White Birch Graffiti

by Jeff Van Valer

  “We got plenty of time,” he said, a little hoarse.

  Kathryn clicked the opener button, and the garage door whirred into action. She started the truck and backed out of the garage, hitting the button again. Before idling backward, she put her hand on Ted’s cheek for a moment. He recognized in her complex expression every shade of her love, respect, and friendship. He felt the same assurance as when Donna brought her home.

  “I love you, Buddy Boy,” she said to him. Buddy Boy usually came to Ted from his dad, the purveyor of truth, respectability, and solid boundaries for a growing child. It sounded good coming from Kathryn. Buddy Boy meant I’m here for you. Always.

  Ted reached up to cover her hand with his. He felt her warmth on his face. Her eyebrows tented, and her eyes moistened.

  “Ted, I’m so sorr—”

  A complicated thump interrupted her. It sounded both like a hammer to shatterproof glass and like a baseball bat, in full swing, to a side of beef. Kathryn seemed to sneeze, splattering warm snot all over Ted’s face. A cold wind came as her foot slammed onto the accelerator. The truck careened backwards toward the street. In some strange, immediate reflex, Ted grabbed the steering wheel and rolled it toward him. The truck made a violent, almost full turn, smashing the mailbox and post. In a split second, the vehicle sat on the front lawn, facing the street on a diagonal. The rear wheels spun in reverse, burying themselves in the dead, wet grass. Kathryn’s arms and legs finally relaxed. Ted slammed the gear lever into park.

  She seemed tucked down, like a football lineman shouldering the door to shove it open. Or as though she searched for something she’d dropped next to the seat. But she wasn’t shouldering the door, and she hadn’t dropped anything. She just looked that way because most of her head was missing.

  CHAPTER 11

  Everything above Kathryn’s chin, lower teeth, and tongue was gone. Pieces of skull, hooked in tandem to a long section of peeled scalp, twisted into the turned steering wheel and draped onto her limp knee.

  The rear window had fallen behind the seats, out of its frame. She was still. Ted touched his face and found red, pudding-like stuff that stuck to his fingers. His mind clamored to get away from what he saw, to find something else to explain it. But even the most experienced denier of truth couldn’t escape it. Part of him wanted to reach for her, to help her, grab her right wrist and check for a pulse, or maybe just to hold her hand. Give her some encouragement. Tell her it was just a cut, a little cut on the face was all, that she was going to be just fine.

  But she was in trouble. Danger of some kind. Shouting. Neighbors. NINE-ONE-ONE!! Ted needed to get her out of there. The other part of him wanted to run.

  He combined the conflicting urges, grabbing her right arm and opening the passenger door. Their bloody hands slipped apart as he fell backward, onto the lawn. He got back up and saw he’d pulled enough to slump her into the passenger seat. Her last remnants of pulsatile blood bubbled into red rivulets that ran down the tan leather seams.

  Jim Spencer, Ted’s friend and neighbor, showed up. He was next to the truck by the time Ted thought maybe Kathryn was more than just a little hurt. Bill Johns, Ted’s triathlon buddy, came next.

  Ted tried to call Kathryn’s name, but all that came out was a frightened, anemic voice he didn’t recognize. The redness on the leather seat also covered his front. It was a moment of strange awakening. In a panicky fit, he threw his arms back to drop his coat to the ground. He kicked off his shoes and dropped his pants.

