Target on Our Backs

by J. M. Darhower

  Blood covers my hands and it smears all over my phone. I can't get the fingerprint authentication to work to open it, and the fucking numbers just don't want to work. Why won't they work? I punch them frantically but it keeps saying it's wrong, they're wrong, so I hit the 'emergency call' button.

  Because this?

  This is an emergency if I've ever seen one.

  The blaring of an old, familiar pop song rouses me from my nap. The second I hear it, I jolt upright, startled. Poison. Bell Biv DeVoe. Groaning, I dig around in my pockets.

  The ringtone's a lot better than the last one, but I'm already sick of hearing it.

  Grabbing the phone, I pull it out and glance at the screen, sighing. Karissa.

  I hit the button to answer the call. "Why aren't you home yet? I'm starting to get lonely here."

  Silence. Sniffling.

  Men are talking in the background.

  There's a siren in the distance.

  I hear a police radio.

  Shit.

  "Karissa?" Panic brews inside of me. "Answer me, sweetheart."

  There's a ruffling, the phone moving, before a voice breaks in. "Mr. Vitale?"

  "Yes," I say. "Who the fuck is this?"

  "Detective Jameson," he says, "with the NYPD—"

  "Homicide division. I know. Why do you have my wife's phone?"

  I can feel it, can feel it pecking at my core, the anger, the devastation, the goddamn fear.

  No. No. No.

  "I just want to notify you that there was an incident this evening—"

  "Don't do it," I say, my voice cracking, interrupting him.

  Don't you do it.

  Don't you say it.

  Don't make a notification over the phone.

  Don't make a notification, period, because I refuse to believe you need to notify me about anything. Tell me this is all a mistake, tell me you just happened upon her phone, but don't you tell me the one thing… the one fucking thing… a homicide detective would notify someone for.

  "Don't tell me something happened to her," I say, "not unless you want the world to burn."

  He hesitates.

  He knows I mean it.

  He's dealt with me enough.

  He made the notification twenty years ago in the hospital.

  Showed up in that room, as I lay in that bed, and told me Maria was gone.

  I knew it already then, knew I lost her.

  But I refuse to believe that will ever happen again.

  I refuse to let it.

  "Your wife's being seen by a medic right now, but she seems to be just fine," he says. "As I said, though, there was an incident, and she asked that you be notified."

  "Where are you?"

  "Well, we're at Corlears Hook Park but—"

  I don't let him finish, hanging up and shoving my phone in my pocket before running out the door. Corlears Hook. What the hell was she doing there? It's not near NYU. It's not on her path home. It's nowhere she should've been.

  Traffic is a mess.

  A nightmare.

  I speed around cars, cutting through lanes and running red lights, even driving the wrong direction, all in the name of getting there faster. I sideswipe a parked car but keep going, cursing under my breath, hoping nobody got my license plate number for it. For most, it would be nothing more than a fine, a slap on the wrist, but they'd find a way to send my ass upstate for life for it.

  Corlears Hook Park runs along the shoreline. It's a small park, compared to some of the others in the city, so it isn't hard to find where I need to be. Dozens of cop cars surround the area, lights on, a section quartered off by crime scene tape. I pull my car up toward the entrance, jumping the curb and just leaving it there.

  They're lucky I bother to shut the damn thing off.

  "Sir? Sir! That's not a parking spot!"

  "Tow it, then," I say, walking right past him, grabbing the police tape and ducking under it, heading right for the crime scene. I can see an ambulance not far from me, near a small concrete building. The officer tries to stop me, grabbing my arm, but I yank away from him, continuing on.

  He radios for help. I hear him, desperately shrieking that someone's entered the perimeter, and I see others turning their focus my direction, like they're about to come after me. Detective Jameson steps around the side of the building then, directly in my line of sight, right in my path, and calls them down. "It's fine, gentlemen. He's the victim's husband."

  Victim.

  "Where is she?" I ask.

