There is no conversation during the drive to Wometzia, so perhaps I manage a few minutes of sleep here and there without realizing it, but according to my own perception, my stream of thoughts is uninterrupted by that relieving unconsciousness. The half-moon offers a nice set of silhouetted horizons, and here and there, we pass a tree or bush with enough green left in it to reflect the moon’s weak light in a sort of eerie way. Like my grip on any measure of a steady life, the color seems strained, tenuous, ethereal, like the moon will blink and sever it forever.
Some cities, like Las Vegas, in an extreme example, flag you down from miles away, bursting with light, and on cloudy nights, that light reaches up through the darkness to scrape the undersides of passing clouds. Approaching Sin City from the north, perhaps en route to see a show or two, is itself a spectacle. When one comes over the final hill to the city’s north, the thought is inevitable: There’s my Vegas. Wometzia is not one of these big, spectacular cities; Wometzia is a hidden gem, something Riverdell claimed to be, and one could easily drive himself into or out of the city without even realizing that the road belongs to a town.
However, being the Wometzia veterans that we are, Todd and I are acutely aware of the moment we cross into the town’s boundaries. We park several blocks from the city’s center, and I mentally prepare myself for the sensory chaos of flashing blue and red lights, officers scurrying about, and the muffled, static-muddled communications of the officers’ radios. I figure the time for sirens has passed, and now the slightly quieter kind of chaos reigns.
While protocol would insist that I leave Todd behind, Todd insists the contrary. Our bags of goodies were confiscated when we were arrested, but returned to us once evidence of our innocence surfaced. From mine, I withdraw a fresh, full magazine—I only used the one shot, but you never know when a single round might mean the difference between life and death. Most commonly, it only means the difference between sixteen and seventeen rounds, but I’m not willing to risk that I won’t need that last shot. I tuck the other clip into my pocket, bulky and uncomfortable, but accessible.
Todd and I come toward the city building from the west, opposite the front entrance. Our plan doesn’t necessarily end there, but it needs to pause to figure out its next move, certainly. Our path to the side of the building is unimpeded, albeit bathed in the sea of red and blue from Albuquerque and New Mexico police lights. From what I can see, there are eleven officers here, including Kent and Simpson, who look to be collaborating with a stout New Mexico police officer whom I recognize from Anthony’s crime scene the other day.
A part of me wants to make my presence known, but that part of me is dwarfed by the part that’s worried they might slap a pair of handcuffs on me as soon as they see me. I don’t know whether the news of Perkins and Lund has spread, or how far, but I may be wanted for murder, a circumstance I routinely try to avoid; it would make my job quite difficult, as I’m experiencing now.
I wonder why they don’t have the building surrounded—there are no doors or accessible windows back here, but if a truly desperate person made it to the roof, the story-and-a-half drop would act only as a moderate deterrent to his escape. I conclude that they simply made a priority call—we have more resources in town than Wometzia has ever seen, but still not quite adequate for this particular situation.
Looking around, I try but fail to assess what part of the process is playing out now—whether the police have addressed the gunman, and whether or not demands have been made yet. It looks like a strong stalemate to me; there is tension in the air, but not so much an active tension. It’s more like the uncomfortable pit in the stomach that precedes public speaking.
A pair of nervous-looking officers flank the main entrance, weapons drawn, and another couple stand ready at the service entrance on the north side, which faces a tire shop. The amount that Wometzia can offer in amenities is quite satisfying, for such a small town—when Todd and I moved in, we anticipated necessitating a trip into the city two to three times per month, but as a result of a collective effort to be more livable, tire shops and seamstresses’ shops and grocery stores and all kinds of accommodations to small necessities surfaced, and the supplement in the town’s economy only encouraged more of such growth.
As I run through the potential outcomes of my endeavor in my head, my hope supply runs low, and fast. That is, until I remember the rooftop entrance. There’s no ladder, but climbing has always been a strength of mine. The downside to this is that Todd doesn’t share that strength, and my partner in crime-fighting is thus rendered incapable of accompanying me on that particular route; even with my bad shoulder, I’m confident that I’m still the better climber.
