At first I was numb. Then as I looked at them, at my mom's raisin-like face rigid with fury and my dad's hangdog beaten expression, I could feel the blood rush to my head.
'You lied to me before,' I said. 'You knew where my daughters were and you lied to me about it.'
'Son, listen to me-'
But I didn't. I turned and raced out of the room.
The blood was now boiling in me. I was actually seeing red, honest to God. I started choking on the treachery and unfairness of it; that my own parents would conspire with my ex-wife to keep me away from my daughters.
My parents must've sat in their chairs stunned. I don't think they had any idea where I was headed until I locked the door to their bedroom. Then I heard some activity from them, but I ignored it. I started pulling drawers from the dressers and dumping their contents onto the floor. My dad knocked meekly on the door, asking me to unlock it, and then my mom joined in, rapping on it frantically, but I ignored them. And then I found the pictures.
There were maybe fifty of them in total. They were all of Melissa and Courtney taken at different ages. As I looked at them, I felt the rage that had been burning inside me fizzle away. Both my girls looked a lot like Elaine. They were both petite and blonde. They both had such thin legs and arms. As I went through the pictures and saw my girls as they grew older, I could see some of me in Courtney, at least around the eyes. And there was a little bit of me in Melissa too; this sorrowful little smile that she had. Both girls had grown up to look a lot like Elaine; they were both pretty as hell, but there was just enough of me in both of them to keep them from being beautiful.
The rapping on the door had grown harder and more frantic. My mom yelled at me not to dare go through her things. The combination of it – her yelling and the rapping – knocked me out of my thoughts. I felt a heaviness settle in my throat. I closed my eyes and tried to swallow back the emotion that was fighting its way forward. I was damned if I was going to let the two of them see me cry. It took some effort, and some deep breathing, but I got myself under control.
I went over to the door and opened it. The two of them stood there, shocked, their eyes first going to the mess on the floor and then to the stack of photos that I was holding. My dad looked like death warmed over, my mom's shriveled face was livid.
'You had no right going through my possessions,' my mom squeezed out in a tight, cold voice.
'Shut up.'
'Don't you dare talk to your mother like that,' my dad said without much conviction.
'You two can go screw yourselves,' I said. 'You're going to lie to me about my daughters? You couldn't even let me see pictures of them? Go to hell.'
'Give me those pictures,' my mom demanded. And then she made a grab for them. I backed away and raised my hand so I was holding them above her head. She started hopping up and down trying to reach for them.
'You give those back to me or I'll call the police on you,' she forced out between hops. She was breathing heavily now. 'What you're doing is stealing.'
'Go right ahead and call them,' I said.
The whole situation was so laughable that I couldn't help myself. I just started laughing like a crazy man. Maybe I was having some sort of minor breakdown, I don't know, but I just kept laughing away as my mom hopped up and down trying to grab those photos from me.
The gunshot brought me out of it. That one shot was really made up of almost four simultaneous noises – the gun blast, glass breaking, a whirling rush past my ear, and then the bullet thudding into the wall. Four distinct noises all within the span of less than a second. I pushed both my mom and dad down and then drove to the floor.
Just before I hit the floor there was another shot and the sound of another window shattering. Then I heard tires squeal as a car raced away. At first my mind was completely blank, and when it started working again, all I could think was that sonofabitch Junior had tried making a go at me. I got to my feet and raced to the front door, but the car was long gone.
I went outside and could see from the street the two windows that were shot out. I had a pretty good idea where the shots came from. A car must've stopped in front of the house and fired the shots before speeding off. The first one had missed me by inches. It had been too close to have been meant as a warning. Whoever fired the shot was trying to blow my head off.
As I was standing there a couple of the neighbors poked their heads out. I yelled to them, asking whether anyone saw anything, but they just shook their heads and went back inside.
I ran back into the house and to my parents' room. Both of them were still on the floor. My dad looked out of it and my mom was making little mewing noises as she clutched at her hip. I saw where one of the bullets had hit the wall, and dug it out with a penknife. My guess, it was a seven millimeter, probably fired from a hunting rifle. I got on the phone and called the police and asked them to send an ambulance. Then I went over to my parents.
My dad was sitting up, but was still completely out of it. I helped him to his feet and walked' him over to the bed. After I had him laid down I went over to my mom and knelt next to her.
She looked like she was in a great deal of pain as she clutched at her hip and made tiny sobbing noises.
'Mom, do you think you can stand up?' I asked.
'Get away from me, just leave and get away from me!'
'You don't mean that. You're in pain. Let me-'
'I said get away from me! And get out of my house! I don't ever want you back here.'
She had her eyes shut and tears were streaming down her small withered face. As I knelt next to her, she let go of her hip with her right hand and swung out, catching me on the side of the face. There wasn't much to her blow, probably weaker than what a three-year-old might do, but the shock of it sent me to my feet and stepping away from her.
The hell with it. The hell with both of them.
I looked around and saw that when I had dove to the floor after the first gunshot, I had flung the photos and they were now scattered across the room. I bent over and started picking them up. I was only partially paying attention to my dad, but noticed he had gotten off his bed and was standing beside me. All of a sudden, he started pummeling me, hitting me with both fists -not hard enough to do any real damage, but hard enough to hurt. And hard enough to almost send me to the floor. I caught my balance and moved back a few steps before turning to face him.
