by Vin Carver
Paul lowered his voice to a hush and leaned in close. “Ignore him, Warren. It’s going to be okay.”
Espinoza said, “Innocent until proven guilty.”
Warren raised his head.
“He’ll get what’s coming to him though,” said Espinoza. “Put him in my car. I’ll run him in.”
Warren lowered his head.
“No,” Paul said. “He’s mine.” Paul shoved Warren toward a police cruiser. “I promised the Chief I would bring him in, and that’s what I’m going to do.”
Espinoza shrugged. “I guess that makes sense. I’ll let you have this one compadre, but only because you’re in a heap of trouble.”
Paul opened the back door to the cruiser, put his hand on top of Warren’s head, and pushed him onto the backseat.
“Aren’t you going to read me my rights?” Warren said.
Paul glanced at Espinoza, then fixed his eyes on Warren. “You don’t have any rights.” He slammed the door shut.
Yellow foam poked through rips in the leather seat. Old and stiff, the foam threatened to disintegrate into a pile of powder, and it stunk. Warren didn’t care. He wanted to rest his head on it because it looked soft. Scuffs and scratches decorated the back of the driver’s seat. A black, metal mesh separated the front of the cruiser from the back. Through the mesh, the tow operator let go of the winch and climbed into the cab of his truck. Warren twisted around and saw Paul talking with Espinoza. His backpack hung on Espinoza’s arm like a bag of gold at the end of a rainbow.
A shiver ran down Warren’s back. He might lose the urn forever. Cameron wouldn't wait forever. Warren pictured a police clerk tagging his backpack and throwing it into a locker. Forty years from now, Warren would get out of prison only to find that someone had stolen the urn. How many years do they give for setting a forest on fire? Murder? Does this state have the death penalty? Warren put his hand on his throat and felt for a lump, but the lump didn’t come.
Paul opened the trunk. Warren twisted around, but he couldn’t see through the lid of the trunk. He heard them talking, and the lid closed. Espinoza stood there, glaring at him. Warren glared back. Espinoza frowned, raised his hands, and took two steps back. Without taking his eyes off Warren, Espinoza hurried over to his cruiser, got inside, and sped away.
Paul got in his cruiser and started the engine. They rode over the culvert and onto the pavement toward Tamarack…and jail.
This is happening. This is really happening. He’s taking me to jail…but this isn’t over.
Every spring, more and more tourists came to Tamarack, making it harder and harder to cross Main Street. A convoy of three-day, weekend warriors, pulling campers and boats, passed in front of Paul’s cruiser. Warren stared out the window at the vacationers. Those people were going camping. He was going to jail. He fantasized about camping with Sarah, waking up next to her in a sleeping bag for two. But he didn’t want to go camping with her. He wanted to go camping with Sharon. He scrunched his eyes tight and shook his head. Instead of picturing Nirvana Sharon, he had seen himself lying next to Big Sharon, under the stars, talking until dawn. He shook his head again and hoped for the thought to disappear. He let out a muted laugh.
Talking until dawn…that’s ridiculous. No one talks to Big Sharon.
Paul slammed his hands on the steering wheel. Every time a break appeared in the oncoming traffic, someone else came in the other direction. He gave up on trying to go straight and put on his right turn signal. “Sorry Warren. I didn’t want to drive you down Main Street, but we don’t have much time.” Paul turned the wheel, and they headed west toward the Hi-Way Chapel.
Warren wriggled his wrists. He needed to get those cuffs off, and he needed the urn. Maybe Paul would believe Warren was asthmatic. He could start coughing and demand to have the inhaler from his backpack. It wouldn’t be the first time someone had sucked air through the urn.
“It’s been a couple of horrible days for me.” Paul sounded tired. “First the fire, then three murders.” A giddy laugh warbled through his lips. “What’s going on? I mean, look over there.”
Outside the chapel, paramedics pushed a gurney into the back of an ambulance. An off-white sheet completely covered a large, round body. Warren turned his head the other way. His dad’s disfigured wagon was parked at the Lumberman’s Club. He frowned and looked straight ahead. Four blocks away, around the corner on Robin Street, the police station waited for him.
