Shattered Shell

by Brendan DuBois

  "Does that mean no date for this Saturday night?" I asked with some innocence.

  She laughed and said, "Absolutely not. If you want to come here Saturday night, I'll cook you dinner, so long as you wash the dishes. Deal?"

  "Deal," I said. "And I suppose I don't get to spend the night."

  Diane winked. "If you want to, but it'll be on the couch."

  "Best offer I've had all summer."

  She kicked my hand. "How about another daiquiri?"

  A pleasant nod. "Sure."

  And we've been friends ever since.

  The roads were nearly empty and my mind was surprisingly clear as I drove south, heading to Newburyport. The shock of an early morning phone call can make you as alert as a deer smelling gunmetal during hunting season. The headlights made the snowflakes look thin and transparent as I drove over the sanded roads. There were only a few other cars on the road at this hour of the morning, and I wondered if we cold and numb drivers shared a common, dreary drive heading to some awful home or catastrophe during those few dark hours that remained of the night.

  Newburyport was built right on the banks of the Merrimack River as it passes out to the Atlantic, and the city's hospital is on Rawson Street, which is just off High Street, a heavily traveled avenue that runs east to west through the city. The hospital building is tucked away near a warren of residential streets, and some of the homes still had the bright red and green lights of Christmas decorations in their windows. It was a cheery enough scene, but I couldn't imagine living there, on a street leading to the city's hospital, seeing the ambulances or police cruisers come by at all hours, emergency lights flickering into your bedroom or living room windows.

  After parking I hurried across the slippery pavement, heading to the peaceful and shiny red letters of EMERGENCY ROOM, my hands moist in my coat pockets, thinking of what was going to happen in the next few moments. As I got closer to the entrance the doors slid open and Diane came out almost at a run, and I had guilty thoughts of how I should approach or touch her, or what should I do, and Diane took care of the matter by nearly slamming herself into my arms.

  She was sobbing, great heaving cries that had no words or syllables, and I put my arms around her and let her burrow her face into my shoulder. I pulled her in tight with my arms, and her arms were across my shoulders, and I felt little thumps of her fists striking my back. I murmured into her hair and then she stepped back, tears rolling down her face, her mouth curled back, and she said, "What did you just say?"

  "What?"

  "Did you just say everything's going to be all right?"

  I said, "No, no. I said go ahead, let it out, Diane."

  She drew a hand across her face and started crying again, and I pulled her close and she said, "If you had said that, I swear to God I would have hit you. Nothing's right, nothing at all, and it's never ever going to be right," and the sobs came back.

  "How's she doing?" I asked, and then quickly added, "I mean, I know ---"

  "Yeah, yeah," she said, her voice filled with anguish. "You mean besides the rape, how is she. Oh, Jesus." Diane took a deep, shuddering breath. "She's been beaten up some, around the face. Bruises and contusions, nothing that's going to last. Um, she's bruised elsewhere, too, the guy hurt her pretty bad down there... " Then she was back in my arms, keening, and I held her tight as the snow came down around the hospital.

  Within a few minutes we were on a couch inside the small waiting area, near a dirty coffee table that had magazines scattered around, most with their covers torn. The nurses' station was visible through the door and I could just barely make out the heads and shapes of the people there. Having spent some days in them on several occasions, I have mixed feelings about hospitals. On one hand, they have saved my life a couple of times, and the nurses and the doctors who took care of me during those occasions were straight professionals, compassionate and expert in what they were doing. On the other hand, I was in an unnamed hospital once in the Nevada desert, prevented from leaving by polite, bulky men wearing shoulder holsters. Not an occasion that left many happy memories.

  Diane rubbed at her face with a wet towel I had brought from the men's restroom. A television set bolted to a frame from the ceiling was tuned to an all-sports channel, and the sound was off. Some men on the screen were playing soccer. There were two couches and four chairs, and a woman sat on the other couch, her head propped up by a hand, fast asleep. A girl about three or four was stretched across the couch, dressed in a snowsuit, her head on the woman's lap.