“Babe, go around front, outside the yellow tape, and pretend you’re looking for me. Kent and Simpson should recognize you. They might let you pass if you explain everything. Maybe lay it on a little thick in the ‘former detective’ department.”
Todd looks confused until he realizes what I’m about to do. He rolls his eyes and walks back out toward the trees, muttering to himself. I only catch a small bit: “So much for no more Super Detective.” He chuckles, then I do the same. Distance and rituals are my ways of coping with existential distress; laughter is Todd’s. It makes me sad to think about, but I suppose our reality, presently, is one that warrants sadness; for the second time tonight, I’m thrusting myself into what may end up being mortal jeopardy. For the second time tonight, our paths split, neither of us certain that they will extend far enough to conjoin again in the future. And at this, I recoil and Todd jests.
It takes me a moment to map out exactly how to scale the wall with such limited use of my right arm, but I manage to find my way and take my path without crying out in pain or ripping my stitches out. The pain is intense, but nothing near what it was when I first began to feel it. Whether this dullness is progress in healing or simple numbing, I’m grateful.
As with this step, the next step must be improvised; while I had prior knowledge of the existence of the rooftop entrance, I have no knowledge of how to access it from the inside; where it comes through on the interior is a mystery to me. I can only trust my keen sense of direction and blind navigation. A little luck wouldn’t hurt, either.
I crouch low to avoid being seen from the many eyes and lights below, and begin to explore the rooftop. My combination of crouching and tiptoeing breeds an offspring resembling a one-armed gorilla crawl. Not in the least graceful, but quiet and invisible, to be sure. Sacrifices must be made, I suppose.
After a minute of stumbling around, I find a hatch that was presumably built as a fire escape—any indication of its actual intended purpose either never existed or has been eroded away by the trickling sands of time and the literal sands of the desert. My luck is indeed intact, it seems; the hatch unlocks and swings open not without sound, but with little enough not to be audible from the ground, I’d imagine.
The shaft through which the ladder extends is dark. Presumably, there’s a light switch somewhere at the bottom. I pull my flashlight out of my bag and send its broad beam down the shaft. The descent down the ladder should be simple enough, even in the dark and with a gimp shoulder and arm. I do need to make sure I slow my pace as I approach the bottom, so that I don’t land too abruptly and send a loud clatter through this echo tube.
I climb down the ladder, paying close attention to ensure that my wounded side doesn’t grow too tired, or the pain too much to bear; to that end, I make every move with the stipulation that I have an easy way to stop and rest if I need to. Time is crucial now, certainly, but what might not be blown in the matter of a few seconds may actually be blown if whoever is inside becomes aware of my presence in the building.
My feet reach the concrete floor with the volume of an ant’s whisper, and I click my flashlight on to examine my new surroundings. A gray, metal door stands solemnly a foot or so away. It’s equipped with a lock, but a moment’s inspection allows me to realize that it’s the same one that matches my city key. I ins
ert my copy and begin to turn it, but then I realize that the door’s handle is interlocked with the mechanism, meaning that if I turn the key, I turn the handle as well. When I turn the key, then, I must be prepared to face whatever lies in wait on the other side. With that in mind, I stow my flashlight in my backpack and draw my gun. The spare clip still hangs heavy against my leg. My grip once more around the key, I stop and listen for a moment, largely to psych myself up, but mostly to find any final detail I can. But alas, all is silent for a solid thirty seconds. I’m about to turn the key, but I hear Todd’s voice from the other side.
I can’t hear the specific words being exchanged, nor do I recognize the non-Todd speaker’s voice. The tone on him is aggressive, however. Todd, ever the beacon of calmness in less-than-calm circumstances, speaks with that tranquil, embracing steadiness that feels like a hug. I wonder whether he has the same effect on other people as he has on me. Perhaps not, but more for me then, I suppose. If there’s something in the world with power over me but no one else, I’m glad it’s Todd.
