by Nancy Radke
Shelly tucked two pairs of Angie’s shoes into the side of the clothes basket. “I didn't have time to grab your makeup, but you can replace that. I’m so sorry this happened.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” Angie said.
“I know but— “
“It wasn’t your fault. Will you be okay?”
“Oh, yes, I’ll be fine. Just get out of here.”
Angie limped out as fast as she could, Shelly following with the basket. “Angie, sometimes, just call and let me know how you’re doing.”
“I will. I promise. And Shelly, thank you. Thank you for all you’ve done for me.”
“You’ve got a good man there. Hang onto him.”
“He’s my new boss. It looks like I’ve landed on my feet.”
“Great.”
Shelly cast anxious glances toward the front at the same time pushing Angie out the kitchen door. They went around the side of the house to the SUV, where Shelly opened the back door and dumped the basket’s contents inside. Angie tossed in her load, slammed the door and looked for Ryan.
He was helping Jack up, but when he saw them, let the man drop back into the snow and came over to the car.
“He’ll be okay,” he told Shelly. “Just don’t let him go to sleep out there.”
“Are you okay?” Angie asked, looking him over. His knuckles weren’t even red. Evidently Jack had been too unsteady to do anything.
“I’m okay, but I don’t know about Jack. He shouldn’t drink so much.”
Angie glanced at Jack, then back at Ryan. He hadn’t seemed bothered by the big man. Just coldly angry.
“I’d better get inside,” Shelly said, clutching the clothes basket.
Ryan brushed the snow from the bottom of his jeans. “Will you be okay?” he asked her.
“Yes. Jack is overly possessive. He’s never hurt me, just gets mad at other people. Especially when he’s drunk.”
“Okay, then. Here’s my card. Call if you ever need help. Any kind. I appreciate what you’ve done for Angie.”
“Thank you,” Shelly said, glancing at it before putting it into her pocket. She looked at him keenly, as if seeing him for the first time. “I will.”
“Do that.”
“Best of luck,” she said to Angie, then hurried around to the kitchen door and went inside.
“Good luck,” Angie called after her. She turned to Ryan. “She’ll need it.”
* * *
Ryan glanced at Jack, still lying in the snow, and wondered if he should stay long enough to get the man inside. He hadn’t thrown him hard— just often— and the alcohol had taken its toll.
But Angie was shaking, probably from reaction more than anything. Ryan opened the passenger door, dismissing Jack from his thoughts. Shelly could get the police— or a willing neighbor— to help him up, if needed.
Angie got in, wiping her hand across her brow as he went around and joined her. She still shook and a quick glance showed she was fighting back tears.
He drove down the road, stopped at a stop sign. No cars appeared, and he gripped the wheel hard.
“Life’s tough, Angie.”
She bit her lip, taking a deep breath to get herself under control. She stared out the side window, away from him, then sniffed hard, twice, before speaking. “He didn’t get the most important stuff. My medal. Photos.”
“But the boxes in the garage?”
“Household items. They weren’t that valuable. Just things I’d grown used to. I stored them at Shelly’s place so I’d have something for my next apartment. Throw rugs. Table and chairs, my bed. A futon bed, one of those types you blow up. Nothing I can’t replace. It’s not as if I lost the world. It’s just— those were my things.”
He watched for cars as he spoke. “Any chance we can rescue some of them?”
“No, Jack would’ve taken them to the transfer station— it’s so close. They’ll have smashed them. But that’s life.”
He felt inadequate to comfort her. “Show me your medal,” he said finally, having wanted to see it ever since she mentioned it.
She reached around to the back seat, fished out the box, flipped the catch, and opened it. The medal lay on top, gleaming silver, its ribbon carefully folded beside it, the Olympic rings intertwined across its surface.
“Wow.”
“It is something, isn’t it?”
He nodded. Yes, it was. An achievement never to be lost, even if the medal representing it became lost or stolen. Did she understand that?
