Out of Nowhere, page 11
He breathed in deeply, exhaled slowly. “What I don’t want to do is pretend to you that everything is back to normal and that I’m all right, when I’m not. I can’t…” He looked around at the atmospheric setting she’d created and spread his arms wide. “This is great, but I can’t enjoy it. I can’t enjoy anything right now.”
“You could if you would allow yourself to. God forbid that you resume your life, our life. And heaven help you if you actually enjoyed it. If you did, think of all the guilt you’d have to bear.”
“Yes. I would. You’re finally getting it.”
She deflated, folded her arms across her middle, and looked down at the floor. “I appreciate your honesty at least. Survivor’s guilt is a thing. It was the topic of one of my post-shooting reports. I interviewed that psychologist at the hospital. You should talk to someone about how to get over it.”
“I did.”
She raised her head and looked at him with surprise.
“I went to Dr. Sinclair’s group therapy session today. I didn’t talk. I listened. Believe me, you and I aren’t the only ones grappling with all this. Everyone there is finding it hard to get back on track.”
“Maybe I should go with you to one of the sessions.”
She’d offered with sincerity, but he almost laughed out loud. He couldn’t envision her in the midst of that bereaved group. Besides, he wouldn’t trust her not to be calculating which of them would make the best human-interest story. As someone was pouring their heart out, she would be thinking Emmy.
He said, “Thanks for the offer, but I’m not going back.”
“Truthfully, I don’t think you belong there, either. You’re nothing like the rest of those people.”
“Right. I felt conspicuous.” That was a straight answer. Almost everything else he’d said since coming through the front door had been an equivocation. Feeling guilty over that, he reached for her hand. “You do look great tonight. I still think that outfit is hot, even if you don’t like it.”
“What about the perfume?”
“Tough one. It’s a toss-up between it and the lasagna.”
Encouraged, she smiled. “Why don’t you relax and have a glass of that wonderful wine while I fix our dinner plates?”
It was an olive branch that he didn’t have the heart to reject. “Deal.”
While they ate, she talked about a plum investigative report she’d been assigned, then went on to describe a trip to Italy she wanted the two of them to take.
“I’ve been reading about this fabulous place, an ancient monastery or winery or something. Anyway, a nobleman from somewhere, who has tons of money, bought it and has converted it into a boutique hotel. I was thinking we could go after you wrap up the job in Seattle. How long do you think that will take?”
“I canceled it.”
She had passed on the lasagna and was eating only salad. With that unexpected announcement, she set her fork on her plate and looked at him with bewilderment. “When?”
“A couple of weeks ago.”
“Why?”
“The management was getting antsy for me to start. I couldn’t go to Seattle until I finished PT. I did what I felt was the honorable thing and gave them an easy out by advising they get someone else. I even recommended a few candidates.”
“Calder—”
Before she could say more, his cell phone rang. Seeing the name in the LED, he answered immediately. “Detective Compton?”
“Is this a good time?”
“Hold on. I’ll be right with you.” He pushed back his chair and stood. “Leave the dishes. I’ll clean up after I take this.”
Her expression hard-set, she reached for her glass of wine. “Don’t worry about it.”
Since his release from the hospital, he’d been camped in the guest bedroom. He went in and closed the door, sat down on the end of the bed, and put the phone to his ear. “I’m here. Do you have news?”
“I wish I could tell you that we have our suspect in custody, but unfortunately that’s not the case. Perkins and I would like to talk to you tomorrow.”
“About what?”
“I’d rather not go into it over the phone. Would four o’clock be a convenient time?”
“Same place as before?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll be there.”
He was about to disconnect when she asked, “How are you getting along, Mr. Hudson?”
“I’m doing okay.”
She hesitated, as though knowing he was lying and was about to address that. Instead, she ended with a terse “See you tomorrow.”
The shower in the guest bath didn’t have all the directional showerheads and gewgaws as the one in the master, but he stayed in it for a long time.
From the shower, he went straight to bed and turned out the light. When Shauna tapped on the door and spoke his name, he didn’t answer, pretending to already be asleep.
He heard the master bedroom door close and knew that she would soon be propped up in bed with her phone and laptop, avidly scanning every venue of social media, on the lookout for a breaking story.
Her nonstop drive had been one of the qualities that first attracted him to her. Second only to her tousled-blonde-knockout looks, of course. They had met at an engagement party for mutual acquaintances. Their chemistry had been immediate and fiery. They’d dated for six months before deciding to take the next step and move in together.
He’d known exactly what he was signing on for. Shauna was ambitious, vain, and self-centered. But he was like that, too, if not more so. That was why the relationship had worked so well. In any given situation, be it sex or choosing a sandwich condiment, each had known what to expect from the other. What he was now feeling—or not feeling—wasn’t her fault. She hadn’t changed—he had. He didn’t blame her. He wasn’t angry with her.
He was indifferent.
Which was worse. What she was sensing from him was apathy.