  Ted stood in boxer shorts, wet sock feet, and a scrub shirt, gaping at his dead wife. After a few seconds of standing, he collapsed backward to the cold lawn. Jim Spencer froze, and Bill yelled again for his wife to call 911.

  ~~~

  “Well… shit,” Lewis said.

  He lay on his stomach, watching the events unfold in 12x magnification. His .308 rifle’s scope had an oblique look at the doctor’s truck. But the doctor himself appeared to be on the ground, out of view. If it hadn’t been for some new neighbors moving in next door to the doctor—a half dozen men moving furniture into the house all day long—the doctor would have been dead meat that morning, and Lewis would be halfway to Omaha.

  Instead, he was face down on a tarp, freezing his ass off. Hidden under a mature blue spruce, he viewed through his riflescope a short street named Spruceberry Lane. One end of the lane appeared to extend across Lakeview Drive, into the doctor’s driveway. Lewis was at the other end of the street. Beyond a guardrail and stands of dead landscape grass, at the top of a berm, he lay under the spruce. Behind him stood an old farm that obviously saw action only in the spring and fall. In January, the place might as well have been on the moon. The van was hidden a hundred yards from the highway, past a bend on the drive back to the abandoned house and barn.

  He wondered why the doctor went back into the hospital after the embrace in the parking garage. Or why, for that matter, he didn’t get into the Jeep and drive off with the woman. Tasty chick like that? Damn. But either way, the doc was within seconds of exiting this earth in the garage. Then the moving men, in a stroke of unpredictable, dumbass luck, kept Lewis from approaching the house all day.

  He took off his earmuffs. After the perfect shot, loud as it was, he and Mr. Gray would’ve been out of there in fifteen seconds. But it wasn’t even ten seconds before not one, but two neighbors ran across the street.

  “Well shit is right,” said Mr. Gray, who had donned surgery booties to walk up the snowy and muddy berm. “We better get the hell outta here. The whole po-dunk department’s gonna be here before too long.”

  Lewis knew he could chamber two or three rounds in the next few seconds, even if the neighbors would peg the location of the next shots. He could shoot them easily enough. But he had no clean shot at the doctor himself. Lewis wanted another look into the garage. Why was he so sure he’d put the crosshairs on the doctor’s head, and not the wife’s? He’d seen her walk into the house when that Ford SUV drove up about forty minutes before.

  Lewis felt the sting of embarrassment. He could only imagine the shit he would have to put up with from Mr. Gray. Not to mention Mr. Green, whoever he really was.

  Lewis kept his eye to the scope. The good Samaritan neighbor stood around doing nothing but blocking the view. Then suddenly, Lewis saw something through the intact part of the windshield. He’s up! The doctor stood up! The doc moved around and took off his coat. Moving. Almost too much, but…

  It was going to be a shot through the windshield at an off-angle, but the glass wouldn’t deflect a .308 by much at all. Lewis worked the bolt action and chambered another round. The empty casing twirled off to his right somewhere.

  “Lewis,” Mr. Gray said with some urgency. “That neighbor guy’s looking for where the shot came from. Let’s go.”

  “Shut up and get that shell case. I can get him. Just gimme a sec—Fuck.” The doctor crouched or fell. Or something.

  “Gotta go, son,” Mr. Gray said.

  Willing the target to stand again, Lewis steadied the sights right where the doc’s head would appear behind the glass. If only he’d just stand up. After a few seconds, a red, spinning light crowded the scope field. Lewis recoiled in surprise, looking down-range with the naked eye.

  It was an unmarked police car.

  CHAPTER 12

  “Uh, Lewis? The police are here. Care to reconsider?”

  The cop appeared to be asking anyone and everyone what happened.

  “Just give me a—” Lewis stopped talking when he heard a click behind his head. He didn’t have to look to know Mr. Gray had just pulled back the hammer on his silenced .45.

  “I’m ’onna leave here in ten seconds, man. That’s with or without you.”

  Anger inside Lewis burned like the sun. “I’m coming,” he hissed, scooting back from under the spruce. “How in the hell did they get there so fast?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Mr. Gray said. “’S go.”

  Lewis cursed again as he dragged the tarp d
