by Keith Hughes
“It's only Tuesday.” Annoyance colored Suzette’s tone. “You've got three whole days to finish that thing.”
Further comments were interrupted by a chirp from Angie’s cell phone. She plucked the device from her belt and looked at the display. A text message from Ness said he would be home for dinner.
Dinner? Her confusion faded when she looked at the clock. It was almost five o'clock.
“Wow, it's late.” The day had completely gotten away from her. The last time she had looked at the time, it had been almost noon.
“Uh-huh.” Suzette grunted in her best I-told-you-so tone. “Ness was on the phone?”
“Yeah.” Angie slipped the phone into its holster. “He's going to be home for dinner. It’ll be the second day in a row!”
That realization ignited a burst of happiness in her heart. Having dinner together at all could be a relative rarity with Ness's odd work schedule. Consecutive nights were nearly unheard of.
“How nice.” Suzette’s flat tone indicated skepticism.
“Don't start. Sometimes Ness has to work odd hours. Murders and other crimes don't always happen during business hours.”
“Uh-huh.”
Angie sighed. Suzette was one of her best friends. They occasionally had dinner when Ness was working and had gone on several shopping trips together. Their closeness had led her to discuss with her friend the differences in Ness she’d noticed about two years ago. Sometimes Angie wished she had kept her mouth shut.
“My third husband, Leroy, used the 'working late' line on me too. Considering he was the short-order chef for a diner that closed after the lunch rush, it didn’t take long for me to find out he was playin’ around.” Suzette crossed her large arms over her prodigious torso, which spoke of her affection for fried food.
“How many husbands have you had?” Practically every time they talked about men, Suzette had another name to trot out.
“I'm looking for number five,” she answered with a scowl, “and don't change the subject.”
Angie sighed again. “I'm certain everything is OK. I've asked him about a few of his late nights, and what he tells me always checks out. I'll catch something on the news the next day about the crime he described.”
The root of Suzette's suspicions, and honestly, Angie's as well, had transpired two years earlier. Ness had come home almost a different man one morning after helping Dr. Bertrand. His eyes held increased interest in her, and his passion rivaled the first years of their marriage. But something troubled her, which eventually led to confiding in Suzette. Occasionally, she saw a flash of guilt when he looked at her. Ness would dampen it quickly, but it had happened more than once, and it got harder to ignore. When she pressed him for details, he dodged her questions. Assurances aside, Ness was clearly concealing something, and she had never discovered what it could be.
One day over lunch, Angie had described his behavior to Suzette, and her friend was instantly convinced Ness had been having an affair. She cited her experience with her second husband, Ian, who had acted the same way after he spent his lunch hours banging the local mail lady.
For a few months afterward, Angie had watched Ness closely, but she never saw any direct signs he had been involved with another woman. His increased attention and ardor continued, and the reality was she had not experienced such love in years. Eventually, she relaxed into the situation, setting aside her unresolved questions about Ness’s secrets. But Suzette did not release her suspicions so quickly, mistrustful of Ness on Angie's behalf.
“If you say so,” Suzette said doubtfully, pulling Angie’s attention back to their conversation. “But in my experience, a man with something to hide is not to be trusted.”
“I do say so.” Angie stood, causing her lower back to ache, a reaction to the way she had slumped in her chair all day. Arching backward, she tried to ease the kinks in her vertebrae.
“I do believe your boyfriend's enjoying the show.” Suzette grinned.
Angie was wearing a tight white knit top, and as she stretched, her figure drew the gaze of a younger man, Ryan Jamison, sitting a few cubes away. Ryan had long, greasy hair and a few days' worth of scraggly beard. When Angie glanced in his direction, she saw that he had obviously been watching her avidly, but he quickly looked away with a guilty expression. He was wearing a stained T-shirt with Evil League of Evil printed on it. The shirts usually changed daily, although the stains were a constant. Angie secretly reveled in smug satisfaction about the crush he had developed on her, though he was fifteen years younger. It pleased her that she could still catch the eye of younger men, even in her early forties.
