Shattered Lives

by Joseph Lewis

  Minutes passed.

  Billy had lay back down, but his eyes were open.

  George stood up and stepped silently to the side of the window, looking first in the direction the shadow had moved and then to the left. There was nothing he could see without moving the curtain, and he dared not do that. Even though his vision was limited, he was not about to move the curtain.

  Neither Randy nor Danny had moved. Billy had raised his head and watched George. He had a hand on Patrick’s back.

  As George turned back to the window, the shadow appeared again. Same height. Same shape. A man.

  George heard Billy gasp, and again, George motioned for him to be quiet.

  Mere inches from him on the other side of the glass and privacy curtain stood someone staring into the room. Certain that he couldn’t be seen, George stood motionless, his knife pointed in the shadow’s direction.

  Seconds passed, perhaps minutes.

  The shadow moved off to the right again, but slowly.

  George silently, but quickly picked up the stuffed, padded chair and placed it down against the door. He stepped away staring at the door, certain that someone was on the other side.

  George went to Danny, placed a hand over his mouth and spoke in a whisper. Danny got up quickly, quietly, took his phone, turned it on and crouched down by the inter-room door.

  George heard something at the door and then saw the knob move, but it was locked and the safety chain attached.

  He stepped over to Randy, placed a hand over his mouth and whispered to him to get on the floor between the two beds, between the nightstand and the head of the bed. Randy did so without question, eyes wide, but trusting George.

  Billy watched as Randy and Danny had moved, and when George looked at him, he placed a hand over Patrick’s mouth and whispered into his ear. He watched Patrick nod franticly and then Billy took him in both of his arms and rolled quietly over the side of the bed in the narrow space between the bed and the wall.

  George moved backward still watching the door and stood next to Danny. Between them and the door was a dresser with the flat-screen TV on top. Feeling he needed to further secure the door, George whispered to Danny, who went to the TV and lifted it off the dresser. When he did, George pushed the dresser against the chair tightly. It had made more noise than he had hoped.

  Danny had just replaced the TV back on the dresser and had moved back next to George, when the first of two quick, silenced shots went through the door zinging past them into the wall between the closet and the bathroom.

  George pulled Danny to the floor, wrapped him in his arms, and laid down on top of him. He watched Randy ball up and cover his head.

  “I don’t wanna die, Billy,” Patrick whispered, more of a whimper.

  “Shhh, George is going to take care of us,” Billy whispered back.

  Two more shots that seemed a little louder than the first two spat through the door and the dresser, both inches above George’s head. He pressed himself down on top of Danny who had his eyes shut tightly.

  The door rattled. Someone was trying to get in, so both George and Danny pushed the dresser as tightly as they could against it.

  Seconds ticked by. The shooting had stopped.

  George whispered into Danny’s ear and felt him nod once in return.

  Danny crawled out from under George and across the floor. He reached up, turned the knob on the inter-room door and pushed the door open, crawled inside, and shut the door quietly behind him.

  The shadow was at the window and there was no mistaking the gun in the shadow’s hand.

  It spat through the window two, three times. Chunks of glass rained down on the bed where moments ago Randy and Danny had slept. Their bed was riddled with bullets and glass fragments. Two more shots to the head of the bed, not a foot from where Randy lay on the floor.

  Patrick whimpered and cried, and Billy tried to reassure him.

  Nine shots. George knew the man was reloading.

  “Boys! Are you all right?” Jeremy called out, not quite a yell, but not quite a whisper.

  Neither Randy nor Billy answered and that was good. To do so would betray their position in the room. George answered for them.

  “Call 9-1-1 and Agent Pete.” And then as an afterthought he said, “Stay down and away from the window and door.

  Shots rang out, this time in his direction. More rang out, slamming into the back wall and the bed where he, Patrick and Billy had slept, penetrating the mattress and pillows. The light on the nightstand above Randy shattered as a bullet slammed into it and the wall above him.