  "Like I said, she's fine." He motions toward the ambulances. I can make out two, which tells me she wasn't the only victim here. "She's still being seen."

  I walk right past him, but he jumps in front of me, in my path. "Wait."

  "So help me God, Jameson, don't try to stop me from seeing her."

  He holds his hands up defensively. "I'm not. I'm only asking you go that way."

  He points the long way, around the other side of the building, and I start to argue, but I get it. If I keep going, I'm going to trample right through his crime scene, and he still pretends to care about integrity and justice.

  So I do it, this small concession, because he's well within his right to throw me to the ground and arrest me right now for interfering, and I've got more important things to worry about.

  The first ambulance is locked up tight, the lights off. The one right beside it is wide open, officers surrounding it. Dead center, standing in front of the back door is Jameson's partner, Andrews. I can't see Karissa past all the cops and medics, but I'm guessing that's where I'll find here, so I head right there.

  They part when they see me coming, like they're afraid of what I'll do if they don't. They all move out of my way except for Andrews, but it doesn't matter, because I shove right past him. The moment he moves, the moment I get a good look at the ambulance, my heart drops right to my fucking toes.

  She's sitting there with her feet dangling, a dazed look on her face. Blood stains her clothes. Her hair's even matted with it, but I don't think it's hers. Thank God it isn't hers. There's a bandage on her cheek, and her eyes are bloodshot as they seek me out.

  The moment she sees me, she closes her eyes.

  She closes them, and breathes deeply, like she's overwhelmed with relief.

  I don't hesitate. I grab her. I yank her off the back of the ambulance and pull her right into my arms. Her feet can't touch the ground, and I'm probably going to break her back with as hard as I'm squeezing, but I can't help it. Because I feel it, the relief she's feeling. I feel the deep breath she took. I feel it in my soul.

  She starts sobbing as she nuzzles into my neck, clinging to me right back.

  "It's okay," I whisper. "Just keep breathing and you'll be all right."

  "Mr. Vitale?" Andrews chimes in. "If you don't mind, we still have a few questions for your, uh… wife."

  "Does she look like she's in any condition to answer your questions?"

  Karissa pushes away from me, and I loosen my hold, setting her on her feet.

  "It's okay," she says, her voice strained as she tries to pull herself together. She wipes her tears away with the back of her hand, grimacing as it tugs on the bandage. "It's fine. I just… I don't know what else I can tell you. I was in the cab, I was taking it home from school, and I wasn't really paying attention… next thing I know, we're going the wrong direction, and a car is following us. He came here; I don't know why… to hide, maybe? But there they were, and here we are, and there he is, and here I am."

  I glance over toward the building, seeing the yellow cab, windows busted out with blood surrounding it. A body lays on the ground beside it, covered in a sheet, the crisp white material soaked with red.

  "And the other deceased gentleman?" Andrews asks. "Where did he come from?"

  "Other guy?" I chime in. "What other guy?"

  "The cab driver is still in the car," Andrews offers. "The second was found deceased beside the cab when we arrived."

  Karissa's e
yes dart my way nervously. "He was one of them… one of the guys following us. There were five of them, maybe six. I'm not sure. He pulled me out of the back of the cab, and he had a gun to me, and I thought he was going to shoot me." She lets out a cry, but holds her hands up to stop me when I try to pull her into my arms again. "No, it's okay, I'm okay… he had me and then he said something to another guy, something about it not being a problem, it being easy, and then the guy shot him. He just shot him!"

  "So his own friend shot him," Andrews says, jotting that down. "Why would he do that?"

  "How's she supposed to know?" I ask. "She's not psychic."

  "How about you let her answer, Vitale."

  I step toward him. "How about you stop interrogating her while she's distraught."

  "And how about you don't tell me how to do my job."

  "Your job is to get justice, not traumatize women… unless, of course, you get off on that sort of thing."

  He doesn't like that. His cheek twitches, eyes glazing over with anger. "You want to talk to me about traumatizing people? Let's talk about the things you've done! In fact, it wouldn't surprise me a bit if you were involved in this!"

