“It’s not your fault,” he tried. “You had no idea she was going off on her own.”
“She’s my responsibility. You all are,” Booker murmured. Subconsciously, he pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders.
“Bullshit. I’m eighty friggin’ years old. I ain’t nobody’s responsibility. Except maybe my old lady.” He shook his head and pulled the pipe tobacco out of his shirt pocket.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Booker said, looking up into the tanned, wrinkled face. “You can’t smoke in a hospital.”
Ski smiled, softly. “Yeah. I know. I just wanted to hear something out of your mouth besides bellyaching and whimpering.”
“You think…” Booker raised his voice, but seeing the Allisters’ heads turn in the waiting room, he hushed. “You think I’m wrong? I got played by Becky. I didn’t see it coming. I knew she was… ruthless, but I never… and now Kara’s laying in the operating room, and I don’t know whether she’ll live. And if she does, will she ever be able to walk again, let alone jump or flip or—”
“I know,” Ski said. “I didn’t say you were wrong. But what good does it do now? You got sucker punched. You think it doesn’t happen to us all? My nose didn’t get this hook in it naturally. I been hit by my share of literal sucker punches.”
He sipped his coffee, taking off his wool cap and folding it on his denim thigh. “When you take a hit like that, it’s not easy to get up. I know. But you have to do it. Now, come on. You’re the expert at this stuff, remember. Get your shit together. Max is parking the car. He’ll be in any minute. Do you think you could ditch the blanket before he shows up.”
Booker raised his eyebrows. “Blanket?”
Ski gestured to the orange fabric still draped around him.
Shaking his head as if to clear it, August said, “Yes. Of course. With everything… I didn’t realize.”
“Still in shock,” Ski said. He slipped the blanket from his teacher’s shoulders and stood, folding it into a square and taking it up to the nurses’ station.
On cue, Max came through the automated doors in jeans and a sweatshirt, his messenger bag carrying his laptop slung over one shoulder. “Booker, is she okay?”
The professor shook his head but sat up straight for the first time. “We don’t know yet. The surgeons won’t be out for a while, and they may have to fly in a specialist.” Booker considered something and added, “Thanks for coming, Max.”
The young man just nodded and sat on the other side of Ski. It vaguely crossed Booker’s mind that this was the first time he’d seen Max sit for more than a minute without opening a computer. And now, Max didn’t even take out his phone. He just sat, staring at the hallway leading to surgery.
The doors opened again and two officers came in escorting a woozy Detective Salazar. He was awake, but lying on a gurney with an ice pack pressed to the base of his skull.
Sarah stepped out from behind the men and made a direct line for the professor. Booker stood.
“You forgot this.” She held out the black and pewter cane. It was a little dirty but didn’t show the slightest bend or dent. “How is she?”
“It seems to be the question of the day,” Max answered quickly.
“We don’t know anything yet,” Ski added.
“And we won’t know for a while,” Booker said. “Hours, most likely. Unless…” He trailed off again, not wanting to finish the thought.
Taking and leaning on the cane, Booker looked directly at Sarah for the first time that night. “Where’s Becky? I want to be there when you question her. She has a lot to answer for.”
“We didn’t get her, Booker,” Sarah admitted. She broke his gaze and looked at the floor.
“What?” Booker shouted.
He jumped to his feet and pulled Sarah into the hallway—away from Kara’s parents. For once, the detective didn’t protest.
“I know,” Sarah said. “We secured the building, but best we can figure, she slipped out the back while you were carrying Kara. We believe she had a boat docked behind the warehouse.”
Booker sighed and tapped his cane.
“You did the right thing.” Sarah put a hand on his shoulder. “You prioritized the victim. If she makes it, it will be because you used every single second you could to get her help in time.”
Booker nodded.
“And you don’t seem too surprised that Rebecca escaped?” Sarah’s statement sounded more like a question.
“It’s what I would have done,” was all August could say.
The police detective slipped off her jacket and walked back to the waiting room. “We’ll get her, August.” She said, determined. “I won’t stop until we have her.”