  The window had holes and chunks missing, but was surprisingly intact.

  “What the devil is going on out here?”

  In answer were two, three shots at the man and his family next door. There were screams from the neighbor’s wife and children. A yelp and groan from the man.

  He had counted the shots. Three left. He needed the man to empty it, so he grabbed somebody’s shoe and threw it at the window. Two shots. A third. And a click on an empty chamber.

  He had to act now.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  Eureka, Missouri

  George hurtled through what was left of the window, and it exploded on impact. He had crisscrossed his arms in front of his head, which was lowered protectively. He led with his right leg, knowing he was going to get cut up. He also knew that if he didn’t act, one or more of them would get shot or killed.

  Between the gunshots, the screams of the neighbors, and the exploding window, whoever wasn’t awake certainly was now.

  As he flew out of the window, he slipped on broken glass, slid along the balcony floor, and landed at the feet of the man with the gun. He held the gun in his right hand, a magazine in his left.

  George had to act or he’d lose the advantage of surprise.

  Still sitting in the broken glass and shell casings, he jabbed his knife upwards into the man’s groin with both hands and then sliced it outward rather than pulling the knife back out.

  The man stumbled backward and leaned against the balcony railing. A look of horror and shock spread over the man’s face as his intestines and other vital organs fell out of the rip in the man’s pants.

  George sprang to his feet and slammed the knife up under the man’s ribs and then ripped it downward in an arc across the man’s abdomen. He knew he had destroyed the man’s lung and severed an artery because blood and other organs and fluids gushed and fell out of the man’s shirt.

  The man sunk to his knees. He tried to hold himself together, but it was impossible. His mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out. Only a steady stream of bright red blood.

  Finally, the man rolled to the side, still staring at George, but his eyes were lifeless.

  Exhausted, George stood above the man, his knife dripping blood. His sucked air in great gulps but couldn’t get enough. He fell to his knees and hung his head waiting for help to arrive.

  “George! George!” He heard Jeremy calling him in panic, but he neither had the strength nor the will to answer.

  “Dad, is he okay?” Randy asked.

  He was near panic and near tears. He wasn’t the only one.

  “Billy. Stay. With. Patrick. Stay. With. Patrick.” George stammered.

  It took all he had to yell it.

  Jeremy sprinted out of his room yelling, “George! George!” and then in a much softer voice as he knelt next to the boy said, “George, are you okay? Son, please!”

  George did not have the strength to answer. He was in pain. His left thigh up near his groin, his right hamstring high up just under his buttocks, his arms and hands, all throbbed and stung. He looked at himself and saw chunks and shards of glass sticking out of his hands, arms and legs. His own blood dripped out of him, mingling with the blood of the man he had killed.

  Jeremy said softly, “My God, George! Son, are you okay?”

  George tried to look at him, but either he couldn’t or didn’t want to.

>   “Mister, that boy saved my life!” the neighbor said. “That man shot me! Hit me in the arm, but that boy saved my life!”

  George said haltingly just above a whisper, “Father, we need to secure the crime scene.” He took a big gulp of air and said, “Father, we need a camera. Take a picture of the man’s face and send it to Agent Pete.”

  “Here, use mine,” Danny said as he appeared next to Jeremy.

  “I don’t know how it works,” Jeremy said.

  Danny stepped over to the man, gagged repeatedly, but took three pictures of the man’s face.

  “Randy?” Jeremy said. “I need your help.”

  “What can I do?” Jeff asked coming out of the room with Randy close behind.

  George pointed his knife at the man and said, “Pocket. Wallet . . . identification.”

  Jeremy moved to the man and felt his backside and found the wallet.

  “Thumb . . . and . . . finger. Watch . . . prints,” George gasped.

  “Jesus, George,” Jeff said softly. “Shhh, don’t talk.”

  George thought he nodded, but didn’t know whether he actually did.

