by June Gray
As I stared at my bump, I felt a strange sensation wash over me, like a sense of doom. Then, as if fate read my mind, a loud bang came from the restaurant followed immediately by screams.
Without thinking, I ran out of the bathroom. A moment later, Henry rounded the corner and pinned me against the wall.
“Henry!” I squeaked, finding no air in my lungs. “What’s going on?”
“Hide,” he whispered urgently, looking over his shoulder. “The guy’s pulled out a gun and has taken a hostage.”
“What? What guy?” I hissed, glad I had just peed otherwise my underwear would be soaked right about now.
“Your friend at the bar.” I flinched when another shot was fired. Henry didn’t even bat an eyelash. “Get back in there. Call 911. Get out through the window. Break it if you have to.”
“But—”
“Do it,” he said between his teeth then released me. It was only then I noticed the gun in his hand. That one image brought it all home—brought everything to a new level of clarity for me—and it left me oddly calm. No panicking, no freaking out. Henry had this.
With measured movements, I nodded. I gave him a quick kiss and said, “Be careful. I love you,” before going into the bathroom and locking the door behind me. I stood by the window that didn’t open and dialed 911, telling the operator with calm precision our location and the situation.
“Just stay hidden,” the operator told me. “Officers are on their way.”
I couldn’t tell you how long I waited in that bathroom. It might have been two minutes or it might have been thirty. But as I stood there, with my back against the door, my calm reserve started to slip bit by bit. It was too quiet, so much so that everything in me wanted to go out to see if the coast was clear. But I couldn’t be that person, the one in slasher movies who just can’t stay hidden, and instead goes to investigate the action and gets herself killed. If I went out there right now, I might distract Henry and quite possibly put us both in harm’s way.
I curled up into a ball, about ready to jump out of my skin. I’d felt like this once before, back when I’d just moved to Oklahoma and I hadn’t yet experienced the tornado season.
Jason had been TDY so it was just me and Henry. It was the height of tornado season, but I hadn’t been in Oklahoma long enough to look out for the signs, how a muggy, cloudy day could turn deadly in minutes. After watching the news about the developing weather, Henry finally turned off the TV and announced that we weren’t safe in a third-story apartment, then drove us to the brick, one-story house of Sam Miller, a buddy from his squadron.
Sam took us directly to the interior bathroom, where we waited—me sitting inside the bathtub while they sat on its edge—and we listened to the reports on the radio. I vividly remembered the look on Henry’s face, his eyebrows drawn and lips pursed, his entire body tense.
Then the lights went out and then we lost radio frequency. Henry climbed into the tub with me, covering me with his large body. The winds howled outside and it was raining so hard; we could hear it pelting the windows. I instinctively wrapped my arms around Henry’s body; if he was going to protect me from debris, then I was going to prevent him from getting sucked away.
“I won’t let anything happen to you, Els,” I heard him say above the noise, his arms wrapped around my shoulders.
After the wind died down and the lights came back on, I glimpsed an expression on his face that stole the breath from my lungs. I remember my heart thrumming wildly in that moment, believing him, knowing even back then that Henry would throw himself in front of a bullet for me.
It was a comforting thought, but it was also scary as hell. Especially now that he was out there with a gunman, without his Kevlar body armor, with only his gun to help him. Backup was coming, but would they get here in time?
Then I heard the voice of a male shouting. I could make out, “Stay back,” but the rest was a muffled mess of words. Still, there was no doubt in the tone of his voice: The perp was angry and desperate.
I flinched when another shot was fired. I wanted to hear Henry’s voice, but knew that he would remain calm in a situation like this, that raising his voice meant he had snapped. I fingered the ring on my right hand, sending up a quick prayer for my husband’s safety. Then I remembered Franklin and felt a small measure of relief that at least Henry had someone else on his side.
I heard sirens in the distance and felt the air releasing from my lungs. The cavalry had arrived. Henry and Franklin would have their backup.
And then a rapid burst of gunfire rang out, each report coming out sounding like a hammer against a metal door, battering down whatever was left of my composure.
I put my head to my knees and prayed hard, my tears threatening to burst out with every whispered word.
I couldn’t tell you how long I sat there, praying into my lap, but a loud knocking on the door made me jump.
“Anybody in there?” asked a muffled female voice. “This is the police. It’s safe to come out now.”
Somehow I managed to get back to my feet and force my wobbly legs to support my weight. With trembling fingers, I flipped the lock and opened the door.
“Are you alright, ma’am?” The police officer made her way into the bathroom and looked around.
“I’m fine,” I said.
She held the radio up to her mouth. “Secure back here.” When I tried to walk away, she grabbed my wrist. “Be careful . . .”
“My husband’s out there,” I said, leaving no room for discussion. The scene that greeted me when I turned the corner made my knees buckle. There were people—cops and EMTs—walking around upturned tables and broken dishes. My eyes searched the room for Henry but he was nowhere to be found.
“Henry!” I called, circling around the commotion. I froze as, across the room, two EMTs lifted a body onto a stretcher. But without my glasses, I couldn’t tell who they were loading onto that stretcher, his jean-clad legs and black shoes his only identifying factors.
