High Country Nocturne

by Jon Talton

  The Saturday night mayhem began to fill up the waiting room after eleven. Finally, a doctor came for me, took me into the fluorescent-lit hallway, and told me the only thing that really stuck. Lindsey was alive.

  The rest I remembered in pieces. I should have been taking notes.

  She had suffered massive blood loss and they had put her into an induced coma to protect her brain. I remembered the words “hypothermic treatment.”

  How long would she be this way? As much as two weeks.

  She had been lucky, the bullet passing through her without fragmenting, missing her aorta by half an inch. She was also a healthy woman, which would help. But it was too soon to know about “impairment” of her brain and heart. The next twenty-four hours would tell us much.

  At four a.m., I was allowed into the ICU to see Lindsey. A pair of uniformed Phoenix Police officers stood outside and one checked my identification. Then I was led into a nursing station that was the center of activity with desks and monitors. All visitors had to pass through this area. That was good.

  From there, it took a keypad code to enter Lindsey’s room, one of several pods separated by large windows from the nursing station. The unit was also monitored by video cameras. The setup looked between a cross of a spaceship and a high-end prison.

  My wife was on her back, a ventilator tube in her mouth, three IV lines attached to her arms and one running inside her gown, and no pillow under her head. The pillows were supporting her arms and legs. Gauze pads were taped over her eyes.

  Heart and respiratory monitors were attached and beeped softly. A blood-pressure cuff was around her right arm and periodically it automatically inflated and deflated. A second nurse came in to check the plastic IV bags hanging on stainless steel rods above her bed.

  I talked to her, certain she could hear me, told her I loved her, but they didn’t want me to get too close. Her hand was cold. It didn’t return my grip.

  The room held no hospital smell. No smell at all. That was good, right?

  When I saw the dried blood in her hair, I became “agitated,” as the nurse put it. Could they wash her hair? No. At least they could use a wet cloth to wipe away the blood. Lindsey was the opposite of vain in almost every way, but she was proud of her hair.

  After ten minutes, another medico with a cart came in and I was guided back out. The nurse gave me Lindsey’s wedding rings, the simple narrow platinum band and the engagement ring with a princess-cut diamond. “A timeless modern style,” Lindsey called it.

  When I stepped out of the ICU, Sharon was waiting with her daughters, two beautiful, high-functioning Latina lawyers from the Bay Area. Melton and his crew wouldn’t dare ask them for their papers. The anti-immigrant sentiment was as much about class as anything else.

  They all hugged me and for a few seconds I thought I would shatter and cry in their arms. But it didn’t come. My emotions pinballed inside. Outside, I felt numb, underwater…

  Still, I let them tell me everything would be all right. Mike had been shot and put into a coma, remember? And all turned out well. I was vulnerable to comforting lies at that moment. I welcomed them.

  After awhile, Sharon and I took the elevator to the first floor and walked through the corridors of the older part of the hospital. I used my left hand to hold a cold pack to my battered face, kept my right hand free. Historical photos were displayed on the walls. The hallways were wide, dimly lit, and deserted. It made me focus, check sightlines and sounds, feel the companionship of the .38 inside my waistband.

  And suddenly, I was facing a wall, touching it lightly, feeling the texture, lost in losing Lindsey. Fortunately, the fugue didn’t last.

  But Sharon began sobbing. I took her in my arms.

  “I’m so sorry, David…So sorry…”

  I whispered, “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

  It felt good to comfort someone else, to be outside myself if even for a few minutes. Still, I was back to hyper-awareness, too, a good thing.

  I expected her to talk about the uncertainty of Lindsey’s recovery, say how I didn’t have to think about getting through the next two weeks or the next day, but only the moment I was in right then…that sort of thing. I expected her to say shrink things.

  Instead, she couldn’t form a word. I took her hand and we walked.

  We were past the closed cafeteria before she spoke.

  She asked what I was thinking.