  Jeremy shouted, “Where’s the fucking ambulance? Where are the cops?”

  Randy and Danny stood off to the side, worried about George, and refusing to stare at the dead man on the balcony.

  There was the sound of running feet and shouts.

  “Step aside. Police! Step aside!”

  Jeremy held the wallet between his thumb and forefinger and said, “George, I have it. Now what?”

  George nodded, gulped air and said, “Picture to Agent Pete. Name. Address. License.”

  That was the last George remembered because he passed out in Jeff’s arms.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

  His grandfather was dressed as he had appeared earlier. However his face looked older. His brown, wrinkled hands were clasped behind his back. George walked silently beside him.

  ‘You are angry, Shadow.’

  George didn’t respond. He felt confused and sad and angry, so he didn’t know how to respond.

  After what seemed like a long time, his grandfather said, ‘You did not need me.’

  George glanced at him. A man had come to kill Patrick. The man shot at and him and his brothers. A man in the next room was shot. How could his grandfather say that he didn’t need him?

  ‘You did not need me,’ His grandfather repeated.

  They walked along a familiar path in silence. George had a lot to consider. A strange combination of peace and anger. Perhaps not so much anger as frustration, but over it all, peace.

  ‘Grandfather, I think I want to live with my brothers and my father.’

  His grandfather nodded and said, ‘If this is what you want.’

  ‘Is this what you want me to do?’

  The old man smiled and said, ‘Shadow, it is not what I want or not want.’

  George nodded. ‘It is my decision then.’

  His grandfather stopped, smiled up at the bright sun and said, ‘It was always your decision.’

  George nodded.

  His grandfather turned to him and smiled and in a very gentle voice said, ‘Shadow, you did not need me.’

  ‘The man had a gun and was shooting at us.’

  ‘Yes, but he was arrogant and ignorant. A biligaana.’

  ‘My brothers and father are biligaana.’

  The old man smiled and said, ‘In their heart, they are Dine’.’ He glanced back at the sun and said, ‘They have good and gentle hearts.’ His grandfather turned to look at him and placed a hand on George’s shoulder. ‘The man was evil, and it is good he can no longer hurt others.’

  ‘But I took his life,’ George said sadly.

  ‘He was evil, and you saved the lives of your brothers, your father, and your friends.’

  George nodded and said, ‘I love them very much.’

  ‘And they love you. You will be good for them, and they will be good for you.’

  ‘I miss you and Grandmother. I miss Mother and William, and Robert and Mary.’

  His grandfather walked away slowly, his hands behind his back, staring at the sun.

  ‘You did not need me,’ he said looking upward at the sun.

  George watched him walk away. His heart was sad and unsettled.

  ‘I love you,’ George called after him.

  His grandfather waved without turning around and walked on.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

  Eureka, Missouri

  The emergency room wasn’t busy. A young couple sat in a corner filling out forms on a clipboard. A mom and dad comforted their crying seven year old son who had an arm wrapped in ice. A plump, older Hispanic woman in a wheelchair and covered in a blanket sat next to a younger woman who asked her questions in Spanish as she filled out forms. A tired, older security guard read the local sports page, and a receptionist worked on a computer behind the desk.

  Jeremy had ridden in the ambulance with George. Before leaving for the hospital, Jeff and the boys had moved everything into two rooms on the fourth floor as far away as they could get from the scene of the shooting. The rooms for two additional nights were free, compliments of Holiday Inn.

  Billy and Patrick had been inseparable ever since the shooting. Patrick had been so frightened that he had peed on both of them, so after the police came, Billy took Patrick into the bathroom, started the shower and both climbed in together. Patrick had apologized, and Billy assured him it was no big deal.

  Patrick sat between Billy and Randy, and Danny sat next to Randy. Billy had his arm around Patrick’s shoulders, and Patrick had his head resting on Billy. Patrick’s parents met them at the emergency room and sat with Jeff across from the boys and talked quietly about nothing in particular.