“No, you won’t.” August followed her and sat back down.
Sarah was shocked. “You don’t believe me?”
“I do. And I appreciate it, but you won’t get the chance. The FBI will be here soon. She’s an ex-agent. FBI trained. And trained well. I should know,” he grimaced. “No way they’ll let the local PD handle this.”
Sarah ignored this comment and changed the subject. “You look like shit,” she said.
Booker looked down at himself. His tie went into surgery with Kara, as did his waistcoat. He had unbuttoned the collar of his light gray dress shirt, but it did very little to take away from the tremendous amount of blood staining the front.
“Is any of this yours?” she asked.
He shook his head again. “No. It’s all hers. There was so much.”
“Why don’t you get cleaned up?” she prompted.
Max reached into his bag and pulled out a stack of neatly folded clothes. “I swung by the school and grabbed your extra set from your desk.” Booker nodded in appreciation and took the gift.
“We’ll come get you immediately if anything changes,” Sarah added as Booker headed to the bathroom down the hall.
The professor paused but didn’t turn to look at her. “It’s all changed,” he whispered and walked on.
***
Four hours later, Booker, Sarah, Ski, Max, and Kara’s parents found themselves spread out over the tormenting seats of the waiting area.
Booker, who now looked little like himself in the jeans and polo shit he’d shoved into his desk for emergencies, would pace back and forth every half an hour or so, cane clicking on the high polished tile floor. After a few passes, he would eventually rub his leg and sit back down.
Max had somehow laid across three chairs, armrests and all, with his sleeping head on his rolled-up hoodie. Ski was on his fifth cup of complimentary coffee. The station nurse on duty kept sending looks like she was considering charging him soon.
Sarah had spent most of the time on her Berksville-issued laptop, filling out paperwork while volleying calls back and forth with Captain Harrison on her cellphone.
As midnight approached, the hospital had a lot less traffic. Occasionally, the automatic doors slid open to welcome a nurse or visitor looking for directions to a loved one’s room or the hospital cafeteria. Then, just as Booker laid his head back against the wall to rest, half a dozen men came rambling through the doors. Captain Harrison was with them. The rest wore a very familiar blue windbreaker that Booker had once hoped he would never see again.
“Now what the hell do we gotta deal with?” Ski grumbled. He sat up and nudged Max’s leg, waking the snoozing young man.
“What? I’m up!” Max sprang up.
Sarah was already on her feet. “What’s going on Captain?” She eyed the “blue man group” cautiously.
“I told you the FBI would come, Detective,” Booker answered her, unsurprised.
He pushed on the cane and straightened to his feet as the group closed in. “Detective Sarah Rime, let me introduce you to Special Agent-In-Charge Rick Clarke.” He indicated the man standing closest to the captain.
Clarke was a broad-shouldered African-American man with close-cropped gray hair. His round face looked a lot less intimidating than Sarah would ha
ve expected. Agent Clarke reached out a thick hand. Sarah took it, hesitantly. This was her case. And more than that, she was part of a team. Handing it over to a bunch of bureaucrats didn’t seem fair. Or right
“It’s good to meet you, Detective. Captain Harrison has told me some good things about your first week on the job.” He nodded at Booker. “August, I would ask how things are, but it seems you have a real mess on your hands.”
“I would introduce you to the captain, but it seems you two do barbeques and baptisms together,” Booker replied. He motioned beside him. “These are Ben Tronski and Max Diaz, two of my students.”
August walked over to the Allisters, who stood, hesitantly. “Mr. and Mrs. Allister, these men are from the FBI, and I expect they have come to inform you they will be leading the investigation into the woman that attacked Kara.”
“Wait a second,” Sarah interrupted. “Berksville Police already secured and investigated the crime scene. This is directly linked to the Glazer murders.” She crossed her arms, expecting a fight.
“It was my understanding you arrested Timothy O’Connell for the murders of Henry and Aimee Glazer.” Agent Clarke clarified. “You closed that case. Rebecca Vance was an FBI agent, that makes this a federal matter.”
