The Waiting Hours

by Shandi Mitchell

  “Hey,” she said, studying his face.

  “Hey,” croaked Mike. His tongue and lips were sticky with dried saliva.

  “You didn’t respond to checks.”

  He looked to the dash: 1:14 a.m. A thin, mechanical voice broadcast from his radio. Car 322. Ten-one, copy.

  “Shit.” He scratched the palm of his hand, which made his legs and the nape of his neck itch more. He glanced down at his lap. The pill bottle wasn’t there. Pain knifed his back and he gripped the steering wheel.

  “You okay?”

  “It’s my back. I got banged up on a call.” They both knew that wasn’t what was asked. The pill bottle was near the brake pedal. He nudged it under the seat with the heel of his boot. His skin was crawling.

  “Jeezus.” He wiped the sleep and grogginess from his face. Why was she still standing there?

  “You should check in.”

  “Yeah.” He fumbled for the dangling handset. “Car 322. Ten-two, good check.”

  Ten-four, copy that. The dispatcher’s voice sounded unconcerned. It was no big deal. But Raylene didn’t take a step back.

  “I hate the sit-and-wait shifts,” she said. “I’d rather be moving.”

  He heard she had aced high-speed driving. She leaned against his roof and casually took in the view of the street. “You think there’s going to be payback?”

  Her naivety irritated him. “There always is.”

  “Maybe this time could be different.” She sounded wistful and adjusted her hat, revealing the welt of her hatband. He took inventory. She was young, but the corners of her eyes and forehead were creased. Her hair was shorn short and she held her mouth tight. Her vest seemed a size too large for her small frame. She wasn’t wearing a ring.

  “How’s your night been?” He didn’t really care, but wanted her on his side. Using the steering wheel to cover the strain, he leveraged himself straighter. Go away.

  “Same old shit,” she said. “Couple of traffic stops.”

  “I saw a photo on your locker. New dog?” He hoped his voice sounded engaged. Her face lit up. She was quite beautiful when she smiled.

  “Yeah, a rescue. Four months. A real sweetie. Wants to be snuggled all the time.”

  Mike tried but failed to muster any interest in his eyes. He wanted to scratch his thighs.

  Raylene’s face cloaked back to neutral. “She’s a dog, what can I say.”

  He searched for something to win her back. “Lucky it found you.” The words sounded poorly rehearsed. He tried a smile.

  She stiffened in her uniform. “I should get back. Paperwork.” But she didn’t leave. She rested her hand on the roof of his car. “You know, if they ask, you can tell them you were stretching your legs and the volume was down, or you were having a dump and left your radio in the car.” Her voice dropped lower, adopting the vernacular of one of the boys. “I didn’t see anything.”

  He avoided her eyes. “Thanks.” He might have read her wrong. She was a decent cop, his sister in blue. His radio sputtered. Raylene turned up her walkie.

  Ten-thirty. Proceed with caution. Reports of male Caucasian on the road. Six foot, thin, possible mentally unstable. Last seen vicinity of…

  Raylene hitched up her pants and tilted her chin to the handset clipped to her collar. “Ten-four. Car 245 responding.” Still, she didn’t leave.

  Mike’s back quivered from the upright strain. His cheek twitched.

  She glanced down to the floorboard and then looked directly at him. “Take it easy on the meds.” Consider this your warning was understood.

  He watched her walk to her cruiser. From behind she looked like a small man. Too small for anyone to take seriously. She U-turned, squealing tires, her lights already flashing. Mike waved his best Good seeing ya, bud, as she coasted past.

  Bitch. He was ten years her senior, who the hell was she to reprimand him. He clawed at his thighs until skin scraped under the fabric. The radio fired again.

  Ten–sixty–nine. Report of suspicious behaviour. Cutting through backyards. Lone male, race unknown, dark hoodie. Approach with caution. Last seen corner of…

  Mike looked to the end of the road. He was two blocks away. He knew this call would come. Earlier in the night, he’d seen packs of kids roaming the streets. When he drove by, they watched his car with hard, defiant stares and thrust their hands deep in their pockets. When he asked them what they were doing and where they were going, the alphas growled back, Nothin’ and Nowhere. Lies.