Todd’s demeanor and tone seem to have some effect after all; the other voice begins to drop in volume and intensity. But then, without warning, the second voice escalates again, enough that I can now understand the words:
“You did it? Answer me!”
Todd’s response is as calm as ever, and thus beyond my ability to hear.
Then there’s a gunshot.
I fling the door open and find the gunman with enough speed that he hasn’t noticed me by the time I aim my weapon. My first shot misses, but I quickly retrain my gun. By this time, the perpetrator has definitely noticed me, but before he’s able to react, I squeeze off another round, which embeds itself deep in his right thigh, causing him to gasp in pain and drop his weapon. Fearing that he might go after it, I cross to him in three strides and kick it toward the wall opposite where I entered.
I look around for Todd and don’t see him. Fear swallows me. Not panic, not anxiety, not excessive worry. Fear, like I haven’t known in nine months.
The officers outside the main door evidently heard the gunfire; they burst inside with their own firearms raised. I hold up my badge as I cross to them, and explain to one officer what happened. The other calls in a paramedic that had been standing by for just such an emergency. All the while, my mind is focused singularly on Todd, now in view from my new angle by the front entrance. The paramedics crouch and kneel around him, face-up on the floor in a bloody heap, mere steps away from my own desk. In my memory, it all happened so fast, but I could swear that there was an hour squeezed into these two or three seconds.
I’m painfully aware that I’m pumped entirely too full of adrenaline to make an accurate or meaningful visual assessment of my boyfriend. But there’s a lot of blood, and I can’t tell whether he’s breathing or not.
In a minute that definitely seems longer, the paramedics remove the bullet, which entered just left of his clavicle, and stem the bleeding. Aside from which side was hit, we have matching gunshot wounds. Every little girl’s dream, so I’m told.
When the medic speaks, time returns to its usual rate.
“He’s lost a lot of blood. We need to get him to a hospital, but I think he’ll recover fully.”
As he says it, two more EMTs burst through the door, wheeling over a gurney. Todd is hoisted onto it, unconscious from the blood loss. I can see now that he is breathing deeply and steadily. All I can do at this point is trust in modern medicine and Todd’s fighting spirit. I can’t get used to this.
One EMT is dealing with the gunman, whom my more sober mind now recognizes as the scrawny officer with small dog syndrome who was with Lund the other day at Anthony’s murder scene. I’m not as surprised as I probably ought to be.
An overwhelming and confusing bout of sympathy grips me as I look at him, pathetic and whining and writhing in pain. No, sympathy is the wrong word; pity is more accurate. Yes, it’s a pity that borders on sympathetic embarrassment. Perhaps his role in this whole thing is bigger than I perceive, as was the case with Perkins, but it seems that this jackass was suckered into this and got himself shot. Now he’s questioning why, and along with that questioning he will reassess his loyalty to Lund or Perkins or whoever the hell is actually in charge.
A second gurney appears, for Officer Dipshit, and I develop an instant sense of compassion toward the EMTs, as they lift him onto it with none of the grace with which they lifted Todd. He lands on the surface with a loud thud and a squeal of pain that only deepens the pity I have for him.
The ambulances depart, carting their patients off to a hospital. No sirens, no lights: stable conditions for the both of them. I’m distanced from the concept of passing time, but after some of it, the officers on the scene start to trickle out, disappearing like the last few stars of the night succumbing to the light of dawn. Eventually, Husk approaches me, and we are the final two.
“We’ve got to do something about this heroics streak you’ve got going on,” he says. “The city will pay for your boyfriend’s medical expenses, as he’s being honored as a hero. Guy like him, why the hell isn’t he on the squad?”
“He’s grown a fondness of the quiet life,” I say.
Husk laughs. “So, the shooter. He didn’t make demands. He didn’t make a speech. He only made threats. What do you make of it?”
“I think that Perkins was using his resources to force us to spread ours as thin as possible. I’m sure that as soon as he found out some of us were in Albuquerque, he decided to toss a wrench into the goings-no in Wometzia.”