“But it’s not gold,” she explained, as if that lessened its meaning.
“Hey, somebody’s got to take second.”
She traced her finger across the silver, down along the ribbon. “At the time I felt disappointed, but now— well, now I’m happy to have been able to go and do that well.”
“I agree.” Few people had the talent to represent their country at the Olympic Games. It made her special. He added another notch in her favor.
He smiled at her, the uneasy feeling he’d had ever since he caught her reading his papers finally lifting. Most thieves wouldn’t work hard enough to be able to win at anything.
He turned around and looked at her small pile of belongings. She had reeled from the loss of her household items, but had already bounced back. Time to take stock. “Anything warm to wear?”
She flipped quickly though the top layer. “Jeans, some sweaters and sweats, heavy socks. He threw my boots, and I’d just bought them, too.” She shook her head.
“That does it,” he said, starting the car rolling again.
“Does what?”
“The messenger can wait another day. We’ll go shopping. We’ll get you some boots.” He turned towards Bellevue, enjoying the way the SUV handled the snow.
“My ankle’s still swollen.”
“We’ll find a pair that laces, if need be.”
“But Seattle snow never lasts. I can get by with— ”
“You’ll need something if we need to go to Anchorage.” He admired her spunk. She would go barefoot before going into debt.
“Oh. Would I go there, too?”
“Yes.” He’d show her around if they had time.
“How does a cracker leave evidence?”
“I can retrace his steps as long as the files aren’t disturbed afterwards. With a little care, I can find out how he got in.”
“You can do that?”
He nodded. “Last time, when MXOIL tried to get themselves going again, they destroyed his tracks. This time they promised to call me as soon as it happens.”
“You’re expecting he’ll try again?”
“Oh yes. Crackers usually always come back once they’ve gotten in. They’re never sure they’ve taken everything they want, so return to probe further. We’ll go up and see what we can unravel.”
“But I don’t need to buy boots just now. I barely have enough to— “
“Yes, you do. Remember, you’ve got a job. Give me your banking information off your checks, and I’ll drop some money in. It’ll be an advance.”
* * *
He was right. She had money now, Angie reminded herself. A job. And the self-worth that accompanied it. He understood her need to be self-supporting. He even understood about her silver medal.
She remembered her father’s cutting words. “All that time and money and you came in second?”
Second place. It used to be how she defined herself, the major accomplishment of her life. Now it seemed more like a dream. Something that had happened to someone else.
Ryan stopped at a medical supply company to get some crutches. Next he drove to Bellevue Square where they tried one store after another, finally snagging a warm pair of low-heeled boots that laced up and allowed her to expand the section over her injured ankle.
He pulled out his credit card and handed it to the clerk, along with two extra pairs of heavy socks.
"I can pay," Angie protested. "I've got some savings."
"I know. Use it
on personal things. This is a gift, from me to you, something I want you to have. Let me give it to you."
"But you've already given me so much."
"Quiet, woman," he teased gently, his face illumined with determined kindness. "Say ‘thank you' and no more. Besides, you’ll need these in your work."
She said, "Thank you," but wished it could’ve been more. She put her wet heels into the box and wore the warm boots outside. They had a rough sole that kept her from slipping and she found it much easier to manage.
They were so warm compared to the light shoes she’d had on, they were like wearing toaster ovens. They happened to be fairly stylish, too, but Angie would’ve welcomed combat boots if nothing else had been available.
Now that her feet were warm, she settled back for the return trip. Shopping on crutches had tired her, so she felt happy to see the side street that led to his toboggan-slide drive. She needed to elevate her throbbing ankle and ice it again.
* * *
Watching the slight smile that reposed on Angie’s lips, Ryan drove slower than he needed to, content to be sitting next to her, silent. Her presence didn’t constantly demand attention— unlike Kathleen. He found it restful.
His cell-phone rang, interrupting his thoughts and he answered with reluctance. “Hello.”