  "Me?" I glare at him, raising my voice. "You think I'd do this? That I'd hurt my own wife? I'd never."

  "How am I supposed to know?" he asks, throwing my words right back at me. "Not a psychic."

  I almost swing.

  I almost hit him.

  If Karissa weren't standing between us, I would.

  "Guys, guys... can't we all just get along here?" Jameson asks, coming around the side of the building, approaching the ambulance.

  Andrews mutters something, something I can't make out.

  "What was that?" I ask him. "Couldn't quite hear you."

  "I said we'll get along when your ass is finally behind bars." He closes his notebook, shoving it in his coat pocket. "Your wife, too, if she's withholding evidence."

  "Relax," Jameson says, slapping his partner on the back. "I'm sure she has told us everything she knows. Isn't that right, Mrs. Vitale?"

  "Yes," Karissa says quietly. "There's nothing else I can say."

  "So is she free to go?" I ask, "or is your partner going to hound her some more?"

  "She actually needs to be transferred to the hospital," Jameson says. "Tried to send her earlier, but she was insistent we wait for you."

  "The hospital?" I look her over. "Are you feeling all right?"

  "Yeah, I, ugh..." She makes a face, motioning to herself. "Body fluids all over me. They need to collect them. Evidence or whatever."

  Ah.

  "Which you're contaminating," Andrews says.

  "Also," Jameson interjects, "it's always better to be safe than sorry. They'll want to run some tests, maybe give her some booster shots, just to be safe."

  I appreciate Jameson trying to keep the peace.

  Appreciate him cutting in.

  Because if his partner keeps running his mouth, Karissa won't be the only one visiting the hospital.

  "Can I take her," I ask, "or do you have to?"

  "You can take her in," Jameson says. "Lower Manhattan... I'll meet you there."

  Andrews starts to object. "But—"

  "Like you said, it's already been contaminated," Jameson says. "She'll be more comfortable going in with him."

  I don't waste any time getting her out of there. I don't want to risk Jameson changing his mind and deciding to be a dick.

  "You okay to walk?" I ask quietly, taking Karissa's hand.

  "Sure," she says, even though she doesn't sound sure, but I'm going to take her at her word. I lead her around the side of the building, and she almost keeps in step with me as we approach my car, still parked on the curb. "Um, Naz?"

  "Yeah, sweetheart?"

  "What happened to your shoes?"

  I glance down at my feet... at my black socks. "I wasn't wearing any when they called."

  "So you just came in your bare feet?"

  "I'm wearing socks."

  "Uh... okay. I've just... never really seen you without shoes like this before."

  I pause beside my car, opening the passenger door for her. "Yeah, well, when I get a call from a homicide detective wanting to notify me about something happening to my wife, shoes aren't really what's on my mind."

  The color drains from her face.

  Whatever color she had left, anyway.

  "I didn't think," she says. "I didn't want you to think..."

  "But I did," I tell her, "and you could've been. Jesus Christ, Karissa... how many times have I told you not to take a cab from the city? How many times? Too many. But you didn't listen. Why couldn't you have just listened?"

  "I did." Her voice cracks as tears fill her eyes. I shouldn't be yelling at her, not now, not here, but fuck, this is serious. She could've died. "I called for a car but they were too busy, and the cab was there, so I didn't think it was a problem. I thought you were just being paranoid."

  "And yet here we are," I say. "A double homicide, in broad daylight, with you caught in the middle of it."

  She starts crying, the tears breaking free, streaming down her cheeks as she looks away from me.

  My chest tightens, and I'm nauseated from the anger and adrenaline overdose in my system. "Don't cry, okay? You're okay. We're okay. I just need you to understand how serious this is."

  I motion to the open door of the car, and wordlessly, she climbs in. I close it, walking around to the driver's side, starting the car up and pulling it back off the curb.