  Diane sighed and held the towel in her fists. "I should have been there, goddamn it. We were supposed to have gone out tonight, but that damn fire came up." She turned to me, fresh tears welling up in her red-rimmed eyes. "I should have been there, damn it. I could have prevented it, honest to God, I could have..."

  I rubbed her shoulder. "Diane, it's not your fault. Don't torture yourself."

  She nodded, chin trembling. "That's what I feel, that I should have been there."

  "You were doing your job. It couldn't have been helped."

  "Still, it doesn't make it feel any better. Oh, God, what he did to her... "

  I spoke softly. "Do you want to tell me what happened? You don't have to, if you don't want to. It can wait."

  She twisted the towel, stared down at the floor. "No, it can't wait... This is what I know, and it isn't much. She wasn't too sure when I talked to her. Um, she said she was home in bed, sleeping, and then she heard a noise. A guy was in the bedroom door. She sat up and started to talk and then, um, the bastard was on top of her, said he would cut her if she made a noise. She started to struggle... "

  Tears were rolling down her cheeks and she looked back up at me. "Kara. My Kara, who doesn't even raise her voice at anything, who's too shy to send back a bad meal, she started to fight this bastard... I don't know if she's the stupidest broad alive or the bravest... He could have killed her, Lewis. He could have killed her."

  "Don't blame her for anything. She was just surviving."

  Diane nodded. "I know, I know. So that was it." She took a deep, shuddering breath. "Um, he did... he did what he did, and then he left."

  "Did she get a good look at him?"

  A shake of the head. "No. It was dark. The whole apartment was dark. All she knows is that he was clean-shaven. She thinks he was wearing jeans, because she, um, she felt them on her legs. That's it. And after the bastard left, then Kara panicked."

  "What do you mean?"

  The towel was twisted again. "I mean she did the wrong thing, that's what I mean. She should have called the cops, she should have called me. Instead she panicked and took a shower and washed the sheets and then came here, and she destroyed the evidence, she destroyed practically every piece of evidence left behind there."

  She started sobbing again, lowered her head into her hands.

  "Stupid girl," she sobbed. "She should have known better, knowing me. Stupid girl."

  I put my arm around her and let her cry for a while. Across from us the woman was still sleeping, and the little girl was now awake, staring at the two of us with the utter innocence and sense of wonderment of a child. I hoped that she would grow up fine and healthy and would never remember this winter night.

  After about another ten minutes, a doctor came through the door, clipboard in her hand. She looked to be in her late forties, with short red hair, her eyes heavy with exhaustion. A stethoscope hung around her neck and her nametag said her name was Morse. She reached out and held Diane's hand and sat down next to her.

  "You're Diane, right?" Dr. Morse said. "Kara's asking for you. If you want, you can see her in a couple of minutes."

  "How is she doing?" Diane asked, her voice trembling.

  The doctor nodded. "Physically, she's doing all right, as best as we can expect. She's very scared, about a lot of things, and I think one of the things she's scared about is how you're going to react, If you will still love her, whether you're going to blame her for what happened. That's w
hat she's talking about."

  "Jesus Christ --- Diane started, and Dr. Morse held up a hand and said, "I'm not saying she's being rational. She's not. She's been through a very traumatic experience and she's acting human, that's all. Now. She needs to see you, and then a decision has to be made as to whether this will be reported to the police. It's up to her, Diane."

  She nodded glumly. "You don't have to tell me that. I know."

  The doctor looked at her clipboard. "We've collected what evidence we have, and the rape kit will go to the Newburyport Police Department, if she decides to report it. If not, it will go to the state crime lab for six months." She looked up. "It's her choice. We won't force her. Our primary goal is to take care of her."

  Diane rubbed her hands through her hair. "Please. Can I see her again?"

  "Certainly." The doctor stood up and I got up with Diane, wondering what I should do, when Diane grabbed my hand and said, "Walk in there with me. Please."