'You heard your mother,' he cried. He had his fists clenched and was waving them at me. 'Get out of our house!'
'Dad. Come on-'
'You're not welcome here! Get out!'
He took a step towards me and I just shook my head and left the room and kept walking until I was out of the house. When I got to the curb I sat down. As I waited for the police to show up, 1 looked over the photos that I had grabbed. I had only been able to pick up six of them. Still, it settled me down to look at images of Melissa and Courtney as they smiled shyly at the camera.
The cruiser came quickly. It's not every day in Bradley you have shots fired at a residential home. The siren turned off and Bill Wright and a younger cop that I didn't know got out of the car.
Bill stood for a moment and peered at the two broken windows before addressing me.
'What happened here?' he asked.
'Someone took a couple of shots at me from outside. The first shot missed me by inches.'
Bill turned his gaze back towards the windows. 'You called for an ambulance. Is anyone hurt?'
'I pushed my parents to the floor after the first shot. I think my mom might've broken her hip.'
'It was just you and your mom and dad inside?'
'Yeah.'
Bill turned to the younger cop. 'Mike, go inside and see how they're doing. Take their statements, and also, give the station another call, make sure an ambulance is on its way.'
The younger cop, Mike, gave me a funny look before leaving us. Bill stood awkwardly for a moment and then looked back again towards the house.
'The ambula
nce should've been here by now,' he muttered under his breath. Then to me, 'Did you see anything?'
'No. After the shots were fired I ran outside, but whoever did this was long gone.'
'Any idea who might've shot at you?'
'No idea. As I told you, I didn't see anyone.'
Of course, that wasn't what he asked. Annoyance disturbed his long narrow face. He turned to stare at me for a few seconds before looking away. In any case he let it drop.
'Why were you waiting outside for us?'
'My parents didn't want me in their house.'
He nodded as if that made perfect sense. He asked, 'You haven't looked around for shell casings, have you?'
I shook my head. I dug one of the bullets out of the bedroom wall. It looks like a seven millimeter. I left it on top of the dresser.'
'I'll see if I can find any casings.'
He took out a flashlight and started searching the ground. I watched as he walked back and forth. After a few minutes he found one and held it up with a pencil. At that moment an ambulance pulled up. Two EMT workers jumped out of it.
'You took your time coming here,' I said.
Neither of them bothered to look at me. One of them told me they left as soon as they got the call. The other one addressed Bill. 'What do we have here?' he asked.
'An elderly woman might've broken her hip.'
Without being asked, I told them that my mom was sixty-three. The EMTs ignored me and opened the back of their ambulance and took out a stretcher. Then they made a beeline to the house, leaving me and Bill Wright alone. I just sat and stared at him. Eventually, he flinched under it.
'You were holding up the ambulance,' I said.
He pretended not to hear me.
'What were you hoping for?' I asked. 'That I had gotten hit and would bleed out before help could get to me?’
‘I don't know what you're talking about.’
‘Bullshit.'
He turned and glared at me, but it was forced and unnatural. Then he looked away. We stood silently for what seemed like minutes before he muttered something about me waiting where I was. 'I'll be right back,' he said.
I watched as he walked away, his gait self-conscious. He was about to enter the house, but he backed up to let the two EMTs out. They held a short conversation before he slid past them and went inside.
The stretcher the EMTs were carrying was empty. As they were loading it into the back of the ambulance I asked how my mom was.
'I think her hip is badly bruised, but not broken,' one of them said to me.
'Shouldn't you be taking her to the hospital?'
He shrugged. 'If they don't want to go, you can't make them.'
The two of them finished loading up the ambulance and then drove off. I sat for another few minutes on the curb and then stood up and got into my car. While I sat there I thought about the police holding up the ambulance on me. When I had called, I had spoken to the switchboard operator, and she had probably relayed my message to the desk sergeant, Schilling. It had probably been his idea. Still, I was sure Bill knew about it. As I thought about it, I realized I didn't care. Just as I realized I didn't care that my parents had thrown me out. Let them all do whatever they wanted to. As soon as I could, I'd be out of Bradley. Then none of it would matter.
I had my eyes closed and head tilted back when there was a short rap on the driver's side window. I opened my eyes and saw Bill leaning over, frowning. I rolled down the window.
'You weren't planning on driving off, were you?'
I shook my head. 'I was just waiting here for you.'
'That's quite a mess in there,' he said.
I didn't bother answering him.
He waited for a few seconds, realized I wasn't going to say anything, and then continued. 'Your parents claim you have photos that belong to them. They want them back.'
'They're pictures of my kids.'
'They say they'll file charges against you if you don't return them.'
'Let them.'
'If that's what you want.'
He started fingering his handcuffs. He had them half slid off his belt before I stopped him.
'This is ridiculous,' I said. 'I'll go in and talk to them.'
He shook his head. 'They don't want you in their house. Why don't you hand me those photos. It would be a pretty stupid thing to have to arrest you for.'
