The place closed at midnight during the week, so Chris would already be long gone. Had Teddy seen Libby give Chris money before we left? Was he in danger, too? At this point I didn’t know what to think, so I blurted out, “Hey, the bartender, Chris – Libby owed him some money and paid him before we left tonight. Do you think they would have done anything to him?”
Both sets of eyes widened. Officer Brown squeezed the microphone on the radio at his shoulder, “Dispatch, we’re going to need a squad car to Bank Shot on Tipton Drive.”
A static filled response came back and Officer Brown responded, “Right, Dispatch, check the perimeter. Verify that no incident happened with an employee there tonight.”
The next fifteen minutes were a blur. I told them everything I could think of about Tony and Teddy. The robber had said Teddy gambled with his money. Teddy had pulled money out of the ATM, so it wasn’t like he was holding the money for anyone else. Each of the officers continued asking questions, and I answered each as earnestly as I could. I didn’t care if we got prosecuted for illegal gambling later, I didn’t care if Mr. Sanders made me pay back every penny I had handed the guy through the drawer – I only wanted this guy caught.
Libby had to be in the hospital by now. I wanted to stop the interrogation to call the hospital, but they needed my answers to find the animal who had attacked her. I hadn’t seen Mr. Sanders drive up, or him walk into the store, but I felt his arms wrap around me as he lifted me off my stool. “Candy, I’m so sorry.” As I clung to his chest, he asked, “Are you okay?”
I shook my head that I wasn’t okay, and, in his embrace, tears began streaming down my cheeks. The sobs, which hadn’t even threatened to surface through the hundreds of questions and answers with the police, rocked my body when he held me tight and told me everything was going to be okay. Why did this always happen? I could go through any ugly situation and never even threaten to tear up, but when someone showed me even the smallest kindness, my body would revolt and start bawling like a little baby.
Mr. Sanders was tall and slender. He always wore dress slacks, a button down shirt and a tie – there was never a hair out of place on his head or a hint of five o’clock shadow on his face. He looked like someone who should be running a Fortune Five Hundred company rather than owning a couple of convenience stores. One time when we had problems with one of the pumps, he was down on the ground pushing the reset button on the pump in his slacks and tie. Tonight was the first time I had seen him in blue jeans and a sweatshirt – I wouldn’t have guessed he even owned casual clothes.
The police told him that they believed I had been targeted and this wasn’t a run-of-the-mill robbery. Mr. Sanders didn’t mince words, “Whatever it takes to find this guy – do it. You have our full cooperation.”
Mr. Sanders had always been great to me. He moved all the other schedules around so I could have the shift I did – he knew I was putting myself through college and needed the study time. He had even asked me why I didn’t take out bigger student loans so I wouldn’t have to work so many hours just to survive. I only took out enough to cover my tuition so I wouldn’t be in as bad a shape as all the unemployed college graduates my professors kept talking about.
He kept one arm wrapped around me as he fished his cell out of his pocket. He dialed a number as he shot me a reassuring smile. “Marjorie, I’m sorry to call you at this hour. It’s Glen Sanders. There has been an incident at the store. Can you come in and cover the rest of Candy’s shift?” There was a short pause while she gave him his answer, “Thank you. No. Overtime won’t be a problem. Candy is going to need a few days off. We’ll work that out when you get here.”
Shit. He was firing me. I locked onto his eyes, pleading with him while my mouth started spewing rapidly, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for this to happen. I’ll pay for everything. Please don’t fire me.”
His arm tightened, still holding me against his chest. Mr. Sander’s voice was gentle as he answered, “It’s okay. I’m not firing you. I’m just glad you’re okay. You’ve been through a lot.”
My words came out in a rush, “I can finish my shift. I swear I’m okay.”
Mr. Sanders did something I never expected: he put his phone away and wrapped both his arms around me, then gently kissed the top of my head. His voice was sweet, with not a hint of anger toward me, “I never liked you working this shift. It’s too dangerous.”
