The Edge

by Bill Noel

  The room was about five times larger than a standard hospital room and was divided by cubicle curtains. I had never been a fan of hospitals and would only visit under threat of harm. My phobia intensified as I’d grown older. I could literally feel my heartbeat as I walked in. The walls closed in. If it wasn’t for Karen’s grip on my arm, I would have bolted. Handcuffs may be needed.

  The sound of alien medical equipment assaulted my ears—beeps in regular cadence, compressors huffed and puffed, a sound similar to a digital alarm clock vibrated in one of the cubicles. Moans came from another area.

  The nurse weaved her way though the portable equipment in the center of the room and led us to the farthest cubicle. The curtain was drawn on one side, and a handful of tubes were attached to the prone body in the bed. To my untrained eye, the graphs on the digital monitor behind the bed appeared to show a regular heartbeat. The unwilling resident didn’t look anything like the strong, agile, healthy Chief Brian Newman. I caught myself backpedaling. It was terrible.

  Karen hesitated and then cautiously moved to the side of the bed. I stopped a few feet from the foot of the bed. The unmistakable smell of hospital filled my nostrils. The nurse whispered that we must keep the visit to no more than five minutes. I had no argument with that and nodded.

  Karen gently reached for her dad’s left hand. Tears gathered as she leaned to give him a kiss on the forehead. His dry, scaling lips formed a weak smile. I couldn’t hear what they were saying. After a few minutes, she looked up and gestured for me to come closer. She put her arm around my waist and pulled me toward the bed. Brian had an oxygen tube in his nose and was sedated. He looked past Karen and saw me.

  “Thanks for … for coming,” he mumbled. He blinked a few times; his focus wasn’t clear. “Karen … Karen told me you’ve been here … I …”

  He was struggling, and I knew we shouldn’t drain him more. “Just wanted to see how you were. After all, you’re my only police chief,” I said to keep the conversation light and not horn in on Karen’s time with her dad.

  The nurse had moved to the foot of the bed and tapped her watch. Karen was whispering to Brian, and I put my arm around her and said we needed to go. On our way out, the nurse told us he was still in critical condition and didn’t need more visitors today. Karen told her she would be back tomorrow.

  I had to get out of the hospital and urged Karen to the door.

  “Going on duty?” I asked as we exited the horrible building.

  “No,” she said, “I got off and came here.” She was looking around for her car.

  “Want to get a drink?” I asked. Where did that come from?

  She smiled. “Thought you’d never ask.”

  My car was still at Al’s, so I suggested we walk there. She said she’d never heard of it. That wasn’t a surprise, I told her.

  “Lordy, lordy,” boomed the voice from behind the bar as we walked from light to dark. “First you’re here with Bubba, bombastic, blubbery Bob; and now with a gorgeous, white, lady cop. There goes the neighborhood!” Al walked around the bar to greet his new visitor. “I must have died and gone to the Promised Land.”

  I laughed, and was glad that Karen did, too. I introduced the two.

  “Ms. Karen,” said Al, “I’ve heard a lot about your daddy; hope he’s doing better.”

  Karen shared the update and then asked Al how he knew she was with the police.

  “See these gray hairs?” he asked as he rubbed the top of his head. “See this old broken-down, ancient, brown body?”

  She nodded but didn’t say anything. Al was on a roll. “Know how many gorgeous, young, white ladies have graced that door since I opened this place just after the Civil War?”

  Karen smiled and shook her head no.

  “One,” he answered his own question. “Know how many of those ladies had a bulge in her jacket covering a gun?”

  “My guess is you’re looking at all of them,” I said.

  “Accurate,” said Al. “Would you like me to escort you to Bubba’s booth?”

  Karen looked at me and shrugged.

  “Thanks, Al,” I said. “I can find the way.”

  “Then what can I get you?”

  “Wine for me,” I said. “Karen?”

  “Beer, any kind,” she said.

  “Good,” said Al, “since that’s all the choices you have.”

