find a hole where she could withdraw and nothing could reach her. She was dimly aware of people coming and going, names being called, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. The waiting continued.
From her distant haze, she noticed Schaeffer jumping to his feet. She blinked until a slender man wearing a white lab coat over surgical scrubs came into focus.
“Mr. Schaeffer? I’m Doctor Boyd. We’ve finished the surgery, and Mr. Harrigan is in ICU. Once he’s stabilized, they’ll call and let you see him.”
“When?” she asked. “When can I see him?”
Dr. Boyd’s gaze shifted to her. “At least an hour. If you want to grab a bite, there’s a cafeteria on the first floor. I guarantee it’s better than the vending machines.”
The doctor left, taking a weight from her shoulders. Knots in her belly untied, and tears streamed beyond any control. Schaeffer held her until they stopped and gently wiped her face with Graham’s handkerchief. “Come with me,” he said. Before she could protest, she was sitting at a table by a window in the cafeteria, a large glass of orange juice in front of her.
“I can’t,” she said.
“Sure you can. A sip or two. You’ll feel better. I promise.”
She managed a swallow, then another. Schaeffer sat with her, eating a sandwich, pushing the glass toward her every time she set it down. One tasteless sip at a time, she finished. She looked at her watch. How long had they been here? She hadn’t thought to check when the doctor came in, but it had to be an hour, didn’t it?
“We’ll go up soon. It’s been forty minutes,” Schaeffer said. “Meanwhile, can you tell me what happened?”
Something in Schaeffer’s tone brought her cop training to the surface. She met his eyes. “I went along with Deputy Harrigan to notify Mrs. Walters her nephew was dead. She invited us in, he gave her the news, and she didn’t seem to comprehend. I was sitting on the couch with her, and I saw Stuart Gravely coming into the room. His gun was drawn and pointing at Harrigan. Shots were fired. Three? Four? Maybe five. I tried to shield Mrs. Walters.”
Visions of the shooting, a Technicolor montage of the Bradford and Walters homes, swirled through her mind. Her throat closed and Schaeffer faded into the distance.
“That’s enough for now,” she heard him say from somewhere far away.
She retreated into her safe place, hardly aware of going upstairs. She counted the minutes as they clicked over on her watch. The hour passed. At the one hour and seventeen minute mark, the receptionist motioned to Schaeffer.
Colleen followed him to the woman’s desk. “Was that about Harrigan? Can we see him?”
“I’m sorry. Not yet. They’ve had to take him back to surgery. Someone will be down to explain everything.”
Colleen locked her knees against collapsing. She was stronger than this, damn it. Turning, she went back to a chair in the corner of the room and sat there, gripping the armrests until she couldn’t feel her fingers. When a woman in scrubs came in, Colleen jumped to her feet, as did Schaeffer.
“I’m Mary Kaplan, one of Dr. Boyd’s nurses. Let’s sit down.”
Chapter Thirty-one
Blood pounded in Colleen’s ears. Sitting down couldn’t mean good news. “What is it?”
“Mr. Harrigan suffered some unforeseen complications. Some of the repair sites are leaking, and we have to go back in and fix them. It will be several hours yet.”
“But—but he’s going to be all right. Isn’t he going to be all right?” Colleen felt Schaeffer holding her elbow.
The nurse acknowledged both of them. “We’re doing everything we can. Right now, we’re guardedly optimistic.”
“Thank you,” Schaeffer said. When the woman left, Schaeffer took Colleen’s hand. His was so warm, she knew hers must be ice cold. “Harrigan’s strong. He’ll make it. None of my deputies die on my watch. They know it’s forbidden.”
As the evening turned to night, the waiting room filled with deputies. Some in green uniforms, some in plainclothes, but each stopped by, talked with Schaeffer, spoke to her, and were there. She heard snatches of conversation.
“His sister’s on her way.”
“Mom’s got a flight out tomorrow.”
“Neighbor is watching his apartment.”
At ten o’clock, Dr. Boyd entered the room. As a unit, everyone stood. He motioned Schaeffer to the hall. Colleen clutched her bag and followed.
Dr. Boyd nodded at her approach and spoke. His tone was calm, reassuring, but she couldn’t help but notice the blood covering the scrubs under his lab coat.
“How is he? When can we see him?” She pulled Graham’s handkerchief from her pocket and twisted the cloth in her fingers.
“He’s in Intensive Care. He’s heavily sedated, but you can see him for a few minutes.” He gestured toward another doctor who had joined them. “This is Dr. Weinberg. He’s the attending physician in the ICU. Mr. Harrigan is in excellent hands.”
Dr. Weinberg explained Graham’s condition as they walked. He would have to remain in the ICU until they were sure he was stable. Then he could be moved to a regular room until he was strong enough to go home.
“I want you to understand what you’re going to see. The sedation level he requires means he can’t breathe on his own, so he’s on a ventilator. We’re giving him antibiotics to ward off infection, and we’re supporting his blood pressure with medication to help his heart work better.”
Dr. Weinberg walked with them past the central station where nurses could monitor all the patients, down the hall, and pushed open a glass-windowed door. “It’s good for him to hear your voices. Talk to him. I’ll give you a few minutes.”
She hesitated, then followed Schaeffer into the room. Graham lay there, connected to machines and tubes—things that beeped, hissed, blipped, and dripped. He faded into the stark white sheets. She stood against the wall,
watching Graham’s chest rise and fall as a machine breathed for him, twelve times a minute, until her breathing matched his—as if the ventilator controlled the rhythm of the cosmos.
She tried to speak, but nothing came out. What could she say? That she needed him and how dare he desert her?
Right. He’s fighting for his life and you’re whining about being afraid.
Tears brimmed, but she blinked back their burning heat.
“All right, slacker,” Schaeffer said. “I’ll give you tomorrow off, but I want to see you in my office on Friday at oh-seven-hundred sharp.” Colleen heard the huskiness in the man’s voice. Why Graham thought he was still being punished for a lousy training partner was beyond her.
Schaeffer’s voice dropped. “Okay, you talked me into it. Take the damn weekend, but Monday, no excuses.”
How many people had come to the hospital and waited while she’d been in surgery? And if they had come, how many had hoped she wouldn’t pull through, as payback for Montoya’s death? She took a deep breath, stepped to Graham’s side and gingerly touched his fingers, careful not to disturb any of the tubing. “I’m here, Graham.”
Colleen stood with Schaeffer in the corridor. He put a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Do you need a place to stay? We’ve got an extra bed.”
“No, thanks.” Part of her wanted to stay by Graham’s side, although the hospital wouldn’t permit it in ICU, but another part of her wanted to crawl into a deep, dark cave and disappear. She pressed the elevator call button.
“I can give you a lift,” Schaeffer said. “But first, let me go tell everyone he’s going to be fine.”
At the ding of the elevator, Schaeffer’s eyes pulled away and a strange sense of relief engulfed her. She couldn’t get away fast enough.
“I’ll take a cab. I think I want to be alone for a while.” The elevator doors slid open and she stepped inside and pressed the button for the first floor.
As the doors closed, Schaeffer said, “Call if you need anything.”
She went back to the Emergency Room desk, asked the receptionist to call a cab, and went outside to wait. Shivering in the cool night air, she realized she was still wearing the scrub shirt Schaeffer had given her.
