Tips for Living

by Shafransky, Renee

  Suddenly Mac burst through the door with an EMT bag. He dropped it and roared.

  “Nora!”

  Al followed in his red Pequod Ambulance jacket and Little League cap, carrying a small oxygen canister. On the verge of swooning, I tried in vain to sit up.

  “Don’t move,” Mac ordered, bending down and taking my wrist. “Rudinsky, get the thermal blanket. Stat!”

  “I’m on it,” said Al.

  Mac’s white hair flashed red and blue hypnotically, in sync with the pulsating lights coming through the open wall of the blind. He let go of my wrist, wrapped a blood pressure cuff around my arm and pumped. In a trance, I watched Al float a large, silver rectangle of foil onto my body and tuck me in. Then he stood up and glanced toward the ruckus outside.

  “I think the cops are about to head over here, Mac.”

  I was still struggling to emerge from my stupor.

  “Cops?” I repeated, bewildered.

  Mac released the pressure ball. It hissed and he frowned.

  “She’s disoriented. Her pulse and BP are low. We need to get her warmed up,” he said, and began rubbing my legs briskly under the blanket through my jeans. They felt like wooden logs. He mumbled and shook his head as he worked. “What the hell did you get yourself into, Nora? What happened out there?”

  I closed my eyes and attempted to make sense of the scrambled images.

  “There were turtles. Hugh was a goat.”

  Mac stopped massaging and clipped an oxygen line under my nostrils. A sweet stream of air flowed in.

  “We need some preheated saline in here, Al. Is the PQ Fire Team still outside?”

  Al nodded. “I’ll get them to warm up a drip. Looks like they’re just about to load the victim into their rig.”

  I opened my eyes as the oxygen cleared out the brain fog.

  “Oh my God,” I gasped as Al went out the door. “They’re taking Abbas. You can’t let him get away.” I tried to get off the floor again, but Mac put a firm hand on my shoulder and pushed me back down.

  “The police have to arrest him!” I cried.

  “Okay, okay, Nora. Calm down. I knew I recognized that guy. Abbas, the art dealer, right? He was at your wedding.”

  “Yes! He’s the one who killed Hugh and Helene!”

  “Hold on. An hour ago, Grace said you were sure Hugh’s brother killed them.”

  “We were wrong. It’s Abbas. Don’t let him go. He’ll leave the country!” I attempted to sit up once more, but Mac wouldn’t have it. “I need to go out there and stop him—”

  “No, Nora. We’ll have the police look into it. We need to get you to the ER. That’s the priority now. What the hell was Grace thinking, letting you evade a police officer and come here by yourself?”

  “Don’t be mad at Grace, please.”

  His face softened and he touched my shoulder. “I’m not mad. I’m relieved you’re not worse off.”

  The door opened and Detective Roche swaggered in, brushing the snow off his broad cop shoulders and stamping his boots.

  “I’d like a minute with Ms. Glasser.”

  Mac scowled and stood up.

  “She could be hypothermic, Detective.”

  Roche waved him off. “This won’t take long.”

  Reluctantly, Mac stepped aside.

  “Did you arrest Abbas Masout?” I asked, anxious.

  Roche sat on the blind’s wooden bench, looking down at me. He cleaned snow off his brown corduroy pants and then blew on his hands.

  “No.”

  “You have to! He killed Hugh and Helene.”

  “And you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say may be held against you in a court of law.”

  “No!” I cried. “You’ve got it all wrong.”

  “What?” Mac cried out. “That’s crazy—”

  Roche shot him a hard look.

  “You’re making a mistake, Detective. Arrest Abbas,” I pleaded. “He killed them.”

  “You have a right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you.”

  “He tried to kill me.”

  “Mr. Masout says otherwise. He says you came to the studio to sell him valuable artwork you stole from your ex. When he refused to buy it, you attacked him with a knife. You told him you’d killed the Walkers and would kill him, too.”

  “That’s a total lie.”

