Maggie sat at her desk, a computer printout spread before her, but the glare from the desk lamp made her eyes burn, and she reached over and shut it off. She had turned off the overhead lights for the same reason, but nothing helped. Propping her elbow on the printout, she covered her eyes with her hand, trying to get rid of the ache in her throat. Lord, but she was a mess. She couldn’t eat. She couldn’t sleep. She was miserable all the time, and she had a big, aching, empty hole inside her that just would not go away. It was more than a week since she’d walked out on Tony, and it wasn’t getting any better. In fact, it was getting worse. Nothing made sense—not her life, not her job. And definitely not the account she was working on.
Resisting the urge to rip the printout into tiny pieces, she snatched a tissue out of the nearly empty box wedged beside her computer and angrily wiped her eyes and blew her nose. Then she tossed it in her wastebasket, which was damned near full of wadded-up tissues.
That made her eyes fill up again, and she braced her elbow on the desk and covered her eyes. This was ridiculous. She hadn’t fallen apart this badly when Bruce had walked out on her. Or when the kids had left home. Or when she’d had to have the dog put down. She could stack all those losses together and they still wouldn’t add up to what she was feeling now.
It was so stupid. This was what she’d wanted. Well, maybe not exactly. She hadn’t wanted to make him angry. And she hadn’t wanted him to see any of her shortcomings. But she had. And he did. And now she was a mess.
She should have known better. She’d sensed he was a load of dynamite the minute he’d come up her walk. But had she used her head? No, of course not.
“What are you doing?”
Wishing her boss would just leave her alone, and irritated by his abrupt tone, she snapped back, “I’m having a stroke. Is that okay with you?”
Frank chuckled, and she felt him rest his considerable weight on the corner of her desk. “You know what I think?” he asked, as if she actually cared. “I think you’re coming down with that flu again, Burrows. You look like something the dog dragged in. Your eyes are red and puffy all the time, and you sound like you’ve got horseradish stuffed up your nose.”
The horseradish thing almost made her smile. “You’re such a comfort, Frank,” she retorted, her voice laced with sarcasm.
He patted her awkwardly on the shoulder. “Go home, Mary Margaret. Have three hot toddies and go to bed. You gotta start taking care of yourself.”
Feeling mean about snapping at him, Maggie heaved a sigh and dropped her arm. Avoiding his gaze, she turned and pressed a key on the computer, deactivating the screen saver. “I’m fine,” she lied. “It must be allergies or something.”
He patted her shoulder again and stood up. “Hey, just don’t think you have to stick around here. Hell, I’d leave if I had a good enough excuse. Except I’ve got some work I gotta do.”
He lumbered back into his office, and Maggie almost smiled when she heard a distinctive bomb blast a few seconds later. Frank had a lot to do all right. He was in there playing computer games.
Swiveling her chair around so she could look out the window, Maggie propped her chin in her hand, watching the traffic go by. It was rainy and heavily overcast and just plain dismal, the steady drizzle turning everything gray. She’d always liked days like today. For some reason she found them oddly comforting. She stared out the window a moment longer, then heaved another sigh and turned back to her computer. With all the lights out and the grayness from outside infiltrating the room, maybe she’d be able to get through this account after all.
It rained all the next week, which suited Maggie just fine. She had started taking another route from work, which took her a block out of her way, but was better than walking past Tony’s shop every night.
On Friday they found out one of their clients was being audited by Revenue Canada, which made Frank rub his hands in glee. The news made Maggie’s head ache, but it gave her an excuse to go to work on the weekend. There was a swim meet in town, and the thought of sitting in a crowd of clapping, cheering people was more than she could handle. Except the thought of rattling around in an empty house was even worse.
By Monday, a kind of numbness had settled in, and she was able to more or less operate on remote control during the day. She went to work, came home and tried to find something to do to keep herself busy.
