“Was Ricky close to you?”
Mark glanced at the door, and explained faintly how Ricky had frozen, then started away in an awkward jog, arms straight down, a dull moaning sound coming from his mouth. He told it all with dead accuracy from the point of the shooting to the point of the ambulance, and he left out nothing. He closed his eyes and relived each step, each movement. It felt wonderful to be so truthful.
“Why didn’t you tell me you watched the man kill himself?” Dianne asked.
This irritated Greenway. “Please, Ms. Sway, you can discuss it with him later,” he said without taking his eyes off Mark.
“What was the last word Ricky said?” Greenway asked.
He thought and watched the door. The hall was empty. “I really can’t remember.”
Sergeant Hardy huddled with his lieutenant and Special Agent Jason McThune of the FBI. They chatted in the sitting area next to the soft drink machines. Another FBI agent loitered suspiciously near the elevator. The hospital security guard glared at him.
The lieutenant explained hurriedly to Hardy that it was now an FBI matter, that the dead man’s car and all other physical evidence had been turned over by the Memphis PD, that print experts had finished dusting the car and found lots of fingerprints too small for an adult, and they needed to know if Mark had dropped any clues or changed his story.
“No, but I’m not convinced he’s telling the truth,” Hardy said.
“Has he touched anything we can take?” McThune asked quickly, unconcerned about Hardy’s theories or convictions.
“What do you mean?”
“We have a strong suspicion the kid was in the car at some point before Clifford died. We need to lift the kid’s prints from something and see if they match.”
“What makes you think he was in the car?” Hardy asked with great anticipation.
“I’ll explain later,” his lieutenant said.
Hardy looked around the sitting area, and suddenly pointed to a trash basket by the chair Mark had sat in. “There. The Sprite can. He drank a Sprite while sitting right there.” McThune looked up and down the hall, and carefully wrapped a handkerchief around the Sprite can. He placed it in the pocket of his coat.
“It’s definitely his,” Hardy said. “This is the only trash basket, and that’s the only Sprite can.”
“I’ll run this to our fingerprint men,” McThune said. “Is the kid, Mark, staying here tonight?”
“I think so,” Hardy said. “They’ve moved a portable bed into his brother’s room. Looks like they’ll all sleep in there. Why is the FBI concerned with Clifford?”
“I’ll explain later,” said his lieutenant. “Stay here for another hour.”
“I’m supposed to be off in ten minutes.”
“You need the overtime.”
Dr. Greenway sat in the plastic chair near the bed and studied his notes. “I’m gonna leave in a minute, but I’ll be back early in the morning. He’s stable, and I expect little change through the night. The nurses will check in every so often. Call them if he wakes up.” He flipped a page of notes and read the chicken scratch, then looked at Dianne. “It’s a severe case of acute post-traumatic stress disorder.”
“What does that mean?” Mark asked. Dianne rubbed her temples and kept her eyes closed.
“Sometimes a person sees a terrible event and cannot cope with it. Ricky was badly scared when you removed the garden hose from the tail pipe, and when he saw the man shoot himself he was suddenly exposed to a terrifying experience that he couldn’t handle. It triggered a response in him. He sort of snapped. It shocked his mind and body. He was able to run home, which is quite remarkable because normally a person traumatized like Ricky would immediately become numb and paralyzed.” He paused and placed his notes on the bed. “There’s not a lot we can do right now. I expect him to come around tomorrow, or the next day at the latest, and we’ll start talking about things. It may take some time. He’ll have nightmares of the shooting, and flashbacks. He’ll deny it happened, then he’ll blame himself for it. He’ll feel isolated, betrayed, bewildered, maybe even depressed. You just never know.”
“How will you treat him?” Dianne asked.
“We have to make him feel safe. You must stay here at all times. Now, you said the father is of no use.”
“Keep him away from Ricky,” Mark said sternly. Dianne nodded.
“Fine. And there are no grandparents or relatives nearby.”
“No.”
“Very well. It’s imperative that both of you stay in this room as much as possible for the next several days. Ricky must feel safe and secure. He’ll need emotional and physical support from you. He and I will talk several times a day. It will be important for Mark and Ricky to talk about the shooting. They need to share and compare their reactions.”
“When do you think we might go home?” Dianne asked.
“I don’t know, but as soon as possible. He needs the safety and familiarity of his bedroom and surroundings. Maybe a week. Maybe two. Depends on how quickly he responds.”
Dianne pulled her feet under her. “I, uh, I have a job. I don’t know what to do.”
“I’ll have my office contact your employer first thing in the morning.”
“My employer runs a sweatshop. It is not a nice, clean corporation with benefits and sympathy. They will not send flowers. I’m afraid they won’t understand.”
“I’ll do the best I can.”
“What about school?” Mark asked.
“Your mother has given me the name of the principal. I’ll call first thing in the morning and talk to your teachers.”
Dianne was rubbing her temples again. A nurse, not the pretty one, knocked while entering. She handed Dianne two pills and a cup of water.
“It’s Dalmane,” Greenway said. “It should help you rest. If not, call the nurses’ station and they’ll bring something stronger.”
The nurse left and Greenway stood and felt Ricky’s forehead. “See you guys in the morning. Get some sleep.” He smiled for the first time, then closed the door behind him.
They were alone, the tiny Sway family, or what was left of it. Mark moved closer to his mother and leaned on her shoulder. They looked at the small head on the large pillow less than five feet away.
She patted his arm. “It’ll be all right, Mark. We’ve been through worse.” She held him tight and he closed his eyes.
“I’m sorry, Mom.” His eyes watered, and he was ready for a cry. “I’m so sorry about all this.” She squeezed him, and held him tight. He sobbed quietly with his face buried in her shirt.
She gently lay down with Mark still in her arms, and they curled together on the cheap foam mattress. Ricky’s bed was two feet higher. The window was above them. The lights were low. Mark stopped the crying. It was something he was lousy at anyway.
The Dalmane was working, and she was exhausted. Nine hours of packing plastic lamps into cardboard boxes, five hours of a full-blown crisis, and now the Dalmane. She was ready for a deep sleep.
“Will you get fired, Mom?” Mark asked. He worried about the family finances as much as she did.
“I don’t think so. We’ll worry about it tomorrow.”
“We need to talk, Mom.”
“I know we do. But let’s do it in the morning.”
“Why can’t we talk now?”
She relaxed her grip and breathed deeply, eyes already closed. “I’m very tired and sleepy, Mark. I promise we’ll have a long talk first thing in the morning. You have some questions to answer, don’t you? Now go brush your teeth and let’s try and sleep.”
Mark was suddenly tired too. The hard line of a metal brace protruded through the cheap mattress, and he crept closer to the wall and pulled the lone sheet over him. His mother rubbed his arm. He stared at the wall, six inches away, and decided he could not sleep like this for a week.