Spider Web

by Earlene Fowler

  “Hey, Benni!”

  I turned around and saw Miguel, one of Elvia’s younger brothers, a few steps behind me. He wasn’t in uniform tonight, either working plainclothes or just out to enjoy the farmers’ market. He wore a bright turquoise and red Hawaiian shirt and blue jeans.

  “Hey, Miguel. What’s new? Did anyone tell you that it’s, uh, winter?”

  “You know me,” he said, grinning. “Hot-blooded.”

  I shivered inside my gray sweatshirt. “You make me cold just looking at you. Everything copacetic on the streets?”

  “So far, so good,” he said, falling in beside me. He was about five ten and had a forty-four-inch chest, all muscle and macho bravado. He patted the side of his baggy shirt. “Great for hiding my weapon. If you knew how many people were packing tonight, you’d freak.”

  “Please, I don’t want to know. Are you wearing your Kevlar vest?”

  He put his finger over his lips. “Ruins my profile.” He puffed his chest out a little. “Makes me look like I have a gut, like the old guys.”

  I nudged him with my elbow. “Miguel, that’s so vain.”

  The crowds were thicker now, and a drum band had started a calypso tune that inspired a large group of folks to start an impromptu dance in the middle of the street. I stopped for a second, trying to figure out the best way through the bouncing, swaying crowd.

  “Hey, are you going to see my sister anytime soon?” Miguel asked.

  “We see each other every day, usually. Why?”

  “I need to pick up a rosary we ordered for our mom’s birthday at the mission gift shop and give it to Elvia so she can wrap it.”

  “So?”

  “I’m leaving with some guys tomorrow to go down to LA to this concert and . . .”

  “And you’ve messed around and haven’t picked it up yet.”

  He grinned at me, looking for a few seconds like the five-year-old boy I used to babysit. “Want to walk with me over to the mission so I can pick it up?”

  “Sure, then I’ll take it to your big sis.”

  “Thanks,” he said. “I have a late shift tonight. Eleven to seven. Then we’re leaving.”

  “No sleep?” I commented, trying to remember when I was young enough to work all night, then leave on a trip.

  He waved a dismissive hand. “I’ll sleep in the car.”

  We tried to weave our way around the dancers, but they took up the whole street.

  “Let’s cut across the bridge and go around back,” Miguel said. The mission was one block over on Monterey Street. Monterey ran parallel to Lopez Street. San Celina Creek meandered through the center of town and lay behind the buildings facing Lopez and in front of the mission. Over the years, the city had developed the land along both sides of the creek, turning the odd spaces into a series of miniature parks, brick-lined walkways and green spaces where people could picnic, lie in the sun, or play with their dogs or children. Bridges on the north and south ends of the creek made it easy to cut across the creek to go to the mission or the shops on Monterey Street.

  It was quieter once we started walking across the long metal bridge, the sounds of the farmers’ market muffled by the overgrown trees and the loud swoosh of creek water, the current stronger than normal because of the abundant rain this year.

  “So,” I said, when we reached the middle of the bridge, dimly lit from a streetlamp, “are you seeing anyone special? There’s this new girl at the co-op and she’s real cute . . .”

  He turned his head to answer me, and then I heard a muffled thump. For a split second, his face looked surprised, his mouth a silent oh. He crumpled to the floor of the bridge, the metal and wood vibrating beneath my feet when his head hit metal. I dropped to my knees, screaming, “Help! Someone get help! Officer down!”

  Miguel’s eyes watched me, his mouth convulsing silently. Around us, I heard people shouting, water running, footsteps on the bridge. I threw my body over Miguel’s to protect him.

  “What’s going on?” a young man shouted somewhere behind me. The bridge vibrated beneath us.

  “Don’t worry, don’t worry,” I said to Miguel, locking my eyes onto his. “You’ll be okay, you’ll be okay. Oh, God, please.”

  “Hey, do you need help?” The young man again.

  I turned around and saw two teenagers—a boy in a red sweatshirt and a girl with a pixie haircut—their faces shocked, their bodies poised to flee.

  “Call 911!” I screamed. “Tell them where we are. We need paramedics. Call 911. Now!”