  “That Lindsey is dying. That it’s my fault.”

  “How can you blame yourself?”

  So I told her. It took awhile. I could hear noises coming from the kitchen, preparing breakfast for hundreds of patients.

  She sighed and shook her head in a narrow, slow axis. Her large Mexican Madonna eyes working not to judge me.

  “You did the best you could with the information you had. I wish you hadn’t let that rat bastard Melton box you in a corner.”

  “I know.”

  “Maybe it’s for the best, give you a distraction during the wait for Lindsey. And she is not dying, David.”

  She squeezed my hand.

  “I remember when you left Phoenix to become a professor,” she said. “We were all young then. You would visit us at Thanksgiving and Mike would always try to convince you to come back to the Sheriff’s Office. And he finally got you and everything seemed right.”

  “I failed in academia and my first marriage. He took pity on me.”

  “You didn’t fail,” she said. “You put your skills to their best use. You solved the first case, where the woman got off the train and disappeared?”

  I nodded. “Rebecca Stokes. She was a victim of a serial killer that had never been identified before.” If anything, the victims deserved for us to remember their names.

  “And you sure didn’t fail personally,” she said. “Patty was never right for you. Here, you met Lindsey and you were a big success clearing old cases.”

  Then her tone changed. “I’m not sure this PI business is good for either of you. This violence…” She shook back her hair and stared down the dim hallway. “It’s worse than when you both were at the Sheriff’s Office. When Mike lost the election, he could have become a consultant, pulled down six figures, and never worn a gun again.”

  “I know.”

  “Why did he want to become a private eye? Why did you go with him?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “It started with your first case, that girl that was murdered in San Diego. When the bad guys took Mike prisoner, you killed both of them.”

  “They drew on me.”

  “And there was no other way? No other way to de-escalate the situation.”

  “No. Have you ever had a gun in your face?” I forced my voice back to normal. “Civilians think you can shoot the gun out of their hands or divert the poor misunderstood person into social services.”

  “I’m hardly a civilian, David. I lived with a cop for forty years…”

  “With a break here and there.”

  She smiled weakly.

  “Anyway, they were domestic terrorists. I’m all out of compassion considering what they did, and what they would have done if we hadn’t stopped them.”

  I couldn’t tell her the rest of the story, how I had called in Mike’s old friend Ed Cartwright, an undercover FBI agent who lived out in the desert and sold weapons to the survivalist crowd and gangs. He was a full-blood Apache and in their twisted way they trusted him as the Noble Savage. Cartwright took the gun I had used and made me leave, saving me trouble from the police. I wasn’t a deputy anymore.

  “David, promise me your first reaction won’t be violence.”

  I promised. There were too damned many promises out there.

  After another dozen steps in silence, she said, “Why don’t you go back to teaching? When this is all over. Lindsey could do anything with computers.
It would be a good life for you both. And Mike could become a consultant.”

  I said, “That sounds like bargaining.”

  “I’m not on the clock. Psychologists are human, too.”

  “So you’re telling me you had no idea he was going on this diamond run?” Even I was surprised at how quickly I had shifted gears.

  “I already told you, no.” Her voice had an edge and she dropped my hand.

  “But he calls you on the phone. He says I need to watch my ass. Something went wrong.”

  “David, if I had realized that he meant you and Lindsey would have this woman show up at your door, of course I would have…I’m not a goddamned mind reader here. He’s not exactly the most forthcoming man in the world. He doesn’t talk about his work. What did he tell you about the diamonds?”

  “Nothing.”

  “And now he’s gone and he’s in trouble.”

  We reached the expansive new lobby, where a janitor was running a floor-polishing machine. Such a pleasant job, nobody shooting at you.

  I asked if the FBI was still outside their house.

  “Two SUVs,” she said, “and a Crown Vic that tailed me all the way here. I’m very safe, David. I have a Glock 26 subcompact in my purse. Why wasn’t the FBI watching your house?”