'Yeah, it would be,' I agreed. 'Especially since if I was brought in tonight, I'd make a stink about that ambulance being held up on me. Someone might actually care about it.'
I could see his eyes dull a bit, but he didn't say a word. I let out a lungful of air. 'Why don't you go back in there and tell them that if they want I'll give them their pictures back, but if I do, I'll also be driving to Albany tonight so I can take my Own in the morning. Let's see what they say to that.'
Bill's mouth twisted into a smirk as he shot me a disgusted look, but after a ten-count, he turned and went back into the house. When he came back he told me I could keep the photos.
'You need anything else from me?' I asked.
He shook his head, his eyes as lifeless as glass.
'I've got a duffel bag with my clothes in there. It's in my bedroom. You want to accompany me while I go in and get it?'
"They don't want you in there.' I could see in his eyes the last thing he wanted to do was run another errand for me. It just about killed him, but he gritted his teeth and told me to wait where I was while he went in and retrieved my bag for me.
As he went back into the house, I got out of the car and stretched. My muscles ached and I was dead tired. As I stretched, Bill came out of the house with my duffel bag. For a moment it looked as if he were going to hand it to me, but as I reached out for the bag he dropped it at my feet.
'About your being shot at,' he said, 'here's a suggestion. Why don't you get in your car and keeping driving 'til you get someplace where somebody gives a damn?'
Chapter 13
I found a roadside motel in Eastfield to spend the night. The room they gave me had a dirty, stale feel to it and seemed more like a bunker than a motel room. The walls were concrete, the flooring a mix of industrial carpeting and cement, and the mattress had to have been at least thirty years old and in worse shape than the one I had in jail. It was the type of place where you kept your shoes on, and still checked where you stepped so you wouldn't walk on any left-behind hypodermic needles or used rubbers. Still, I was out before my eyes closed. Completely out, no dreams, nothing. It was as if a switch had been thrown.
The room was still dark when I opened my eyes. My neck and joints ached and I had a rotten taste in my mouth and generally felt lousy. With some effort, I contorted my neck and upper body so I could look at the two-dollar alarm clock next to the bed. It was only a few minutes past five. I pushed myself out of bed, got into the shower and tried to get as clean as I could. It wasn't easy; the shower wasn't the type you could really get clean in. The soap they gave was a small sliver, the water stayed mostly cold and only at the end made it close to lukewarm, and the lone towel that was left folded in the bathroom couldn't have cost more than fifty cents and was about as thick as tissue paper.
I wanted to get out of there quickly and escape the griminess of the place, and was dressed and in my car by five thirty. The first thing I did was drive to an all-night gas station and buy some doughnuts, aspirin and road maps. I brought all the stuff out to my car, and after wolfing down the doughnuts and chewing on a few aspirin, I unfolded the road maps and planned out a trip to Montreal. Before heading off, I called my parole officer, Craig Simpson, on a payphone and left a message that I had to miss our meeting because of a job interview. I knew Craig well enough to know that while he'd be annoyed by my canceling our appointment, he'd let it slide.
I had thought long and hard about seeking out Junior for the stunt he pulled the night before, but I had this nagging feeling about Charlotte that I couldn't shake. When I thought back about our day together and how she had acted
after she'd left the hospital, it seemed bizarre to me. Almost as if she suspected me then of wanting her to overdose Manny. I had this image of her in my mind, of when we had driven to Burlington, how she sat closed and withdrawn, and how she'd occasionally peek at me when she didn't think I was looking. I shuddered involuntarily as I thought about it. It was more than that, though. It didn't make any sense for her to jump to that conclusion as quickly as she had. There was something not quite right there and I was going to find out what it was. As much as I wanted to pay Junior back, this seemed more important.
Even though it was only six in the morning and the sun hadn't yet had a chance to rise, the air had a clammy feel to it and you could tell the day was going to be overcast. It was the type of weather that would get into your bones. I put the top down anyways. I don't know, I guess after seven years cooped up in jail, I now wanted as much air as I could get. Driving to Montreal was only a half-hour longer than the ride to Albany, but I didn't get any sense of peace from the trip. I had too many thoughts and worries nagging at me.
I reached customs by nine thirty and got to the first hospital, a little before ten. It took some persistence and wheedling on my part, but the woman working in the records room was too polite to stonewall me for long. After a while she checked their files and told me that Charlotte never worked there. I went through the same deal with three more hospitals until I found one that Charlotte had worked at. When I asked the clerk in their administration office whether I could speak with someone familiar with Charlotte's work history, she asked me to wait a few minutes, and then got on the phone and tried to locate someone for me. Less than ten minutes later I was brought into the office of the Chief of Surgery.
The Chief of Surgery, Dr Henri Bouchaire, was a cheery-looking fellow, about thirty-five, with light brownish hair and long sideburns. He stood up immediately to shake my hand, and when he sat back down, he pressed both his hands flat together so they formed an apex, and rested the tip against his chin.
'I'd like to thank you for taking the time to see me,' I said.
'That's quite all right.' He paused to show me an anemic smile. 'I understand you have several questions that you would like to ask concerning a nurse we once employed. Charlotte Boyd, is that correct?'
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