The Edge

by Bill Noel

  I leaned the screen against the house and walked out to meet her. She usually had a quick, wide smile; today her eyes were red, and tears streaked her minimal makeup.

  “What’s wrong?” I put my arm around her shoulder and herded her into the house. “Something wrong with Larry?”

  She shook her head and didn’t respond. I offered her coffee. She declined and flopped into an overstuffed chair in the living room. “Sorry for the tears. It’s so … so unprofessional.”

  I sat opposite her in a smaller chair and waited.

  “The chief’s in the hospital,” she said. Her tears began flowing freely. Her foot tapped the floor.

  “What happened?” I asked and walked to the kitchen to get her coffee. She needed it.

  “Heart, they think.” She continued to stare at the floor. “He wasn’t … wasn’t breathing when our guys got to him. Spencer escorted the ambulance to Charleston … he’ll call when he knows something.”

  I was stunned. Chief Brian Newman was in his mid-sixties and trim, exercised religiously, and had the physique of a fifty-year-old. Of everyone I knew, he would have been the last I’d guess with a heart problem. “Where?” I asked.

  “He was helping a guy push his car out of some muck on the side of Tabby Drive—the hurricane had washed debris against the curb and trapped water behind it. Somehow the guy got stuck.” Cindy finally looked up from the floor. “Thanks for the coffee. He’s such a great boss, and person. I don’t know what I’d do if … if he wasn’t here.”

  “Don’t get ahead of yourself; the EMTs know what they’re doing.” I didn’t have a clue how the chief was, and the words caught in my throat.

  “Fortunately, the man had a phone, and our guys were there in minutes.” Her voice cracked. “But Chris, they said he was already turning blue. Spencer said it looked bad.”

  “What hospital?” I asked.

  “Charleston Memorial, I guess.”

  “I’ll go over and see if I can find out anything. Want to go?”

  That was the first glimmer of hope in her since she had arrived. It didn’t last long. “No, better not,” she said. “I got off before I came here, but Spencer asked if I could hang around in case I was needed.”

  “Call if you hear from him,” I said. “I promise I’ll let you know as soon as I know anything.”

  “I’d better get back on the streets,” she said and hurried to stand. She was nervous and trembling. She stumbled on the ottoman but caught her balance and slowly walked to the door.

  The hospital was on the edge of Charleston and only about a dozen miles from the house. I called Larry before I was out of the Folly Beach city limits and told him what had happened and, butting in where no one asked, suggested he call Officer Ash to offer his sturdy, yet vertically challenged, shoulder. I also called Charles. He had known Chief Newman for many years and had great respect for him both as a person and as Folly Beach’s chief law enforcement official. He agreed to look in on Larry and make sure he checked on Officer Ash.

  I made good time to the hospital; being the Sabbath, traffic was light. Most days, I would have spent the leisurely drive admiring the marsh, with its chameleon-like grasses changing colors to match the season. Not today; my mind wandered to how unfair, and unpredictable, it was that heart problems had struck Brian Newman. It also made me worry about my health. Here I was, just turned sixty, slightly overweight, with high blood pressure—what was in store for me? If this could happen to someone in Brian’s condition, were my days numbered?

  I almost rear-ended a blue Chevrolet Malibu that was turning left in front of me. My concentration was shot. Instead of watching the road, I wondered who had said something about bad things coming in threes. I knew it wasn’t one of Charles’s presidents, but that’s where my knowledge ended. Whoever said it was right. In three days, I had experienced a hurricane, stared at a body sporting a crossbow arrow, and now, a friend was near death, or worse.

  At least, the three bad things were over.

  Weren’t they?

  CHAPTER 9

  A Folly-Beach-marked Crown Vic was parked at the emergency canopy, and an unmarked dark blue Crown Vic from the Charleston County Sheriff’s department angled, nose-first, close behind. My dented, aging Lexus didn’t have official status, so I parked in the visitor’s lot.