There was a basis for every slight she’d accused him of tonight. Most of the excuses that he’d offered up had been not only weak but flat-out lies.
When he’d come in tonight, he hadn’t been tired. He’d been despondent because he’d had to say goodbye to Elle.
He’d told Shauna he couldn’t enjoy anything, but he’d enjoyed that hour spent with Elle. Most of the subjects they’d talked about had been somber, soul-searing, heart-wrenching, but in her company he’d felt a peacefulness that he hadn’t experienced since the shooting.
No, even before the shooting, neither he nor his life could be described as peaceful. Had he ever felt content? Rarely, if ever. He’d always been in a rush to get somewhere, to start this or finish that. He’d been the go-to man, the problem solver, the whiz kid with all the answers, on call and in charge.
The shooter hadn’t cut down that Calder Hudson, but the experience had. It had humbled him. Shauna couldn’t accept that. She certainly wouldn’t want to hear that he didn’t want to return to being that guy.
He thought Elle would understand. She wouldn’t badger him to return to normal. She wouldn’t try to accelerate his recovery. She would be empathetic.
Or, that was, she would have been before tonight. Now, though, he wasn’t sure what she thought of him.
Because when he’d released her from his embrace, she’d looked stunned, a little apprehensive, a lot confused. Without a word, she’d climbed quickly into her car, pulled the door shut, and had driven away as though the devil were chasing her.
He’d had no business kissing her. Not that it had been a real kiss. After whispering against her hairline, he’d kept his lips there, that’s all. Only to demonstrate his earnestness. They may have been parted a little, but a guy had to breathe, and he’d kept them in place and unmoving. Not for very long, either. Just perhaps long enough for it to have felt like a kiss. Long enough for him to want nothing more than to relocate his lips to hers, which he’d been obsessing over since she’d taken her first sip of coffee. He was almost certain that they were as soft as they were pink and full and that when they separated invitingly, his tongue would discover that her mouth was luscious.
“Jesus.” He reached behind his head and drew his pillow over his face to stifle a groan.
He’d told Shauna the truth about one thing: He could still get it up.
Chapter 14
Shauna was in her cubicle in the warren of the newsroom, doing research on the current affairs story she’d been given to investigate. It was about how scamming the elderly had become epidemic.
She’d been flattered to have it assigned to her. The story could be told in a way that oozed pathos, which was always good for ratings. Everybody had a grandma with dementia.
But now that she was into it, she was looking for a hook or angle that hadn’t been used by ten thousand other reporters also seeking to engage and enrage their viewing audiences.
She was reading a newspaper story about a couple who’d transferred all the funds from their bank account into another on the promise that their life savings would be tripled in a matter of days.
Shauna felt more scorn than pity for the victims. “How dumb do you have to be?” she mouthed, just as her cell phone rang. “Hello?”
“You didn’t hear this from me.”
She recognized the nasal drawl of one of her secret sources within the sheriff’s department in the county where the Fairground shooting had occurred.
Billy Green’s face was pitted with acne scars, and he had chronic bad breath, but he was enough of a weasel for his information to be reliable, and he was in lust with her, which never hurt.
“Who is this?” she said, which of course made him cackle. “Whatcha got for me?”
“The woman whose kid died in the Fairground shooting? The baby in the stroller that got shot when your boyfriend—”
“Elle Portman. What about her?”
“I don’t know, but something.”
It irked her that the best story about the shooting had yet to be told. A child’s involvement heightened the drama of any story. This one also had a cosmic/karma/fate/divine intervention overtone that she could milk for all it was worth.
Damn the Portman woman for not thawing on giving her an interview. And damn Calder in general. Double damn Calder.
She was still furious over last night’s rejection and wanted to scream when she thought of all the trouble she’d gone to and then had gotten nothing in return.
Calder hadn’t even become angry enough to make a good fight out of it. And she knew he hadn’t been asleep when she’d knocked on the guest bedroom door. She’d heard him tossing and turning all night.
But never one to let her personal life get in the way of her work, she grabbed a tablet and pen and began jotting down the nitty-gritty of what her snitch was telling her.
“They’re behind a closed door as we speak,” Green said.
“Elle Portman and who else?”
“The homicide detectives, Compton and Perkins.”
“Fabulous,” Shauna grumbled. Throughout the investigation, that pair had been excessively tight-lipped.
“They’re there at your precinct?”
“Yeah, that’s how I know.” He took a breath, then whined, “Why don’t you break up with that rich asshole? What’s he got that I don’t?”
“A full head of hair.”
“Hey, that hurt.”
“What time did she get there?”
“The Portman woman? Five minutes ago.”
“Thanks for calling me so soon. It’s a good tip. Call me back if you learn more.”
“Natch.”
“And I’m the only one you’re giving this to, right?”
“I wouldn’t cheat on you, sweetheart.”
“Thanks, Billy. I owe you a beer.”
“You always say that, but you never come through.”
“If I get Elle Portman to grant me an interview, I’ll buy you two beers.”
“Someplace dark and private. Wear a skirt.”