I didn’t know what to say. Dangerous? It was the least dangerous shift here because no customer could even get into the place. If I hadn’t have been working this shift, I might be dead right now. It was only because I was in a bullet-proof cage, in a locked store that had cameras on every angle, with a panic alarm hooked directly to the police station, that I was able to stand here and cry. Didn’t he understand that this shift at this place was safer than taking Santa photos at the mall at Christmastime?
Ignoring the two police officers still in the store, I pleaded, “I’m okay. For real. It’s not dangerous.”
Mr. Sander’s eyes roved toward the glass with the enormous indent from the bullets – he didn’t agree, but he didn’t argue with me either.
Officer Brown piped in, “Miss Kane, nothing out of the ordinary at Bank Shot. Do you know Chris’s address?”
I didn’t. I didn’t even know his last name. I described him to Officer Brown, and he left to try to figure out who one of my favorite bartenders really was. My stomach tightened. I should have known his last name. I’d talked to him hundreds of times. He had given Libby and me free food nearly every night we came in. Why didn’t I know his last name?
Mr. Sanders poured me back into my chair, squeezed my shoulders, and then walked to the far side of the room in front of the forty ounce singles. I watched him make one phone call after another. A third squad car pulled into the parking lot at the same time Marjorie pulled in.
Marjorie was supposed to be my relief in the morning. She wasn’t supposed to be here until 7 AM. I had always liked her; she was older than me by a decade but, by far, my favorite employee here. She didn’t look like she had just been woken up in the middle of the night and called into work five hours early. Marjorie eased herself behind the counter as her eyes looked at the glass that had been shot to hell, “Damn, girl. You all right?”
My eyes were dry. My adrenaline was waning and my thoughts were consumed with my best friend. I looked in her direction, but not at her eyes; I couldn’t afford to break down again. “Yeah, I’m okay. Thanks for coming in.”
Mr. Sanders spoke to the three officers; I hadn’t seen the third one come into the store. “If you need me,” he pulled a business card from his wallet, “you can reach me here. I’m going to get her to the hospital to make sure she is okay.”
Hospital? I didn’t need to go to the hospital. Nothing had happened to me. I’d followed all the rules that he had drilled into us: Stay in the cage. Don’t let anyone in the door. Push the panic button if you need help.
Mr. Sanders’ voice prodded me, “C’mon, Candy. Let’s get you checked out.”
Like a robot I stood up from the chair. Libby’s casserole dish still set on the counter. Looking at the dish, memories of Libby assailed me. I was fine, but I needed to see Libby. I slung my backpack over my back and reached for the dish. Somehow my hand didn’t work right, and the dish crashed to the floor, spewing bits of marinara sauce all over everything. When I kneeled down to pick it up, one of the sharp pieces of glass sliced the palm of my hand.
It was surreal – the red from the marinara sauce clinging to surfaces as it had splattered the floor, while the fresh blood dripped down my wrist. Mr. Sanders grabbed a t-shirt off of a rack and wrapped it around my hand, took my elbow in his hand, and guided me to my feet. “Marjorie will clean it up. Let’s get you to a doctor.”
I didn’t argue. He held my coat for me as I slid my good hand through the armhole and let it hang loosely over the shoulder of my bleeding hand. Mr. Sanders carried my book bag for me and guided me toward his car.
>
Chapter 6
The cut from the casserole dish hadn’t been deep. We had only driven two blocks when I pulled the t-shirt off of my hand and saw the bleeding had slowed. Mr. Sanders had insisted on driving, and as much as I hated leaving my car at the gas station, I couldn’t drive it. The bullet hole had been placed directly where my face would be while I was driving, and the glare from headlights in all the cracks would have blinded me if I had tried to operate it. The shots in my safety cage had been well-placed, and I wouldn’t ignore the message of the one in my windshield. The shooter was sending me a message, and I received it.
We pulled up in front of the hospital’s emergency entrance where the ambulances parked. I didn’t feel like this was any kind of an emergency, so I pointed to the garage across the street. “Let’s leave this spot for someone who’s missing a limb, okay?”