  Officer Spencer was standing in the emergency room lobby just inside the automatic sliding-glass door. He rushed to my side as soon as he saw me. Strangely, I thought it was a good sign that Newman was still in the emergency room.

  I shook his hand and was surprised how clammy it was. “How is he?”

  “No clue, Mr. Landrum.” He stuttered through my last name. “They haven’t told us anything. He didn’t look good. They got him here quick. That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”

  The two EMTs who transported the chief were seated across the room on institutional gray, waiting-room chairs. A young couple walked out of a treatment room carrying a screaming baby. A middle-aged man in bib-overalls sat by himself in another part of the room, his hand wrapped in a shirt. Blood seeped through the cloth. In the far corner of the room, I saw the unmarked car’s driver. I barely recognized her; her head was bowed, and she wore tennis shoes, light green shorts, and a tan, short-sleeve Nike polo shirt.

  I had several opportunities to talk with Detective Karen Lawson over the last three years—most in her official role and related to unfortunate circumstances. She was always polite, efficient, and dressed in a pantsuit, her chestnut brown hair pulled back out of her face. She had oozed professionalism.

  She looked up from her stupor, saw me talking to Officer Spencer, did a double take, stood, and walked toward us. Her normal greeting was a handshake, a firm grip, and a professional smile. I was surprised when she gave me a tentative hug. She was only a couple of inches shorter than me and trim, and her normally beautiful smile gave way to a tearstained face. She was Chief Newman’s daughter.

  “Chris … oh, Chris,” she mumbled, “thanks for coming.” She paused. “I can’t believe this. How … how?” She continued to cling.

  “Detective,” I said awkwardly. I had never used her first name. “I’m so sorry. Do you know anything?”

  She sniffled, took a deep breath, and took a step back. “Call me Karen. No, they won’t tell me … anything. All I know is what I guess Spencer told you. My phone number was in dad’s wallet, so the hospital called me. I was off and don’t live far from here. I got here a half hour ago.”

  A grossly overweight man in scrubs came out of a double door marked No Admittance. He looked like he should be the one with a heart attack, not the healthy, trim Brian Newman. He looked around the room, saw the three of us huddled together, and approached.

  “You family of Mr. Newman?” he asked. His face gave nothing away.

  Karen took a step toward him and introduced herself; Officer Spencer and I stayed close to hear.

  “Ms. Lawson,” he started, his voice low, but audible, “I’m Doctor Melkin. Your father’s holding on.”

  “Thank God,” she murmured.

  “It’s touch-and-go, though,” Melkin continued. “To put it bluntly, he’s suffered a major heart attack. If he didn’t get here when he did, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. He’s out of surgery but will be in critical care for hours—no visitors.” His chubby finger pointed to a door leading to another corridor. “You can go to the CCU waiting room if you want. Down that corridor, second door on the left.” He looked at the large digital clock on the wall behind us and then toward the double doors he had come from. “Someone will keep you updated. I’m sorry.” He turned and left. No time for questions; no further explanation. On the other hand, if he saved Brian Newman’s life, all was forgiven.

  “Officer Spencer,” said Karen, “why don’t you call the station and let them know.” She turned to me, �
��Would you go with me to the waiting room?” I nodded. “I’m going to thank the EMTs. I’ll be right there.”

  The two EMTs were paying attention but were keeping a respectful distance. I followed the doctor’s directions and found the CCU waiting room. It was empty.

  I knew word would get to her quickly, but I still called Cindy and gave her an update. I was upbeat, but the doctor’s caution that it was “touch-and-go” kept me in check. She thanked me and said she would tell Larry and Charles.

  The CCU waiting room was small, but the furniture was more comfortable and attractive than what was in the emergency room waiting area. A flat-screen television was on the wall opposite two comfortable couches. It was tuned to CNN, with the sound muted. Nicely framed poster art adorned two of the other walls, and the hospital’s overly wordy Mission Statement was conspicuously displayed on the remaining wall. Several magazines were neatly stacked on an end table by one of the couches. The magazines were less than a year old—new by waiting room standards.

