by Carolyn Nash
Andrew stopped dead.
J.P. looked from Andrew to me, and then cocked his head out the door. The reflection of red and blue strobe lights lit up the ceiling. “Police. Andy, my boy. I only have a few seconds left, and as you well know, the only way I’m going to get out of this is to kill you both. You think I’m stupid enough to leave a witness? Come now. Only question is, which one first?” He waved the gun back at Andrew. Andrew sagged, staggered forward, clung to the counter to stay upright. “Now stay awake, I want you to see her die.” As the last word left his lips, as the gun began to come toward me again, Andrew suddenly pushed away from the counter and lunged across J.P.
“Melanie, run!” he shouted as his hand closed over J.P.’s wrist and the gun went off with a loud crash driving a bullet through the floor at my feet.
J.P. roared with fury and drove his elbow into Andrew’s wounded side. I saw the pain flash through Andrew’s face even as I leapt forward grabbed the gun with both hands, and pushed it up.
“Melanie, get out,” Andrew grunted as he tried to keep his grip on J.P’s wrist at the same time bringing his other hand up to grab J.P’s other arm before it could ram him again.
I clung to the gun, forcing J.P.’s hand up and away. Andrew’s eyes met mine for the briefest fraction of a second and Andrew let go of J.P.’s wrist, left me gripping it, and grabbed at J.P.’s elbow which was cocked back to strike again. He twisted it up and backward following the arm back so that he came up behind J.P. He brought his arm across J.P.’s throat and yanked backward brutally and J.P.’s roar of anger and frustration was cut off as Andrew’s arm closed off his air.
J.P. tried to shake him off. He twisted around and fell backward, slamming Andrew back against the counter edge. At the same time J.P. swung his arm out in an arc, trying to dislodge me with a strength that belied his jolly fat man image. I felt myself lose my balance and start to fall back toward the door, but I wouldn’t let go of that gun. No matter what, I wasn’t going to let go. Instead I shifted my grasp, reaching out with my injured hand to grab the barrel and force it up and away. I felt his hand flex and the gun went off with a loud BLAM, followed by a crash as the bullet smashed through a shelf and shattered a half dozen jars of chemicals. Fragments flew and powder puffed out in a white cloud. The heat of the discharge burned my fingers, but I wouldn’t let go. It hurt like a son-of-a-bitch, but still I made my fingers cling to the gun.
Andrew still clung to J.P., tightening his arm across J.P.’s throat. J.P. was turning redder, his face seemed to be bloating, swelling with trapped blood and air, but I could also hear Andrew gasping, and though J.P. seemed to be weakening, it was up for grabs who could outlast the other.
“Melanie!” Andrew croaked. “His feet, his legs!” I nodded and as I clung to the gun, I began to kick at J.P.’s shins and stomp on his feet. Andrew twisted him and pushed forward as I gave J.P.’s knee a good sideways kick and all three of us went down with J.P. on the bottom. All the air went out of him in a large Woof! and his fingers released the gun. I flung it back behind the counter just as I heard the stairwell door open.
Andrew lay across the large man, gasping for air.
“Melanie, run!”
“It’s okay,” I said. “It’s the police.”
He nodded at J.P., who was starting to get his wind back.
“Tie,” he said.
I looked around, saw some rubber tubing, wrenched it off the fitting and quickly pulled J.P.’s hands behind him and was tying him like a steer at a rodeo, when the two cops burst in the room and yelled, “Freeze!” in chorus.
I threw up my hands and yelled, “Time!” then fell back on the floor.
Andrew looked up at me and grinned. “Grand Champion,” he gasped, and then passed out flat across J.P.’s back.
I sat on the floor, Andrew’s head in my lap, waiting for the ambulance. Blood streaked the side of his face and darkened his hair. The bleeding was fairly minor, but he hadn’t moved since he’d passed out on J.P. and it was beginning to frighten me.
“Ma’am?”