  I shook my head.

  I told her that Strawberry Death was somehow connected with her husband and the diamond theft. She had first appeared after the crime, when we were on our way to Ash Fork.

  “That was the DPS officer?”

  “Yes. Same woman. This was not a coincidence. When she confronted me on the front lawn, she said, ‘Where are my stones?’ She said she’d made Mike a promise. What the hell does that mean?” I described her and asked Sharon if she remembered Peralta mentioning anyone like that.

  “Does she sound like anyone you know? Anyone you remember seeing?”

  “No, David. Why are you badgering me?” She started crying again, but when I reached out she pushed my hand away. “I’m trying to help you. I think I understand the stress you’re under but you need to let the FBI and the police do their job.”

  “Well, the FBI is officially labeling Mike an armed fugitive.”

  “That’s absurd!”

  “I believe that. I think he’s working undercover. But if he is, this new Special Agent in Charge doesn’t know about it or he’s a damned good liar.”

  I didn’t know who to trust. I said, “You need to go back to the Bay Area. It’s not safe here. This woman who shot Lindsey deliberately came after me. She’s still out there. You are probably next on her list.”

  She stood straighter. “We’re not leaving. I can take care of myself. Jamie and Jennifer can, too. We’ll take shifts with you watching Lindsey.”

  I said, “At least don’t be exposed at night. This woman likes the night.”

  “So do you,” she said. And she was right.

  Back upstairs, we waited. I was allowed in to see Lindsey four more times. IV bags were changed. A blood-pressure cuff was attached to her arm and periodically inflated and deflated, sending the data to the monitors. A nurse with an elaborate cart containing additional monitoring equipment came in once—another time I was instructed to leave the unit. I napped for short periods in chairs, leaving kinks in every muscle.

  A police technician used a laptop computer to generate a likeness of Lindsey’s assailant. The problem wasn’t the quality—it was a pretty good rendering. The problem was that she looked like scores of other average-attractive thirtysomething women walking around the malls of Phoenix. This was no doubt an advantage in her trade.

  At seven p.m. Sunday, the three Peralta women sent me home to rest, promising to call if anything changed.

  Sharon walked me to the door. It was black night outside and I realized I hadn’t seen the sun for more than a day. Then the question that had been sitting under my feet like a land mine finally detonated.

  “Why are you here?”

  She looked at me strangely. “For you and Lindsey. Why?”

  “No, I mean what brought you to the hospital? How did you know we’d be here?”

  “The call.”

  I was suddenly twitchy. The feeling of imaginary ants marching up the back of my neck was so pronounced that I reached back to brush them off.

  “What call?”

  She said, “I got a call from the hospital. They said you asked them to call me and say Lindsey had been shot and please come. What’s wrong?”

  “I didn’t tell anyone to make a call. Man or woman’s voice?”

  “A man.”

  I stared through the glass door at the night street. “Accent?”

  She shook her head.

  I looked back at her. “Could it have been Mike?”

  “No.”

  “People can change their voices, Sharon.”

  “I know my husband’s voice.”

  I asked to see her cell phone, but the supposed call from the hospital only showed “602,” the area code. When I attempted a return call, it provoked the familiar three tones followed by “Your call cannot be completed as dialed.” Whoever had called Sharon had concealed his tracks well. Lindsey knew how to pull off such a trick. I didn’t.

  I said, “It wasn’t the hospital.”

  “Well, thank God someone let me know,” she said.

  “How many people have your number?”

  She thought for a few seconds, stroking her hair. “Maybe two hundred in five states and D.C.”

  I cursed, handed her phone back, and studied her.

  “What are you not telling me?”

  Her eyes widened in exasperation. “I’m telling you everything.”

  I tried to make myself stop, but I couldn’t. “Sharon, are you in on this with him? Did he call you about Lindsey being shot?”

  “No! David, you’re traumatized.”

