Tara and I sit on the couch, potato chips, peanuts, pretzels, soda, water, and dog biscuits all within arm's and paw's reach. At least I start the game on the couch; by late in the first quarter I am pacing the room and screaming at the television. Tara is calmer and more restrained, only barking when the refs make a particularly bad call.
The Knicks go up by eleven but, as is their tendency, seem to lose their concentration and let Indiana back into the game. With three seconds to go and the Knicks down by two, Latrell Sprewell elevates eight feet in the air off the dribble and nails a three. Jalen Rose then draws rim from halfcourt on a desperation shot at the buzzer. The Knicks have won, and I have gone almost three hours without once thinking about real life.
I'm trying to decide who to bet on in the upcoming Lakers-Blazers game when Nicole comes into the room. I have to do a double take to believe what I see; she is carrying a picnic basket.
“Let's go,” she says.
“Where are we going?”
“To Harper's Point.”
“Are you serious?”
She nods. “Absolutely. You were just going to watch another game anyway, so you don't have to work. And this will give us a chance to be alone and get away from this case. That's something we haven't done in a long time, Andy.”
Guilt rears its ugly head and I agree. I don't bring Tara with me, since I have read reports of rattlesnakes in the area, and I don't want a curious Tara going where she shouldn't and getting bit.
Harper's Point is about twenty minutes west of here, in a small range of mountains. Nicole and I have been here frequently in happier times, and it is an extraordinarily beautiful place. There is a small waterfall and a rapidly running stream, as well as a number of lushly landscaped areas cleared out perfectly for picnics.
When we reach the area, we head for our favorite place. We sit on some rocks, right alongside a stream, with a view of the waterfall. I have forgotten how peaceful it can be here.
“We have a lot of memories here,” Nicole says.
“We sure do. I think I reached my sexual peak on these rocks.”
She laughs. “And it's been downhill ever since.”
I try to deny it, but she's probably right. We lie back, taking in the sun and the incredibly soothing sound of the waterfall. What Nicole doesn't know is that I am lying here trying to decide if this is the moment to tell her that we do not have a future together. I don't want to have that conversation before I am really sure, because once we have it there will be no turning back.
suddenly, despite having decided that this is not the right time, my mouth starts to speak. “Nicole, we need to talk.”
She tenses up. “Don't, Andy. No one ever says ‘we need to talk’ when they're going to talk about something good.”
I can't pull back now. “Nicole … everybody always says marriages don't work because people grow in different directions. But I don't think that's the case at all.”
She is now just waiting to see what I'm getting at, though I think she already knows.
I continue. “I think we were always very different. Sure we've grown, but I think those same differences have always been there. I think that as we get older we notice them more. We're less willing to paper over them.”
“What are you saying, Andy?”
I pause for a moment, because I'm having trouble breathing. I remember there being more air at Harper's Point. “I'm saying that it's over, Nicole.”
Nicole starts to unpack the lunch, as if behaving normally will negate the conversation. “Andy, don't do this. Please. You're making a mistake.”
I feel terribly sorry for her, and for me, but I wouldn't be doing anybody a favor by backing off now.
“No. I'm not.”
She's still emptying the picnic basket, and she drops a fork on the ground.
I lean over to pick it up, and as I do I hear a strange sound. For a moment, I think that Nicole must have dropped something else, and it is the sound of that other item hitting the ground. I look around, but there is nothing there.
I sit back up and notice that Nicole has a strange look on her face. And then I see an expanding dark red spot on her shoulder, coming from what looks like an open wound.
“Nicole?”
“Andy, I …”
It is not until she falls forward into my lap that I truly register what has happened. Nicole has been shot. My mind goes from wild panic to crystal clear focus in an instant, and I realize that I don't know where the shooter is, and that he certainly can shoot again.
I pull Nicole down behind the rocks, hoping that they will shield us, but I can't be sure of that, since I don't know where the assailant is shooting from. I take a look at Nicole and her eyes are rolling back in her head, as if she is losing consciousness. I have no first-aid experience whatsoever, but I have this vague feeling she could be going into shock, and I know that I have to get her help quickly. The question is how.
I peer out from behind the rock and another shot rings out, ricocheting inches from my head. It is clear that we cannot make it to the car, and just as clear that we can't stay here and hope to survive. It flashes through my mind that this is the time in the old Westerns that the hero turns to someone and says, “Cover me.”
I position Nicole so that she is anchored securely and protected by the rocks. I then move along the rocks, keeping them between me and the shooter. When I think I am out of his possible line of fire, I get into the stream. I know from past experience that the water must be very cold, but I don't even feel it.
I let myself be carried along by the current, which is very difficult as the water becomes more turbulent as it goes downstream. About a hundred and fifty yards away, I grab on to a branch and pull myself up to the bank.
I work my way inland, planning to go up the hill and come down behind the gunman. I'm going to have to surprise and disarm him. This is not exactly my specialty, but I have a curious lack of fear. Maybe I'm too scared to be afraid.
As I head to where I estimate him to be, I hear a car engine start. I move quickly toward the sound, and I reach a clearing just as the car is pulling away. It is a late-model BMW, and I am able to see the license plate, CRS-432. It etches itself indelibly in my mind.
I rush back down to the stream where Nicole is still lying. I pick her motionless body up and put it over my shoulder, carrying her to the car. I lie her down in the back seat and quickly apply a cloth to her shoulder, though the bleeding has for the most part stopped. I don't want to let myself think about the possible implications of that, and I speed to a nearby hospital, calling them from my cell phone so they will be prepared for our arrival.
We arrive at the hospital in five minutes that seem like five hours. They are indeed waiting for us, and perform with incredible efficiency from the moment we arrive. The paramedics immediately have Nicole on a stretcher and bring her inside, with one of them having the consideration to tell me that yes, she is still alive.
I am led to a waiting room, where I spend the next two hours totally in the dark about Nicole's condition. I call Philip and leave word in his office as to where I am and what has happened. They tell me he is in Washington, but they reach him and he is going to fly back immediately.
Finally, a young woman comes out and introduces herself as Dr. Summers. She wastes no time.
“Your wife is going to pull through. The bullet did not strike any vital organs.”
It takes a moment for these words to register, so that I can then ask other questions. Dr. Summers tells me that Nicole has lost a significant amount of blood, and they are in the process of finishing a transfusion. Her collarbone is shattered, but it will heal over time.