“Please, no . . .” I said, my limbs refusing to move forward and confirm. My hand instinctively went to my stomach. “No . . .”
A hand clamped on my shoulder. It felt like a million years before I turned my head, before I saw the person beside me through the blur of tears. “Elsie,” Sondra said, her normally surly expression replaced by one of concern.
I had my every thought written on my face, my every fear in my eyes. “Is he . . .” I turned back in time to see the stretcher being wheeled out of the restaurant. I about collapsed from relief when they turned the corner and I saw the red hair that indicated it wasn’t Henry.
Sondra’s eyebrows knotted together. “Are you okay?” The radio on her belt crackled to life. She spoke into it quickly, numbers and letters rushing out of her mouth in a way that made absolutely no sense to me. Then she turned to me. “Come on,” she said, already taking long strides toward the exit. “You can ride with me.”
“Where are we going?”
“To Denver Health,” she said, leading the way to her police cruiser. “That’s where your husband is.”
2
The drive to the hospital was, quite possibly, the longest ride I’d ever had to endure. The silence in the car was thick and my worry made it even harder to breathe.
“Did they tell you what happened? Is he okay?” I asked as we got stopped by another red light. I wished she’d turn on the sirens so we could just blast through every intersection already.
“I don’t know. He just asked me to bring you.” She gave me a concerned look. “Cheer up. That means he’s alive.”
I sat back and tried to tamp down my worry, but with every light we stopped at, my imagination invented even more horrible scenarios so that by the time we arrived at the hospital, I was a hot, panicked mess.
Sondra led the way through the maze of hospital hallways, knowing exactly where to go. It s
truck me then that maybe she’d walked this way many times before, seen many of her colleagues shot down over the years. I started to tear up at the thought.
We walked in through the emergency-room door. Henry stood up from a waiting room seat, and I swear, my legs just about buckled from relief.
He greeted Sondra then wrapped me in a tight embrace. “Hey,” he said and sighed against my hair.
I wrapped my arms around his back and pressed my face into his chest as my tears soaked into his shirt. I closed my eyes and breathed him in, the mixture of fresh sweat and his distinct smell filling my senses. I thanked every deity once, twice for keeping my husband safe.
It was tough, but I finally pulled away. “What happened?” I asked, trying to keep my voice from trembling.
“That guy, the one you were talking to at the bar,” he began, his hand sliding down to hold mine. “He pulled out a gun and took a woman hostage. Franklin got his attention while I made sure everyone got out of the restaurant. He didn’t want to listen to us. He was very desperate.”
“What happened to the hostage?” I asked.
“When he realized he was cornered, he shot her.” He closed his eyes, his eyebrows drawing together. “Then started shooting at us. Franklin caught a bullet in the stomach. They took him into the OR.”
Sondra made a frustrated noise and kicked at the ground. “Fuck.”
Henry shook his head. “I should have—”
“What? You should have what?” Sondra asked with a clipped tone. “Don’t do that, Logan. That’s bullshit. I told you never to question yourself.”
I squeezed his hand, letting him know I sympathized. I realized then that she must not know Henry as well as she’d like if she thought he wouldn’t question himself.
Sondra’s expression hardened when another officer named Wilson approached with a grave look on his face. “He didn’t make it,” he said, his voice cracking. “He died on the table.”
Henry pulled me into his chest and buried his face in my hair, breathing hard. From the corner of my eye, I saw Sondra closing her eyes and bowing her head, no doubt regretting her words. She took a few deep breaths and looked up, the commanding officer back in place. “Have you contacted his wife?” she asked as she strode out of the room, the other officer right behind her.
Henry’s arm trembled around my shoulders as he continued to hide his face.
“Henry . . .” I said softly, but couldn’t continue. I didn’t know what to say, didn’t know how he was even feeling. So I simply held him tighter, imagining that my own shaky arms were keeping him from falling apart.
He pulled away too soon. “I have to go back to the station. Fill out paperwork and all the standard procedure.”
I nodded. “I’ll come with you.”
He shook his head and kissed my forehead. “Just go home, Els. Wilson will give you a ride. This might take awhile,” he said, and after making sure that I remembered to lock the doors at home and keep Law by my side at all times, he made me go.
—
It was past midnight by the time Henry made it home. He walked into the bedroom wordlessly, ignoring me and Law altogether as he headed into the bathroom. I listened for a while, but the water didn’t come on, the toilet didn’t flush.
Finally, after fifteen solid minutes, I crept out of bed and knocked on the door. “Henry?” I called softly through the door. “What are you doing in there?”
“Nothing.”
I opened the door and found him standing in front of the sink, his palms flat against the counter, his back rising and falling heavily. His eyebrows were drawn and there was a glazed look in his eyes as he stared into the sink.
I approached him slowly, like one would approach a twitchy animal, noticing his duty belt was on the counter. “Are you alright?”
He ignored my question and reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a pair of glasses. “You left these at the restaurant,” he said, dropping them on the counter.
