by Frank Zafiro
Harrity had his answers.
Mark Barden was dead.
And I had half a leg.
What other loose ends mattered?
None, I decided. I closed my eyes until Harrity’s voice stopped and he left the room.
62
Aside from Strodtz and Harrity, the doctor and hospital staff were the only ones to visit my room. I got a bouquet of flowers, but when I opened the card, the brief message was signed with a single letter.
Get better. R.
I sat in my bed and laughed at that. Rolo. It had to be.
Rolo was a pimp I’d come across a few times in the course of a couple of different cases. We’d clashed, but we’d also come to an understanding. No one would confuse it as a friendship, but there was some form of mutual respect there.
That was it.
No Clell.
No Adam.
No Anna.
Clell may not have heard, and Adam I understood. Maybe Anna, too. But all three absences still hurt. I was sitting in the hospital after almost dying, with half a leg missing, and the only person who seemed to care was a pimp I hadn’t seen in a year.
I was that alone.
If I could have cried, I would have. But I couldn’t, so I tried to laugh instead. It came out as a strangled cry, and a nurse poked her head into my room.
“You okay, sir?”
I couldn’t bring myself to say yes, and I couldn’t bring myself to say no, so I just stared at her until she left, too.
I sat in that bed, rambling around in my own thoughts. Sometime the drugs jumbled them up, other times I felt clear as the summer sky.
I thought about my past, and every turn I took on those streets brought me somewhere painful. I escaped it by thinking about my present, but that took me right back to that single bouquet of flowers that Rolo sent.
So I thought about the future. I knew the media was going to be all over me when I got out of the hospital. I wouldn’t give them anything but I’d seen how they usually handled that. They’d hound the target, then fill in the gaps with speculation, none of which would be positive.
I didn’t want that. I just wanted to return to the relative obscurity I’d enjoyed before all of this occurred. I wanted things to return to normal.
Then I’d look down at the nub below my left knee and wondered what the new normal was going to look like.
I thought about leaving River City like Katie had suggested. Maybe I should have done that years ago. But I knew I wouldn’t. I tried to convince myself that I was too old to be starting over somewhere new, but that argument fell flat. The reason was simpler than that.
I was too stubborn.
I treated being stubborn like it was a virtue, but really, where did it get me?
Alone and broken in a hospital bed, I thought.
I raised my plastic glass of cranberry juice with a short, bent straw and toasted being stubborn. Because, vice or virtue, being stubborn was all I had.
63
I was sitting in the bed, staring at the dark screen of the television and still feeling sorry for myself when I heard the knock. My gaze drifted over to the heavy door. Through the narrow window above the knob, I saw her. She inclined her chin toward me, asking to come inside.
With some effort, I raised my hand and waved her in.
She opened the door and then closed it carefully behind herself. When she approached my bedside, it was with a cautious but deliberate stride. Her eyes sought out mine, and I knew without her saying a word that she was asking permission every step of the way.
I gave it.
Desperately, completely, I gave it.
She stopped beside the bed, and stood in silence for a moment. Finally, she said, “I would have come sooner, but I had to deal with Internal Affairs.” When I didn’t reply, she explained, “The shooting.”
I gave her a small nod. “Lieutenant Hart still a prick?” I rasped.
A hint of a smile touch her lips. “Always.”
“Some things never change.” And in some odd way, I found that comforting.
We fell silent. The dark emotions I’d been feeling were still swirling around in my head, my chest, my gut. But there was something else, too. A warmth, maybe. A softness. No, that wasn’t quite right, either. It was something simpler than that. Something that just felt…good. It felt right.
My silence seemed to make her uncomfortable. She glanced away and shifted from one foot to the other, before looking back at me. “I’m…I’m really glad you made it through.”
“Thanks to you,” I whispered.
She half smiled, half shrugged. “You’re a warrior. That much is clear.”
I shook my head. “No. The doctor explained it to me. You saved my life. First with Barden, then with the tourniquet.”
She looked unsure of how to respond.
I reached out slowly and took her hand. “Thank you,” I said.
She took a wavering breath and let it out, nodding.
“Will you stay a while?” I asked.
“Yes.” She didn’t hesitate. She didn’t glance at her watch or the clock on the wall. Instead, she let go of my hand long enough to pull a chair close to the head of the bed and take a seat. Then she reached out and took my hand again. I soaked in the warmth of her touch.
“You want some coffee?” I asked, trying to smile just a little.
She shook her head. “No more coffee.”
I squeezed her hand, and she squeezed it back.
And so we sat, together. Maybe it was just for that moment, or maybe it would be something more. I didn’t know, but I knew one thing for certain.
I was alive.
Neither of us was alone.
And that was enough.
Acknowledgments
I’d like to thank:
Brad Hallock, for helping a physics challenged author calculate speeds, weights, and probabilities when it comes to auto-pedestrian collisions. And for being my best friend.
Jill Maser, for her insightful revisions.
Gary DeGuire, for providing some valuable information on the insurance industry and ‘important man’ policies.
John Emery, Dave Mather, Louise Saylor, Brian Triplett, Sara Griffin, and Melanie Donaldson, for giving the book a first pass, and providing meaningful feedback.
Kristi, always.
About the Author
Frank was a police officer from 1993 to 2013. He is the author of numerous crime novels.
In addition to writing, Frank is an avid hockey fan and a tortured guitarist. He lives in Chattaroy, Washington.
You can keep up with him at http://frankzafiro.com.
Other Books By Frank Zafiro
River City Series
(#1) Under a Raging Moon
(#2) Heroes Often Fail
(#3) Beneath a Weeping Sky
(#4) And Every Man Has to Die
Stefan Kopriva Mysteries
(#1) Waist Deep
(#2) Lovely, Dark, and Deep
The List Series (with Eric Beetner)
The Backlist
The Short List – coming June 2016
Ania Trilogy (with Jim Wilsky)
(#1) Blood on Blood
(#2) Queen of Diamonds
(#3) Closing the Circle
Other Novels
At Their Own Game
The Last Horseman
At This Point in My Life
Chisolm’s Debt
Some Degree of Murder (with Colin Conway)
The Last Collar (with Lawrence Kelter) – Coming January 2017
The Trade Off (with Bonnie Paulson)
River City Short Story Collections
Dead Even
No Good Deed
The Cleaner
ok with friends