I looked up. The policeman who had first caught me as I had run through the front door stood beside us. “Here.” He handed me a wet towel and a dry one. “Thought you might want to wipe a little of the blood off. And, you really ought to wrap up that hand of yours.” My left hand rested on my knee. It was covered with blood, the palm was burned, large splinters stuck out in several places.
“Yuck,” I said.
He knelt down beside me. “Let me help you.” He lifted my hand gently, wrapped the towel around it and, using some green-colored tape from a dispenser on the counter, he fixed the makeshift bandage in place. I studied Andrew’s face while he worked, concentrating on that more pleasant sight to keep my mind off the throbbing in my hand.
“There. That ought to hold you.” He was young, round-faced, and rather innocent looking to be a big city policeman.
“Thank you, officer. I appreciate all your help and that you don’t have us both in handcuffs.”
“Do I need to?”
I almost laughed, but I was so profoundly weary I barely even smiled. “No,” I said. “Thank you.”
“No problem.” He straightened.
I took the wet towel and began to gently wipe at the blood on Andrew’s face. He didn’t stir at the touch of the cold cloth. “Officer Gordon?” I asked, my voice quavering, “How long is the ambulance going to take?”
“It shouldn’t be but another minute. I’ll check for you.” He walked out into the hall, over by the window and began to talk into a microphone clipped on his shoulder.
I continued to gently wipe Andrew’s face. I did it slowly as I examined the symmetry of the line of his jaw and the placement of his ear, the shadow of his beard, the slight wrinkle of worry between his eyes even while unconscious, the shape of his nose and the feel of his warm breath on my skin as I wiped the blood away from his cut lip. I memorized as I studied, fixing the sight, and touch, and smell, and--I leaned down and kissed his forehead--the taste of him.
The door of J.P.’s office opened.
“But this is absolutely ridiculous. I have told you who I am.” J.P. walked out; a police officer followed him. His wrists were handcuffed behind him. He spoke in tones of outraged innocence. I recognized the policeman with him as the one who had caught me behind the pillar and shoved me to safety.
“Yes sir, you have,” said the officer. “Sir, remember your rights.”
“Yes, yes, I know all about my rights, Billings. I also know that it is utterly preposterous that I be the one in handcuffs.”
They reached us and J.P. stepped over Andrew’s outstretched legs with a look of disdain. The policeman followed him to the doorway.
“I told you,” J.P. continued gesturing back at Andrew and me with his bound hands. “These two broke into my lab and attacked me. That man there on the floor is Andrew Richards. I have been working with the Los Angeles police to aid in his capture. He is wanted for attempted murder.”
“They have a somewhat different story,” the officer said.
“I’m sure they do!”
“I do have evidence,” I said.
“What evidence?” J.P. demanded righteously.
I looked only at the officer. “If you will go to the window, the first one, there is a digital recorder on the ledge. I recorded everything that happened.” J.P.’s eyes widened. I could see his face begin to pale.
“In addition,” I continued, “there is a lab notebook down in the copy machine on the third floor. Just in case something happened to it, I copied the relevant information and posted it on the bulletin board and shoved it under at least half a dozen doors near the office. The pages I’ve copied prove that Dr. Harrison falsified his records in an attempt to show that Dr. Richards’ work was his own. If that’s not enough to prove it, I’m sure it’s enough to get a subpoena to go through the rest of his records.”
J.P.’s mouth opened and closed, opened and closed, but no sound came
out.
The policeman turned to him. “Sir?”
“I… I…” He glared at me and then turned away. “I want to see my attorney.”
“Certainly, sir. A phone will be made available to you.”
I watched the policeman take his elbow and escort him out the door, but strangely, I felt no triumph, only a deep weariness.
“Good for you.”
“Andrew?” I looked down. His right eye was barely open, his left swollen shut. His voice was not even a whisper.
“All right?” he asked.
“Yes, yes I’m fine.” I pushed his hair off his forehead and continued to smooth it back. “Just lay still and rest,” I said. “The ambulance is coming.”
He tried to smile, but the swollen split lip obviously hurt him. He said something.
“What?” I bent down. “I couldn’t hear you.”