  “Okay!” the girl answered. “Wait there.” She started running, the young man following her.

  I pulled my sweatshirt off and laid it across his chest where blood had already seeped from somewhere in his chest.

  I took his hand and said, “Help is coming. Hang in there, Miggy.” His childhood nickname fell from my lips. He’d threatened Elvia and me with death if we ever used it around his law enforcement buddies. “You’ll be okay.”

  Please, not Miguel, Lord. Please, let him live. Please, please, please.

  It felt like forever, but eventually, around me, I felt people moving, heard people yelling, shouting orders. Everything sounded muffled, like a television turned low. A white, hot buzzing in my ears. Miguel’s dark-lashed eyes stared into mine, reminding me in that split second of how, as a little boy, he was always so quiet, so watchful. He would beg me to read Charlotte’s Web to him over and over. He finally told me that he was waiting for the part where Charlotte doesn’t die. To make him happy, I created an ending where she came back to life, saved by a caterpillar that was a doctor, got married, had children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren. In Miguel’s version, Charlotte lived happily ever after.

  Miguel could not die on a bridge out in the cold March night. Not before he even had a life. No, I thought. Not Miguel. No.

  I bent closer, my lips at his ear. “Hold on. Don’t move.” His shallow breaths turned my heart to stone.

  I lifted my head at the sound of a voice, someone saying something, calling my name. “Mrs. Ortiz.” Dark blue filled my vision. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Ortiz,” the blue blob said. “Paramedics are on their way.”

  His hand touched my shoulder, slipped down to my upper arm, urging me up and away from Miguel.

  “No,” I said, jerking away. I couldn’t leave. His mother would never forgive me if I left his side. I would never forgive myself.

  “Paramedics,” a calm voice said behind me.

  My brain clicked into rational thought. I released Miguel’s warm hand and stood up. Two men in dark blue uniforms pushed past me, setting huge bags on the ground, stooping down, tearing open his shirt.

  “GSW,” one said, opening his bag.

  “Hey, buddy,” the other said to Miguel. “Don’t worry. We’ll take care of you.” Their voices were too calm. Couldn’t they see this was Miguel? Didn’t they realize how important he was?

  I coughed, choking on the thick liquid at the back of my throat. “He’s a police officer.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” one of them said without turning around. “We’ll take good care of him anyway.” Both the paramedics chuckled, their humor incongruous with their busy hands and efficient movements. But I couldn’t be mad. It was their way, this gallows humor. I’d seen that same laughter in the face of death in my husband and his colleagues. I’d seen it in Miguel.

  I felt a hand tug at my arm. It was a San Celina police officer. His baby face looked too young to be carrying a gun. He was young enough to be my son if I’d had a baby when I was seventeen or eighteen. Not an impossible thing.

  “He’s a police officer,” I told the young man.

  “Yes, Mrs. Ortiz, I know Miguel. We need to move back and give the paramedics room to work.”

  “My husband. Someone needs to call Gabe. He’s at home. He was going to watch a game, baseball, I think. No, basketball. Maybe. I don’t know. I don’t remember. Someone needs to call him.”

  “Come with me, Mrs. Ortiz,” the officer
said. “We need to take your statement while it’s still clear in your mind. Someone’s already called the chief. He’s going to meet us at the hospital.”

  “It came from below us, I think,” I said. “From the creek.” My brain felt full of buzzing wasps. “Has Gabe been told? Someone needs to tell Gabe. I have to call Elvia. She’s his big sister. She has to hear it from me. His mama! Señor and Señora Aragon, somebody needs to tell them. Is Miguel going to be okay? I have to get to the hospital.”

  The officer, whose name tag read G. Russo, said, “Don’t worry, Mrs. Ortiz. Someone will take care of all that. I have orders to take you away from the scene.”

  “Whose orders? Where’s Gabe?”

  The young officer took a deep breath. Hysterical witnesses were obviously new to him, as were fellow police officers being shot in the street. What a baptism into the force. I wanted to burst into tears, pound somebody’s chest, but this young man looked like he was ready to throw up himself. I swallowed hard, willed myself to stop trembling. I was the older person here. Get a grip.