He put his hand on Captain Harrison’s shoulder as if their friendship confirmed everything he was saying. “Your captain has already agreed to relinquish the case.”
“Sir—” Sarah began, but Booker gave her a stern “not here” look and tilted his head in the direction of Kara’s parents. She got the message, and he was right. This is no time to have a pissing match for jurisdiction. “All I care about is that we catch the woman who hurt Kara,” she said at last, glancing at the Allister’s.
The discussion was waylaid when a man in scrubs came out of the “Hospital Staff Only” doors. He pulled the disposable mask off his mouth. “Mr. and Mrs. Allister?” he called out.
The two parents raced to the small man. Booker wandered just close enough to overhear without being intrusive.
“I am Doctor Laghari,” the man started in accented English. “I am the surgeon who was working on your daughter, Kara.”
Dr. Laghari cleared his throat. “We had to make a tough decision,” he said. “Most of the tissue and bones had been severed in Kara’s leg.” He was interrupted by a wail from Mrs. Allister.
“Take your time,” the professional healer said with a tone that showed he had ample experience breaking bad news. He waited until both parents encouraged him that it was fine.
“I am sorry,” Dr. Laghari began again. “I know this is difficult to hear, but I must explain.”
Mrs. Allister nodded and he continued, “The damage was too great to repair. If we had, what was left of her leg would have been so badly marred by the deterioration of the tissue and trauma from the saw that there was not much we could do. If we reattached the limb, there would have been a high risk of infection or further complications.”
Oh, Jesus. Booker thought. He knew what this meant, and while the Allister’s had not caught on yet, the impact nearly floored him. He grabbed a nearby chair and sat, leaning his head forward to rest on the pewter and gold handle of his cane. He was bombarded again by self-blaming thoughts. He was responsible. He was supposed to keep all his students safe. Now, look at what had happened.
“I don’t understand what you’re telling us, Doctor,” Mrs. Allister sobbed. “She won’t be able to walk correctly?” The overwhelmed woman turned to her husband for verification. He also didn’t seem to understand fully.
“She is going to have a limp,” the big man mumbled through his beard, half statement, half question.
Doctor Laghari shook his head. “No, it would have been worse than that. She would not have had full feeling or mobility in the leg. And, as I said, infection—sepsis or gangrene... injuries of this nature can become complicated. Moreover, her life was in peril, and we had to act quickly. We implemented the best option to ensure her the best quality of life. We amputated.”
Kara’s father stood motionless, stone-faced. Her mother paused for a moment as the understanding rushed over her, and then her eyes doubled in size. “You cut off her leg?” Her voice raised so everyone could hear. “My baby? My jumping, bouncing baby? And you hacked off her leg?”
Ski, Max, and Sarah stared at the group in shock.
“Mrs. Allister, I am so sorry. was mostly off when she arrived, we just medically corrected the damage.” The doctor tried to clarify.
“But…but she’s a gymnast!” Mom was really escalating now, shouting in the still waiting room. “How is she going to do gymnastics and cheerleading with one fucking leg!” She berated the well-meaning surgeon.
Her husband grabbed her by the shoulders and leaned in quietly, hoping to calm her. “She’s alive, Kathy,” he rumbled lowly. Mrs. Allister looked up in protest and began to speak, but her husband held her tighter and just repeated the same thing. “She’s alive. That’s all that matters.”
Booker didn’t move. He stayed in that chair after the doctor had retreated into the inner sanctum of the hospital. He stayed after Kathy and her husband cried in each other’s arms, calmed, and cried again. He stayed when everyone discussed this new shocking revelation. He even stayed slumped in thought when the nurse came out and ushered the parents in to see their unconscious daughter, who had, at last, come out of surgery.
While his body was motionless, his mind was whirling with blame, options, solutions, and a plan. Booker was not the kind of man to allow injustice, especially to his people.
