Still, I let them tell me everything would be all right. Mike had been shot and put into a coma, remember? And all turned out well. I was vulnerable to comforting lies at that moment. I welcomed them.
After awhile, Sharon and I took the elevator to the first floor and walked through the corridors of the older part of the hospital. I used my left hand to hold a cold pack to my battered face, kept my right hand free. Historical photos were displayed on the walls. The hallways were wide, dimly lit, and deserted. It made me focus, check sightlines and sounds, feel the companionship of the.38 inside my waistband.
And suddenly, I was facing a wall, touching it lightly, feeling the texture, lost in losing Lindsey. Fortunately, the fugue didn’t last.
But Sharon began sobbing. I took her in my arms.
“I’m so sorry, David…So sorry…”
I whispered, “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
It felt good to comfort someone else, to be outside myself if even for a few minutes. Still, I was back to hyper-awareness, too, a good thing.
I expected her to talk about the uncertainty of Lindsey’s recovery, say how I didn’t have to think about getting through the next two weeks or the next day, but only the moment I was in right then…that sort of thing. I expected her to say shrink things.
Instead, she couldn’t form a word. I took her hand and we walked.
We were past the closed cafeteria before she spoke.
She asked what I was thinking.
“That Lindsey is dying. That it’s my fault.”
“How can you blame yourself?”
So I told her. It took awhile. I could hear noises coming from the kitchen, preparing breakfast for hundreds of patients.
She sighed and shook her head in a narrow, slow axis. Her large Mexican Madonna eyes working not to judge me.
“You did the best you could with the information you had. I wish you hadn’t let that rat bastard Melton box you in a corner.”
“I know.”
“Maybe it’s for the best, give you a distraction during the wait for Lindsey. And she is not dying, David.”
She squeezed my hand.
“I remember when you left Phoenix to become a professor,” she said. “We were all young then. You would visit us at Thanksgiving and Mike would always try to convince you to come back to the Sheriff’s Office. And he finally got you and everything seemed right.”
“I failed in academia and my first marriage. He took pity on me.”
“You didn’t fail,” she said. “You put your skills to their best use. You solved the first case, where the woman got off the train and disappeared?”
I nodded. “Rebecca Stokes. She was a victim of a serial killer that had never been identified before.” If anything, the victims deserved for us to remember their names.
“And you sure didn’t fail personally,” she said. “Patty was never right for you. Here, you met Lindsey and you were a big success clearing old cases.”
Then her tone changed. “I’m not sure this PI business is good for either of you. This violence…” She shook back her hair and stared down the dim hallway. “It’s worse than when you both were at the Sheriff’s Office. When Mike lost the election, he could have become a consultant, pulled down six figures, and never worn a gun again.”
“I know.”
“Why did he want to become a private eye? Why did you go with him?”
I didn’t answer.
“It started with your first case, that girl that was murdered in San Diego. When the bad guys took Mike prisoner, you killed both of them.”
“They drew on me.”
“And there was no other way? No other way to de-escalate the situation.”
“No. Have you ever had a gun in your face?” I forced my voice back to normal. “Civilians think you can shoot the gun out of their hands or divert the poor misunderstood person into social services.”
“I’m hardly a civilian, David. I lived with a cop for forty years…”
“With a break here and there.”
She smiled weakly.
“Anyway, they were domestic terrorists. I’m all out of compassion considering what they did, and what they would have done if we hadn’t stopped them.”
I couldn’t tell her the rest of the story, how I had called in Mike’s old friend Ed Cartwright, an undercover FBI agent who lived out in the desert and sold weapons to the survivalist crowd and gangs. He was a full-blood Apache and in their twisted way they trusted him as the Noble Savage. Cartwright took the gun I had used and made me leave, saving me trouble from the police. I wasn’t a deputy anymore.
“David, promise me your first reaction won’t be violence.”
I promised. There were too damned many promises out there.
After another dozen steps in silence, she said, “Why don’t you go back to teaching? When this is all over. Lindsey could do anything with computers. It would be a good life for you both. And Mike could become a consultant.”
I said, “That sounds like bargaining.”
“I’m not on the clock. Psychologists are human, too.”
“So you’re telling me you had no idea he was going on this diamond run?” Even I was surprised at how quickly I had shifted gears.
“I already told you, no.” Her voice had an edge and she dropped my hand.
“But he calls you on the phone. He says I need to watch my ass. Something went wrong.”
“David, if I had realized that he meant you and Lindsey would have this woman show up at your door, of course I would have…I’m not a goddamned mind reader here. He’s not exactly the most forthcoming man in the world. He doesn’t talk about his work. What did he tell you about the diamonds?”
“Nothing.”
“And now he’s gone and he’s in trouble.”
We reached the expansive new lobby, where a janitor was running a floor-polishing machine. Such a pleasant job, nobody shooting at you.
I asked if the FBI was still outside their house.
“Two SUVs,” she said, “and a Crown Vic that tailed me all the way here. I’m very safe, David. I have a Glock 26 subcompact in my purse. Why wasn’t the FBI watching your house?”
I shook my head.
I told her that Strawberry Death was somehow connected with her husband and the diamond theft. She had first appeared after the crime, when we were on our way to Ash Fork.
“That was the DPS officer?”
“Yes. Same woman. This was not a coincidence. When she confronted me on the front lawn, she said, ‘Where are my stones?’ She said she’d made Mike a promise. What the hell does that mean?” I described her and asked Sharon if she remembered Peralta mentioning anyone like that.
“Does she sound like anyone you know? Anyone you remember seeing?”
“No, David. Why are you badgering me?” She started crying again, but when I reached out she pushed my hand away. “I’m trying to help you. I think I understand the stress you’re under but you need to let the FBI and the police do their job.”
“Well, the FBI is officially labeling Mike an armed fugitive.”
“That’s absurd!”
“I believe that. I think he’s working undercover. But if he is, this new Special Agent in Charge doesn’t know about it or he’s a damned good liar.”
I didn’t know who to trust. I said, “You need to go back to the Bay Area. It’s not safe here. This woman who shot Lindsey deliberately came after me. She’s still out there. You are probably next on her list.”
She stood straighter. “We’re not leaving. I can take care of myself. Jamie and Jennifer can, too. We’ll take shifts with you watching Lindsey.”
I said, “At least don’t be exposed at night. This woman likes the night.”
“So do you,” she said. And she was right.
Back upstairs, we waited. I was allowed in to see Lindsey four more times. IV bags were changed. A blood-pressure cuff was attached to her arm and periodically inflated and deflated, sending the data to the monitors. A nurse with an elaborate cart containing additional monitoring equipment came in once-another time I was instructed to leave the unit. I napped for short periods in chairs, leaving kinks in every muscle.