Paul stopped the cruiser at Pigeon Street. “And…oh God.” He put his head on the steering wheel. “Last night. I wasn’t going to shoot you, I just wanted to bring you in.”
“What?”
“I was just following procedure. You were the perp. I was the cop. Did you know I graduated at the top of my class? Did you know that? But for what?” Paul wailed.
Warren pressed his hands against the mesh. “What’s going on Paul? You didn’t shoot me. You missed.”
“I just wanted to be perfect. I wanted people to respect me. Now they never will.” He sat up and pressed on the gas. Instead of going straight toward the station, he spun the wheel to the right. He let go of the wheel to wipe tears off his face, and the cruiser swerved around a blue sign with a white “H.”
Warren slid across the seat and banged into the door. “Where are we going?”
Paul pulled into the parking lot of the hospital and surveyed the area. Tears streamed down his face. “Warren, quick. Get down.”
Warren fell to his side, and his head landed on the yellow foam. It was soft like he had thought, but it reeked of urine.
Paul got into the backseat and laid on top of Warren. His breath made Warren’s cheek hot.
“Don’t say anything. Just let me do this.”
Warren said, “Do wha—”
“Shh.”
Something sharp scratched Warren’s wrist, and he bit his lip.
“Sorry,” Paul said.
Nylon snapped, and Warren’s right hand came free of the cuff. Paul held onto Warren’s left wrist, and Warren tried to pull it away.
“Wait. Let me get this one too.” Paul cut the cuff off and threw it on the floor. He put all his weight on Warren. “I’m going to give you thirty minutes. If you don’t come back, I’ll tell them that I found a bomb in your backpack, and that you threatened to blow us up if I didn’t let you go.”
“Where I am supposed to go?”
“Go in there and see your—”
Paul’s face turned red, and he closed his eyes. “I’m so sorry Warren. It was an accident. I didn’t mean to shoot her.” He sobbed. A tear ran off his face and dropped onto Warren’s nose.
“You shot her?” Everything went black. Tiny white dots fluttered and darted on the backs of Warren’s eyes. “Is she all righ—”
“Shh.” Paul sat up and opened the door. Warren’s vision cleared and Paul got out.
Paul said, “You should go inside and find out.” He motioned toward the front doors of the hospital. “I’m so sorry.”
Warren slid across the seat and got out of the cruiser.
He’s letting me go. Just like that, he’s letting me go.
Warren gazed and Paul. The high-schooler who had become the big tough cop stood there crying like he had lost a game of checkers to a second-grader. Warren wondered if anyone ever really grew up. He took a step toward the hospital, turned around, and crouched behind the cruiser. Paul crouched with him. “I need my backpack.”
“You can’t have it, there’s no time. Any longer than thirty minutes and I won’t be able to explain what happened to the Chief.”
Warren scratched his head. “If I don’t come back, you'll say I threatened you with a bomb in my backpack, right?”
“Yeah.”
“So, if I leave my backpack here, won’t they know you were lying?”
Paul cocked his head to the side. “You’re right.” He opened the driver’s side door, reached inside, and the trunk lid popped open. “If I see someone coming, I’m getting on the radio and
calling for backup. If you see my lights flashing, don’t come back.”
I’m never coming back.
Warren said, “Thanks Paul.”
Paul gazed at the pavement. “If she’s okay, tell her I’m sorry.”
Warren grabbed his backpack and ran to the hospital before Paul could change his mind. He stopped in the foyer and peered out the glass door. Paul sat hunched in his cruiser, staring out the window. Warren stepped to the side and took the urn out of his backpack. He hated this hellhole. He hadn’t known about his mom when he’d seen his dad’s car at the Lumberman’s club, but now, it infuriated him. If she died, then his dad might never leave the bar, and that might not be so bad. The dad in Nirvana would never let his wife die alone while he got drunk.
That’s it. I’m out of here.