Mr. Sanders furrowed his brow at me, as if to disagree, but must have decided he would be wasting his time. Instead, he did as I asked, and parked in the adjacent garage. As we got out of the car, the below zero temperature took my breath away as I pulled my coat tight around my chest. Mr. Sanders shoved his hands into his thick downy coat, tucked his head down and ushered me toward the entrance to the skywalk for the hospital. Once we were sheltered from the wind and cold in the skywalk between the two structures, he awkwardly said, “You may not feel too bad now, but I think that’s just because it hasn’t sunk in yet. I want you to take a week off.”
I couldn’t afford to take a week off. If he knew how broke I was, he wouldn’t have even suggested it. My monetary situation was what got me into this mess to begin with: we would have never gone to Bank Shot tonight if we hadn’t needed money for food. If he knew how strapped I was, he’d probably let me cover some of the other workers’ shifts. “I’m fine, Mr. Sanders. My hand’s okay. I just want to check on my roommate. I’ll be back to work tomorrow night.”
Compassionately he offered, “Sometimes the stress of something like this isn’t immediate. I’m taking you off the schedule until next Tuesday. If you need more time, call me and let me know.”
We were midway through the glass enclosed skywalk between the parking garage and the hospital when I stopped him. I didn’t want to sound like I was ungrateful, but with Libby banged up, I was somehow going to have to come up with her share of the rent. My hand was still wrapped in the t-shirt he had given me, and I allowed myself to concentrate on it when my small voice confessed, “I can’t afford to be off work that long.”
He stepped into me and hugged me hard to his chest, much the same as he had done at the gas station when I broke down – the same way Dad used to hold me whenever I needed it. Mom and Dad moved to New Mexico a couple years ago, so neither were going to hold me and tell me everything would be fine. Mr. Sanders was old enough to be my father, and I worried I might fall apart all over again in his embrace. He lifted my chin so I was forced to see the kindness waiting for me in his eyes. “It’ll be a week with pay. This is on me. You don’t have to use any of your accrued vacation time. I just want you to be a hundred percent before you come back.”
He released my chin, and I burrowed back into his embrace. I stood there clinging to him, unable to let go or to say anything. I was grateful, but more than that, I wondered what kind of Karma I had to get this guy for a boss. He knew this hadn’t been a normal robbery: this was someone Libby and I had pissed off. His store was shot up, three of his security cameras were toast, yet he wanted to give me a paid week off. It didn’t add up.
Not wanting to take advantage of his generosity, I told him, “I don’t need a week off. I’m sure I’ll be okay by tomorrow.”
He stepped back from me, distancing himself by several feet. His pained smile focused on my still wrapped-up hand. “Then treat it like a well-deserved vacation.”
I didn’t know how “well-deserved” he would believe it to be if Maria called him in a few hours to tell him, on top of everything else, I had been thirty minutes late to work. He guided me forward through a second set of double-doors. A hospital information desk greeted us as we stepped out of the skywalk. An older gentleman in a security guard uniform was posted behind the desk. He didn’t seem at all surprised to see us. Maybe there were security cameras discreetly placed in the skywalk. Instead of telling him we were looking for my roommate, I held up my hand with the bloodied t-shirt wrapped around it. He gave me an understanding smile and pointed to the left, “Emergency is down the steps on the first floor.”
Mr. Sanders waited with me for over an hour. He filled out the mountain of forms saying it would be a workman’s comp. claim, so thankfully I wouldn’t have to put the hospital on the payment plan. When the nurse finally called me back to meet with the doctor, I told him, “You don’t have to wait for me. I can catch a cab back to pick up my car when they’re done.”
He looked at his watch. It was now well after 3 AM. He started to answer when a lion-sized yawn escaped him. I cut him off. “Mr. Sanders, honestly, thank you. There’s no reason for you to stay. Once I see the doctor, I want to go upstairs to check on Libby. You should get some sleep.”
He looked like he was going to protest, but instead he stood up and kissed my forehead. “If you need anything, anything at all, call me.”