“If Ness is doing the dirty, you could always get some of your own with Ryan there,” Suzette whispered with a salacious smirk.
“Eww.” Angie wrinkled her nose, and Suzette laughed. “I have a husband, thank you, and I'm going home to have dinner with him.”
“Uh-huh. You keep an eye on that man of yours.”
Angie turned to glare at her screen one last time, saved her program, and shut her computer off before turning back to her coworker. “Seriously, everything is fine.” At an instinctive level, she trusted Ness, and he made her enormously happy. She had no doubts that his commitment to their marriage matched hers. Of course, if she ever did discover he was sleeping around, she would skin him alive.
Tonight, I’ll probably just strip his clothes off. Her nerves tingled with a happy thrill in anticipation, and she left for home with a wave and a grin for her friend. She had no room for doubt and suspicion, at least not that night. She would worry about their future later. After all, they had plenty of time.
CHAPTER THREE: Happiness and Sadness
Tuesday, June 8, 2010, 5:10 p.m.
Those walking on the streets had no idea they were being watched. Any random act might be caught for perpetuity without consent or notice. No animosity was in the recording of those images, nor any agenda to concern those passing by. The photographer pursued the art for his enjoyment, and his subjects never considered looking up to catch a glimpse of the lens.
Late-afternoon sunlight slanted over the rooftops, the buildings nearly silhouetted against the orange sky. Shutter clicks overlaid the sounds of traffic and conversation rising from the street. Ness looked from behind his camera for his next shot. He loved that time of year, when the warm temperatures pulled him out to the balcony with his camera in hand. Ness usually had a few shots left on his last roll of film from the crime scene, and instead of wasting them, he would go out there and shoot whatever looked interesting. He had hundreds of photos of the Royal Oak skyline and sidewalks. The endless streams of people gave him an unlimited supply of fresh images.
He scanned the sidewalk through his zoom lens and saw a motorcycle gang member with graying hair and a gut rivaling many an expectant mother’s. The biker's leather vest left his muscular arms bare, and a rose was tattooed on his left shoulder with the name Muffy above it. Ness grinned, and the shutter clicked again.
Next, he spotted a couple of emo teens with dark mascara and grim looks. One of them said something, and the other laughed. For an instant, their faces were transformed by humor as they shared the joke, before the teens remembered their personas and donned their dour countenances again. But the return of those expressions came too late, as his camera had already captured their break in character.
Ness’s eyes roved over the crowd, sliding past parked cars and sluggish traffic. The streets were busy, and most of the parking spots were full. He briefly noticed a white van parked near the corner, but a brown ponytail bobbing in a familiar fashion caught his attention. Ness zoomed in a bit tighter. Angie was as magnificent as always, and he loved shooting her as she strolled unaware along the street. The camera clicked and whirred, exposing frame after frame. She stopped and looked up, as if she could detect his gaze. Seeing him at his usual perch on the balcony, Angie gave him a big grin.
He lowered the camera and beamed back, entirely captivated by her, though a part of
him had only known her for the last two years. She lifted her right hand with the index finger extended beside her face then brought it diagonally across her body to grasp it in the palm of her left hand. The gesture had special meaning for them, a way for them to express their love without words. He returned it to her, his heart full of the emotion that made it a part of their special communication.
Angie's younger sister had been born deaf. Her family did not let that difference define her, and Amy had learned to find her place in the world without hearing. She was a delightful woman, and Ness considered himself fortunate to call her his sister-in-law. Early in his relationship with Angie, he’d learned American Sign Language to communicate with Amy as Angie's family did.
