A Fatal Four-Pack

by P. B. Ryan

  No one knew anything about Richard. No one would tell me anything. Someone hollered that Hayden was on his way. The church had been cleared, with witnesses being interviewed elsewhere. Another team of paramedics had arrived and departed, carting Sharon away, accompanied by a police escort.

  I hadn’t been in a fight since my high school days. I’d never hit a woman. I’d been determined to prevent her from ever hurting anyone else—so why did I now feel so ashamed?

  Sharon’s bloodied face, twisted with anger, was such a contrast to that of the statue of Our Lady of Victory, which towered above the church’s gilded, ornate altar. Some sculptor unknown to me had captured in stone the embodiment of true compassion. I prayed to the Virgin in an endless litany, Don’t let Rich die. Please don’t let Rich die.

  “Strange to see you without your other half,” Hayden said from behind me.

  I turned and glared at him. “She shot him. Now are you convinced I was right?”

  Hayden had the decency to look embarrassed.

  I steeled myself to ask the next question. “Is my brother still alive?”

  Hayden looked grim. “He was when they left here.”

  “Thanks,” I said. At least he was being straight with me. “Can you take these off? I only beat up the bitch, I’m not planning to hurt anyone else.”

  “Did a number on her, too, I hear. Thompson!” Hayden called, and the uniformed cop came over and removed the restraints. Hayden sat beside me on the pew. “Tell me about it.”

  I did.

  “Well, the witnesses confirm she shot your brother. After they finish with her at the hospital, she’ll be booked. Then we’ll look into the rest of it. Here,” he handed me a set of keys. “One of the patrolmen gave them to me. The black lady with your brother asked him to see that you got them.”

  I stared at Brenda’s ring with keys to the house and both cars. Richard’s Lincoln was still parked on one of the side streets.

  “Thanks.”

  “They took him to ECMC,” Hayden said.

  “Where?”

  “Erie County Medical Center. Used to be called Meyer Memorial.”

  I nodded. “I know the place.”

  “You can give us a detailed statement tomorrow.” He clapped me on the back, a gesture that almost resembled friendship. “I know where to find you, right?”

  “Yeah, right.”

  Hugging my broken arm, I got up and headed for the back entrance.

  A block from the church, I found Sharon’s station wagon. The little boy was asleep on the back seat, his tear-streaked face at peace. He didn’t know his mother would never come for him.

  The driver’s side door was unlocked. I opened it and poked my head inside. “Hey, partner.”

  The boy blinked awake, unafraid of me. “Go away.”

  “Remember me, sport?”

  “You’re the bad man who wants to hurt my Mommy.”

  “That was a misunderstanding. Do you know any policemen?”

  He shook his head.

  “I know a cop who’d love to meet you. He’s got a shiny badge. Want to see it?”

  He shrugged.

  I offered him my hand.

  The boy looked at the empty driver’s seat. “My Mommy’s not coming back. Is she?”

  “Not right now.”

  The boy looked back at my outstretched hand. His eyes had a dull cast to them. He’d seen more of life than a kid his age should. Reluctantly he took my hand.

  We walked in silence to the Basilica. One of the uniformed officers recognized me and let me cross the police line again. We entered the cavernous church. The detective spoke with the priest in front of the main altar.

  The kid held my hand tightly while I spoke to Hayden, cowed by the building’s size and grandeur. The pitch of his fear was familiar—I’d been living with it for weeks.

  I crouched down in front of him. “Jimmy, Detective Hayden will take you downtown. You’ll be okay.”

  “Where’s my Mommy?”

  I looked up at Hayden, who towered over us. “Don’t worry, kid,” the burly man said, “we’re taking care of her. Did the Easter Bunny visit your house today?”

  The boy shook his head.

  “Well, he came to the police station, and I think he left something there for you.”

  With Sharon’s son in good hands, I once again headed for the exit. It was then I saw the rack of row upon row of dancing candlelight. I turned for it and thought of Richard. I’m not religious, but right then I needed God on my side.