  Something big was coming. The entire city was on edge. Overtime had been authorized, extra cars were on the streets, journalists were rabid, politicians were covering their asses. There had been an anti-violence/antipoverty/anti-racism “Take Back the Street” march and a “Justice for Devon” vigil. Homemade signs and uplifting songs demanded peace, love, and equality. The only casualties had been from sunburn and heatstroke. But if the scorching weather continued, it was only a matter of time before the city lit itself on fire.

  Mike radioed back. “Ten-seventeen. Car 322 en route.” He revved the engine and a shock of hurt shuddered up his spine. He fished the pills out from under his seat. One more and this damn shift would be over. His head was throbbing. He wished the storm’s rains would hurry up and wash away the suffocating heat. Criminals didn’t like getting wet. The pill passed his lips, bitter and gagging.

  He dropped the car into gear. He didn’t switch on his red-and-blues. Only a newbie would give up the element of surprise. Easing forward, he plotted his grid search. He just had to get through the next few hours and then he’d have three days off.

  They could kill each other then.

  45

  Kate was too exhausted to drive. She needed a few hours’ sleep so she could get turned around for night shift. Zeus brushed past, leading the way down the hallway, past her brother’s room. There was nothing wrong with her old bed. A few hours, that’s all she needed. She switched on the bedside lamp. The shade illuminated blue-and-purple butterflies.

  She sat heavily on the low single mattress with Katie written in marker on the headboard. Her fingers trailed over the nubs of the lime-green chenille bedspread. It was a good bed. It’d be fine. Zeus jostled in beside her. The sheets smelled of sunshine and fabric softener. She smelled sweaty and sour and her arms were streaked with grime. She kicked off her boots and socks. She was the dirtiest thing in the room.

  She reached between the headboard rails and hoisted the wood-framed window. It jammed halfway. The night’s warmth blanketed her. She could see stars. Affixed to the back of the door, the chalkboard was swirled white with dust. Her shoulders relaxed and she tugged the ponytail elastic from her oily hair. Her scalp hurt.

  The side table’s drawer was crammed with teenage treasures: stir sticks, beer labels peeled off whole, bottle caps, chipped lighters, special rocks, crumbles of dried roses, and a cheap heart-shaped necklace from a boy whose name she couldn’t remember.

  She extracted a brittle photograph tucked in the back. It had been returned along with her father’s personal belongings: a watch, an empty wallet, and a winning harness-racing stub with a payout of twenty-to-one. Fifteen years after he left them and three thousand miles away, he had a heart attack. Upon hearing the news, her mother fell to her knees and wept. Being listed as next of kin was some kind of proof for her. Kate ran her finger along the photograph’s worn edge.

  He was young and she was diaper-clad in his arms. A paper crease crackled between them. His shirt was off and he had a tattoo of her mother on his bicep that Ruth said didn’t look like her. Too manly and the eyes were crossed. The station wagon’s hood was up and there was a stubby beer on the fender. He was smiling at the photographer, presumably her mother. She, baby Katie, was looking at his face. Her infant hand on his cheek. She looked like she loved him.

  She slipped the photo back in the drawer’s hiding spot and retrieved a tin cigarette box. Inside was a decent roach. Some things were worth saving. Dry weed flared and she inhaled deep. L
ying back into the snug of the bed, she held her breath until her lungs burned.

  Zeus laid his head across her belly as the sweet, sweet smell of forgetting enveloped her.

  46

  “911. What is your emergency?”

  The IES monitors were lighting up. Tamara scanned the incident summaries scrolling down her screen. Greg was in the midst of an MVA on a secondary highway. Single vehicle, three occupants, multiple injuries. Medevac en route, three cars dispatched. She glanced over at Karl manning fire. There was a two-alarm in the industrial park. His fingers blurred the keyboard. Chemicals on-site. A list of hazardous materials stuttered across her screen.

  She checked her main monitor and sourced car 322. Mike was grid-searching his area for the third time. She located car 245. Constable Wade had gone as far as the highway leading out of the city. Almost an hour had passed without further sightings for either call. They wouldn’t find them now.