***
After Kara’s parents left the waiting room to see their daughter, chaos broke out. Max was glad they had all waited until after Mr. and Mrs. Allister left the room, but all the unspoken tensions since the FBI showed up, which had been shadowed by the couple’s grief and propriety, were being dragged, kicking and screaming into the light.
Max thought it started with one of the agents asking the Berksville PD for a briefing on the case. Detective Rime lost it. She pointed to the doors to the inner hospital and began lecturing the agents. The young man couldn’t hear everything being said, but words like “decorum,” “jurisdiction,” “first-on-the-scene,” were being thrown around, and he thought Sarah might have questioned the moral character of the mother of one of the agents.
Captain Harrison stepped in at that point, strategically placing himself physically between the agents and his detective. He looked to be attempting, rather poorly from what Max could follow, to calm Rime down.
The thing that was most surprising to Max was that Professor Booker wasn’t intervening at all. He was just sitting with his elbows on his knees, head braced on his cane, staring at the floor. Max was going to talk to his mentor, when the quarreling group of law enforcement moved directly in front of where he had been sitting. Now he had a front-row seat.
“Yeah, I get that Rebecca Vance was one of yours. That’s the damned problem,” the detective was still going in on the agents. “She worked for your agency for how many years? And no one noticed her elevator wasn’t going all the way to the top?” She crossed her arms and waited for them to try and defend themselves.
Clarke, the agent in charge, answered, “Detective, we all want to see Ms. Vance brought to justice.” His tone was like mint, cool and refreshing, not at all what Max would have expected from someone being verbally assaulted by Detective Rime.
“I know the hard work your department has already put in. You lost two individuals from your community, and in a small town like this, those lives matter. And your friend was hurt. We understand that. You were the first to respond to the attack, and we’re grateful, but the regulations are very clear. Since our suspect was a federal agent, this is a federal case,” Clarke stopped there. No further explanation was offered. Without a further word, Clarke walked away.
Detective Rime slumped into silence. Max was rather sure she was used to getting her way, but she must have recognized it was a losing battle.
<
br /> Turning, Max noticed Ski standing down the hallway, apparently looking at the wall. Trying not to disturb the disgruntled group, Max slid through the agents and cops to join the older man. As he approached, he could see that Ski was looking through the window of a closed door.
Coming to stand in front of it, next to Ski, Max read the room placard to the right of the entry. The Chapel. “What’s going on? Do you want to pray for—” Max began, but Ski raised a finger to his lips. They both just stood and looked in.
Booker was standing in the middle of the room, having a rather energized discussion with Agent Clarke. Max couldn’t hear what was being said, only tones, which were not pleasant. “Ski,” he whispered, “what are they talking about?”
The old man scratched the side of his weathered face. Whiskers were starting to invade the ridge of his jawline. He obviously hadn’t had time to shave in the last few days. “Shit, Maxie, if I had to bet, I would put my money on that agent trying to get Booker back into the FBI.”
“He’s a teacher now,” Max contended.
“Yeah, but from what he’s told me, the Bureau, and that Clarke, specifically,” he pointed through the glass, “haven’t taken well to his retirement. They keep hounding him to come back.”
A loud noise cut them off. Booker had hit a chair with the end of his cane and raised his voice. Clarke said something nonchalantly, and the professor sat down in a chair. Booker didn’t look like he was completely appeased. He said some more things to the agent and pointed back in the direction of the rest of the hospital.
The two men went back and forth, but the tone of the conversation gradually eased. Clarke eventually pulled his phone out of his pocket and called someone. He spoke for only a moment and then put it back in his pocket. Once, Booker glanced at the door and seemed to see Max and Ski there, but he didn’t signal for them to leave, so the two leaned against the wall, trying to determine the outcome of the conversation.
Soon, another agent came bustling down the hall, carrying a small duffel bag. He excused himself past the two spectators and entered the Chapel. He was conscientious about closing the door behind him, much to the dismay of the students. Clarke scanned the room quickly, and finding what he was looking for, scooped up a Bible that was perched on a chair. He turned to Booker.
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