by Leslie Caine
“She’s right here,” he said, thrusting his phone into my hands as he yanked his car keys out of his pocket. “Talk to Amelia,” he instructed me. “I’m driving.”
We got into his minivan. “Amelia, it’s Erin,” I said.
Silence.
“Are you there? Amelia?”
“The police are here. The lights are flashing. I didn’t mean to do anything wrong.”
“Are your parents home?” I paused, then asked, “Is Michelle there? And Zoey?”
“I just wanted my own place. I wanted to get an apartment. I want my own life!” She was shouting. I had to hold the phone away from my ear. Steve, I knew, overheard. “Mom and Dad said they’d help me find a place of my own. After your wedding.”
“She gets like this when she’s stressed,” Steve said quietly. “Just keep her talking.”
“Tell you what, Amelia. I will help you decorate your apartment,” I said. “There are a lot of nice one-bedroom places in the area.”
My cellphone started ringing. I got it out and put it on my lap while I talked to Amelia on Steve’s phone. “What’s your favorite color?”
“Yellow,” Amelia answered.
I glanced at my screen. “Michelle,” I mouthed to Steve.
“I love yellow,” Amelia replied. “I love a nice buttery yellow on walls. With white trim.” He gestured for me to give him my phone. I did so, and asked Amelia, “Would you like me to paint your bedroom yellow with white trim?”
“Michelle?” Steve said into my phone. He listened for a moment, then mouthed, “Earphone,” to me. Meanwhile, Amelia was agreeing that yellow would look really pretty. It took me a moment to realize that Steve’s concern was that he didn’t want Amelia to hear anything he was saying to their sister. My earphone was in my purse, and I hooked it up within a couple of seconds, still giving an “uh huh” at appropriate times while Amelia described her ideal bedroom.
“Amelia’s got Zoey and barricaded her bedroom door,” Steve told me. “Talk her into opening the door so Michelle can get Zoey, and the police won’t need to break down her door.”
“Where’s Mark?” I asked him, muting my mouthpiece.
“They don’t know,” he answered, rolling his eyes. Steve had pulled into the carpool lane and was holding at a reasonable speed—ten percent above the speed limit.
“You can put really nice wallpaper in your room,” I said, no longer aware of what Amelia had been saying for the last several seconds.
“I want my own place.”
“Is Zoey in your room with you?” I asked.
“She’s hiding.”
My every muscle tensed. I had a terrible image of Zoey cowering in fear under the bed, frightened of her aunt and scared for her mother. “Where is she hiding?”
“In the closet.”
“In the closet?” I repeated for Steve’s sake. Had Zoey gone into the closet by choice, or did Amelia lock her in there? “It’s dark in there, isn’t it? Does she want to come out and talk to me?”
“She doesn’t talk much. She’s two years old.”
Locking a two year old in a closet was even worse than letting her hear her mom talk to the police about her father’s violence. Fighting down my sense of panic, I said, “I’ll bet she wants her mommy, though. Can Zoey say ‘Mommy?’”
No answer.
I pounded my thigh in frustration. Steve was gesturing at me to move the conversation toward opening the door. “Amelia, can you please hand your phone to Michelle? I need to ask her something important.”
“She’s not here. She’s talking to the police.”
“Could you get her for me?”
“No. I’m scared of the police. I don’t want to see them. I’m staying here until they leave. I want to get my own place, Erin. With buttery walls. I painted my room here too dark. It feels like a dark cave. Like a bear’s cage.”
I weighed trying to bargain with Amelia; to swap her bringing Zoey to Michelle in exchange for my promise to help her find an apartment. But I couldn’t guarantee an apartment was an option. Steve was continuing to have his own conversation with Michelle. He was urging her to keep calm. I heard Zoey crying, “Mommy” in the background.
“Sounds like Zoey wants her mommy,” I told Amelia. “Is she out of the closet?”
“Yes. She’s trying to move the chair. In front of my door.”