  My throat tightened as I stuffed money into the slot in the brass box. My hand trembled as I lit the candle. I watched it flicker and steady before I turned and started for the car without a backward glance.

  I retrieved Richard’s Lincoln and struggled to remember the way to ECMC. I got lost and had to stop at a mini-mart to ask directions. Once there, I parked the car in the hospital lot. I’d been eager to drive, but not under these circumstances. I yanked the keys from the ignition, pocketed them, and sat with my fingers wrapped around the steering wheel. Would Richard ever drive it again? I’d only just found my brother. What would I do without him?

  I was wasting time, yet fear kept me from moving. Brenda was alone. She probably needed me ... I knew I needed her.

  I hadn’t needed anyone for years.

  I got out, locked the door, and went in search of her.

  The emergency room wasn’t crowded—major mayhem seemed to be taking a holiday on this most holy day. I found Brenda sitting alone in the far corner of the waiting room, my mother’s rosary beads wrapped around her fingers. She saw me and stood. After a quick embrace, she pulled back.

  “How’s Rich?”

  “They had a hard time stabilizing him—he lost a lot of blood. There was a closer hospital, but they said it was better to bring him here. They’re more experienced with gunshot injuries.” Her voice was so quiet, so lost.

  I motioned for her to sit and she took her seat once more. She bit her lip. “I’m scared, Jeffy. I’m a nurse and I know everything that can go wrong.”

  I reached for her hand. “You know they’ll do everything they can.” I was quiet for a moment. “He’s going to make it.”

  “Do you know this for sure?” she asked.

  I couldn’t lie to her. “No.”

  She fingered the rosary beads. “I’ll have to seriously rethink this marriage business. I’ve lived with your brother for seven years. I know him as well as I know myself. But when he came in here, I was nothing more than a friend. I’m a nurse, and they won’t tell me anything. His blood is under my fingernails, and they won’t tell me anything.”

  “Well, they’d better tell me.”

  I got up and headed for the information desk, with Brenda tagging along behind me.

  The receptionist wasn’t helpful. Having a different last name than the patient was not an asset. I’m surprised she didn’t ask for a blood sample for DNA analysis before one of the nurses took pity on us. She made a phone call and found out Richard had been taken to surgery only minutes earlier. Being short-staffed because of the holiday, the surgeon hadn’t had time to come out and speak with us. The bullet had ripped through Richard’s right lung, causing vascular damage.

  “Why don’t you go upstairs to the surgical waiting room?”

  A TV crew barged through the emergency room entrance. Brenda’s eyes widened in panic.

  “Is there a way—?”

  “They know the drill,” the nurse said, eyeing the cameraman. “They’re not allowed anywhere near the surgical unit.”

  Brenda and I followed her directions to the third floor, which was even more quiet than the emergency room. The two of us had the small room to ourselves and settled in for a long wait.

  We took turns sitting, pacing, sitting. We didn’t talk much. The TV bolted on the wall was tuned to CNN, the newscaster’s voice an annoying monotone. I couldn’t turn it off, so I hit the mute button and occasionally glanced at the news in mime.
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  Over and over I relived those terrible seconds at the church. Sharon Walker’s skill with a handgun equaled her skill with a bow. If I hadn’t stooped to pick up that stupid umbrella, she would have nailed me with the first shot. At least then Richard wouldn’t have had to suffer for my ... what? Stupidity? Stubbornness?

  Please don’t die on me, Rich.

  Time dragged.

  After the first hour, the numbness around my brain cells wore thin. I hunched over on the uncomfortable couch, my thoughts going in circles.

  Exactly four weeks ago it had been me in a hospital emergency room. For four days I was a comatose John Doe. No one had worried about me. No one had known. No one had cared.

  Four scant weeks ago, my brother had been a stranger. Now I could only grieve for the wasted years when I’d rebuffed his gestures of friendship.

  You can’t die on me, Rich. You just can’t.