  I squeezed back and followed her through the door. Before us was an area of doors and curtains, and I saw a drunk man sitting up on a stretcher, holding a white towel to his bloody head. He had a full mustache, a two- or three-day growth of beard, and no shirt. Blood had matted on his chest hair and he said over and over again, "Pow. The bastard hit from nowhere. Pow. Jus' like that. The bastard hit from nowhere." A female nurse was next to him, talking in a soothing tone.

  We came to a room with a large wooden door, and Dr. Morse knocked on the door and led Diane in. I hung back, not sure what to do, and my feet and hands seemed too large. The door was open and I noticed a shivering woman on an examining table, her head propped up by some pillows, and my first thought was, They've taken us to the wrong room. Who's this woman with the scared eyes, the tangled hair? Then Diane choked back a sob and moved into the room, and I realized just how terribly wrong I was. Kara Miles, Diane's best friend and lover, looked at us with bruised and battered eyes. Her right cheek was puffy and her bottom lip was swollen and split open, and there were scratches along her neck. A sheet was up about her bare shoulders, and a nurse was sitting on a stool next to her holding her trembling hand.

  "Kara," Diane said, her voice strained, and as she moved forward to hold her, I stepped back, not wanting to be part of such a private scene. I felt out of place, out of time, like I didn't belong. I was out of the room, my stomach aching, my hands cold, and I felt like going outside and sitting in the snow. The staff in the emergency room looked over at me like I was a prisoner making an escape, and I walked back to the waiting area, and I waited. The little girl was still there, her head resting on the older woman's lap, though she was now sleeping again.

  I took a cup of coffee I didn't want and sat back, and then I was reminded of something. It was a memory of an August a few years back, of walking along Tyler Beach. I had rested for a few minutes on an outcropping of granite boulders, watching the waves do their dance, seeing the hundreds of tourists stretched out before me, and then I watched a young girl, about nine or ten, playing in the sand. She was turning something in her hands, over and over, and was singing something. A young boy about a year or two older, who I presumed was her brother, was nearby, playing with bright yellow Tonka trucks. Mom was napping on a folding lawn chair. The girl stood up, holding something in her hands, and I saw it was a seashell, about the size of her small fist. I know next to nothing about seashells, but this one looked special. It was light purple and had complex curvings that looked as if it had been sculpted in an artist's studio up in Porter.

  I smiled at what I saw, but only for a second or two. Her brother had noticed what was going on and had come over, carrying a dump trunk in one hand. With no change in his expression, no words, nothing at all, he grabbed the shell from her hands and began walking away. She followed, shrieking. And then he turned and held the shell up, taunting her, and as she reached up he threw it at the rocks. I didn't hear a thing, but I saw how the shell was broken and destroyed, the pieces tumbling to the sand.

  The girl kept on shrieking. Mom stirred herself up from the lawn chair and mumbled something about you kids behaving, and the young boy was looking up at me, defiant, not caring, for he knew I had seen it all and wasn't about to do a thing. His chin was jutting out and I felt a breathless chill, for I saw something dead in those eyes, and I hoped the trio had been visiting from a state far away, and that I would never have the chance to encounter this boy again, especially when he became an adult.

  At his feet was something that only a few moments ago was a thing of beauty, a symbol of intricacy and life and peace, and now it rested on the dirty sands, broken and shattered, all because of some dark urges in that young man's mind. And all it took was a few seconds.

  Shattered shell. It reminded me of a young woman, now someone completely different from the person she had been this morning, lying on a hospital examining table, being poked and prodded by strangers, in pieces, shivering from the fear.

  I sipped at the coffee and burned my tongue and waited.

  About fifteen or so minutes later a man came through the emergency room entrance, tan trenchcoat flapping in the snow, and the way he carried himself instantly said "cop" to me. So the cops had been called in. He was about my height and his eyes looked intelligent enough behind round horn-rimmed glasses. He wore a checked driving cap and what I saw of his hair was black, and his eyes and expression dismissed me as he went to the counter and held his badge. The door to the emergency room quickly opened and just as quickly closed.