“Go open it, Amelia. You don’t want to keep Michelle away from her daughter. The police can get all of you to safety if you’ll just open the door.”
“I could take care of Zoey.”
“Take the chair away from the door, Amelia. Now. Let Zoey be with her mother. Steve and I will be there soon. We’ll talk to the police with you.”
I waited a few seconds, muted my mouthpiece again, and said to Steve, “What is going on down there? Are the police searching for Mark in the neighborhood? Did he take off on foot? Has anyone located your parents?”
“Zoey! Baby girl!” I heard Michelle cry through my phone, still in Steve’s possession. “Amelia!” she yelled. “What the hell were you—”
There was a bang over the phone. It sounded more like a door slamming shut than a gunshot, but it still made my heart race. “Amelia? Are you there?” I said into Steve’s phone.
“I don’t want to hurt anybody. I didn’t want Drew to die. Or Fitz. I just wanted them to leave us alone. I want to live on my own. I can’t ever be alone. Not even in my head. The voices never leave me alone.” She hung up.
Chapter 24
My heart was in my throat for the next fifteen or so minutes. We arrived in the Sullivans’ neighborhood in Denver. Their entire housing development was in a lockdown. A police car was parked perpendicular to the entrance to block access in or out. We explained our situation. The officer said that he could not let us in until Mark had been located.
While Steve and I were discussing what to do, George and Eleanor finally arrived in their car and drove up beside us. “What’s happening?” Eleanor asked Steve through their car windows.
“Mark got soused and now the fear is that he’ll grab his gun and start shooting,” Steve explained. “The police have got Michelle, Amelia, and Zoey in a paddy wagon and will bring them out soon. Michelle’s been keeping us up to date over the phone.”
Eleanor paled visibly. “How’s Amelia handling this?”
“Not well. Michelle says she’s pretty much catatonic. She kept Zoey in her closet for a while and wouldn’t let anyone in the room. They’ve got them all out of the house now.”
“And what has Mark been doing while all of this was unfolding?” Eleanor asked.
“Nobody knows, but apparently a neighbor spotted him at least twenty minutes ago running across their backyard with a rifle in his arms. The police are doing a door-by-door search.”
“Oh, dear God,” Eleanor exclaimed.
George shut off the engine and came around to my side of the car. I rolled down my window, watching as a baby-faced officer approached George, who didn’t acknowledge his presence. “Steve, Erin, I’m going to go on through to see Amelia.”
“We can’t let you do that, sir,” the officer said.
“Then you’ll have to arrest me,” he said calmly. “All I want to do is tend to my daughter and my granddaughter. I know them well enough to know that they are both terrified.”
“I can’t let you do that, sir,” the officer again stated. “We have to assume that there is an armed, dangerous man in the vicinity. We’re asking for the public’s cooperation and patience so that we can locate him.”
“Has my son-in-law actually fired his weapon?” George asked. “Do we know if the gun is loaded?”
“No, sir.”
“Are you certain that Mark even knows you want him to turn himself in?”
“Someone gets on the bullhorn every couple of minutes.”
“In that case, I’m willing to take the risk that my son-in-law won’t shoot me and go talk to my daughter before she suffers any additional e
motional damage.”
“I’m going, too.” Eleanor held up her hand. “We’ll sign whatever waiver you’d like.”
“Let’s just take the van,” Steve said.
“You can’t all go in,” the officer said. He was looking over his shoulder, clearly hoping to get assistance from a more senior officer.
“For all you know, my brother-in-law could have passed out behind a neighbor’s shrub all this time.” Steve gestured to his parents to get in.
The officer squared his shoulders, glaring into Steve’s eyes. “Or he could be waiting to ambush his in-laws. It wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened. I’m not going to be responsible for it happening again.”
“Officer,” Steve said, “I respect the work that you’re doing and how dangerous it is. I realize I’m making it even harder. But my sister Amelia is too emotionally fragile to cope with this kind of upheaval. Every second we wait out here makes it more likely that she’ll have a psychotic break. She nearly took her own life the last time. My parents must go through, and I’m going to accompany them.”
