Phantom Limb

by Dennis Palumbo

  I let out a sigh of relief, then went down the hall to the bathroom. Like Gloria, I was grateful for the chance to shower and change. I also craved some real coffee. So, hair still damp, dressed in a Pitt t-shirt and sweats, I padded into the kitchen to make some.

  Finally, steaming mug in hand, I went into the living room, collapsed on the leather sofa, and clicked on the TV news.

  As I’d expected, the printing factory fire was still the lead story. Apparently the blaze had been put down, and firefighters were already moving through the structure’s smoking remains, looking for survivors. Or bodies. So far, according to the anchorman reporting, neither had been found.

  I swallowed a mouthful of coffee, savoring the pungent flavor. The responders on scene weren’t going to find any bodies. Nor much else, other than mounds of hot ash and a scattering of blackened debris. Sykes was long gone, taking knowledge of Lisa Campbell’s whereabouts—and fate—with him.

  I sat up on the sofa, suddenly restless, finished my coffee in a single gulp, staring down into the empty mug. Where the hell was Lisa, anyway? And why hadn’t her kidnappers called with the second ransom demand?

  I was still mulling this when the anchorman turned to a story about Donna Swanson’s ongoing murder investigation, with breaking news about a related aspect to the case. A spokesman for Pittsburgh Memorial had just confirmed rumors that Charles Harland had been admitted the night before. He remained in ICU, recovering from an apparent stroke. There was speculation that the murder of Ms. Swanson, his longtime personal nurse, might have triggered the crippling event. The famous industrialist, married to former starlet and local celebrity Lisa Campbell, had been known to be in poor health for some time.

  Here they cut to old footage of the well-known couple in happier times, hosting a gala charity ball in town. Though by now confined to a wheelchair, Harland seemed vigorous and ebullient as he joined his glamorous wife in greeting their guests. Switching back to the studio, the news anchor said it was assumed that Lisa was at her husband’s bedside, though family spokesman Arthur Drake was unavailable for comment.

  I clicked off the TV. So Harland’s hospitalization had finally leaked, which made me wonder how long Lisa’s disappearance could be kept under wraps. Not much longer, I suspected.

  Exhausted, yet too wired to sleep, I thought about pulling on the training gloves and taking my frustration out on the heavy bag. I had a sort of makeshift gym in my basement, a low-ceilinged room cluttered with boxes and old tools, as well as some ancient workout equipment. The hanging bag, barbells, a weathered weight bench.

  But the moment I envisioned heading for the basement stairs, I was aware of the lingering numbness in my arms, the dull ache in my ribs. Not to mention the goose egg decorating my skull. As the EMT had predicted, though some of the swelling had gone down, it still hurt like hell.

  Great, I thought. Inaction wedded to self-pity. So much for that “hero complex” everybody always tagged me with. Especially Eleanor Lowrey. Christ, if she could see me now…

  Without thinking, I got to my feet and went over to the landline phone and dialed her cell. Heard her outgoing message. So I tried her home number. Another outgoing message.

  After all this time, I wasn’t sure what exactly I wanted to say to her. Especially since I’d just be leaving a message on her machine. A short, one-way conversation, spoken into empty air. At a loss, I said only that I’d been thinking about her, and that I hoped she was okay. Then I hung up.

  The moment I did so, I was sure my message had merely come across as foolish, or needy, or presumptuous. If not all three.

  I knew she was on leave, dealing with some family issues. Her brother’s addiction. Helping her mother tend to his kids.

  But she’d made it clear that she was also on leave from me. From us. As for how long the break would last, I didn’t know. Neither did she. Especially since she’d confessed when we ended that she still had feelings for her former lover, a woman she’d been with years before.

  But I still had to know how she was doing. If she needed anything. Help, support. If she needed me…

  So I decided to ask the one person who might know. That is, assuming he’d even tell me.

  ***

  “This is Sergeant Polk.”

  “Harry? Dan Rinaldi. You still at the residence?”

  “Where the hell else would I be? In the library. Me and Raj, the FBI tech. Million laughs, that guy.”