“Goodbye.”
She clicked off and looked thoughtfully at the sketchy notes she’d taken on the scam story. The news director had promised her a week’s worth of promotion and a prime-time broadcast slot.
But old people getting screwed out of their pensions because of their own stupidity didn’t excite her.
She pushed back her chair and reached for her shoulder bag.
“I don’t understand.” Elle looked at Compton and Perkins in turn. “I’m happy to cooperate. I want to. But I’ve told you everything I remember. You have it all recorded. Why did you ask me to come back and go over it again?”
Compton had called her last night, asking if she would return today for yet another interview. She hadn’t specified the reason for it except to say that it was “important.” As before, Elle hadn’t felt that it was optional.
Compton said, “First off, thank you for coming. We realize that it interrupts your workday. It’s also an emotional drain each time you’re asked to recount that day.”
Actually, her workday suffered more from writer’s block than this interruption.
But recounting the incident was more than an “emotional drain.” It was like scraping the scab off a wound with coarse sandpaper. While it had been cathartic to relate her experience at the group therapy session yesterday, the retelling had also awakened a thousand horrible reminders of it. Then later with Calder—
Calder.
She’d been so shaken by those last few minutes with him that she didn’t even remember her long drive home to Fort Worth. His abject despair, which had been evident in what he’d whispered to her, had left her feeling sorrowful for him.
The other matter, the embrace, had left her dazed.
Since Charlie’s death, she had been hugged more times than she had been in her entire lifetime up to that point. But no other hug had felt like that. None had come close to what it had been like to be held against him, tightly and needfully and with want.
If it had been nothing more than a warm hug of condolence, she wouldn’t have run from it. Instead, she’d fled, not from him but from what he’d made her feel.
Just thinking back on it now made her restive.
But she didn’t want the detectives to think she was nervous because of them. Refocusing, she said, “Anything I tell you now will be what you’ve already heard in our previous conversations.”
Compton said, “You’ve been exceptionally thorough and accurate, Elle.”
Always before, she’d been Ms. Portman. The familiarity was like a caution light. They wanted something from her. She couldn’t imagine what.
Compton was saying, “The information you’ve provided coincides with the security camera videos, which our analysts have broken down into fractions of fractions of seconds. It’s because your recall is so precise that we wanted to talk to you again.”
Lucky me. “All right. But I’m still in the dark as to why.”
“It was actually Perkins who picked up on something.” Compton motioned toward the dour man, who, after a cursory greeting, hadn’t said another word. “I’ll let him explain.”
He didn’t become animated, but he did amble around the corner of the desk and prop himself against it to be nearer her. “You mentioned that we had recorded your statement. We recorded everyone’s. Compton and I have watched and listened to those interviews over and over again. On about the tenth pass, I noticed that a few of you mentioned something that others hadn’t.”
“I’m sorry. A few of who?”
“A few of you survivors.”
“I see. What did we mention?”
“The man who ran into the stroller and nearly knocked it over.”
Elle said, “There were so many people around the stroller, I’m sure that most of those you interviewed told you about him.”
“Uh-huh. Many did.”
“Then what makes my mention of him noteworthy?”
“Take a look.” Compton turned the open laptop on the desk toward Elle. “It’s jerky. Scoot a little closer so you can see better.”
Elle did as asked. Compton hit a few keystrokes, and a video began to play in extreme slow motion. Compton said, “At this point, the shooter had fired four shots. The first killed Mr. Rollins. The next three came in rapid succession. Two were misses, partially because of Mr. Hudson’s yanking those around him to the ground. The fourth shot caught a man in the thigh.”
“Yes. I remember seeing him fall.”
“This video picks up seconds after that.”
The images were of people scrambling in terror. They were difficult for Elle to watch, although she’d seen them through her mind’s eye a thousand times.
As she’d told Calder, those were the worst moments of the entire experience, to watch in helplessness and horror as her child became unreachable. At least the video played silently. She didn’t have to listen to Charlie’s screams as she did in her nightmares.
The individual in question came into the frame. “That’s him.” He was seen barreling into the stroller, but even as it began to topple, he kept going. He didn’t slow down. He didn’t look back. “He might have caught it, I think,” she said absently. “Of course, he was panicked, literally running for his life.”
“Seconds after he ran past, Mr. Hudson enters the frame and grabs the push bar of the stroller. Simultaneously, he’s struck. Both he and the stroller go down, him landing on top of it.”
Elle flinched.
Compton stopped the video, turned the laptop back around, and folded her arms over her expansive bosom. “Describe the man who banged into the stroller.”
Confused, Elle looked at the two of them. “You just saw him.”
“Yes, but I want you to tell me again what you saw. What was he wearing?”
“Khaki pants, a navy-blue windbreaker, a faded red baseball cap.”
“What kind of shoes?”
“I only saw him from the knees up.”
“Did you get a good look at his face?”
“No. Only in profile.”
“Facial hair?”
“I don’t think so. Nothing like a full beard.”