I took note of the empty spot on his belt. “Where’s your gun?”
“I had to surrender it for tests,” he said in a weary voice.
I touched his back and noticed the cotton shirt was damp. It was then I noticed the beads of sweat on his forehead and on the bridge of his nose. “What? Why?”
His eyes flicked up for a quick moment. “The gunman died,” he said, his voice devoid of emotion. He could have been talking about the weather.
He turned on the faucet, pumped some soap onto his palm and began to wash his hands. “They’ve given me a week of administrative leave while Internal Affairs conducts the investigation,” he said, scrubbing himself over and over.
I covered my mouth. “So you could be charged? For doing your job?”
He continued to wash his hands, ignoring me. Finally, I just reached around him and switched off the faucet. He turned to me, his hands dripping at his sides. “It’s procedure. This is what happens with every shooting that results in death.”
I closed my eyes and swallowed hard.
“A police officer died today, Elsie,” Henry said barely above a whisper, as if afraid someone else would hear and judge. “Franklin was a good man. He was a decorated veteran. I should be mourning his loss, not . . .” The voice hitched in his throat. “Not worrying about having taken a life.”
I held him, feeling his heart thudding against my cheek. I didn’t know if there was anything I could say that would make him feel better, but couldn’t think of anything meaningful.
He leaned his chin atop my head and heaved a deep sigh. A second later, I felt something dropping onto my hair, the moisture seeping into my scalp.
“I killed a man today, Elsie,” he said into my hair quietly. “I don’t know how to make peace with that.”
My heart broke for him in that moment. How should I comfort a man who was suffering under the weight of his guilt? “Isn’t war the same?” I asked, trying to give him some perspective.
He shook his head. “This is different, Els. It’s different seeing the face of the person you’re shooting. It’s different seeing their body recoil from the blast of your gun.” He pulled away from my arms and started to undress, his movements jerky and erratic. He turned away when he said, “It’s different because at war, you don’t see the light go out from their eyes when they die.”
I held him that night, just hugged his back to my chest and said nothing. What else could I say to a man who had already judged himself guilty of murder?
—
Henry woke up with a shout.
My eyes flew open, my heart thumping hard when I found Henry sitting up, nearly hyperventilating. I flipped on the lamp and saw the panicked look on his face.
When I reached out to him, I found his skin clammy with sweat. “You okay?”
He shook his head, the motion causing my hand to slip off his back, but he didn’t offer a reason. He just climbed out of bed and went to the bathroom. I waited for him, still snuggled under the covers, and watched as he came out and headed directly for the closet.
I didn’t need to see him in order to know he was putting on his workout clothes. And sure enough, a minute later, he emerged in sweat-wicking shirt, shorts, and running shoes. He sat on the edge of the bed to tie his laces.
I nudged him with my foot. “Why are you running away?”
“I’m not going far. I’ll be back.”
“Why don’t you stay and we can talk about it instead?” I said. “And don’t pretend you didn’t just have a nightmare. I know you, Henry. I know you’re avoiding the issue again.”
It was alarming, how much it reminded me of the time he came back from Afghanistan, when his sleep was disturbed and his way of dealing with his issues was to punish his body with exercise.
This time, however, I had the wisdom of history on my side. I sat up and grabbed his hand. “Please, He
nry.”
He shook his head as if trying to throw off the lingering remnants of his nightmare. “No,” he said, pleading with me with his sad blue eyes. “Just let me deal with this on my own, okay?”
He whistled for Law and left without another word.
3
“Why don’t we go for a vacation this week?” I asked as we ate a late breakfast. “I haven’t taken time off in a long time. We can go to Dallas and see Julie and Will.”
If I thought my suggestion would cheer him up, I was wrong. “No thanks,” he said, draining his second cup of coffee.
“Seeing Will might cheer you up.”
“I don’t need cheering up,” he said. “Besides, I have to see a counselor this week. Talk about my feelings and shit.”
“It could be good for you.”
He eyed me with something like disdain. “Yeah. Sure. I can talk about how I’ve dreamed about that motherfucker’s face two nights in a row. How I keep killing him over and over but he just won’t stay down.”
I felt a little spark of hope from that confession. “Yes, you could talk to the counselor about that.”
“So she can tell the chief that I’m a nutcase?” he asked.
“This is not the same as the military, Henry,” I said. “There’s not that stigma attached to getting psychiatric help.”
He stood up and grabbed our empty plates, taking a long time to rinse them and load the dishwasher. When he was done with the dishes, he wiped down the counters over and over.
“Henry?”
“He can’t see me like this, okay?” he suddenly yelled, taking me aback. He slammed the rag into the sink and stalked off.
I followed him downstairs to the basement where he was already laying blows on the heavy bag with his bare knuckles. “Who? The chief?”
Only the sound of skin slapping vinyl and his heavy breathing could be heard in that cool room as I stood there and waited for his reply.
After several minutes of intense jabbing, he grabbed the bag to stop its swinging. “Will,” he finally said. “I don’t want him to think I’m . . .” He pressed his forehead to the bag and let his words fall away.