  Despite her resolve to not get personally involved, she couldn’t shake her irritation with Mike. He had missed checks and was twenty minutes overdue when Colleen began relaying his car number every five minutes. After three attempts, she switched to a secure channel to request a personal check. Another four and a half minutes passed before they heard Good check. Tamara had asked, “What did he say?”

  “Nothing.”

  There could be numerous reasons why he hadn’t responded: his radio was turned down, he’d stepped out of the vehicle to talk to someone, or maybe he was on a 10-100 break. He didn’t owe them an explanation, but it was a courtesy to acknowledge their worry and vigilance. It was the decent thing to do.

  She knew he was going through rough times. There were rumours he was going to be reviewed because of the domestic call, and a civilian had filed a complaint about him Tasering her son. Other officers said it was clean, but they were his family—the thin blue line. Mike had to get his act together. If he could crack, anybody could.

  “911. What is your emergency?”

  She focused on the voice. Male. Caucasian. A strained voice, but he was trying to sound calm. Middle-aged. Sirens could be heard in the distance. A female hollered in the background, I see a fire truck.

  The male circled around the whos, whats, whens. He had heard a bang and could see emergency lights down the road. The female interjected, Ask what’s going on!

  Tamara checked her screen. The call was originating a half-mile from the crash site.

  “We are aware of the situation. Emergency personnel are on the scene.” The man relayed the information to the woman. The female said, Give me the phone.

  Tamara pushed back her earpiece. The woman’s voice was managerial. A woman who expected answers. She spoke rapidly, swallowing her consonants. “This is the fourth accident in the past three months. I’ve called about this road and nobody does a damn thing.”

  “What’s your name, ma’am?” Distract and divert.

  “Why do you want my name?”

  She scanned the screen—with the click of a key she had the address and residents’ names. There were multiple complaint calls from this number. Excessive speeding, tires squealing, littering…She could hear the thrum of the life chopper disrupting the line.

  The woman was shouting over the helicopter. “They tear up and down all hours of the day and night…”

  Tamara read the first responders’ reports streaming across her screen. One female ejected, multiple fractures. One male, amputation. One male, head injuries. Ages estimated fifteen to eighteen. Distance to nearest ER, twenty-three miles. Pagers would be going off and ORs prepped. ETA of air medevac, one minute. She didn’t allow herself to imagine the crash site.

  “Emergency personnel have the situation under control, ma’am.” She binned the call to non-emerg. “Thank you for your call.”

  The woman’s voice garbled. Tamara caught the gist of “screw you” before the line went dead. She took a sip of her energy drink and laid her hand on her thigh to still its jittering bounce. Four hours, two minutes to shift end. She had her day planned:

  1. Sleep and wake without alarms

  2. Cancel grocery delivery

  3. Walk to the market

  4. Buy book

  5. Bath

  She was most excited about the bath. Now that she didn’t have to worry about her hair, she could dunk her head and allow herself to float. Maybe she’d pour a glass of wine, light a candle, and read her new book. That would be a good day. Though she wasn’t sure how she would keep the pages dry.

  She visualized herself in each scenario, confident and unafraid, though she had to keep adjusting the image to reflect her short hair: Tamara with Short Hair selecting the ripest tomatoes and basil; Tamara with Short Hair laughing with cashiers and bookstore clerks; Tamara with Short Hair in her most flattering summer dress. Tamara with Short Hair bringing Dottie a loaf of bakery bread and being invited in for homemade jam. Tamara with Short Hair strolling up to Hassan’s taxi and Hassan looking up from his book and seeing her, and the delight of recognition in his eyes, and her—

  Car 245. Ten-sixteen. No sighting of a male fitting the description in this vicinity.

  Tamara positioned her mic closer to her lips. “Ten-four, copy that. There have been no further reports.”

  Ten-four.

  Soon Constable Wade would be home. She said she was worried the high winds might frighten the pup, so she was taking the night off to be with it.