  “I’m okay, Officer,” I said. “I’ll do whatever you need. You’re right, I need to give my statement before I forget anything. Someone can take me to the hospital afterward.”

  He nodded gratefully, leading me to where a half-dozen police cars seemed to have materialized out of nowhere. I was suddenly aware of chaos surrounding me—a perimeter had already been set up with black and yellow crime scene tape and dozens of officers were keeping back the onlookers. My mind flashed on Elvia, her mother, the rest of the Aragons.

  Officer Russo opened the back of one of the squad cars. “You can sit here, Mrs. Ortiz. One of the detectives will be with you in a moment.”

  “Can I make a phone call?” Then I realized I’d left my cell phone back at the folk art museum booth with my purse. “Miguel’s family . . .”

  “Don’t worry, Benni. They’re being notified.” The answer came from behind me. I turned to see Captain Jim Cleary, Gabe’s secondin-command.

  “Jim!” I flung myself into his arms and immediately burst into tears. I’d known him almost as long as I’d known Gabe. I didn’t have to act mature and together with Jim, who’d seen situations of this magnitude many times in his thirty-year law enforcement career.

  I sobbed out my terror and relief as he gently patted me on the back while holding me in a fatherly embrace. With five kids of his own, two of them daughters, he was an experienced comforter.

  Once I calmed down, I leaned back against the squad car, wiping my nose and eyes with the sleeve of my flannel shirt. “I’m sorry for being so emotional.”

  “I wish I had a handkerchief to give you,” Jim said.

  “Here,” another familiar voice said. “I always have one.”

  Hud moved through the crowd of officers and handed me a cotton handkerchief. “It’s not the first time, is it, ranch girl?”

  “Thanks, Hud,” I said, taking it and holding it to my face, letting it absorb the salty tears.

  “Here, drink this,” Jim said, handing me a bottle of water. “Are you up to giving us a statement?”

  I nodded, taking a long drink of water. I knew the sooner a witness was interviewed after a crime the more they were likely to remember. I wanted to do whatever I could to help catch this criminal. It was personal now.

  “I know it’s hard with all this chaos,” Jim said, “but try to tell me exactly where you walked, what you saw and heard up to the moment when Miguel was shot.”

  Yvette Arnaud walked up, still dressed in the jeans and tailored shirt I’d seen her in earlier when I bought the photograph for my uncle. Where was that package now? I had no memory of dropping it.

  Jim nodded at her. “This is Detective Arnaud’s case. Why don’t you tell her what happened?”

  “Hey,” she said softly, touching my shoulder. “Are you okay? Do you want another bottle of water?” She glanced around for someone to fetch one.

  “No, I’m fine,” I said, squeezing my almost empty bottle. “If I drink any more I’ll just have to pee.”

  She gave a half smile. “I hear you. Why don’t you just take a deep breath and tell me what you remember. I saw you run into Officer Aragon right after you left Van’s booth. Take me through the last hour step-by-step. Take your time.”

  I closed my eyes, clutched the bottle of water and tried to quiet my mind, filter out the voices and confusion around us. I tried to recall the last half hour or so I spent with Miguel before he was shot. A sudden thought that it might be the last time I saw him caused a violent shudder to shoot through me, and I doubled over, wanting to throw up.

  Yvette put her arm around me and carefully helped me sit back down on the squad car’s seat, giving my shoulder a comforting squeeze. I closed my eyes and sat there for a moment, willing my stomach to calm down.

  When I opened my eyes, her calm face was watching me. Hud stooped down, his hand lightly touching my knee. “Miguel’s going to be fine. I heard the paramedics say the bullet missed his heart. There’s some bleeding and a little damage. He might have a collapsed lung. That’s serious but fixable.”

  I inhaled deeply, only slightly relieved to hear Miguel’s prognosis. We wouldn’t know for sure what was going on until a doctor examined him.

  “Benni,” Yvette said. “Can you tell us what happened?”

  “We decided to take the bridge and cut over to Monterey Street,” I said, glancing at Hud, then Yvette. “Miguel had to pick up a rosary for his mother. At the mission gift shop.”