Nights were the worst. She’d fall into bed around ten o’clock, absolutely exhausted. But sleep never came easily. The awful sense of loss would rise up in her, and she would hurt so badly she could barely stand it. Then she’d get up and wander around the house, going over things again and again in her mind, and sometimes terrible doubts would seep in and her heart would start to pound. And then she’d try to convince herself it was for the best. But one thing remained constant: she had never missed anyone the way she missed Tony.
Wednesday night was particularly bad. The loneliness was so intense that she couldn’t stand it, and it was just going on four-thirty in the morning when she finally gave up on sleep and went out to the kitchen. Night was starting to fade, and in spite of the fine mist falling and the overcast sky, early morning gloom had seeped into the house. Without turning on the light she filled the teakettle and plugged it in, then got the hot chocolate mix and a mug out of the cupboard.
She opened the window above the sink to let in some fresh air and the clean scent of rain. It was so still outside that the fine drizzle was coming straight down, pricking the surface of the puddle behind Tony’s shop. Leaning against the counter, she folded her arms and stared out, an awful heaviness settling in her chest. It was not good for her mental health to be standing where she was. Not only did the window overlook the back of Tony’s shop, from where she was standing she could see the stairs leading up to his apartment. And sometimes, when the loneliness was really bad, she’d stand there in the middle of the night, hoping to catch a glimpse of him.
The kettle started to boil, and she reached over and unplugged it, then pried the lid off the chocolate mix with the end of her spoon. She smiled a little. Her morning bouts with hot chocolate were turning into some kind of addiction.
She heard the approach of a fast-moving car, the dawn stillness carrying the sound. There was a squeal of tires on wet pavement in front of her house, then the solid clunk of a vehicle jouncing over a curb, and a police cruiser, red and blue lights flashing, careened through the space between her fence and Tony’s shop. The car had barely rocked to a stop when the apartment door slammed, and Tony came sprinting down the stairs two at a time, his shirt unbuttoned, his jogging shoes in his hand. He yanked open the passenger door, dived inside, and before he even had the door closed, the car shot out of the parking area and into the back alley.
A cold, sinking sensation filled her stomach as Maggie stared after it. It had to be an accident. She closed her eyes, her legs suddenly shaky. She prayed to God it wasn’t someone in his family.
The awful anxiety stayed with her, and she spent the next hour going from the kitchen window to the one in the front room, then back again. She hated this helpless feeling. There was nobody she could call, nothing she could do but pace and chew her nails.
She watched Tony’s place until six-thirty, then made herself get dressed for work. Maybe it wasn’t an accident at all. Maybe it had something to do with an old case Tony had worked on. Maybe he had to go identify somebody.
Dumping her cold chocolate down the sink, she made a pot of coffee, trying to talk herself out of feeling the way she did. She was probably making mountains out of molehills.
Switching on the radio to catch the seven o’clock news, she opened the door of the fridge to get a basket of strawberries.
The announcer’s voice echoed in the silence. “…And a Calgary undercover police officer was shot early this morning. The downed officer was discovered at approximately 4:00 a.m. when he failed to report in. Sergeant Peter James Layden received a bullet in the chest in what a police spokesperson describe
d as a single shooting. Sergeant Layden, a fifteen-year veteran on the force, was rushed to Calgary General Hospital, where he is reported to be in critical condition. KS 87 will issue news bulletins as more details become available. Also on the news this morning…”
The broadcaster’s voice droned on, and Maggie straightened, feeling the color drain from her face. It all fit together. She’d be willing to bet her life that they had come to get Tony because of the shooting.
Her stomach churning, she set the berries back in the fridge and closed the door, then went to stand in front of the window overlooking her backyard. Folding her arms, she stared out. She remembered what it had been like when her father had been admitted to the hospital in critical condition. Only this was a gunshot wound, and that would probably mean surgery, which meant Tony could be waiting for hours before there was any word.
Releasing a heavy sigh, she turned from the window. Lord, she wished it would stop raining.