Warren shook the urn, and the lid rattled. The lid slid to the side, and—
CLANK
Warren slapped his hand over the lid and pushed it back into place. If he went to Nirvana now, he’d be just like his dad, leaving her there to die alone. He ran his finger in a circle over the side of the urn, feeling for the gold-inlay. Cameron was waiting for him in Nirvana. In Nirvana, he wouldn’t have to watch his mom die. He wouldn’t have to say goodbye to two urns on his way to school every day, but his mom hadn’t died yet…or had she?
Warren wanted to stay, and he wanted to go. He wanted to do neither. He wanted to wait until Paul wasn’t paying attention and sneak down Pigeon Street. He wanted to find some shade in the forest and live there forever. In his entire life, Warren had always looked away, then, walked away.
CHAPTER SIXTY
The Center of His Being
The inner glass door of the hospital swung closed behind Warren, and he gazed at the empty reception area. He wondered where everyone had gone and remembered Paul crying in the cruiser. Three deaths and a shooting wasn’t just a lot for Paul to handle.
He put his backpack on a chair and walked over to the nurse’s station. A white clock with a smooth-moving second hand read ten o’clock. Below the clock, a disarray of papers, pens, and gadgets lay on the desk. A clipboard with a sign-in sheet rested on the counter. The third line from the bottom read SETH RENNER - 3 A.M.
At least he stopped by on his way to the bar.
Two name plates rested on the counter, and two office chairs sat on the floor behind the name plates. The first name plate read DEBORAH POLLACK, RN, and the second read CARLA ESPINOZA, LPN. Warren walked behind the counter. He picked up a stack of clipboards and flipped through them until he found one with his mom’s name. She had suffered severe hemorrhaging after a foreign object had entered her torso at high velocity.
Paul had shot her. He had actually shot her.
Warren’s heart beat with an urgency he had never felt before. The bottom of the chart listed her as CRITICAL BUT STABLE. Dr. Stein had scribbled his signature over the top of the room number, and Warren could only make out ICU-1. He dropped the clipboard, picked up his backpack, and ran down the hall.
A woman wearing a blue smock covered in cartoon balloons said, “Can I help you?”
“I’m looking for the ICU.”
“Who are you visiting?”
“Cassie Renner.” Warren blurted out the answer. A hole appeared in the center of his being and grew. He put his hand on his chest and swallowed. He hadn’t known he could care this much.
The nurse touched her throat. “Oh, pobrecito. Are you a friend or relative?”
“I'm her son. Please, I have to see her.”
“Did you sign in at the front desk?”
Warren shook his head and peered around the nurse. “No.”
“Okay, I’ll sign you in,” she said. “Follow this hall and turn left at the water fountain. Please stay in the waiting room until the attendant from the ICU comes and gets you. I’ll tell him you’re here.”
“Thanks.” Warren forced a smile and ran down the hall. The hospital smelled like alcohol, but not the kind he was used to smelling. The scent wasn't a misty morning ride on the hangover half-pipe. It was clean, sterile, and safe.
At the end of the hall, a wall of water fell into the basin of a crafted fountain. The fountain was backed by stone with swirls of gray and blue sparkles. The water from the fountain fell in a wide, shiny sheet, pushing cold air toward him as he approached it. Warren stopped. He reached out to touch the water and heard a woman’s voice say, “Hey, don’t touch that.”
Warren shook the voice from his head, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d been here before.
The waiting room was across the hall from the ICU, and Warren went inside to wait for the attendant. The same white clock with a smooth-moving second hand hung on the wall. Chairs covered with rough, brown cloth bordered the walls. In the middle, a coffee table littered with stacks of magazines tied the room together. Warren sat in one of the chairs and tried to lean back, but he couldn’t. The square-backed chair forced him to sit up straight. The magazines also made him uncomfortable. Topics like gardening, housekeeping, and Hollywood disinterested him. After some digging, he found one with a tricked-out Model T on the cover. He didn’t know why people painted flames on their cars, but he didn’t think it was stupid anymore.
He tried not to think about his mom and waited for the attendant.
An article on a retired man turned auto-enthusiast caught his eye. He glanced at the clock. Retired people have money to burn, and this retiree had used his to turn an old, bubbly car into an off-road Baja buggy. Transforming an old car into a new one looked like fun.