own the berm toward the farm. He didn’t want a single pine needle or speck of dirt in that van. Mr. Gray grabbed the rifle. With a gloved hand, he wiped away any dirt or spruce needles. Lewis hurriedly bunched the tarp in on itself and put it into a trash bag. As he went to the passenger side, he said, “You’re driving. You get that shell casing?”

  “No, I couldn’t see it.”

  Mr. Gray started the van, lights off, as Lewis secured the trash bag. The van rolled with judicious speed down the hidden lane. “Not without a flashlight. I figured a flashlight beam in the trees wouldn’t be so good with all those people down there lookin’ for where the shot came from.”

  Lewis huffed.

  “It have your fingerprints on it?”

  “No!” Lewis said. “I did not touch the rounds with my bare fingers. The hell you think I am?”

  “Just asking. They’re gonna peg your location and the caliber with ballistics, anyway. But long as you didn’t touch the rounds with your fingers.”

  “I said I didn’t.”

  When the van reached the end of the lane, the highway was free of any vehicles from either direction. Mr. Gray chose the route that took them away from Blue River proper. “If they don’t have the rifle, they don’t have shit. So don’t sweat it.”

  Mr. Gray flipped on the lights once he was in his lane. Heading out of town, they had to pass the doctor’s street where it met the highway. In the passenger seat, Lewis leaned forward. Through the driver side window, he watched the red spinning dash light as they drove past.

  “I know,” Lewis said. “It’s just sloppy, is all.”

  “Sloppy.” Mr. Gray chuckled.

  “Hell’s so funny?”

  “You just shot the motherfucker’s wife. That puts a sequined dress, a mic, and a spotlight on sloppy.” His lips drew across his straight, white teeth until he broke into a laugh.

  Lewis thought he might add Mr. Gray to his special to-do list, but the man finally shut up. He was quiet for almost an entire minute.

  “Lewis.”

  “What?”

  Snickering. “What’s ’at shit you said? About artistic leeway?” He exploded into his next uproar.

  “Very funny, asshole.”

  Mr. Gray pursed his lips closed but laughed for a time.

  Five minutes passed. When they were due west of Blue River on State Road 46 and safe, he opened his damned mouth again. “Lewis.”

  “What.”

  Mr. Gray kept his eyes open wide, glancing at the road just enough to keep the van from running into the ditch.

  “What?” Lewis said.

  “Did you ob-tain his wallet?”

  “Fuck you.”

  Mr. Gray roared like it was the last time he’d ever have the occasion. He laughed himself to tears.

  “Yes, Sir,” Mr. Gray said, calming down. “You just lost your creepy albino privileges. Come Nebraska, I getta do him.”

  Lewis could kill Mr. Gray with one, well-placed swipe of the hand.

  A few minutes later, Mr. Gray pulled out his sat phone and seemed to weigh it in his hand. “Lewis,” he said, humorless this time.

  “Yes.” Lewis thought he might explode.

  “We’re going to have to come back for him.”

  “Your point being?”

  “We’re gonna miss Montana.”

  “I presume you’re calling Mr. Green to tell him.”

  Mr. Gray’s thumb hovered over the call button, but he put the sat phone back in his pocket. They rolled west, toward Illinois.

  CHAPTER 13

  Frank Bruska dropped the radio and slammed his car door. Training a flashlight on the truck’s front, he tripped over the downed mailbox and almost fell. He told the bystander to step back, at least to the driveway. The truck’s interior light shined dimly through the red splatter on the windshield’s inner surface. Sliding, moist chunks of red flesh concentrated around the bullet’s half-dollar-sized exit. The hole looked like a breakaway glass volcano in the windshield. The truck’s open-door signal sent a pleasant ding-ding-ding through the open, passenger-side door.

  Frank approached Ted, who wore nothing but his scrub shirt, boxers, and socks. Ted propped himself up on one arm, his eyes wide in a way that startled Frank. In a position to describe Ted’s appearance, Frank might use air quotes and say, The lights were on, but nobody was home.

  “Stay down, Ted,” Frank said. “Are you hurt?”

  Ted didn’t answer. Or couldn’t answer. Frank beamed Ted’s face with the flashlight and saw the red splatter. A second later, he jumped backward at what he saw inside the truck. When he faced Ted, neither man seemed able to speak.

  Another neighbor showed up with two or three towels. Frank took them and said something to the man to get into the street. From down where Lakeview Drive met the highway, two marked units turned in with full lights on.

  Ted lurched to his side and vomited.

  Frank asked Ted if he was shot and got no answer. The neighbors didn’t know much. The ambulance arrived, and Frank kept out of the way. The EMTs surveyed Ted for injury, talked to him, fixed an oxygen cannula to his face, and loaded him onto a cart.