  “He fired his gun in self-defense and you ran. He chased you. Found you injured from a fall. Before he could call us, the hunter misread the situation and shot him in the arm.”

  “No, he’s lying. I swear. Ask the hunter. Ask Jake.”

  “We’re about to get his statement.” Roche paused. “You know, you’re pretty good at deception yourself. Nice trick there with Sergeant Crawley.”

  I put my hand under the blanket. Before I could reach the ninja book, Roche had already whipped out his gun.

  “Don’t move.”

  “Fuck,” Mac said.

  “I’m just taking out a notebook.”

  “Do it very slowly.”

  I removed the battered book gradually and passed it to Roche.

  “Abbas wanted to get his hands on this. That’s why he tried to kill me. His motive is in here.”

  He took it and puzzled over the cover.

  “There are sketches in there showing that Abbas knew Hugh was leaving the gallery and taking away millions of dollars’ worth of business,” I said. “Abbas would have been ruined by it. I can explain more if you need me to.”

  “You and Mr. Masout will have a lot of explaining to do,” Roche said, standing up. “After you’re stabilized, I’m bringing both of you in.”

  “No!” Mac cried out, unable to control himself.

  “Abbas Masout killed them,” I insisted, frustrated.

  “We’ll see.”

  At least Roche is taking Abbas into custody, I thought fearfully.

  “Mac, please call Douglas Gubbins. Tell him I’m under arrest.”

  The klieg lights reflected off the snow, bathing the area in brilliant white as Mac and Al carried me out of the blind. The police were working the crime scene, tromping through the snowdrifts wearing plastic gloves and Tyvek paper shoes, measuring angles and trajectories, distances and shoe sizes. They’d collect DNA and blood samples. The powder they sprinkled on Jake’s arrow and on Abbas’s gun would capture fingerprints. Their labs would confirm that the gun had been fired numerous times near the inlet—evidence (I hoped) that Abbas had attempted to kill me because of what I knew.

  The police were after the same “five w’s and an h” a reporter would seek: “Who? What? When? Where? Why? How?” They were using all the science at their disposal to compile the facts and help the district attorney build an airtight case. But “why?” was a question their methods couldn’t address. I was counting on the ninja notebook providing an answer to that one.

  Mac radioed ahead to the hospital while he drove. His voice carried through to the back of the ambulance: “Coming in heavy. Forty-one-year-old Caucasian female. Possible hypothermia.” He gave them my stats as we traveled along the dark roads, snow crunching under the tires, a police car following behind. I had a warm saline drip in my left arm. My right wrist was cuffed to the gurney’s side bar. The tight metal bracelet pinched the skin, and I wriggled in frustration, rattling my chains against the railing.

  Al looked up briefly at the sound, but avoided my eyes. He’d perched his bulky body on the end of the bench by the ambulance doors and was filling out a form on his clipboard in silence. He went back to writing, obviously nervous about being alone with me. I decided to break the ice.

  “Isn’t Stokes on your team anymore?”

  “He’s at the hospital.”

  “He’s sick?”

  “Their baby was in distress.”

  “Oh no,” I groaned.

  “It’s okay. The baby is out of danger. Mother and child are fine.”

  We drove over a nasty pothole and Al looked up ag
ain. This time our eyes met. I knew that look from a man. Guilt. He lowered his gaze swiftly and went on with his paperwork.

  “I’m sorry, Al. I didn’t mean for anyone to get hurt.”

  “You don’t have to apologize,” he said, still writing. “You didn’t put the arrow in the guy. And you didn’t kill the Walkers. I’d bet money on it.”

  “Thanks. But I was talking about you, and my Tips column.”

  Al’s hand stopped moving.

  “I get why you’re mad as hell. You felt I was making fun of you. Believe me, I wasn’t. I’m really sorry it hurt you.”

  Al pulled his cap down and stayed focused on the form.

  “Al?”

  After a few seconds, he sighed.