  I never believed in fate, but the random pattern of my life didn’t seem so random any more. Was it preordained that I return to Buffalo? Was it inevitable that crime should continue to touch my life? Shelley murdered by a drug dealer; me beaten and left for dead by a couple of crackheads; Richard shot by a murderer I was chasing. My life’s path seemed to follow a downward spiral. If the pattern continued, then Richard was as good as dead.

  No!

  I looked across the small room at Brenda. Lost in her own thoughts, her gaze was vacant, her eyes haunted. She and Richard had shown me such generosity. Richard had shoved me aside—taking the bullet meant for me. I swallowed a pang of grief. It took me thirty-five years and this tragedy to make me realize how much I needed—loved —my brother.

  Anger raged through me. Why hadn’t I been warned about this? What good was this psychic crap if it didn’t work for me? Sophie said good would come of it. Yeah, then why was Richard being punished?

  Some cosmic force had brought me back home, had shown me Sumner’s death, compelled me to find the murderer, and I never had a clue or a vision or even a funny feeling that Richard could be in any danger because of it. Sumner was a liar and a cheat. Why was it so important that I find his killer, risking my brother in the process?

  Brenda got up and wandered over to the window. She peeked through the slats in the narrow blinds, her expression placid. “You know,” she said, breaking the quiet. “Richard wouldn’t volunteer at a women’s clinic because of the potential for violence. Instead, he gets shot in church. Does that make any sense?”

  I let out a shaky breath. “It’s all my fault. If I’d never come back here this wouldn’t have happened.”

  Her eyes flashed. “Jeffy, don’t do this to yourself. You made Richard happy. He hasn’t been happy for a long time.”

  “You could’ve fooled me. He’s been preoccupied, depressed—”

  “He was worse before you came home. Now he wants to go back to work. He’s talking to lawyers about unloading some of that money. He’s getting back to being his old self—the man I fell in love with. It’s because of you. Can’t you see how special you are? What you mean to him—to us?”

  No. I couldn’t.

  The minutes dragged.

  Four o’clock.

  Five o’clock.

  I was about to swear that time had absolutely stood still when an Amazon of a nurse, dressed in surgical scrubs, approached. Her expression was sour, no-nonsense, and short on compassion. Brenda and I were instantly on our feet.

  “We had another gunshot emergency,” the nurse said succinctly. “Doctor Elliott had to go directly back into surgery. He asked me to speak with you. Mr. Alpert came through the surgery well. His vital signs are good and he’s in recovery now.”

  “Can we see him?” I asked.

  She looked directly at me. “Next of kin only.”

  Brenda’s gaze shifted. “That would be you.”

  “No.” I grabbed her hand. “We’re family. We’re going in together and no one’s going to stop us.”

  The nurse straightened to her full height. “You want to tell that to security?”

  Brenda shook her head, her eyes filling with tears. “You’re wasting time, Jeffy. Just go!”

  I clutched her hand, experienced the conflicting emotions roiling through her.

  The nurse heaved an exaggerated sigh, and I realized her gruffness was only a facade. “Okay, both of you. But only for a minute.” She pointed her finger right in my face. “One. Minute.” She turned on her heel.

  Hand in hand, Brenda and I jogged to catch up with her.

  I’d never been in a recovery room before, never seen anyone fresh out of surgery. Swathed in a sea of white sheets, Richard looked ghastly, his skin tinged an odd green. Startled, I paused. Brenda’s grip on my hand tightened—she pulled me closer to the gurney. A cardiac monitor beeped in rhythm with his heart. IV bags hung overhead.

  My stomach tightened. This was me, four weeks before.

  As though sensing our approach, a groggy Richard opened his eyes.

  “My two favorite people,” he rasped. We both reached for his hand. He captured one or two fingers from each of us.

  “How do you feel?” Brenda whispered.

  “Horrible.”

  “You’ll be okay,” I said, trying to keep my voice from cracking. “The shoe’s on the other foot. When you get home, I can bully you around.”

  “Don’t even think about it.”

  My throat tightened. Sorrow and remorse threatened to choke me. “Why’d you do it, Rich? Why’d you shove me aside and make yourself a target?”