  I was mindlessly watching a story about a mudslide in Mexico when Karen came in.

  “Thanks for staying,” she said. She forced a smile. “I couldn’t stand to be alone now. I know how much dad admires you. It was … was sweet of you to come.”

  I knew very little about Karen Lawson. I assumed she was married since she had a different last name than her dad, and was confused about her comment about being alone.

  “Do you have any family here?” I asked.

  She managed a slightly more sincere smile, “Just Joe Friday—he’s a seven-year-old, ornery black cat. Didn’t think a hospital would be a good place for him.”

  “Just the facts, ma’am,” I replied.

  She giggled. “That’s the one. Most people I tell the name to look at me and say it’s a stupid name. They’ve never heard of Dragnet!”

  “That doesn’t surprise me,” I said. “That show went off television about the time you were born, I suspect.”

  “In fact, yes. Same year, 1970. Dad loved that show. I think that’s how he learned to talk like a cop—just the facts, flat voice, heaven help him if a smile left his lips.”

  “He was in the military then?”

  “Actually, when I was born, he was in Special Operations Forces. We lived in California, but I didn’t see him much. He was deployed all over the world—secret missions he never talked about. Late in his military career, he transferred into the military police. He loved being an MP.”

  “He loves police work?” I asked. Karen was more relaxed and stopped staring at the door. I wanted to avoid the reason we were there.

  “He relishes his job,” she said.

  “How long’s he been there?” I knew the answer but thought it would be good to keep her talking.

  “Fourteen years,” she said. “Took the job as chief as soon as he retired after putting in his thirty in the army. He was only fifty.” She hesitated. “He loves it—especially the people. He won’t tell you, but that’s the best part for him. He prized his jobs more than mom thought he loved her—may have been true.”

  Treading on thin ice, I asked, “What happened?”

  “Old story. Mom couldn’t stand it when he was away; couldn’t stand it when he was home talking about being away. I was too young to understand, but learned later that she had some problems … chemical imbalance. It clouded her views, to put it kindly. She left him when I was ten, took her maiden name, Lawson. She resented him so much she legally had my name changed, too.”

  Way to go, Chris, I thought. Dredge up terrible memories to keep her mind off her dad.

  She helped me out of that one. “I hear you had some excitement on your street,” she said.

  I took a deep sigh. “Yeah. I thought the hurricane was bad enough. Are you working the case?” I wasn’t ready to call it murder, especially a murder by crossbow.

  “No, when the storm hit, some of us were detailed to the low-lying areas to help with the rescue efforts. We have a couple of senior citizen centers that shouldn’t have been built where they were; water floods them during bad storms. We didn’t lose anyone, but it got tense.”

  A nurse in surgical scrubs stuck her head in the door. Karen jumped to her feet and dropped the People magazine she had been flipping through. The nurse was looking for someone else. I saw relief in Karen’s eyes. She sat back and continued, “Where was I … oh, yeah, Detective Burton and one of the new guys caught that one … now, with this, I’m glad.”

  “Burton wasn’t one of the first detectives on the scene,” I said.

  “No, the younger guy’s wife had a baby that night, and Burton replaced him.”

  “I don’t think Burton likes me,” I said. I had met Detective Brad Burton the first week I was on Folly Beach. He and Karen were investigating a murder I had stumbled across. Burton had looked at me like he knew I killed the man but he couldn’t prove it. I ran across him again when someone was threatening Larry for reasons no one could figure out. I got stuck in the middle of that case as well.

  Karen smiled. “Don’t worry about it. Detective Burton doesn’t like anyone—he doesn’t discriminate. Everyone’s guilty of everything. I think he’s been around the block too many times.”

  “Whoever has the case, I wish them well,” I said. “It’s a little unsettling to have someone killed with a crossbow within sight of my house. I assume that’s not an everyday occurrence.”

  “Not even on Folly,” she said. Her smile continued. “Not even on Folly.”