  I could just make out another voice, nearby. Then Polk’s hasty reply. “Jesus, Raj. I was fuckin’ with ya.”

  Back to me: “Everybody’s so goddamn sensitive nowadays.”

  I let that pass.

  “What about the others, Harry?”

  “The gang’s all here.”

  A deliberate pause. Then I heard the slow trudge of his footsteps as Polk carried his cell somewhere. Probably out to the hallway or into a side room, away from the others.

  In moments, he spoke again. “I was gettin’ the stink-eye from Arthur Drake, so I figured I better go someplace private.”

  “How’s he holding up?”

  “Nervous as hell, but keepin’ it together. Can’t say the same thing for Harland’s son James. He came back from the hospital with Payton and headed right for the bar. Guy’s blotto. Like he’s ready to pass out, lucky bastard. I wish to Christ I could. I’m sick o’ these rich pricks.”

  “I feel your pain. Listen, I called to ask you something.”

  “About the case? Forget it, Doc. Besides, didn’t Biegler tell you to take a hike?”

  “Yes and no. I’m still on call in case the kidnappers want me to deliver the ransom.”

  “Ya mean, ’cause it worked out so good last time?”

  “Look, Harry, I wanted to know about Eleanor. How she is.”

  “Lowrey? How the fuck should I know?”

  “C’mon, you’ve been partners a long time. There’s no way you two haven’t talked. Even with her on leave.”

  “Once or twice, yeah. Not that it’s any o’ your goddamn business. But she sounds fine. Got her hands full with her no-good brother’s kids, plus her mother’s health is gettin’ worse. But she’s handlin’ it.”

  “Is that just your opinion, or did she say so?”

  “Lowrey’s got more balls than either of us. If she says she’s okay, she’s okay.” A sour grunt. “All I know is, her leave can’t end too soon. That kid, Jerry Banks, just got released from the hospital. Which means I gotta keep workin’ with that mook till Lowrey gets back.”

  Suddenly, there was a metallic click on his end. Another call coming in.

  “Probably Biegler,” Polk said. “Gotta go.”

  He hung up before I could say another word.

  ***

  My next call was to Noah. It was too early for the bar to be open, but I figured he’d probably be cleaning up from the night before. Restocking the booze before the lunch-time drinkers trickled in.

  I was right. Though he didn’t pick up the bar’s landline till the tenth ring. Being Noah’s friend requires patience.

  “Noah, it’s Danny. How are you?”

  “I’m feelin’ all kinds o’ weird, is how I am. Maybe I oughta talk to Dr. Mendors about upping my meds. Again.”

  “Maybe. You sounded upset on your message.”

  “No shit? I’m pretty pissed at you right now, Danny. I mean, first you stand me and Charlene up the other night. If I was the suspicious type, I’d think it was so you could bail on your third of Doc Nancy’s wedding gift. Then last night you leave without even sayin’ good-bye.”

  “You’re right, man. I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry, my ass. If this is the kinda friend you’re gonna be, I’ll have to ask you to take care of your bar tab. Ya know, I read in Psychology Today that money issues can really screw up a relationship. I should send you the link to the a
rticle.”

  I was glad he couldn’t see my smile of relief. I’d heard enough jocular lucidity in his voice to know he was maintaining. Though I made a mental note to get in touch with Nancy Mendors and make sure he was still on the right medication cocktail.

  “On the positive side,” he went on, “Charlene’s brother Skip really liked you. Guess there’s no accounting for taste. Anyway, he asked us to give him your number. So you guys could hang out. I figured, why not?”

  “Okay with me.”

  Then Noah said he had to go. Making sure I heard the aggrieved tone in his voice.

  “Glad you and Skip hit it off. But I’m still mad at you.”

  “But you’ll get over it, right?”

  “’Course I’ll get over it. What the hell’s wrong with you?”

  He slammed down the phone.

  Like I said. Patience.

  ***

  I checked all the news channels one more time, but there were just follow-up stories to the Hill District fire and the Swanson murder investigation. Though the Fire Department spokeswoman did announce that, thankfully, there had been no bodies discovered in the print factory’s ruins, and that the cause of the blast was still being determined.