A couple of years into their marriage, Ness had been waiting for Angie in a mall, sitting with the other husbands on the benches, when he spotted her among the throng of shoppers, and his heart became insufficient to contain a nearly overwhelming surge of emotion. His contemplations ranged from joy at her presence in his life, disbelief that she had chosen him as her partner, and certainty that they belonged together. Ness held on to the last, firm in his faith that they were made for each other. He needed some way to express his emotions, so his hands made the sign for “belief” almost on their own. That resulted in a confused look from Angie.
On the way home from the mall, Angie had queried him about the sign, and he tried to explain the whirl of emotions he had experienced: his belief in her as a person, a friend, a wife, and in their relationship and future together. The overwhelming need to express what the totality of having her in his life meant had led him to such a gesture of affirmation and love.
Angie had been quiet for a long time, and after a couple of minutes, he asked if she was all right. She turned to him with tears in her eyes and a smile on her lips. Seeming unable to speak, she made the same sign to him. It became their private signal to each other, a silent expression of their love and trust that no one else would appreciate.
The memory warmed him as she arrived at the corner and waited to cross the street. As long as Angie remained with him, he could deal with whatever their lives’ journeys brought. With her, he was whole, and nothing could shake him.
The light changed, and Angie stepped into the road. Only partway across, she suddenly whirled to the left and crumpled to the asphalt. Ness initially believed she had tripped on something, but he recognized an echoing sound as gunfire a split second later. Angie lay in the road with blood seeping from her body in a growing puddle. She had been shot.
Without conscious deliberation, Ness ran through the apartment. He launched himself out the door and toward the stairs, cognizant only of the sound of his heartbeat and his aching need to get to Angie. Frantic, he pelted down flight after flight.
After what felt like an impossible amount of time, he slammed though the lobby door and ran into the road, heedless of traffic, which had stopped because of the group surrounding his wife.
He broke through the ring of bodies to find her lying on her back with blood soaking her shirt. A small portion of his mind remained professional, and he noted that the bullet had impacted in the center of her chest but missed the heart. As he fell to his knees beside her, that same part of his brain informed him that it was still a fatal wound. He stroked her cheek as her blood soaked into his pants. Her eyes opened and locked onto his.
“Oh God,” Ness gasped, half in prayer, half in shock. “Oh God. Angie.” He stroked her hair.
“Ness,” she said faintly, tears flowing from her eyes, “hold me.”
Though he hesitated, not wanting to cause her additional pain, the detached, rational part of his mind told him it would not matter. He carefully gathered her in his arms, lifting her upper body from the ground. A fresh gout of blood seeped from the wound, and she gasped in pain. He held her to him, and blood from the exit wound soaked his sleeves. Afraid of hurting Angie further, he held her close and tried not to move. Tears dripped from his chin as she coughed, spattering his shirt with more blood.
Angie tried to smile at him. “I love you, Ness,” she said faintly, ending in a gasping whisper.
Ness watched her final exhalation with disbelief, waiting for her to take another lungful of air. A torturous handful of seconds passed as her chest remained still. The confused part of him contemplated briefly why she was holding her breath, but as the seconds ticked away, it became clear Angie was gone.
Clutching his wife’s body, he cried for her loss, heedless of the gore covering his clothing and the bystanders witnessing his grief. Ness could only hold the remains of his love as emotions ripped him apart, and he would never, ever be whole again.
* * *
The key, unconcerned with the turmoil of its owner, slid into the lock smoothly. The doorknob turned with carefree ease, and the hinges allowed the door to swing wide without hesitation. By comparison, Ness grappled with anguish and distress in a struggle destined to destroy his soul. He stood on the threshold and listened to the quiet briefly before crossing inside. When he closed the door behind him, it boomed with the finality of a crypt. With sad eyes, he regarded the empty apartment. Though he had memories of the time he had spent there as a bachelor, the space had never felt so empty before. He sought out the differences Angie had made to the decor. The touches were a revelation of her life there with him. He took in each one hungrily, as if he could draw sustenance from the reminders of Angie's presence.