Husk nods in acceptance of that hypothesis, then stays quiet for a full minute. “The quiet life, huh? Any other time, I’d say you came to the right place.”
There are certainly more factors involved, but indeed, the most influential is that Todd’s no longer responding to calls to deal with crisis situations. Since then, he’s gotten into DIY quite heavily, and taken on several projects at home. As per Todd fashion, they come out very well—though not as well as his banana bread, which is a realm of artistry all its own. His first project was, appropriately, a bookshelf. Its capacity and quality are divine, and he used the perfect wood and stain combination to complement our décor. It was intended for the living room, but I fell in love with it so entirely that I insisted it be swapped for the one in our bedroom. We made an afternoon of moving the shelves and all of the books—the task might have taken any other couple perhaps half an hour, but we kept finding old books, lost loves which we hadn’t read in years, and much of the dialogue that day comprised of, “Oh! You need to read this one!” Those books were then added to our piles. Some of our reading days we spend reading books that we recommend to each other. On those days, we sit in each other’s chairs and eat each other’s favorite snacks—Todd eats my favorite flavor of Cheetos while I munch on Todd’s most treasured peanut brittle. And, like the rest of our reading days, our time together is enjoyed in separate worlds overlapping on earth like a Venn diagram. God I love Todd.
“Hey, is it all right if I head home?” I ask.
“I was about to send you there myself. You going to be okay with your man in the hospital?”
“I think so. I’ll miss the hell out of him, but it didn’t seem too serious. Also I don’t know whether I could manage to stay awake long enough to go see him.”
I don’t actually know whether I’ll stay at home. Despite what I’ve inflicted upon my mind and body in terms of sleep deprivation and general damage over the past few days, I doubt that I’ll be able to get any sleep anyway, all things considered. The situation brings to mind the last time he was in the hospital, before he and I had officially gotten together. It was on the tail end of the rescue of May Brotcher and, at the whim of a higher power with a divine sense of irony, May’s mother lost control of the wheel on her way to Riverdell and hit Todd, who had been on foot after we were tailed by more of Keroth’s minions. He was placed under the meticulous care of Nurse Gale Quispitt, a tiny thing with a contradictory personal
ity. In her care, I trusted that he would come through just fine, but still, my heart ached in places that had long since lain dormant. And though their awakening was a painful process, it was one which grows symbiotically with my relationship with Todd.
In this case, I said what I needed to say in order to be dismissed in as little time and with as little hassle as possible, and now I’m within feet of Todd’s car. My shoulder throbs in pain—my left one.
I get to the car and realize that I can’t unlock its door; the keys are in Todd’s pocket. I suppose I could pick the lock, but I’d rather not hotwire it. It’s just as well, though; the walk isn’t too far and I can probably use the fresh air anyway.
A relieving gust embraces me before rushing off into the desert. The openness of the sky itself provides a distinct breath of relief, like the top removed from a carbonated drink bottle, allowing me to decompress a great deal. I’m grateful.
When I turn the corner onto my street, I look toward my house and find, in the light spilling from the porch lights, the big, dark silhouette of a car parked in front of my dwelling. We didn’t leave the porch lights on.
As if my poor heart hasn’t had a rough enough time tonight, it picks up its drumsticks again, barely at rest for half an hour. That is, until I recognize the car as my mother’s. After a moment, I approach the vehicle and see that it indeed has her Washington plates, and through a window, I see her, looking just the slightest bit morose, her hand tucked under her chin like she’s reading an interesting but controversial article. But I would put money on that she is reading nothing at all, simply staring into space and indulging her pensive, contemplative nature.
It seems that she cleaned up the glass mess left by our antagonists, a memory that seems distant now, robbed of its potency.
I didn’t tell her my new address, but Beth may have cracked; the only people with copies of the house key are Beth, Todd and I. So unless my mother has some skills and resources I didn’t know about (which is, arguably, entirely possible) she must have been persistent with Beth. I make a mental note to ask Beth what it was that finally made her crack.
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