He ran a tongue over his lips and tried again. “…friend,” he whispered.
“Andrew?”
The air sighed out of him and his eyes closed and I felt myself tilt, spin away, everything was ripping away, flying apart, then I looked down and saw the slow rise and fall of his chest and the world slowly righted itself again.
“Ma’am?” An ambulance attendant stood in the doorway, his hand on a gurney. His partner stood at the other end.
“Oh, yes.” I eased out from under Andrew and laid his head gently on the floor. The attendants moved in on either side and I stepped back and away and watched from a distance as they quickly checked Andrew over then gently lifted him on the gurney. My hands twitched as they raised him, and I held my breath until he was settled. They hastily pulled a sheet over him and started out the door.
“Excuse me?” They turned and looked back at me. “Could I ride with him?”
“Sorry, no,” one of them threw back over his shoulder and they hurried down the hall toward the elevator. I watched them go, watched Andrew’s form under the sheet moving lifelessly as they turned the gurney and bumped him over the sill into the car. The doors shut and I heard the car drop.
“I can give you a ride.” Officer Gordon stood at my elbow. It was strange. Things appeared to be slowing down. His voice was slow and measured and seemed to be coming from a great distance.
“Thank you.” It was pretty weird. My own voice seemed to be coming from somewhere out in the hallway.
He touched my arm. “Are you all right?”
I looked down at his hand on my arm and then back up to his face. “I’m very tired.”
“Let’s get you checked out.”
“Could I get my coat and purse, please? They’re in Dr. Harrison’s office.”
“Let me get them.” He brought them to me then took my elbow. “Is your hand bothering you much?”
I looked down at the towel wrapped around my left hand. I tried to wiggle the fingers, but they didn’t want to move. The pain pulsed and I wanted to cry out, but at the same time even the pain in my hand was becoming distant, like it was happening to someone else. “It’s okay.”
“Well, I still think you need to have a doctor take a look. And, you can find out about your friend.”
“Yes,” I nodded. “My friend.”
* * * *
I sat on the vinyl and chrome couch, my feet tucked up under me, my thickly bandaged hand resting in my lap. I turned and looked at the clock again. 8:30. It took me a second to figure out that that was a.m. My eyes felt gritty. The sense of distance between me and everything going on around me had grown. I knew it was from the exhaustion, but I couldn’t put my head down and sleep. It seemed all I could do was sit on the couch and stare up the hall at the door of Andrew’s room.
Officer Gordon had followed just behind the ambulance for the short ride to the University Medical Center. We had pulled up at the emergency room just as they wheeled Andrew inside. The doctor and nurses hustled him into a small alcove and one of them whipped a curtain around. I had tried to follow them, but a nurse hustled me off to another alcove, and gave me something for the pain.
Sit, she had told me. The doctor will be right in to look at your hand.
A half hour had dragged by. I’d stopped anyone who passed that looked in the least official to ask, how is he? Is he awake? Will he be all right? They’d smile, pat me on the shoulder, guide me back to the examining table, sit me down and then move on without ever giving an answer. I finally cornered one nurse and asked again. She had taken one look at my face and had found out that Andrew had been moved upstairs and that he was stable.
“Stable? What does that mean?”
“That’s privileged information. Are you family?” she asked.
I had turned away and gone back to sit on the table. “No,” I had said, my strength and fight suddenly gone. “Just a friend.”
Just a friend. I sat back against the cold vinyl couch and looked back up the hall at Andrew’s room. I rubbed absently at the tape on my bandaged hand. “Friend,” he’d whispered. Not, my love. Not, Melanie dearest. Just “friend.”
I rested my head back against the wall.
Get used to it, Mel. Just get used to it. It’s over. It’s all over. Andrew’s safe. He doesn’t need you anymore.
I turned my head to look out the window. The sky was overcast, the light filtered and grey.
I might have dozed; I might have just been simply thinking. I was so tired that the line between sleep and wakefulness had becoming blurred, but a commotion up the hall brought my head up and my eyes wide open. The bell announcing the arrival of the elevator had rung, and it was followed by a rumbling of numerous voices and the sound of several feet trooping out into the hall.