“Oh, Ryan, I’m so glad you’re home.” His twin sister, Robyn, sounded distressed, the grief reflected in each word.
“What’s wrong,” he asked, coming to attention.
“Mary’s father. He’s been shot. You remember Warren Brown.”
“Warren?”
“He’s in the hospital.”
Ryan had climbed with Warren, and had gone on several search and rescue missions with him and Mary. Warren was a good man. A very trustworthy person. The news hit hard, unbelievable.
“What happened?” he asked, pulling the car over to the side and scrunching to a stop.
8
With the car stopped, Ryan could give his sister his complete attention. He could hear her trying to regain control. Finally another voice took over— her roommate, Alison.
“Mary’s dad went to a jewelry store to buy a birthday present for her and interrupted a robbery.” Alison’s voice shook hard enough that Ryan strained to hear. “They rushed Warren to Harborview. They’ll pull him through if anyone can. We’re trying to get Mary down there ASAP but our cars are both snowed in.”
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.” He hung up, looked at Angie. “Emergency.”
“What happened? A wreck?”
“A friend, a good friend of mine, was shot.” He threw the SUV into gear, spun it around, and headed back down the street.
“Shot?”
“Trying to stop a robbery. They need us to take his daughter to the hospital.”
“Who called?”
“Robyn. My sister. Warren’s daughter is with her and her roommate.”
“How terrible,” Angie said. “Did the police catch who did it?”
“I didn’t ask.”
He looked up at the sky, so sunny and bright, the heat of the sun warming the car, reflecting off the snow crust around them. The traffic remained sparse. He pulled up at a stop light, waited impatiently for it to change, then took off before he spoke again.
“Warren and his daughter, Mary, do search and rescue work. That’s where we met.”
He drove fast, yet made sure he stayed in control. Leaving the freeway near Northgate, he wove through the side streets. He checked out a shortcut through a small park, but it hadn’t been plowed, so took the long way around to Robyn’s apartment. Pulling into the passenger loading area, he jumped out, opened the back door, took Angie’s pile of things and tossed them behind the seat.
His sister came out, saw him, and stepped back in to re-emerge with Alison and Mary. Mary was stumbling and they supported her between them.
He ran to meet them, picked up Mary— who at five seven was almost as tall as he— and carried her the rest of the way. She was crying hard, not hysterically, but in a hopeless, heart-wrenching way Ryan had never heard before. It sounded more like the whimpering of an abandoned child than an adult.
Alison and Robyn climbed into the back, one on each side of her, offering comfort. He slipped into the driver’s seat and put the car in reverse, backing past the mounds of snow-covered vehicles in the parking lot.
“Thanks,” Robyn said. “I don’t trust even a cab driver on these streets.” She stared forward at Angie, puzzled. “Who’s your friend?”
* * *
Turning in her seat, Angie gave her attention to the three in the back. “I’m Angie Reid. I’m Ryan’s new assistant.”
“I’m Robyn Duvall. This is Alison Stewart. And Mary Brown.”
Alison lifted a worried, cameo-perfect face and nodded, then sent a quick glance toward Robyn, as if to say, When did this happen?
Robyn shrugged and turned her attention back to their distraught friend, while Ryan drove with fierce concentration through the city streets to the freeway.
Angie looked out the windshield again and watched the guardrail posts whizzing past, the snowcaps still clinging to each section. Only the overhead road signs were bare, testifying to the lingering cold.
She had never had a family member die. She clutched the silver medal in her palm so hard it left its imprint. She had been upset over loosing her furniture and almost loosing her medal, and here Mary stood in danger of loosing her father. It brought her troubles into perspective.
* * *
Hang in there, Warren, Ryan thought. Just hang in there, buddy. He sped down the freeway, Mary’s crying urging him faster. The ride seemed long, but finally he pulled up to the covered ambulance entrance.
He helped Mary out and held her until the others could steady her. He checked to see that they had all cleared the car, then drove away to park.