The report of the shooting was the feature story on every news broadcast that day. Maggie finally had to shut off the radio at work because every time they mentioned it, her insides would ball up. She would start wondering how Tony was coping, and then she’d feel even worse.
It wasn’t until nine that night that news of the officer’s death was finally released. The brief update on TV also reported that he was survived by his wife and two small children. Experiencing a rush of nausea in the pit of her stomach, Maggie shut off the TV and went to stand in front of the living room window, thinking about the young wife and family he’d left behind. She could only imagine what the woman was feeling right now—the shock, the horror, the numb feeling of disbelief. And how scared she must be.
A fine drizzle again spattered against the window, sending thin rivulets of water down the pane, and Maggie watched, her expression somber. The cloud cover had settled even lower, casting the street in a premature dusk that neutralized all color.
“Mom?”
Maggie turned from the window. “In here.”
Kelly appeared in the archway, dressed in an old pair of her grandfather’s flannel pajamas. “Do we have any more double-A batteries? I need ‘em for my Walkman.”
Maggie nodded. “In the second drawer of my desk.” She leaned back against the window frame. “Are you going to bed already?”
“Yeah. Some of us are going to try and get some lap time before school tomorrow, so I have to be up by six.”
Kelly started down the hallway. “Kelly?”
She turned and looked back. Maggie tried to keep her voice even. “I think I might go for a walk. Being cooped up all week is beginning to get to me.”
Kelly nodded. “Just make sure you’ve got your key. I can’t hear the doorbell from down there.”
Maggie nodded. She watched Kelly disappear from view, then straightened. Feeling totally drained, she went over to the front closet and got out her raincoat. She felt as much like going for a walk as she felt like flying, but she just had to get out of the house.
Heavy dusk had settled in by the time she’d walked all the way down to Fourteenth Street and back, but she didn’t feel any better. All she could think about was the shooting and what an awful tragedy it was. And the young widow left to raise two small children without a father.
Stuffing her hands in the pockets of her raincoat, she turned down the final block, her mood as heavy as the weather. It was ironic how life could blow up in your face. Her grandmother had always told her to live each day as if it was her last. Maggie had always thought Gran had used that philosophy as an excuse to be slightly frivolous, but she was beginning to realize she had missed the fundamental message her grandmother had been trying to pass on. Maggie fingered her grandmother’s wedding ring. Too bad she hadn’t understood that message sooner.
Bruce had spent their whole married life worrying about their old age and hoarding for the future. He was so focused on that that he had never really taken a deep breath and made the most out of the present. And, she realized, neither had she. She had never thought about what her regrets would be if she were to find out she had only one more day to live. There would be several—but one that stood out above all the rest.
Skirting a huge puddle by the curb, she crossed the street, a funny feeling unfolding in her when she saw that one of the big bay doors of the Parnelli shop was open.
The faint sound of music was coming from the battered radio on the workbench, and it wasn’t until Maggie was just outside that she realized it was Debussy. The music was unexpected, but the sight of Spider under the hood of a car was doubly so. One corner of her mouth lifted. Spider listening to “Clair de Lune"—who would have thought it.
She hesitated a moment, then walked up the cement parking area and entered the brightly lit garage, the smell of very old coffee overriding the smell of motor oil.
He glanced up from under the hood when he heard her approach, then straightened, a wrench in his hand and a twinkle in his eye. “Well, if it ain’t the red-hot mama with the big pool cue.”
She gave him a wry smile. “Watch it, Spider, or I’m going to blab it around that you listen to Debussy and your tattoo is a phony.”
He chuckled and pulled a rag out of his back pocket, wiping a spot of grease off one of the chromed engine parts before crawling back under the hood. Maggie watched him work, knowing enough about engines to recognize this was a piece of art. He tightened a bolt, then turned his head and glanced at her. “You here to check out my tattoo or you got somethin’ on your mind?”