  She's quiet for a moment, staring out the side window, as I head the direction of the hospital. She waits until I pull into the parking lot, the car coming to a stop, before she lets out a deep sigh. "He said he knew my parents."

  Her voice is so low I barely understand what she's saying, but I get it. She's telling me what she didn't tell the detectives. "Your parents."

  She nods.

  Huh.

  "Did he say anything else?"

  "Just to tell you that he sends his regards."

  The moment she says that, I know.

  I know.

  I know who did it, who attacked them, who damn near put my wife in a grave this afternoon. "Lorenzo."

  "You know him," she says, or asks... I'm not sure. I guess it's a logical conclusion, if he knew her parents…

  "Come on," I say. "Let's get you checked out."

  Usually people can wait around hours at the emergency room to be seen, but Jameson must've called ahead, because the second they lay eyes on Karissa, they know who she is.

  They know what happened.

  They know why she's here.

  They jump into procedure, whisking her into the back to clean her up and run some tests. Time passes as I sit in the waiting room, stewing. That son of a bitch made a big mistake. He messed with the wrong person. He should've known better. I could look the other way when he attacked my father's business, and when he attacked other people, but my wife?

  He knew she was off limits.

  He fucking knew it.

  Jameson shows up eventually, but he doesn't stay long, heading to the back and returning with a paper bag full of what I assume are Karissa's clothes. He approaches me carefully, pausing out of arm's reach. I'm angry, fuming, and I think he can tell it.

  "We're going to—"

  He starts to talk, but I cut him off. "Don't tell me you're going to catch whoever did this, because I know better, Jameson. You didn't catch them last time. You won't do it now."

  He pauses, frowning, before speaking again. "I was going to say, we're going to need her to come down to the station when she gets the chance to make an official statement."

  I nod. "Our lawyer will be in touch."

  He leaves then.

  Leaves me alone.

  Alone to stew some more.

  To let my anger flourish.

  I'm damn near jumping out of my own skin, too anxious to just sit here, waiting.

  Standing up, I walk over to the desk,
to the nurse in charge of this place. "Look, any chance I can go check on my wife? She's been back there for a while."

  She looks torn and picks up the phone to make a call, asking whoever answers if it was fine if I was allowed back. She buzzes me through then, offering a sympathetic smile. "Down the hall, take the first left, and it'll be the second door on the right. They're just finishing up."

  I follow her directions, and approach the door just as the doctor exists. He glances at me before averting his eyes, grumbling a greeting as he hurries past.

  I don't bother to knock, instead walking right in. Karissa doesn't even look up when I enter. The nurse is finishing whatever she's doing and glances my way before turning to leave. "We're done here, so you're free to leave. We'll call in that prescription for you."

  Karissa mouths the words 'thank you' but I certainly don't hear it. She's pale, almost ghostly white. It's like she's trapped in her own world.

  "Prescription?" I ask. "Is there a problem?"

  She shakes her head. "It's just a vitamin or whatever. I told them I hadn't been feeling well. The doctor thought... well, I mean, said I should take something."

  Vitamins.

  After what she went through, that's the least of our worries. "Otherwise?"

  "I'm okay. They'll probably have to run more tests later, just in case, but he assured me everything was fine. Got a few shots, and you know... a pair of these."

  She motions down at herself.

  She's wearing some oversize paper scrubs, flimsy plastic looking things. Guess they're tired of people stealing their real ones. "I can almost see through them."

  "Yeah, well, the alternative was the backless gown."

  She stares at the floor.

  Something's wrong.

  I can sense it.

  She won't even look at me.

  "What's wrong?"

  "You're angry."

  I pause. "Is that what's wrong?"

  "Just an observation."

  I walk over to her, cupping her chin, tilting her face so she'll look up at me. Her eyes look all around me for a moment before finally meeting my gaze. Sadness, along with a healthy dose of fear. That's what greets me.

  I hate it.

  She should be happy.

  She certainly deserves it.

  This was supposed to be her happy ending.