  Pacing in the waiting area, Jeremy had a one-sided conversation directed at Pete Kelliher, much of it through clenched teeth. After, he called Jamie Graff and told him what had taken place, but spent more time listening than talking. Both conversations were out of earshot, but Jeff knew he’d be filled in later.

  They had been there an hour and a half when a tall, thin, middle-aged doctor, wearing bloody green scrubs and a green surgeon’s cap, with glasses down on the end of his nose and a stethoscope around his neck pushed open the heavy steel door and stepped into the waiting room. He caught Jeremy’s eye and motioned him over.

  “He’s quite a young man,” the surgeon said tiredly. Jeremy waited nervously. “We had to use a general anesthetic because he has, hell, I don’t know . . . something close to one hundred and twenty stitches. I thought I was sewing a blanket,” he added as he rubbed his eyes. “There are two deep wounds that we had to suture inside and out. There is another bad one, but not quite as deep as the other two. A bunch of others,” he said shaking his head. “He lost blood and he’s weak, but he’ll be fine, provided he takes it easy for a couple of days. Ordinarily, he shouldn’t get the stitches wet for twenty-four hours, but on those three wounds, not for forty-eight. An antibiotic ointment will need to be applied, and I’d like to keep gauze on them for at least forty-eight hours. The gauze will have to be changed as needed, but at least twice a day and the ointment reapplied each time.”

  Jeremy nodded and asked, “George is going to be okay?”

  The surgeon nodded and said, “He’ll need to take it easy. No lifting anything over ten pounds. I would like him to stay overnight, but he insists on leaving.” The surgeon took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes and said, “He’s in post-op now, and he’s been asking for you.”

  Jeremy followed the doctor down the hall, where he was pointed to George’s room. He entered and stood in the doorway. George’s heavily bandaged right arm lay across his eyes, and his right knee was up. His bandaged left arm was above the covers at his side. There were no stitches on his face or on the part of his chest and stomach that Jeremy could see.

  He moved to the side of the bed and ran the back of his hand softly against George’s cheek.

  “How
are you doing, Kiddo?”

  When George answered, it was soft and sad, and Jeremy had to lean in to catch it.

  “I don’t like killing.”

  “I know.”

  Tears leaked out from under his arm.

  “You saved lives, George. That has to count for something.”

  George didn’t respond.

  Jeremy sat on the edge of the bed, took light hold of George’s hand and said, “Anything I can do?”

  George shrugged and wiped his eyes with his other hand.

  “George, I love you. The boys love you. Nothing has changed, but I understand what you’re feeling.” Jeremy said.

  “I killed a man . . . another man. I ruined the trip to the park,” George said quietly.

  “First of all, you saved lives. Secondly, we can wait another day or two for the park. It’s no big deal.” George looked at him doubtfully, and Jeremy added, “Really.”

  He looked away and Jeremy asked, “How much pain are you in?”

  George’s head whipped back, and he answered quickly, “I don’t want to stay here. I want to be with you and my brothers.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.” Jeremy said with a smile.

  “I am sore. I hurt a little, but I am okay.”

  “It wouldn’t hurt to spend a night here. I can stay with you if you like.”

  George set his jaw and his eyes narrowed.

  “No, please. I want to be with my brothers.”

  The use of ‘my brothers’ was not lost on Jeremy.

  A gentle silence grew between them and then George said in a small voice, “Do you still want me to live with you? I mean . . . I killed two men.”

  There wasn’t the confidence Jeremy was used to.

  He smiled and said, “But you saved lives both times.” He paused and asked, “Do you want to live with us?”

  “If you want me to.”

  “I do,” Jeremy answered with a smile. “I know the boys do, too.”

  George studied Jeremy closely; his dark eyes never blinked. Jeremy had the idea that George searched for the truth, and Jeremy was certain that he had spoken it.