  I took my customary seat at the booth, and Karen easily slid into Bob’s space. I pushed the table toward her so she could reach it. I explained that she was in Bob’s favorite spot, and she said no wonder the seat’s smushed. She was able to laugh. I began giving her the Reader’s Digest version of Al’s Bar and Gourmet Grill and some background on Al and his incredible life. She knew her dad would like Al and would bring him over when he was able.

  “I don’t suspect that Al’s menu is very heart-healthy,” I said. It was a pleasure to see Karen with much of the weight lifted off her.

  “The wine will be good for him,” she said.

  Al arrived with the drinks and asked if we wanted any food. I was still full but said I’d share fries with Karen if she wanted some.

  She looked at me and then turned to Al. “Fries, sure; but I want one of your world-famous cheeseburgers that I’ve heard so much about.”

  Al beamed. “Coming right up.”

  Two of the tables had filled since I was in earlier. Two men were sitting at one, and three at the other. The jukebox played vintage James Brown, so I knew Bob’s choices would not be heard for a while. The three men at the nearest table kept turning to look at us.

  I leaned closer to the table and whispered, “I don’t think they can keep their eyes of the beautiful lady at this table.”

  Karen smiled. “It’s the gun, Chris. It’s the gun.”

  I nodded. That wasn’t what I was looking at, but let it pass.

  “Dad didn’t look good, did he?” She turned serious.

  “I wouldn’t expect him to, considering what he’s been through. He’s strong and healthy.” I cringed at the irony of my comment and continued, “It takes time.”

  Karen was silent for a moment. “Dad had two brothers,” she finally said. “One was killed in Vietnam. He was a dentist but enlisted during the heat of the war. Killed his third day there.”

  “That’s terrible.”

  “I think that’s the reason Dad spent so much time in the military … he never said it, though. The other brother is an attorney in Seattle, Washington. He and Dad haven’t talked for years. Don’t know what happened between them; it must have been bad.”

  Al returned with our food. He had piled a double helping of fries on the plate. The burger smelled so good I almost ordered one. I made the wise choice for once and passed. Karen asked for another beer. I followed Al back to the bar. He gave me an appreciative nod.

  When I got back to the table, Karen told me that each of her dad’s brothers had three children, but she had never met them. The wife of the brother who was killed had moved to Colorado and remarried. Karen was an only child. I didn’t ask about her mother.

  Karen attacked the cheeseburger like a pit bull. From what I had learned from our dealings over the years, that was the way she attacked her cases. It was interesting seeing the other side of the highly-skilled detective. I was enjoying it.

  She wiped her mouth with a paper napkin. “This morning I was talking to one of the detectives who’s working the crossbow case.” She set the napkin down and looked at me. “I shouldn’t tell you this, but it’s no big secret.” She paused. “They have zero leads. The crossbow bolts are common and could be bought at most sporting goods stores. None of the local stores remembered selling any recently. They could have come from anywhere.”

  “Anything in common with the victims?” I asked.

  The two guys lef
t who had been staring at our table.

  “Nothing you don’t know,” she said. “They both lived at the same place; both worked construction; and, strange as it may seem, both sang country music. But according to Arno Porchini, he didn’t really know Lester Patterson; they didn’t talk much at the boardinghouse, didn’t work construction jobs together, and other than seeing each other at that country bar, didn’t talk.”

  “Any unsolved cases involving a crossbow?”

  “Good question,” she said. “Maybe you should be a detective.” She smiled. “No. We checked the databases and contacted the FBI. There have been a few incidents over the years where hunters were killed by arrows—none near here. And they were accidental, or so the records show. None with a crossbow.”

  “Sounds like the police are at square one,” I said. “Scary.”

  She nodded. “Be careful.”

  I said I would. She finished her cheeseburger and second beer and said she should go home and get some rest. Regardless of what the nurse had said, she planned to go back to the hospital later.

  We stopped to say bye to Al.