  I couldn’t tell if she was being truthful. Sharon was usually as straightforward as her husband and thankfully lacked his manipulative streak. But who knew better how to lie than a shrink?

  I repeated, “What are you not telling me? Whatever it is, another miscalculation by him and we’ll all be dead.”

  She turned away and placed her hand against the wall, lightly at first and then with such force that it was if she were trying to push the building off its foundations. When she faced me again, her eyes were still wet with tears.

  I had never seen Sharon cry in all the years I had known her, all the years she heard other people tell their psychological nightmares, all the years she had endured her husband’s moods and tirades.

  “I didn’t know what Mike meant,” she managed in a husky voice. “When he called on the old county landline as Paco and told you to watch your ass. I should have done more. Should have realized. Now Lindsey is hurt.”

  “It’s not your fault. I’m to blame.”

  “I’m afraid…” she began. Then she lowered her head for a long moment before finishing. “For the first time in my life, I’m afraid he’s in over his head. We can’t lose both of them, David. And you lost Robin, too.”

  “We won’t lose them,” I whispered without conviction.

  “He’s in trouble, David, and he needs you.”

  I suddenly felt angry again. “If he needs me, he has to do more than drop a cryptic note on a business card.”

  “I know, I know.” She put both hands on my shoulders, calm again. “I don’t know how to ask for your help because you’re totally focused on Lindsey. As you should be. But…”

  “We can help each other.” I said it not knowing what it meant, what I was promising. “I’ll try to find him.”

  “Thank you.” She pulled my face close. “You’re exhausted. Go home and get some sleep. I promise we’ll call if anything changes here.”

  She turned me and pushe
d my numb body forward.

  The automatic sliding glass doors gave their kissing sound and I walked through. When I looked back, she was watching me with those wide brown eyes. I shook my head and forced myself to move along.

  Chapter Fifteen

  A cop had given me a ride to the hospital, so I crossed the expanse of Thomas Road and walked the nine blocks home, past the narrow streets I had memorized on my bicycle as a child. Edgemont, Windsor, Cambridge, Virginia, Wilshire, Lewis, Vernon, Encanto Boulevard, Cypress.

  Hardly anyone lived in the neighborhood from those days. One friend from grade school went into the Diplomatic Service and was posted to Budapest, another was a lobbyist in California. Yet another was living in London. So many had left town.

  Willo was one of the safest neighborhoods in the metropolitan area. If I didn’t live here, if I hadn’t brought trouble, there would barely have been a violent crime in years.

  There was no time for those thoughts. No time to appreciate the distinctive character of each house or mourn about the idiots who had put in desert landscaping where this had always been the oasis. No time, for now, to worry about Lindsey. All my senses had to be on high alert.

  It was Sunday night in the heart of the city and few cars passed me on Fifth Avenue. A couple walked their dog. No assassins were hiding behind oleander hedges in the service alleys. Overhead, high thin clouds lingered, turned pink by the reflected city lights. A slight breeze tousled my hair.

  At home, I armed the alarm and took a long shower, locking the bathroom door and setting two guns and my iPhone on the vanity. I let the needles of hot water pummel my battered face, let the room fill with steam.

  I dried off and approached the dreaded mirror. Even after using several cold packs at the hospital, the tissue around my right eye was colorful and swollen, plenty of purple, red, and orange like an Arizona sunset. It hurt in colors, too, all in the red zone. My left cheek bore the slashes of the killer’s fingernails. I popped four Advils.

  The little meteor strike of skin was four inches above my right nipple, the remains of the only time I had been shot. It had come on the first case Peralta gave me to clean up. I lost enough blood to pass out and they airlifted me from Sedona to St. Joe’s. I was lucky my lung didn’t collapse. When I woke up, Lindsey was there. We weren’t even married. Sometimes when we were in bed, she would lightly worry the scar with her fingertip, trying to erase it. Fragments of the bullet were still inside me.