She held his gaze for a moment, then looked down and shifted a bolt with her foot, feeling as if she were trespassing. Finally she lifted her head and looked at him. “I saw a police cruiser at Tony’s this morning, and I wondered if it had something to do with that shooting.”
Spider made a disgusted sound and tossed the wrench into a big red tool chest. “It had something to do, all right. Him and Tony worked the strip together for two or three years. Hell, when I broke parole, them two kept my ass out of a sling. Got me work with Mario, made sure I kept my nose clean, told the parole officer there was extenuatin’ circumstances. Helluvah good guy. I tell you this—I’d like to get my hands on the bastard that shot him.”
The fact that Spider had been on parole really didn’t come as a surprise, but the fact that two cops had bailed him out certainly did. Huddling her shoulders against the damp chill, she studied him. There was hard, cold anger in his expression, but the tight lines around his mouth said something else altogether. A feeling of recognition closed around her chest, and she looked away. She knew that expression. She’d seen it on her own face when her father died. Staring across the street, Maggie stuffed her hands deeper into her pockets, experiencing a rush of remembered grief. She wondered how Tony was coping with the loss of someone he’d been so close to.
As if reading Maggie’s mind, Spider said, “The boss got home a couple of hours ago. Looks like hell, but he ain’t talkin’. Don’t expect he’ll surface for a day or two.”
Maggie gazed at the mechanic, not quite sure how to respond, but Spider was intent on reconnecting a hose. She looked away, feeling hollowed out inside. She was probably the last person Tony would want to see right now, and that was hard enough. But knowing he was upstairs alone was even worse.
Spider tossed a clamp into the tool caddie, the loud clatter jarring the silence, and Maggie shifted her gaze. He selected another wrench and braced one hand on the engine, reaching down into the maze of hoses and belts. “Yep,” he said, as if talking to himself, “he ain’t in good shape at all.”
Locking her jaws against the ache forming in her throat, Maggie lifted her head and stared across the street, the fine drizzle glimmering like threads of silver in the light spilling out from the open bay door. She couldn’t bear to think of him alone. She just couldn’t.
Without giving herself a chance to reconsider, she turned and walked out of the garage, the rain cold against her face as she turned toward the back of the building. Her st
omach churning, she climbed the stairs, the beads of moisture on the handrail dampening her hand. Reaching the top landing, she faced the door. Then, steeling herself, she raised her hand to knock on the wooden panel. Reconsidering, she hesitated, then tried the knob, her insides giving a lurch when the latch gave beneath her hand. Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes for a second, then pushed open the door.
The apartment was dark except for a faint blue glow in the living room and the illumination coming from a light in the hallway. As she closed the door soundlessly behind her, she heard the distinctive shuffle of a CD cartridge, and an old Otis Redding song started up. Wiping her damp hands down the front of her jeans, she swallowed hard, then moved toward the sound.
The blue light was coming from the muted TV, the screen silently displaying the printed text of the information channel. Tony was sitting on the sofa, his feet propped on the coffee table, a bottle of rye wedged between his thighs. He looked dangerously grim, his unshaven jaw rigid with tension, his mouth compressed into a hard, unyielding line.
Reaching the archway, Maggie paused, her stomach turning into a mass of knots. Trying to compress the awful flutter in her middle, she drew in a deep breath, then spoke. “Tony?”
Without so much as a glance in her direction, he closed his eyes and took a swig from the bottle, his rebuff as pointed as it was silent.
Maggie experienced a heavy, sinking sensation in her middle, and her first impulse was to turn and leave. But something kept her rooted there. And it was then—when she saw the hard lines of control in his face—that she realized just how much she had hurt him. He took another drink, and the deliberateness of what he was doing cut through her. She crossed the room, her throat so tight her jaws ached.
Kneeling beside him, she tried to pry his fingers off the bottle. “Let me have it, Tony,” she whispered unevenly.
He jerked the bottle out of her grasp, his tone rough with anger. “Get out. I don’t want you here.”
Driven To Distraction Page 17