  “I’ve never worked so hard in my life, and I’m barely making it,” he said, sadly. “The expenses get higher and higher. And with two more kids coming up on college . . . The bills are piling up. I’m always rushing from one lousy job to another to make my nut. I never have any time. I hardly see Sinead and my girls. I just get so frustrated. And angry. Really angry.”

  He shook his head and clammed up.

  “I didn’t mean any disrespect. You’re a solid guy, and I admire you.”

  “Yeah?”

  “The way you care about your family, and the community. I mean, besides working so hard, you’re still volunteering. Coaching kids. Saving lives. Please, can you forgive me?”

  He was quiet. Then he removed his cap and studied its crown. He finally ran a hand over his buzz cut, put the cap back on and raised his head.

  “This is all going to be over soon, and you’ll be back to work at the paper,” he said. “I want you to do something for me then.”

  It was heartening to hear that Al was confident of a positive outcome.

  “What would that be?”

  “If you’re going to keep doing the column, write funnier stuff.”

  I smiled, relieved. “I’ll try my best.”

  Mac’s voice crackled though Al’s hand radio. “I’ve got Ben Wickstein on the phone. He said to let Nora know he’s on his way to the hospital. Check if there’s anything she wants me to tell him?”

  I shook my head no.

  I was glad Ben was back. I had a lot to say to him. But I’d say it in person.

  “She’s good, Mac,” Al said into his radio. He clicked it off and gazed at me curiously. “So, you and Ben? You’re an item?”

  Chapter Twenty

  Seventeen miles from Pequod Point, we reached Massamat Hospital—it had the closest ER. We backed into the emergency bay. Sounds of a commotion carried over from the street as soon as Al opened the ambulance doors. He glanced at me.

  “Reporters,” he said.

  Waiting for a break in the case, the press corps would have been scanning police and ambulance radios 24-7. They must’ve tapped into the 911 call. At least they were far enough away that I didn’t have to pull the sheet over my head. I cringed at the thought that Lizzie might be out there covering my arrest for the Courier.

  Al and Mac unloaded my gurney and pushed me up the ramp into the ER. A county police officer accompanied us.

  “We can stay with her, right?” Mac asked him.

  The officer nodded. “Long as I’m there.”

  We rolled into a small examination room and he took up a guard post outside. A male nurse arrived, said “hello” to the three of us and proceeded to place an electronic thermometer in my mouth. While he waited for a reading, Mac started for the door.

  “Hold tight, Nora. I’ll see if I can find Ben and get him cleared to come in.”

  The nurse finished and left the room. There was only Al standing by. He shuffled over to the gurney and took off his cap.

  “I’m sorry about the letters to the editor, Nora. I was letting off steam, that’s all.”

  “I know, Al. We’re good. Stop working and go home. There’s nothing more you can do here now. Thanks for everything. And say hey to Sinead for me.”

  Al nodded. “I will. And good luck.”

  He walked out. While I lay there alone waiting for a doctor, I started thinking about Al’s anger. My anger. Anger’s importance. Anger told you when someone crossed your line. “Don’t tread on me,” anger said. You had to pass through anger, and the hurt underneath it, before you could get to forgiveness. Otherwise, it seemed to me, you skipped a step. But there was also plenty of danger there. How long could you hold on to that dark fire before it scorched all that was good in your life? And what was the best way to let anger out?

  I was turning this over in my mind, thinking of the murderous rage Abbas had unleashed on Hugh and Helene, when a massive sense of relief washed over me.

  I hadn’t killed anyone.

  “Ms. Glasser?”

  A tall, fiftyish Indian man in surgical scrubs entered and closed the door behind him. He had a black, bushy unibrow above kind, almond-shaped brown eyes. He checked the name on my bracelet.

  “You are indeed Ms. Glasser, and I am Dr. Patel,” he said, smiling. “How are you feeling?”

  “Exhausted,” I said, smiling back at him weakly.

  He lifted my free wrist and took my pulse. Then he pulled down my lower eyelids one by one and shined a bright penlight in each of them. Next, he pressed a stethoscope to my chest and listened. After a few moments, his dark brow furrowed. He left my side and walked over to a cabinet.