  I waited some more. The man with the bloody head and mustache came out, coat draped across his bare shoulders, while the doctor --- a man this time, not Dr. Morse --- explained something to the now-awake woman across from me. The little girl was standing up, saying cheerfully, "Daddy, Daddy," as she hugged his legs. Quite a touching scene, except from the look of Mom's eyes. I gathered that little voice was about the only cheerful sound my mustached friend was going to hear for the next few days. They went out into the snow and in a few more minutes Diane came out.

  Her lips were pressed together and the short scar on her chin was shiny white, and these warning signs made me sit right up and not feel tired anymore. Her eyes were red-rimmed and swollen, but her voice was steady as she said, "Can we go outside?"

  "Sure," I said, tossing the half-empty cup of coffee into a wastebasket. I followed her through the sliding glass doors and out into the parking lot, and I drew my coat closer against me. The snow had grown heavier, and the cars and trucks in the hospital's parking lot were now odd-shaped mounds. I went to the Rover and climbed in, and Diane joined me on the passenger's seat as I started up the engine and switched on the heater.

  Diane sighed and rested her head in her hands. I left the lights out and didn't bother to clean off the windshield, letting the snow cocoon us in. I reached over and gingerly rubbed at the back of her neck and she said, "Well, I let my cop instincts overtake everything else, and the Newburyport Police Department is now here."

  "I know. I saw the detective roll in a few minutes ago."

  "Yeah, you sure did. One Inspector Ron Dunbar, and already I don't like him."

  I kept rubbing. 'Why's that?"

  She sighed and said, "I don't know. Nothing blatant or awful, like him asking her stupid questions about her sex life or sex partners or what she was wearing in bed, did she entice the guy, crap like that. No, he did an okay job, and maybe that's the problem."

  "Because that's no standard case in there," I said. "That's Kara."

  "You're so right." She turned to me and her face was a gaunt shadow. "He did everything right and asked the right questions, and he and a squad are going over to her apartment right now, but I can tell. He's just doing it. He's just going through the motions. Call it cop sense, but I don't think he's going to bust his butt on this one, and I can't allow that, not for a moment."

  I chose my words carefully. "Do you think he knows about you and Kara?"

  I think she tried to smile. "You mean about our alternate lifest
yle? No, I don't think so. I think he's just a guy cop a bit overwhelmed with his job and Kara's story so far.... Well, she did everything wrong. She shouldn't have destroyed the evidence the way she did. She panicked, and I think this guy is going to hold it against her. I don't think he will make this case a priority, that's what."

  Another sigh, and she put her head in her hands and said, "Shit, shit," over and over again, and then said, "We've been through some times, you and me, right?"

  "Absolutely true," I said, remembering with a quick tinge of comfort the first time we had met, and how she had helped set me on the road to living again, after the worst months of my life. Although she was aware of what she did, those years back, I'm sure Diane doesn't know the extent of how much she had saved me.

  "Then I can ask you for a favor, the biggest favor I've ever asked you."

  I shifted some in my seat, the heat in the front just reaching the comfort zone. "You can ask and it's yours."

  "You probably won't like it."

  U-oh. "You're probably right, and I think it probably doesn't make a difference. What do you need?"

  She sighed again. "I want your help, Lewis."

  "You've got it. Just name it, Diane."

  It seemed to take a few minutes as she raised herself up and sat back in the seat, and she reached across and grabbed my hand.

  She said, "I want you to help me find him."

  No need to ask who he was. "It'll be hard, and might take a lot of time, and the cops here might not like me sniffing around."

  "I can handle that," she said. "Will you do it?"

  I ran my fingers across the steering wheel. "So we can give him to the cops?"

  A pause that seemed to stretch for quite a long time. "No," she finally said. "So I can kill him."

  Chapter Three

  A snowplow grumbled by through the parking lot, its amber lights powerful enough to pierce the snow-covered windshield. I looked into Diane's eyes and saw a fierce determination there, a look highlighted by the plow's lights.