He hurried back through the parking garage and the security checkpoint, to rejoin the group at the nurses’ station. Mary wasn’t with them.
“How’s Warren?” he asked, while glancing around for Mary.
The nurse behind the counter looked over at him. “I can’t say. He was hit only once, but at an angle, so the bullet tore through most of his body. I’ve seen our doctors pull victims through with worse injuries. There’s a chance.” She waved her hand toward the back. “They’re still in the operating room.”
“Where’s Mary?”
“The nurse in charge took one glance at her, put her in a wheelchair and took her vitals,” Angie answered.
“We’re treating her for shock,” the nurse added. “It’s slow in here tonight. We put her in a room.”
“This kind of thing is hard on anyone, but this must be extra hard on Mary,” Robyn said to the nurse. “You need to know her history.”
“Why?”
“When she was nine, her mother was killed in the Middle East— raped and murdered. Mary saw it happen. If she’s overly stressed, she reverts back to being nine years old again. It’s happened before. She just opts out. You’ll need to watch her.”
The nurse nodded.
“She had just started to live independently of Warren. She moved in with Alison and me last month.”
Ryan hadn’t known that Mary lived with his sister, but then he hadn’t seen any of them for a while. “Her crying sounded like a child— ” he said.
“Very unusual,” the nurse agreed.
“But at least she’s still with us,” Robyn added. “I saw her black out once. She goes unconscious. Just closes out the world and collapses. It’s scary.”
The nurse nodded. “I’ll let the doctor know. He might want to have her chart available. Do you know who her regular doctor is?”
“She carries a card in her purse. I can get that.”
“Please do. Bring it to my station and wait while I check with the doctor. He may want more information.”
“Sure. Can we see her?”
“Yes. Second door to your right, down that hall
.”
Robyn and Alison left to go to Mary’s room, but Angie stayed with Ryan. He turned to the nurse. “Does anyone know just what happened to Warren?” he asked.
The nurse pointed to the lounge area to the left of the entrance. “The tall man over in the corner came in with him. He may know.”
“Thank you,” Ryan said. He and Angie walked over to the white-haired man slumped in a chair, staring vacantly at the wall. The man ignored the overhead TV as well as two children struggling over a toy. He looked to be in his late fifties, dressed in casual winter clothing, a ski parka lying across one knee, part of it stained black with dried blood.
“You with Warren Brown?” Ryan asked.
The man lifted his head, his face reflecting shock. “Yes.”
“Ryan Duvall. I’m a friend.”
“George Patterson. I’ve known Warren for years. He had lots of friends.” His gaze wandered past Ryan to Angie, then returned, his focus becoming sharper. “You bring Mary?”
“Yes.”
“How is she?” He sounded concerned, so he must’ve known about Mary’s past.
“Not good. She’s on the point of collapse. Was Warren with you?”
“Sort of. Warren walked into my store during a robbery. I couldn’t stop anything. It all happened too fast.”
A uniformed policeman stopped at the nurses’ station, spoke to the nurse a moment, then entered the waiting room.
“You folks with Warren Brown?”
“Yes.” Ryan and Patterson both spoke.
“We got the man who shot him— ”
“Good,” Ryan said. He hated when “perps" got away, leaving their victims unable to gain the satisfaction of seeing them pay.
“Not good for him.” The young policeman looked at the notebook in his hand. “George Patterson?”
“That’s me.”
“I’m Officer Ken Granger.” They shook hands. “Your description of the car was perfect. We spotted them right away. They went off an overpass at sixty miles per hour. Killed the passenger. The driver got away.”
“Do you know who they were?” Ryan asked.
“Just the one. Ted Fairweather. Ever hear of him?”
Nodding to himself, Ryan started to speak, but Angie beat him to it.
“I have,” she said. “I mean,” she faltered, as all three looked at her, “I mean, I... I might have. Then again I might not. The first name. Ted. It’s the name Patti used on the phone. That’s all.”