  CHAPTER 10

  The next three hours lasted just shy of a month. Karen paced and then sat with her head pitched forward; hands covered her face. We made small talk about the hospital furniture, the surprising lack of others in the room, and how lucky we were to escape more damage from Frank. I paced and offered to find something to eat or drink; she declined. I sat and watched the soundless, mind-numbing pictures on CNN; something about soldiers finding a mass grave in a country I’d never heard of.

  Finally, the nurse who had peeked in hours earlier, found the right person this time. She told Karen that her dad’s condition had not changed. He was being closely monitored, and she didn’t expect any change for several hours. It wouldn’t do anyone any good to wait, she said. Karen argued but eventually agreed. The nurse assured her she would call Karen’s cell phone if there was any change.

  I walked Karen to her car, and we exchanged phone numbers along the way.

  “It meant a lot you being here,” she said.

  “Thanks,” I said, “but you don’t need to say anything. I really like your dad. I wanted to be here.”

  She looked me in the eye; her tears were dry. “I’ll call when I hear something.” She gave me another hug and held it for a minute. She pushed away and wiped new tears away before opening her car door.

  “Say hi to Joe for me,” I said before she closed the door.

  She smiled.

  Mission accomplished.

  I was hungry, and hospital food—while nourishing, I’m sure—took bland to a new low. The temperature hadn’t reached the sweltering September heat that had recently enveloped the Lowcountry. I overcame my aversion to exercise and decided to walk to Al’s Bar and Gourmet Grill. A walk would feel good after being cooped-up in the small waiting room for hours, and it wasn’t like I was walking to Topeka, Kansas. Al’s was three blocks away.

  The bar and grill shared a one-story building with a 1950s Laundromat. Charleston was chock-full of historic structures. Al’s had aged enough for a historic designation—some might say prehistoric—but it was simply old. The equipment in the Laundromat was one step above beating clothes on rocks in a creek, and by bar standards, Al’s had everything in Dodge City beat by a few years. The once-white paint on the concrete block building was peeling in dollar-bill-size fragments, exposing a cheap-mustard colored earlier life
. Two overweight women were stuffing the ancient washers with sheets and blankets, while five kids, all under age three, scampered around chasing a red and white beach ball.

  I couldn’t see in Al’s because the lower half of the large plate glass window was painted black. The flickering neon sign over the door let me know the bar was “OP N.” The only noticeable illumination that greeted me as I pulled open the heavy steel front door was from a large Budweiser and two smaller Bud Light neon signs backlighting the bar. I hesitated enough for my eyes to partially adjust to the dim lighting. The aroma of frying French Fries, stale beer, and the bitter smell of cleaning liquids added to the ambiance. James Brown was wailing that he felt good from the jukebox in the back corner near the tiny restrooms and the restaurant’s only booth. Six mismatched tables and a conglomeration of well-worn, equally mismatched chairs filled the center of the dark space. Six men occupied three tables.

  “Well, if it isn’t Chris,” said a frail-looking man behind the bar. He appeared as worn as his chairs; his gray hair contrasted with his mocha colored skin and coffee-stained teeth. He was in his early seventies, but Al could easily be mistaken for ninety. “Where’s Bubba Bob?”

  The few times I had been in Al’s, it was to meet my friend, Bob Howard, who swore Al made the best cheeseburgers in the contiguous forty-eight states, and, most likely, Alaska, Hawaii, and, for some reason, Bob always included Scotland.

  “Don’t know,” I said. I walked over to the bar. “I was at the hospital, got hungry, and couldn’t think of a better place to eat.”

  “Golly,” said Al as he slowly wiped the already spotless bar with a striped bar towel. “Considering the cafeteria there, you made a wise decision. Who’s at the hospital?”

  I told him who, and then he interrupted, “Your booth awaitin’. I’ll start a cheeseburger, pour a glass of Chardonnay, and bring it back to you. I want to hear all about the chief.”