  Tossing the remote onto the couch, I climbed wearily to my feet and stretched. It was frustrating. I was clearly in need of sleep, but couldn’t stop the buzzing in my mind. I knew that if I went to bed, I’d simply lie there, looking up at the ceiling.

  I was still debating this with myself when my phone rang. It was Charlene’s brother, Skip Hines.

  “Hey, Skip. Noah told me you might call—”

  He interrupted me, voice choked by agitation. “I’m in trouble, Doc. I mean, Danny…”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “You gotta help me, man. Or else I’m screwed. You gotta get here right away.”

  “Okay, okay. Try to stay calm. Where are you?”

  Chapter Twenty

  The big outlet store was at the back end of the Monroeville Mall, right off Route 22. The parking lot was crowded with Sunday shoppers, and I had to pull into a spot a fair distance from the entrance. As I approached the broad glass doors, I noticed a squad car parked at the curb, light flashing.

  Inside the sprawling structure, and beyond the maze of aisles whose display shelves seemed to tower over bustling customers pushing their carts, I spotted a sign that read: “Employees Only.” My destination.

  I pushed through the swinging metal doors and hurried down a corridor to the manager’s office, where I found Skip Hines sitting in the airless, cluttered room. Head down, prosthetic leg jutting at an awkward angle. On either side of him stood two grim-faced men. One was short, round and bald, his brow dotted with sweat and his tie askew. The other—older, taller, and broad-chested—was a uniformed cop.

  Skip’s eyes snapped up, found mine.

  “Thanks so much for comin’, man. This whole thing is my fuck-up, but—”

  The cop grumbled. “I’d keep my mouth shut, Hines. You’re lucky I haven’t run you in already.”

  The shorter man looked over at the cop.

  “I’m still thinking I ought to press charges, Officer.”

  Then, stepping forward, he put out his hand to shake mine. “My name’s Larraby. I’m the store manager. Your friend here got into an argument with one of my salesclerks and ended up taking a swing at him. I had to give my employee the rest of the day off—with pay—to keep him from making a federal case out of it.”

  I introduced myself and gave Larraby my most sincere, solicitous smile.

  “I appreciate your letting me come and help straighten this out, Mr. Larraby. You’re obviously a reasonable man.”

  “Don’t thank me, Doctor. Thank Officer Parker here.”

  I turned to the uniform. “Let me guess. You’d like to wrap this thing up without all the paperwork, right?”

  Parker gave me a wry smile. “Not only that, Doc. When Mr. Hines said he knew you, and that you could vouch for him, I figgered, what the hell, why not? I mean, you’re sorta on the job and everything. Right?”

  “I’m a consultant with the Department, yes.”

  “Besides, it’ll get me some primo brownie points when I tell the wife I met you. She’s seen you on the news a bunch o’ times, thinks you look very distinguished. I told her it was just the beard, but—”

  Skip stirred, reaching for the handle of a file cabinet next to him. Pulled himself to his feet.

  “C’mon, guys. How many times do I gotta say I’m sorry? I lost my temper with that clerk and acted like an asshole. I admit it. I’ll even call the guy and apologize if that’ll help.”

  The store manager scratched his chin, pondering.

  “Look, Mr. Larraby,” I said, “Skip Hines is a veteran who lost his leg in combat. None of the rest of us in this room can imagine what he’s been going through since then. The stress, the frustration. I’m hoping you’ll cut him a break here.”

  The uniform nodded. “I agree with the Doc, Mr. Larraby. Guy’s a wounded vet, for Christ’s sake.”

  Larraby spread his hands. “Okay, you both can stop waving the flag. Just make sure Mr. Hines stays away from my store from now on. I don’t need the grief…from him or my employees.”

  Skip offered him a crooked grin. “Thanks, man.”

  But Larraby had turned away, shaking his head in disgust. Meanwhile, the cop took out a notepad and handed it to me.