  “Young lady,” he said, “you are always welcome here. You can come by yourself. Bring your friend Chris here. Just don’t drag Bubba Bob along.” Al laughed at his own joke and waved as we left.

  I offered Karen a ride the short distance to her car at the hospital and was surprised when she accepted.

  “Nice dent,” she said.

  “Thanks to Hurricane Frank,” I said.

  “It adds character,” she said and got in.

  I had planned to have the unsightly wrinkle fixed, but was reconsidering. My friends constantly are telling me I need to become more of a character; this could be a start.

  I edged close to her Crown Vic, and she leaned over and gave me another long, tight hug, and whispered, “Thank you.”

  On the twenty-minute ride back to Folly Beach, I kept picturing the beautiful, smiling face of Detective Karen Lawson. And then the equally attractive smiling face of Amber Lewis.

  I nearly rear-ended a Dodge pickup when the cold, stark, frightening mental image of a crossbow wiped out the visions of both ladies.

  CHAPTER 19

  Friday nights during the summer had an emotional edge other evenings didn’t share. Many of the weekers—Charles’s made-up (but appropriate) name for the vacationers who came for a week—left on Saturday for the long, sad, depressing drive home, where they are met with jobs, overgrown lawns, houses needing cleaning, and the arrival of credit card bills that they used to pay for the trip.

  Tonight was no exception. Larry, along with Cindy, his significant other, Charles who had no significant other, and I met on the concrete patio at Rita’s. Amber was at home with Jason, who still wasn’t feeling well. Cindy had arrived before the rest of us and, with her charming smile and reminder to the owner that she was a cop, secured the prime outdoor table at one of the newest and best restaurants on the island. The view from the table closest to the stucco-covered walls in the corner overlooked Center Street, and the Holiday Inn wasn’t especially scenic, but it was about the busiest corner on Folly Beach and allowed us to check on the foot and vehicle traffic. The Friday evening activity was nearly as good as cable television and much cheaper. The other tables were already full with date-night couples, groups of college students, and two couples and their preschool-aged children in varying stages of bemoaning tomorrow morning’s long drive home.

  Cindy had an east Tennessee, droll sense of humor and could make fun of almost anyone while still maintaining a smile and calm voice. She was telling us how “excited” she was to have been on duty New Year’s Eve, when she was called to break up a disturbance up the street at Woody’s annual meatball drop.

  “You have those in Tennessee, don’t you?” asked Charles, without the smile.

  “Sure,” she said. Her sweet voice spewed calories into the air. “But we leave the meat in the cow; drop the whole thing. On Independence Day, we usually launch a donkey. Haven’t seen that around here yet.” She grinned. “We tried not to be political, but the elephant was too heavy for the catapult.”

  I hoped that she was kidding, and asked, “What was the disturbance about?”

  A black Chrysler 300 with tinted windows gunned its engine and didn’t slow as it turned on East Ashley from Center Street directly in front of us; it interrupted before Cindy could answer. Cindy looked up from her Reuben Burger. Her face went from saccharine to her most effective police stare. If she was on duty, she would have run down the street and yanked the side mirror off the car before it reached the next block. She took a deep breath and turned back to Larry. “Not my problem—tonight.” She took a sip of beer. “Now where was I … Oh, yeah, it wasn’t much of a disturbance.” She held up her beer. “Two good ole boys had too many of these and were fighting about how much the meatball weighed.” She stopped, took another sip, and giggled. “One said thirty-seven pounds; the other was sure it was thirty-five.”

  Charles interrupted, “How much was it?” He was always a stickler for detail; I suspect he wanted to add this speck of trivia to his collection.

  “The official meatball-weigher said it was only nine pounds. Didn’t impress me; our cow drop is measured in tons.”

  “Well,” said Charles, “did you shoot the guys or throw them in prison for life?”

  She looked at Charles like he was an idiot. “It was New Year’s Eve, and I walked them around the building and told them the meatball was thirty-six pounds—they were both right.” She laughed. “They hugged and said, ‘See, I told you so.’ Heck, they may be engaged to each other by now.”