My head and stomach were in a whirl. I held my tongue, but wanted Steve to just cede to the officer’s authority. The officers were wearing bullet-proof vests. They were trained, but were just people, too, no doubt jittery and anxious at the possibility that a random guy with a gun would shoot them. Surely they would put Steve and his parents in handcuffs at any moment.
The officer’s partner approached. His expression and stride were calm, and he bore an aura of quiet confidence. He was going to be sympathetic. I sent silent pleas for him to let us go get Zoey and Amelia. The policemen conferred, then the second officer told Steve, “I’ll need to inspect the contents of your vehicle. Then I’ll radio ahead that you’re on your way.”
“Against my strenuous objections,” the first officer added in a semi-growl.
After another minute or two, the officers had inspected the vehicle to see that we weren’t bringing in arms or ammunition. We slowly drove up onto the curb and around the patrol car. “Does this count as civil disobedience?” I wondered aloud.
No one answered. I resumed holding my breath, playing a mental game with myself that Mark’s gun could go off only whenever I inhaled.
We drove down the deserted entrance road and turned into the Sullivans’ cul-de-sac. As we’d been informed, there was a police van—paddy wagon—in their driveway, where Steve’s sisters and Zoey were being kept out of harm’s way.
An officer carrying a long, no-nonsense gun of some kind emerged from the van and held out his hand for Steve to stop. He then held up his index finger, and gestured with a jerk of his head that only one of us was to go past him and into the paddy wagon. Steve said, “Mom, you go first.”
I quickly volunteered to be last. Steve and his parents had gotten into the paddy wagon without incident. As I got out of Steve’s van, I looked from side to side before following our police guard’s tacit instructions to stride past him quickly toward the wagon. I did a double take and gasped in surprise when I saw Mark staggering as he emerged from the side door of the neighbor’s garage.
“There he is,” I cried in disbelief. “Mark!” I shouted. “Put down your gun!”
Mark was startled. He took one staggering step, and tripped over his own feet. He dropped the gun while he fell forward, and a gunshot split the air.
I threw myself onto the ground. Three policemen emerged from the van and the house, all of them pointing their weapons at Mark, who, like me, was sprawled on the ground. They rapidly crossed the street toward Mark.
“Drop your weapon!” an officer demanded.
“Already did,” Mark said.
“Back away from your weapon!”
Mark started doing an awkward looking crabwalk, then tried to rise and scoot away toward the garage door.
“Stop right there,” the officer said. All three officers crossed the street toward him, all the while aiming at him. One officer picked up Mark’s rifle, while another officer was putting handcuffs on Mark.
Steve climbed out of the police van and ran toward me. “Erin, are you all right?”
“I’m fine.” My knees were a little sore, but I’d mostly hit the Sullivan’s soft grass.
Steve helped me up and wrapped his arms around me. Immensely relieved, I took what felt like my first normal breath since Michelle’s phone call.
“He wasn’t shooting at me. Mark fired by mistake. When he tripped.”
“What am I being arrested for?” Mark said, interrupting as one of the officers Mirandized him. “I own this gun. It’s registered. I wasn’t bothering anyone. Just drinking at home. Trying to sort things out with my wife. That’s all.”
I saw that the police helped Mark, his hands cuffed behind his back, get to his feet. “You discharged your weapon in a public place.”
“These aren’t publics here. This isn’t a public place. It’s my in-laws’. They’re my family.”
Mark was, indeed, extremely intoxicated. I glanced back and saw that Michelle had also emerged from the paddy wagon. Her face was white and her dark brown eyes looked almost black.
“Are you okay?” I asked Michelle, leaving Steve’s side.
She shook her head. “I can’t take this anymore, Erin. I can’t. You don’t know what it’s been like for me. Growing up with Amelia, and being married to Mark. They’re both such damaged people. I’m constantly walking on a high wire. Every day of my life.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, not knowing what else I could possibly offer.