  “How ’bout an autograph, Doc? For the wife.”

  ***

  “Thanks again for havin’ my six back there, Danny. Hell, maybe you shoulda been a lawyer instead of a shrink.”

  “Word of advice, Skip. Don’t thank a guy and insult him at the same time.”

  He smiled, and took another healthy bite of his burger.

  We were having lunch at a crowded diner on the other side of the mall. Skip was on his second beer.

  “Anyway,” he went on, “I know it musta been a surprise when I called you. I mean, we hardly know each other. But I couldn’t call Charlene. I…I was too ashamed to tell her what I did. She worries enough about me already.”

  “I get it. And I’m glad I could help. Just don’t make a habit of duking it out with store clerks.”

  I’d finished my meal and was nursing a beer myself. Though it was a bit early in the day for me.

  “Never again.” Skip raised a palm. “Honest. Thing is, the clerk was a real smart-ass, but…Anyway, I’ll keep my cool from now on.”

  “Good idea.” I leaned forward. “Look, at the risk of sounding like a therapist, I think you should consider seeing someone. A professional, who can help you deal with your feelings. About the war, your injury, whatever. If not, there are also plenty of support groups, and—”

  “You mean, like anger management class?”

  “Something like that. Or any place where you can get together with other vets. People going through the same things you are. Let me give you some referrals. Just hang on to the phone numbers ’til you think you might want to look into it. Couldn’t hurt to think about it, right?”

  “Right.”

  He studied the rim of his beer glass as I wrote out a few numbers on the back of one of my business cards. When I handed it to him, he stuffed it in his shirt pocket without giving it a moment’s glance. I regarded him coolly.

  He frowned. “Hey, I said I’d think about it. Okay?”

  A measured beat of silence followed. I watched as Skip occasionally stared up at other people in the diner—couples, working men, white-collar types. Civilians, comfortable in a world which I suspected now felt quite alien to Skip. Hard to navigate. As though, after years in the Middle East, it was America that had become a foreign country.

  His lunch finished, Skip ordered a third beer. At one point, he shifted in his seat, and had to twist his to
rso to accommodate his prosthetic leg.

  He noticed my noticing.

  “I tell myself every day that I’m finally used to it.” He sighed. “But I’m not. And I still feel the damn thing at night. I’m lying in bed, the fake one’s leanin’ against the wall across the room, and I can feel my leg. Sometimes it’s cold, sometimes it itches. Like it’s still there. Crazy, eh?”

  I shook my head. “Not at all. Even if you’re consciously getting used to it, as you say, your brain’s neurons aren’t. But they will. I can’t say when, but it’ll happen.”

  He nodded, unconvinced. Then, as if eager to change the subject, he talked about his efforts to find a job. And his plan to enroll in a junior college, though—as he jokingly admitted—he worried about being the oldest student on campus.

  Even as I assured him that this wouldn’t be the case, my thoughts were elsewhere. Skip’s feeling that his missing leg was still there—his phantom limb—struck a chord. I remembered how I reacted when my father died. How for so many years after, it still was hard for me to believe he was gone. That he wasn’t sitting at home in his favorite chair, getting drunk, casting a jaundiced eye on everything I said and did. Wistful yet bitter about his years as a cop. Mourning the loss of his sainted wife.

  Then I thought about the weeks and months following Barbara’s murder. Though our marriage had been a difficult one, her death tore my world apart. For the longest time, I couldn’t accept what had happened to her. Even now, all these years later, I have to sometimes remind myself that the person she was is no longer on this Earth.

  Yet, like with my father, a felt sense of her lingers. Perhaps this is true for everyone. That those with whom we’re most intimately connected persist, not only in memory, but almost like missing parts of ourselves. Like phantom limbs, we feel their presence, even though they’re gone forever….

  I finished my beer and looked over at Skip, who was regarding me with an amused expression.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I was just thinking.”

  “No problem. I plan on takin’ that up someday myself. And lunch is on me, by the way. Least I can do.”

  I protested, but he wouldn’t budge. Then, as we parted out on the street, he gripped my hand hard.