nicked by police crossfire. It wasn’t by me, but they take my gun anyway; standard operating procedure so ballistics can rule out my bullets as the lethal ones. I’m too numb to argue. My phone rings, and I excuse myself for a minute.
“Jack, it’s an emergency.” Mom sounds frazzled. “You need to come home.”
“Mom? Are you okay? What’s going on?”
I’m talking to a dead line. I call back. Get the machine. Call again, get the same results. Try Latham once more, go directly to voice mail.
What the hell?
“I need to check on my partner,” I tell the IA guys. Then I catch up with Herb as two paramedics assist him into the ambulance. The assistance involves a lot of lifting and grunting.
“I need a favor, Herb.”
“No problem. I’ll make a copy for you.” He taps his jacket pocket, which held the Kingston Trio CD. “And yes, it’s got ‘Tom Dooley’ on it.”
I lean closer. “I need you to cover for me, for a few hours. The deputy chief wants answers. The Feds are coming, probably to compare this to every other sniper incident in the past seven hundred years. Plus I’m going to have to tell the same story again for IA.”
“Are you going to tell them I stole folk rock?”
“No. I’m going to tell them to talk to you first. I just got a weird call from my mother, and something’s not right. I have to run home. And as you’re well aware…”
Herb finishes for me. “You live in the suburbs, even though you’d be fired if they found out, and even though there were many perfectly nice single-family homes in my neighborhood.”
“I’ll be two and a half hours, tops. Just make sure they don’t go to my old apartment.”
Because then they’ll know I don’t live in the city anymore.
“Take three hours,” Herb says. “I use a lot of adjectives when I tell stories.”
I pat his shoulder. “Thanks, Herb. Good luck with those stitches.”
“If my wife asks, I didn’t get shot. Tell her I was bitten by a monkey.”
“Sure. She’ll buy that.”
“She’s terrified of monkeys.”
“Wouldn’t a dog be more realistic?”
“She loves dogs. If it’s a monkey, I’ll get sympathy sex.”
I speak to the deputy chief and inform him I have a family emergency, but he can debrief my partner at the hospital. I promise I’ll be back within an hour. Which is an outright lie, because I live an hour away.
During the ride to the suburbs I obsess about my mother. If something happened to her, why hasn’t Latham called? Or perhaps the emergency has to do with Latham, and Mom is too shocked to go into details.
I’m overwhelmed by mental snapshots of death: car accidents, strokes, heart attacks, earthquakes, floods. Are they en route to the ER? Is that why they couldn’t pick up the phone? It can’t be a fire, because the answering machine keeps going on – a fire would destroy the line.
Is it something to do with my father? Mom never forgave Dad for leaving us, and while I’ve been trying to rebuild a relationship with him, she refuses to acknowledge his existence. Maybe Dad had shown up at my house, which would cause Mom to go supernova.
Or is this something more insidious?
I look at my cell, find the call from the Heathrow Facility. The caller ID indeed reads
HEATHROW
, but maybe that can be faked. I dial 411, get the same number, and let them patch me through. I speak to three different people, all of whom confirm that Alexandra Kork is dead as dead can be.
Okay. I’m being paranoid. Even if Alex were alive – and she isn’t – she still didn’t know where I live.
Maybe Mom saw the sniper shootings on television and is simply worried about me. Not picking up the phone is a guarantee I’ll rush home.
Or maybe Latham has some sort of surprise planned. I think of the mariachi band he hired when he proposed, and a smile breaks through my mask of worry. He truly is a sweetheart.
I get off the expressway on Route 20, heading for York Road. What ever the emergency is,
“Jack, it’s an emergency.” Mom sounds frazzled. “You need to come home.”
“Mom? Are you okay? What’s going on?”
I’m talking to a dead line. I call back. Get the machine. Call again, get the same results. Try Latham once more, go directly to voice mail.
What the hell?
“I need to check on my partner,” I tell the IA guys. Then I catch up with Herb as two paramedics assist him into the ambulance. The assistance involves a lot of lifting and grunting.
“I need a favor, Herb.”
“No problem. I’ll make a copy for you.” He taps his jacket pocket, which held the Kingston Trio CD. “And yes, it’s got ‘Tom Dooley’ on it.”
I lean closer. “I need you to cover for me, for a few hours. The deputy chief wants answers. The Feds are coming, probably to compare this to every other sniper incident in the past seven hundred years. Plus I’m going to have to tell the same story again for IA.”
“Are you going to tell them I stole folk rock?”
“No. I’m going to tell them to talk to you first. I just got a weird call from my mother, and something’s not right. I have to run home. And as you’re well aware…”
Herb finishes for me. “You live in the suburbs, even though you’d be fired if they found out, and even though there were many perfectly nice single-family homes in my neighborhood.”
“I’ll be two and a half hours, tops. Just make sure they don’t go to my old apartment.”
Because then they’ll know I don’t live in the city anymore.
“Take three hours,” Herb says. “I use a lot of adjectives when I tell stories.”
I pat his shoulder. “Thanks, Herb. Good luck with those stitches.”
“If my wife asks, I didn’t get shot. Tell her I was bitten by a monkey.”
“Sure. She’ll buy that.”
“She’s terrified of monkeys.”
“Wouldn’t a dog be more realistic?”
“She loves dogs. If it’s a monkey, I’ll get sympathy sex.”
I speak to the deputy chief and inform him I have a family emergency, but he can debrief my partner at the hospital. I promise I’ll be back within an hour. Which is an outright lie, because I live an hour away.
During the ride to the suburbs I obsess about my mother. If something happened to her, why hasn’t Latham called? Or perhaps the emergency has to do with Latham, and Mom is too shocked to go into details.
I’m overwhelmed by mental snapshots of death: car accidents, strokes, heart attacks, earthquakes, floods. Are they en route to the ER? Is that why they couldn’t pick up the phone? It can’t be a fire, because the answering machine keeps going on – a fire would destroy the line.
Is it something to do with my father? Mom never forgave Dad for leaving us, and while I’ve been trying to rebuild a relationship with him, she refuses to acknowledge his existence. Maybe Dad had shown up at my house, which would cause Mom to go supernova.
Or is this something more insidious?
I look at my cell, find the call from the Heathrow Facility. The caller ID indeed reads
HEATHROW
, but maybe that can be faked. I dial 411, get the same number, and let them patch me through. I speak to three different people, all of whom confirm that Alexandra Kork is dead as dead can be.
Okay. I’m being paranoid. Even if Alex were alive – and she isn’t – she still didn’t know where I live.
Maybe Mom saw the sniper shootings on television and is simply worried about me. Not picking up the phone is a guarantee I’ll rush home.
Or maybe Latham has some sort of surprise planned. I think of the mariachi band he hired when he proposed, and a smile breaks through my mask of worry. He truly is a sweetheart.
I get off the expressway on Route 20, heading for York Road. What ever the emergency is,
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