  Slowly, I described our route, trying to recall every detail. I knew that often the seemingly most innocuous thing might be a clue for the detectives.

  Once I’d gone through the whole scenario, she asked me to repeat it. Then she asked me to tell it a third time. My water bottle was empty now, and I was gripping it with both hands, the crinkling sound from the plastic somehow a comfort.

  After my third telling, Jim Cleary stepped in. “I think we’ve picked her brain clean. Let’s have an officer drive her over to the hospital.”

  I gave him a grateful look and stood up. For a moment, my legs felt numb, and I started to sway. Hud darted up and caught me before Jim could move.

  “Take it easy,” he said, his arm around my shoulders.

  Jim called over the young officer who’d been the first to come at my cries for help. “Officer Russo, drive her over to General Hospital. Make sure she gets inside.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Are you going to be okay?” Jim asked.

  I nodded yes, though I wasn’t sure. “Do you know where Gabe is?” “At the hospital. He called to check on you while you were talking to Detective Arnaud. He said he’d see you there.”

  Despite the crowds, Officer Russo maneuvered his squad car out and onto a side street. As we pulled away, I glanced up briefly and saw the hundreds of curious people. It occurred to me that the sniper was still out there. The person who shot Miguel might be standing in that crowd staring at the spectacle he or she had caused, as satisfied and sated as an arsonist who watches a forest go up in orange flames.

  I hunched down in the passenger seat, turning my head, trying to ignore the gawkers. For a moment, I understood what it must feel like to be hunted by paparazzi. I felt vulnerable, scared and angry. On the drive to the hospital, using the officer’s borrowed cell phone, I called Dove. If she hadn’t heard about it yet, she would soon. The San Celina grapevine was as fast as a Japanese bullet train.

  “Gramma?” I said.

  “What’s wrong?” My tone put Dove immediately on red alert. “Are you okay? Who’s hurt? Where are you?”

  Before I could answer, I heard her yell, “Ben, start the truck!”

  “Wait,” I broke in, my words tumbling over each other. “I’m fine, I’m fine. I’m on the way to the hospital, but it’s not me. And it’s not Gabe.”

  I heard her take a deep breath. In the background, I could hear my dad’s gruff, worried voice. “Dove, what’s going on? What’s wro
ng?”

  “Benni’s fine,” she told him. “So’s Gabe.” She came back on the line. “Why are you going to the hospital?”

  “Miguel was shot. I was with him . . .”

  “I’ll be there . . .”

  “No, wait. It would be better if you didn’t. The hospital is probably a madhouse, and you’d have a hard time getting past the guards. I just wanted to let you know I’m okay. It’s probably on the news right now. I gave my statement already, and an officer is taking me to the hospital . . .”

  “Gabe?”

  “He’s at the hospital. I’ll call you when we hear something.”

  “Honey bun.” Dove’s voice, as familiar and comforting to me as the wind, calmed my racing heart. “Our poor little Miguel.”

  “The paramedics said he’d be okay.” It was a little lie, but she didn’t know that. Maybe he would be. He had to be.

  “I’ll call the prayer chain,” she said softly. “We’ll start lifting him up. You tell Señora Aragon we’re praying for her boy.”

  “I will.”

  At the hospital, we passed through two checkpoints set up by the San Celina police. A security perimeter that would rival a presidential visit had also been set up around the hospital. I glanced at my watch and realized only an hour and a half had passed. It felt like both days and seconds since Miguel was shot.

  Officer Russo pulled in front of a side door off the doctor’s parking lot where two police officers stood guard. After a few words with them, Officer Russo ushered me through the door. It led into someone’s private office. I followed him through the office into one of the hospital’s quiet, low-lit back corridors. We walked through places in the hospital I’d never known existed. In five minutes, we were in the Intensive Care waiting room. Elvia, her mom and dad, various brothers and sisters-in-law and my cousin Emory were in the room watching a news report of the shooting. A quick glance told me my husband wasn’t in the room.

  “Benni!” Elvia rushed over to me, Emory behind her. “Are you okay?” She pulled me into a tight hug. Emory put his arms around both of us.