  “You are mildly hypothermic, but you also seem to have a slight arrhythmia.”

  “What’s that?”

  “An irregular heartbeat. I’d like to give you an EKG and check a few other things,” he said, returning with a tray of needles and vials. “Just to be prudent.”

  “Is an arrhythmia a big deal?”

  He tied a rubber tube on my arm.

  “It’s probably just the excitement.” He patted my hand. “I’ll give you some Valium to relax you after your blood sample is taken and the EKG is done. We don’t want it interfering with the results.”

  Despite Dr. Patel’s reassurance, I fretted all through the EKG.

  “Definitely an arrhythmia,” he said, checking the readout when the test was done. “We’ll see what the other tests show in a day or two. It’s entirely possible that a good, long rest could take care of this.” He rubbed my arm with an alcohol pad, and while he injected the Valium, he looked at my cuffed wrist sympathetically. “You’ve been through a lot. You’ll be staying here tonight. I’ll tell the detective your health won’t permit a move yet. You need sleep.”

  “Thank you.”

  I was grateful for the kindness and, unless Roche decided to believe my story, a respite from the county jail.

  The Valium had taken effect by the time Ben walked in. I was floating on my back in the Caribbean.

  “Hi,” said Ben.

  “Hi.”

  He smiled and bent over to kiss me. His lips felt like little soft pillows.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “High.”

  “Hi.”

  “No, high.”

  “Yes, hi.”

  I gave up and kissed him again. I could feel the drug dissolving my inhibitions like paint stripper.

  “You are incredibly wonderful, Ben Wickstein. You are a good man. And I mean that as the highest compliment. Goodness does nothing to diminish your sex appeal.”

  Ben looked amused.

  “Maybe you want to pull the curtain and climb in here?” I suggested.

  He laughed. “I think they’re keeping a pretty close eye on us,” he said, nodding at the door. “The officer actually frisked me before I came in.”

  “As if you might try to pull off a jailbreak?”

  The gravity of the situation dragged me down, despite the buoying effect of the drug. Ben’s expression turned serious, too.

  “Mac brought me up to speed. You were incredibly brave,” he said, taking my cuffed hand in his and squeezing it. “I don’t know what I would have done if anything had happened to you.”

  �
�What do you think will happen now?”

  Ben furrowed his brow and sat down on the edge of the gurney. “Depends what they make of the hunter’s statement. It could come down to Masout’s word against yours.”

  I was indignant. “What about all those shots he fired at me? And his motive for killing Hugh? I gave Hugh’s sketches of Abbas to the police. They’re proof.”

  “Remember, they think you had a motive to kill, too. And you attacked Abbas with that spray varnish. I think it could be time for the New York City criminal lawyer I told you about.”

  “I think you’re right.”

  I sighed heavily. It was now or never. When else would I have the aid of a tranquilizer to ease the way? I swallowed hard.

  “Ben. I have to tell you something. I haven’t been honest. I’ve been holding back information.”

  Ben looked at me, curious.

  “Okay. I’m just going to say it really fast. Get it out there.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “I walk in my sleep.”

  “You what?”

  “It used to do it when I was a kid, but I grew out of it. Then that first night in your apartment? I woke up standing in your kitchen naked, washing my hands. I was sleepwalking. That’s why I left. I was pretty freaked out.”

  “You walk in your sleep. Really?” His eyes widened.

  “I think I might have walked in my sleep the night of the murders, too. And I probably left the house. I found leaves and a twig in my hair in the morning. You saw the scratch on my cheek.”

  He openly stared at me.

  “You sleepwalk. And don’t know where you’ve gone or what you’ve done?”

  “If I don’t wake up in the middle of an episode, yes.”

  “You can drive in your sleep?”

  “I’m not sure. I’ve read about people who have.”

  Ben became completely still. Silent and unreadable.

  “I was worried that you’d think I went to Pequod Point and . . . and that you’d suspect me.”