“Hey! Wait a minute.” It was the voice of the nurse at the duty station. “You can’t all come up here, even if it was visiting hours which it’s not! They don’t start for another hour.”
There was a short silence, and then, “I am Dr. Richards’ fiancée. I must see him.” The tone was an attempt at being imperious, but much of the authority was lost due to the fact that the words were enunciated with that concentrated diction of hers.
I shifted over so that I sat in a chair with my back to the hall, and then sat rigidly, hugging my bandaged hand to me.
The sound of footsteps started again, the sharp tap-tap of high heels distinct among the shuffle. The rumble of voices started again.
“Ms. Granzella, please. When did you find out about Dr. Richards?”
The hubbub grew in volume as the group came near.
“Did you always know he was innocent?”
“What have the police told you?”
“It’s been five days since the explosion at the lab. Where have you been during that time? Where has he been? Has he been in contact with you?”
I turned my head carefully to look back over my shoulder just as she appeared striding forcefully, yet gracefully, ahead of a pack of reporters. She wore a short, terrifically chic dress that showed her perfect legs, her tight, fit, shapely body--a dress of the perfect shadings of wheat and sienna to set off her golden skin and blond hair. Her hair hung loose down her back--unbelievably thick, straight and shining. Her flawless skin had not a touch of makeup, but her violet eyes were framed with carefully darkened lashes.
I turned away and stared out the window, ignoring the reporters as they spilled into the room and filled the tiny space. They backed up against the rack of chairs I sat on, knocking against it. I waited for the inevitable discovery, the finding of Andrew Richards’ accomplice, but instead, they ignored me, treating me I were just another piece of the furniture. The purse of a woman wearing a light grey wool coat swung against my head. A man with two cameras hanging by his side turned and the telephoto lens on one nearly clipped my ear. I just sat, wondering where the temper I’d fired at the taxi driver, and at J.P. had gone. Into the fog, it seemed.
“Gentlemen and ladies,” Caren said carefully. “Please. I do understand that you need to know what has happened, but so do I. I just want to go in and see my Andrew, a
nd I will be right out to answer your questions. So if you will bear with me.” I chanced another look. Between two of the reporters, I could see Caren’s beautiful smile. The men in the crowd responded automatically, smiling and nodding their heads. The women were only slightly less susceptible to the charm.
I wanted to get up and leave, move away from this room and these people, get as much distance between me and this place as possible. In the last five days Andrew and I had been in a world apart, a world where at times I could let myself believe that Andrew and I had a future. But the sight of Caren Granzella, the crowd of reporters, the nurses and doctors who had taken Andrew from my care, all of these things brought the real world crashing down, lifting Andrew further from me with every passing second.
But you knew this. You knew this would happen and you chose to get involved. Stop sitting here torturing yourself with what-ifs and maybes. Andrew’s taken care of. Start taking care of yourself!
I looked up around me at the crowd. They filled the space. There was no avenue of escape. If I tried to push through, they would see the torn sleeve of the t-shirt, the burn underneath, and the large bandage around my hand. And then they would see my grey face, so similar to the face of the twenty-four year old student whose picture and reputation had been splashed across the headlines. An older sister, maybe. No, it’s her. Tell us how it feels what you did how it happened what Andrew Richards is really like so you spent five days and nights with him.
I stayed motionless for several minutes until there was a stir in the crowd. A nurse pushed up the hall, elbowing through the crowd, shooting looks of impatience at the faces around her. She pushed open the door to Andrew’s room and the entire crowd surged forward, craning to see. She edged in through a crack and quickly shut the door, and the crowd receded.
A few minutes later the door edged open again. This time Caren stepped out, and behind her, in a wheel chair, a pale Andrew Richards. The crowd surged forward, cutting off the sight, and as they moved forward, a path to the hallway cleared behind their backs. I stood carefully, keeping the crowd between me and Andrew.