  ~~~

  Joni strolled into the department, ready for her shift, just in time for Dr. Tom Weir to address all the staff at once. Something was very wrong.

  “Gather around the nurses’ station quick as you can,” Dr. Weir said. “All right, everybody. Here’s the deal, so listen up, and listen well. Our patient is Ted Gables.” Gasps filled the space. “We have no idea what kind of shape he’s going to be in. He doesn’t appear to be injured directly, but his wife’s been shot.” More gasps. “Hear me? I mean brutal. She’s dead.” Two staff members cried out and silenced themselves. “It’s okay if you’re upset. If you don’t think you can help, that’s perfectly fine, but stay out of the way. Do not let him see you upset. This is about him, not you.”

  Check, Joni thought. I can do that.

  “There will be no offers of condolence. This is not the time or the place for it. We will care for him. No more, no less. No one will oblige him to speak beyond what’s necessary for his care. And another thing. We’re a fun group. Some people in this crew might joke that Ted’s late for his shift.” Weir shook his head. “Don’t do that.”

  Silence.

  “Good. Have Trauma One ready soon as you can. Blood draw, x-ray, all that. He has an IV drip going already. Get ready to push a liter of D-five, half-normal.”

  The ambulance arrived. Joni stood by as the EMTs rolled Ted in on the cart. He was as pale as the transfer sheet beneath him. His eyes were open, staring straight at the ceiling. He looked around, glanced at Joni, then looked away. His eyes were red. Tears of sadness, she thought. Fear. Rage. He was in shock. And to think the man looked lost before this.

  Dr. Weir ordered x-rays and labs as he checked Ted over for any wounds. He asked questions. Hey, Ted? Can you hear me? Does anything hurt? Do you think you’ve been wounded in any way?

  Joni stepped in. “Dr. Gables?” He looks horrible. “I’m just going to hang this bag and drip it in slowly.”

  “What bag?”

  “D-five, half normal saline.”

  “I’m fine. I don’t need—”

  “It’s just fluids. Dr. Weir’s orders. I heard you vomited in the field a couple times. Your blood pressure’s low.”

  Joni went to work, which included helping clean Ted’s hair. She wet a couple of white washcloths, knowing good and well the blood-tinged stuff that looked like drying, translucent snot around his ears was bits of his wife’s brain. She and another nurse went to work on his hair and hands with saline squeezed from bottles.

  He knows what we’re wiping up.

  He thanked them when they were done. The other nurse left the room with the pan of bloody rags. Joni stood to Ted’s left and carefully wiped his hands and face dry. She took off her gloves and rested her hands on the side rail. She bent to face him.

  “How do you feel, Ted?” she said, slipping he
r left hand into his. In an act of motherly instinct, she ran a washcloth over his hair once or twice. Her mentor was suddenly a sick child she knew how to care for. “Can I get you anything?” On impulse, she almost leaned in to kiss his forehead.

  “Oh! Pardon me,” said someone who’d walked into the room. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.” Joni took her hands off Ted and stood up straight.

  The man in the door was Frank Bruska.

  CHAPTER 14

  Ted didn’t want to talk to Frank, but he figured he had no choice. The detective regurgitated all kinds of overly chewed phrases. I’m so sorry this has to happen this way, Ted was one pat statement. Another was But, especially in a case like this, we want to know everything we can as soon as we can. And of course, Frank asked the obvious, Are you aware of anyone who would want to hurt your wife? Half the time, Frank referred to Kathryn as your wife, and the other half as the prosecutor. Ted knew he was being investigated. As Kathryn’s husband, it was only natural. He imagined Frank talking to Tom Weir. Say… Dr. Weir… Frank may have put it, I wonder if in your opinion Ted satisfies your—air quotes—criteria for coherence.

  Ted was Frank’s very next Carl J. Stupe.

  The open-ended detective questions came next. Can you tell me about what happened this evening? Ted wondered if his dad would recommend an attorney before Ted said a word. But then, at least on television, anyone who lawyered up before being charged with anything heightened the investigators’ suspicion. Be quiet, the advice would be, but such considerations were for people who fancied that they still had something to lose. And Ted did not. So he just answered the damned questions.

  His answer to What happened this evening? was that the scene should explain itself. But Frank got him talking. Ted mentioned coming home from work, dealing with the little bit of noise from the moving men next door, the usually poor sleep, even the peanut butter and jelly sandwich he’d eaten and thrown up. Frank even seemed interested to hear Ted say he’d watched a little of American Graffiti. Something happened to Kathryn’s car. Donna brought her home. Ted took a shower. He did leave out the conversation about Joni. The phone call about Neil. Frank asked Who’s Neil? And Ted had answered, An old friend from camp when we were kids.