Ness turned on the light and shuffled toward the bedroom, drawing his shirt over his head. His clothes had been soaked in blood, so the hospital staff had given him a set of pale-green scrubs to wear. His gruesome garments were put in a plastic bag so he could take them home for cleaning, but he’d thrown the whole bundle in the trash. He had washed his arms and face in a cold, sterile bathroom to remove the worst of the evidence of Angie's death before waiting in a consultation room for the police to arrive.
In the bedroom, he kicked off his shoes and stripped off the rest of his clothes. His knees and shins bore a crust of dried blood. Tendrils of the fluid had run along his leg to settle at the base of his feet. He pulled off the stained socks and threw them into the trash before walking naked to the bathroom. Ness turned on the shower, and when steam billowed out from behind the curtain, he stepped into the scalding stream. The water nearly seared the flesh from his body, much as the events of the evening had scorched his heart. He stood under the flow, and red water sluiced toward the drain. Ness closed his eyes, reliving events at the hospital.
When the police had finally arrived, Ness saw a familiar face. It was someone he worked with occasionally, a Detective Blaque. He shook Ness's hand and requested his account of what had happened. The professional side of Ness’s brain had been observing and cataloging during the unimaginable scene on the street, and his emotional side slid into the background as he recounted this story, not gone but muted.
He told the detective about seeing Angie on the sidewalk, the sound of the shot, how she had spun to the ground, and his mad dash to hold her. In his most professional manner, he related his observations of the wound and her death. Detective Blaque took copious notes, and when Ness had finished, many questions followed, such as whether she had any enemies or was having problems at work. Ness said no to both and that Angie’s boss thought the world of her, and she enjoyed her work.
The detective moved on to the shooting, and he asked why she had been on foot. Ness replied that her office was not far from downtown and she enjoyed walking there. When Detective Blaque asked about boyfriends, Ness’s reaction had been instantly and vehemently in the negative. Then Ness remembered that a man she worked with had a crush on her, Ryan... something. Then the detective asked which way she had spun.
For a second, Ness could only blink at the question, but his professional side understood. The answer was important.
Which way did she spin?
The horrific scene played in his head once again, as it had about a million times before, but he hunted for th
at specific detail. “To her left.”
Ness remembered their exchange as the water cascaded from his body, rinsing away blood, sweat, and the residue of tears, leaving only the hurt behind.
As the detective had prepared to leave, Ness had asked a favor. He wanted to see her again, as she truly was, before a mortician took her body and tried to recreate who she had been. Ness wanted to see the true vision of his wife one last time. Since they had worked together before, the detective pulled a few strings.
Blaque led Ness to the morgue in the basement of Beaumont Hospital. Her body lay on a gurney in an identification room, covered to her neck by a sheet. The detective left him alone, and he stood gazing at her face for several minutes.
A corpse is always bad news, Ness mused, as he had only a few hours ago. But this time it's my bad news.
Someone had tried to wipe the blood from her face, but a few small streaks remained. He did not mind. It was her blood, and the sight of such things had long since stopped bothering him anyway. With her eyes closed, she might have been asleep except for her extreme paleness, but her chest failed to rise and fall, shattering the illusion. Ness stroked her cheek with his fingertips as his tears fell along a similar path. He leaned over and gave her a long kiss on the forehead.
“Goodbye, Angie,” Ness said in a choked whisper before leaving the cold room.
He’d kept his emotions in check as he thanked Detective Blaque, left the hospital, and took a cab home. Only once Ness was alone in the shower did he allow his grief to release, and it overtook him. Huge sobs escaped, as if they had grown more intense during the time they had been suppressed. The cascading water erased the evidence of his tears, but they burned an indelible path in his soul. He was diminished, a fraction of what he once had been.
When Ness’s grief was spent, if only temporarily, he left the shower, as bright as a steamed lobster. After dressing in clean clothes, he shambled back to the living room to sit on the couch. What now?