  Tamara re-evaluated her list. She had forgotten about the storm. Not a storm, a hurricane. She should pick up earplugs and another bottle of wine to help her sleep.

  She enlarged the north quadrant of the map. Car 322 was repeating a fourth grid check of the area.

  Let it go, she wanted to tell him. Some things aren’t meant to be.

  47

  Mike’s spotlight spilled long shadows over the dumpsters and up the walls. It was his fourth pass of this quadrant. The suspect was likely long gone. He pulled up alongside the school and shut off the engine. He shifted in his seat, and a dull ache clenched his side. One pill hadn’t cut it, but he couldn’t risk taking another. Lori would be awake when he got home.

  On the off chance the storm made landfall, his morning would be lost storing lawn furniture, tying down garbage cans, and picking up kids’ toys. Caleb would be underfoot wanting to help, and then he’d have to take Lori for groceries, bottled water, batteries, candles, and non-perishable food. And the propane tank would need filling, and gas in the van, and cash from the bank, and he should probably clean out the gutters—up to a hundred millimetres of rain were expected. The thought of putting away the barbecue, chairs, and table, let alone climbing the ladder, made his back flinch. He might get a few hours to sleep late afternoon.

  But by nightfall he’d have to chat about hurricanes and safety procedures, and Caleb would want to crawl in bed with them. Which would be fine, except for his incessant questions: What if the roof tears off? Or the windows blow in? Or trees fall on the house? Which would lead to worries about where do the birds go and what if a dog was outside and do trees hurt if their branches break. Three bedtime stories later would come the nightmares and bedwetting. Tomorrow was going to be another hell day. Or was tomorrow technically already today?

  He flicked on the interior light and checked the pills. There were enough to get him through another day. It wouldn’t be enough. He leaned back and scanned the deserted street leading to the Square. He noted the black sash cords tied around the poles. He didn’t know what it signified and made a mental note to inquire. Gazing absently at the school’s graffiti-smeared walls, he could only decipher the tag Nothing is OK. You got that right, he thought.

  Beyond the school, welding flashes sparked on the bridge. The night crews were working. The barriers couldn’t go up fast enough for him. He checked his watch: 2:35 a.m. The Waiting Hours were under way. He could go back to base but didn’t have any paperwork and he wasn’t up to faking the required small talk. He yawned. He should have grabbed a coffee ea
rlier. He reached for the handset clipped to his vest.

  “Ten-two. Car 322 checking in.” He bowed his forehead to the steering wheel and gingerly stretched his shoulders.

  A voice responded immediately. Ten-one. Good check.

  The voice was neutral. Impersonal. He should apologize for missing checks earlier, but it would mean another lie and he was tired of lying. His back muscles jerked. Groaning, he pushed himself upright. Thirty-eight years old. What would his body be like in another ten years?

  At the corner of the school, he saw movement. A male. Hoodie. Hands in pockets. Hugging the wall to avoid the lights. Age unknown. The suspect’s head was down. He hadn’t seen the cruiser. The suspect looked over his shoulder. He was jumpy.

  Mike exhaled and reached for his flashlight. His other hand was on the door handle. His timing had to be perfect. Fifty feet. Forty. Thirty. Twenty. Mike flashed the red-and-blues and stepped out of the car.

  “Police. Don’t move.” His voice was crimped with pain and sounded more aggressive than he intended. The blinding glare of his flashlight pinned the suspect in the night. The male didn’t look up. Mike braced himself against the doorframe.

  “We’ve had a report of suspicious behaviour, someone cutting through backyards. Would that be you?” The male had nothing on him to indicate a B&E. He shone the light on his face, but the hoodie cast dark shadows. He estimated the male to be 100-110 lbs, 5′5″. He was wearing long shorts, white laceless sneakers. Black legs.

  “Take your hands slowly from your pockets and remove your hoodie from your face.” The male didn’t respond.

  Mike wondered if the suspect was high. “Take your hands slowly from your pockets.” It wasn’t a debate. He ran the light down the man’s chest to the pouch pocket. There was a lump. He unlatched his holster, frighteningly aware of how exposed he was and that he hadn’t called for backup.