The doctor examined my hand and came to the same conclusion I had – it wasn’t much more than a gnarly scratch. He glued it shut and had a nurse wrap it. After reviewing the information Mr. Sanders had written on my admission paperwork, the doctor wrote a prescription for anxiety. I insisted I didn’t need it, but he told me at least I would have it if I began to feel overwhelmed. I shoved the slip of paper in my back pocket.
As I was signing out of the emergency room, I asked the nurse behind the desk, “My roommate, Libby Merrick, was brought in a couple hours ago. Do you know if she’s still here?”
Her fingers whizzed on the keyboard, then she turned to me, her eyes grave. “She’s in the intensive care unit on eight.” I turned toward the elevators as her voice warned me, “You won’t be able to see her. Visitors are restricted to family only.”
I wanted to glare at the nurse and tell her I was family, but instead thanked her for her help and stood by the elevator anyway. When the elevator deposited me on the eighth floor, there was a large waiting area, with several lounge chairs and sofas. As I made my way to the nurse at the ICU desk, a voice behind me stopped me short. “Candy?”
I turned to see Libby’s ex-boyfriend, Loser Larry, sitting alone by an enormous window. What she ever saw in him was beyond me. The guy made my skin crawl. He worked as a salesman at the Ford dealership, so he always drove nice cars, but Libby had never been one to embrace material things. He had the personality of a well-trained terrier: lots of energy, always happy, not that bright. “Hi, Larry. How’s she doing?”
His eyes were bloodshot and glossy. “The doctor just came out. He won’t tell me anything, but I overheard him telling a detective that she was awake when she arrived. They gave her a blood transfusion. Her brain was swollen, so he gave her some drugs to keep her sleeping until the swelling goes down.”
“They induced a coma?”
“Yeah, he said it would be a day or two. Any idea what happened?”
Larry had never been a friend. Truth be told, I had never kept it a secret how little I admired him. For some strange reason, Libby liked him. He was twenty-five and could be pompous, but most men I knew had a touch of arrogance every now and again. At first I thought she felt sorry for him because he had the intellect of a stop sign, but after a while I figured out she gravitated toward him because he was always upbeat. She hadn’t had an ideal life, and I think she enjoyed being around someone who was happy for no good reason.
I hardly knew where to begin. I motioned for Larry to take a seat while I took the one next to him. I remembered every detail of our trip to the bar as they all came crashing in on me. “We were out of food.” The rest of the words poured out of me, and I didn’t stop until I told him what had happened
at the gas station and about the police finding Libby at the house.
He didn’t interrupt once. It was much different than answering the barrage of questions from the police at the gas station. I didn’t understand why, but telling him what had happened somehow calmed me. When I was done, Larry asked, “This Dave guy you went to high school with, do you think he’s involved?”
I shrugged my shoulders. I didn’t think so, but after the last several hours, I wasn’t prepared to rule anything out. Larry’s knuckles were balled into white fists. His angry accusation took me by surprise, “Why would you let her shark like that? I thought you two only did that when you had back-up with you. She swore to me she would never go alone.”
This was the first time I had ever seen Larry angry. I didn’t have an answer; this had been a last minute decision. He was right; normally if Libby knew she would be playing at a bar, she would call and ask a few friends to come along. We had never had any real trouble, but there was strength in numbers, and we had gone in alone last night. He interrupted my internal argument when he said, “You could have called me.”
No. Libby could have called him, but she wouldn’t have. She told me he took their break-up really hard, and I think if she had been going to play in the ghettos of Los Angeles tonight, she still wouldn’t have called him. Which led me to the question, “How did you know she was hurt?”
“I programmed my phone number into her cell as ICE when we were together. She must have never changed it.”
“ICE?”
“First responders are trained to look for an ‘In Case of Emergency’ contact in cell phones.”
“What about her dad?”
“I tried calling him. The only number I had has been disconnected.” Libby’s dad never stayed in one spot for long. From a very young age, she had essentially been taking care of herself. Libby used to pick on me when we were young about how I never knew how to do anything. I could load the dishwasher, but had never washed dishes by hand. I put my clothes in the laundry basket, but didn’t have a clue how to sort them into colors or work the washing machine. When we were girls, she always seemed so much older than I was.
His Frozen Heart Page 6