George emerged from the van and helped Amelia out as well. Amelia was clutching a blue blanket that was draped over her shoulders like a cape. She was scared and wide-eyed. She looked like a little girl, ready to suck her thumb and curl into a ball. The Sullivan sisters were such a study of opposites—Michelle dark haired and sturdy; Amelia light haired with blue-gray eyes and tall and willowy, so much more frail. Eleanor also emerged and reached back to lift out Zoey, who truly seemed no worse for wear. The little girl was adorable—big, dimpled cheeks, big chocolate-brown eyes, and black hair. The adults were studiously blocking her view of her father across the street. He was flanked by two officers as a third led the way to a cruiser. Michelle’s features softened as she lovingly took her child in her arms. Eleanor and George both put an arm around Amelia’s shoulders as the three of them shuffled toward Steve and me.
“Amelia’s decided to go to the resting room for a while,” Eleanor said, “until she feels better.”
“Resting room?” I asked.
“It’s a halfway-house care facility,” Steve whispered in my ear.
“I want to get my own place,” Amelia intoned.
“After you leave the resting room, maybe I can help you find a place,” I blurted out, knowing this wouldn’t go over well with my in-laws.
“We’ll see,” Eleanor replied. That phrase was probably a no, but she kept her face neutral.
Amelia came over to me and gave me a hug, letting the blanket fall. George picked it up.
Meanwhile, Mark put up a mild struggle as the police tried to put him in the backseat of a police cruiser. His eyes were wild and he was unshaven and his clothes rumpled. Then he caught sight of Michelle.
“The police are arresting me,” Mark shouted. “What the hell have you done?!”
“I followed Erin’s advice and called the police before someone got shot!” Michelle yelled back. I winced at her mentioning my name.
The officers tried to shut the door to the police car, but Mark had wedged his foot in the door. “Self-defense!” he cried. “I’ve been getting threats. The entire city of Denver thinks that I’ve been beating my wife. It’s a lie! I’ve never laid a hand on her! Let me talk to her!”
The two officers exchanged glances and stopped trying to shut Mark into the car. From conversations with Linda, I knew that, because they’d already read Mark his rights, every statement he made now to Michelle could be useful evidence.
“What, Mark?�
�� Michelle asked, passing Zoey quickly into Eleanor’s arms. She strode toward the police car. “What would you like to say to me?”
Mark, however, was apparently not as out of it as I’d thought. He stopped speaking, sank into the car seat and said, “I want a lawyer.” The policeman shut the door.
An officer walked up to Michelle. “Ma’am, would you like to file charges against your husband?”
“No.”
“Has he ever hit you?”
She narrowed her eyes at me. “No. It was an accident. I fell down the stairs.”
“Are you certain about that, ma’am?” the officer asked.
“Of course I’m certain. My husband was laid off at work because of a stupid rumor that my brother started. That’s why Mark got plastered. He also tends to get belligerent and paranoid when he’s drinking. He probably thought he needed to protect himself from imagined boogeymen.”
I glanced at Steve. This was the first I’d heard about Mark losing his job, and Michelle was blaming Steve for that. Steve grimaced a little; he was hearing this for the first time, too.
“Call me if you think of anything else you’d like to report. In addition to your earlier statements.” The officer handed her a business card. “He’ll likely be charged with public intoxication, along with unlawfully discharging a firearm. Once he sobers up, you can come to the stationhouse and see about posting his bail. Under the circumstances, we’ll probably want to hold him overnight.”
“Thanks,” she said quietly.
We watched the police drive off with Mark in the back seat. I didn’t quite know what to think. I felt put off by Michelle. She’d been so calm in her message to her brother that he hadn’t reacted, yet was beside herself in her call to me. Maybe that was understandable family dynamics, but I felt manipulated. She seemed to want to have thing both ways—to have everyone on her side and not her husband’s, but to take no action when he endangered people’s lives.