  He squeezed my fingers ever so slightly. “You’re my kid brother ... I couldn’t let her hurt you.” His eyes closed and he was asleep.

  Brenda and I hung around the hospital for another three hours until Richard was taken to his room—the best in the hospital—and sleeping peacefully.

  We took the elevator downstairs, exited, and walked straight into a mob of reporters with video and still cameras.

  “Give us a quote!”

  “What’s your relationship with Sharon Walker?”

  “No comment,” I said, pushing Brenda through the crowd.

  I thought we’d successfully left them behind when a voice called out, “Jeff Resnick!”

  I turned: Sam Nielsen, his eyes bright with anticipation, waited.

  Though I might regret it, I made my decision. “Give me an hour to shower and eat, Sam. I’ll call you at your office.”

  “Exclusive,” he demanded.

  “Yeah.” I turned, took Brenda’s arm, and guided her away.

  The clouds were gone, the crescent moon a slash of pure white light in the cold, dark sky. We pulled up our collars against the cold and, hand-in-hand, headed for Richard’s car.

  Chapter 25

  It’s true what they say about doctors being the worst patients. Once Richard started feeling better, he became cranky and bossy—totally unlike his usual self. But Brenda and I suffered through his moods, keeping him company from the time visiting hours started until the nurses threatened us with the hospital security forces to get us out at night.

  Maggie visited several times, bringing him flowers and us care packages. Her presence forced Richard to be almost as nice as usual. Brenda and I bought a chess game at the toy store before visiting one day, and that kept Richard—and me—occupied for hours on end, while Brenda patiently worked on her needlepoint or read magazines.

  Sharon Walker wasn’t as lucky. No one came to visit her in jail. Three days after her arrest, the cops found her hanged in her cell. Hayden called me even before the press was notified to ask if I’d seen it coming. I hadn’t. Once the cops had taken her away from the church, I didn’t give the woman more than a passing thought. I wondered if the guilt trip I’d laid on her about her father had influenced her that much. Had I inadvertently caused her death?

  I didn’t like to think about that.

  They buried her in her family’s plot at Mount Olivet Cemetery. Some macabre part of me wondered if Ted Schmidt had dug and the
n danced on her grave.

  The police found enough evidence at her house to convict her, and although he was only four years old, her son turned out to be a credible witness to Sumner’s murder—for all the good it did. In my mind, justice had more or less been served.

  Sharon had no other family and true to form, Rob Sumner did not claim his child from Social Services. I felt bad for the kid. I hoped little Jackie—or Jimmy, as his mother had called him—would be placed in a foster home where he’d find some semblance of a normal life. Maybe one day be adopted. Toward that end, after I told him what happened, Richard called his lawyer and set up a trust for the kid, assuring psychiatric help and anything else the boy needed. It was the first step in what Richard called “unloading some of that damned money.”

  The kid would probably have a better life without Sharon.

  Yeah. Sure he would.

  As a result of Sam Nielsen’s newspaper articles, I received several job offers; two were from crackpots, one seemed genuine. That is, until I inquired about their health care benefits and outlined my particular problems, then they no longer wanted to interview me. The answering machine took the bulk of the crank calls.

  I stopped by the bakery—twice—for more placek and conversation, but Sophie wasn’t around. I wasn’t about to give up on her. I’d just have to keep trying.

  Spring sunshine warmed the air six days after Richard was shot—the day he was released from the hospital. The crew from the sporting goods store had only been gone five minutes when the Lincoln pulled up the driveway. Richard and Brenda were late getting home from the hospital.

  Richard got out of the passenger side of the car, looking pale, but smiling. Other than his arm in a sling, there was no outward sign of his near-death experience.

  I greeted him with a basketball tucked under my still-healing arm.

  “Looks great,” he said, indicating the new backboard over the garage door.

  “Yeah, and in another couple of weeks we can use it.” I dribbled the ball on the driveway, tried a one-handed lay-up shot and missed. The ball bounced once and rolled away from me.