  Larry had taken all the silence he could stomach. “Makes my life selling nuts and bolts boring. I live my life of adventure through Cindy.” He scooted his green-framed metal chair so it touched Cindy’s, and he put his hand on her arm.

  “I think you’ve had enough adventure for several lifetimes,” said Charles.

  We knew he referred to Larry’s former occupation as a cat burglar. If it hadn’t been for an eight-year “time-out” he had spent with the Georgia Department of Corrections, Cindy might have met him under drastically different circumstances. Larry had gone the straight-and-narrow many years before we met, and he was one of the most honest, thoughtful, and kind people I knew.

  Charles wasn’t interested in Larry’s nuts and bolts. He fidgeted with his napkin and took a deep breath. “Ah, the smell of hamburgers.” He spread out his arms and raised his cane and pointed it at Cindy. A cherry-red owl stared at Cindy from Charles’s white, long-sleeve Temple University T-shirt. “Now that we’re having so much fun, Cindy, have you caught the killer yet?”

  She sat erect in the bar-height chair, looking both ways to see if anyone other than present company could hear. “Don’t get me on that topic.” A strand of cheese from her three-cheese burger drooped out the side of her mouth. “The blankity-blank Sheriff’s Department is running roughshod over us. They’re treating the local officers like gofers—‘go get this,’ ‘go get that,’ ‘any coffee here,’ ‘hey hon, go for some sandwiches.’” The temperature was in the eighties, but Cindy shivered like she had stepped out of an igloo. I had never seen her this agitated—I wasn’t sure we could get her off the topic if we tried. To be honest, none of us, with the possible exception of Larry, wanted to.

  “They’re the experts on this, and on that; we are the dumbest gaggle of goof-offs they’ve ever seen,” she ranted. “It was never this way when we worked with Detective Lawson. She respected our opinions. We live here, they don’t; we know our citizens—warts and all, they don’t. I wish she’d caught this one.”

  There was always tension between the Sheriff’s Department and the Folly Beach Department of Public Safety. Folly didn’t have any detectives, so if a case got rough, the outsiders had to be called. Even with that, I was surprised to s
ee Cindy so irritated; it was unlike her.

  None of us spoke. Cindy abruptly pushed her chair back and stood. “I’ll be back,” she said. “Get me another beer.” She turned and stomped off the patio and around the back of the building.

  Charles watched her walk away. “Think she’s going to find that Chrysler?”

  Larry stared at Charles and didn’t comment.

  I turned to Larry. “What’s wrong?”

  In a voice I could barely hear, he said, “She’s scared.” He stared at the giant Holiday Inn logo looking out over Center Street like it was keeping watch on its children. He shook his head.

  “I know,” said Charles. “She has reason to be.”

  “Charles,” said Larry, “she’ll never say it—trying to be cop-like and all—but she knew both victims and lived only a few feet from them. She’s just been here a little over a year and doesn’t know that many people outside this table. She doesn’t know who to trust, doesn’t know what’s going on. And the Sheriff’s folks are treating her like marsh scum.”

  “Why don’t you see if she’ll move in with you?” I asked. “You know you want her to.”

  “I’ve tried to …”

  Cindy bounded back. “Well, where’s the beer?”

  Larry pulled her chair out and grabbed her hand as she sat. “You okay?” he asked.

  “Yeah, needed some air.” She forced a smile and looked around for someone to get her drink.

  I didn’t want her to get back on the Sheriff’s Office versus the Folly Beach police, so after the second round arrived, I asked, “Any word on the chief?”

  “Oh, mule manure,” she said as she snapped her fingers. “I almost forgot.” She leaned close to the table and looked to see if anyone was listening. She waved for us to come closer. “This is in confidence. Okay?” We nodded and moved closer. She looked around again and then continued, “It’ll be announced tomorrow. Mayor Amato has appointed an acting director of public safety.”

  “Do we know him?” asked Charles.