Warren glanced at the clock again. Two minutes had passed. He turned the page, and his patience left him like a nitro funny car leaving the starting line. Warren threw the magazine onto the coffee table and bolted across the hall.
Inside the ICU, six metal rails hung from the ceiling, and six white curtains hung from the rails. They were all pulled closed. An attendant’s desk—not much bigger than the desks in Mr. Hammond’s history class—sat in the middle of the room next to a white waste can with a metal lid. Various beeping, buzzing, and clicking sounds blended together, creating a serene cacophony of sterility. The curtain in the far corner moved, and Warren dashed behind the curtain to his left.
Tubes and wires ran into every part of his mom’s body. He rushed to her side. Her hands had no wrinkles, and her face had no color. A small, sad lump formed in his throat, and he swallowed it whole. He could handle this.
She was sleeping. Warren wanted to hit her “alarm on” button and wake her up. An IV with clear fluid ran into her wrist. Two days ago, she had left him a bagel for breakfast, and he had hated it. A dark yellow substance flowed inside a thick tube and disappeared beneath her blanket. Throughout his consciousness, every kind thing she had ever done for him screamed to get his attention. A white wire ran to her hand, and a white clip covered her index finger. She had searched all day for him, and he had hidden in his bedroom. A wide, flexible tube ran to a mask, and covered her mouth. Toothpick had blamed Warren for the fire, and she had blamed the fire for Warren’s disappearance, but it wasn’t true. A green line ran across a screen, jumping every few seconds like a whip. He had run away. He had left her. That was the truth. A thin tube ran through a patch of gauze and disappeared into the base of her throat. She might die.
Warren gasped and pulled air in past a new, angry throat lump. His eyes watered. She loved him. She loved him so much.
Will my Nirvana mom love me this much?
The curtain flew open. “No one is allowed back here. You’ve got to go.” The attendant stood over six feet tall. He wore a white cap and surgical mask. Scrubs, gloves, and booties covered the rest of his body. The attendant’s eyes beamed over the mask like magnificent stars and burrowed their way into Warren.
Everything went black, and Warren felt like he was floating. His vision returned and, through his tears, the edges of the attendant’s scrubs blended with the curtains. He kept his eyes on the attendant and touched his mom’s hand.
Warren said, “I’m sorry. She’s my—”
The attendant’s voice deepened. “I don’t care if she’s the Princess of Paros, you can’t be in here.”
Paros?
Warren took a step back.
“Go.” The attendant’s voice boomed. A moan came from behind one of the curtains. “Don’t you see? You’re disturbing another person’s path in life. You must go. You must go now.”
Warren turned his head as he walked. He stared at the eyes above the mask, and the eyes stared back. The eyes didn’t threaten him, or if they did, he didn’t feel it. Instead, he felt comforted.
Warren walked out of the ICU…and into his dad’s arms.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
Tons of Lies
“There you are, Warren. I found you.” His dad smiled and gave him a big hug.
Warren put one arm around his dad’s waist and turned to the side. His dad pulled him in hard. The sterile scent of the hospital hallway became hollow and reminded Warren of home.
His dad gripped him by the shoulders and smiled. “My God, look at you. You look great.” His dad hugged him again. “We’ve been so worried. Where have you been?”
Warren pushed his dad away and stared into his face. He had come up with tons of lies for this very moment, but none of them came to him now. Black ants of confusion poured into Warren’s mind and blocked his words.
“Well, it doesn’t matter now,” his dad said. “You’re back.” He smiled. They walked into the waiting room and stood by the coffee table. “Your mother will be okay. We have to believe that. Don’t worry, it’s not your fault.”
Warren wrinkled his forehead, and the black ants burst into flame. “Why would it be my fault?”
“I don’t mean that.” His dad averted his eyes. “I mean…you know what happened, right? You know Toothpick shot your mom, right?”
“Yeah.” Warren folded his arms.
“It’s just that, well, Toothpick was there looking for you and…nevermind.” Bits of dry sweat clogged his dad’s pores. “I need coffee. Do you want some coffee?”