Arrest (A Disarm Novel) (18 page)

The drive to the hospital was, quite possibly, the longest ride I’d ever had to endure. The silence in the car was thick and my worry made it even harder to breathe.

“Did they tell you what happened? Is he okay?” I asked as we got stopped by another red light. I wished she’d turn on the sirens so we could just blast through every intersection already.

“I don’t know. He just asked me to bring you.” She gave me a concerned look. “Cheer up. That means he’s alive.”

I sat back and tried to tamp down my worry, but with every light we stopped at, my imagination invented even more horrible scenarios so that by the time we arrived at the hospital, I was a hot, panicked mess.

Sondra led the way through the maze of hospital hallways, knowing exactly where to go. It struck me then that maybe she’d walked this way many times before, seen many of her colleagues shot down over the years. I started to tear up at the thought.

We walked in through the emergency-room door. Henry stood up from a waiting room seat, and I swear, my legs just about buckled from relief.

He greeted Sondra then wrapped me in a tight embrace. “Hey,” he said and sighed against my hair.

I wrapped my arms around his back and pressed my face into his chest as my tears soaked into his shirt. I closed my eyes and breathed him in, the mixture of fresh sweat and his distinct smell filling my senses. I thanked every deity once, twice for keeping my husband safe.

It was tough, but I finally pulled away. “What happened?” I asked, trying to keep my voice from trembling.

“That guy, the one you were talking to at the bar,” he began, his hand sliding down to hold mine. “He pulled out a gun and took a woman hostage. Franklin got his attention while I made sure everyone got out of the restaurant. He didn’t want to listen to us. He was very desperate.”

“What happened to the hostage?” I asked.

“When he realized he was cornered, he shot her.” He closed his eyes, his eyebrows drawing together. “Then started shooting at us. Franklin caught a bullet in the stomach. They took him into the OR.”

Sondra made a frustrated noise and kicked at the ground. “Fuck.”

Henry shook his head. “I should have—”

“What? You should have what?” Sondra asked with a clipped tone. “Don’t do that, Logan. That’s bullshit. I told you never to question yourself.”

I squeezed his hand, letting him know I sympathized. I realized then that she must not know Henry as well as she’d like if she thought he wouldn’t question himself.

Sondra’s expression hardened when another officer named Wilson approached with a grave look on his face. “He didn’t make it,” he said, his voice cracking. “He died on the table.”

Henry pulled me into his chest and buried his face in my hair, breathing hard. From the corner of my eye, I saw Sondra closing her eyes and bowing her head, no doubt regretting her words. She took a few deep breaths and looked up, the commanding officer back in place. “Have you contacted his wife?” she asked as she strode out of the room, the other officer right behind her.

Henry’s arm trembled around my shoulders as he continued to hide his face.

“Henry . . .” I said softly, but couldn’t continue. I didn’t know what to say, didn’t know how he was even feeling. So I simply held him tighter, imagining that my own shaky arms were keeping him from falling apart.

He pulled away too soon. “I have to go back to the station. Fill out paperwork and all the standard procedure.”

I nodded. “I’ll come with you.”

He shook his head and kissed my forehead. “Just go home, Els. Wilson will give you a ride. This might take awhile,” he said, and after making sure that I remembered to lock the doors at home and keep Law by my side at all times, he made me go.

—

It was past midnight by the time Henry made it home. He walked into the bedroom wordlessly, ignoring me and Law altogether as he headed into the bathroom. I listened for a while, but the water didn’t come on, the toilet didn’t flush.

Finally, after fifteen solid minutes, I crept out of bed and knocked on the door. “Henry?” I called softly through the door. “What are you doing in there?”

“Nothing.”

I opened the door and found him standing in front of the sink, his palms flat against the counter, his back rising and falling heavily. His eyebrows were drawn and there was a glazed look in his eyes as he stared into the sink.

I approached him slowly, like one would approach a twitchy animal, noticing his duty belt was on the counter. “Are you alright?”

He ignored my question and reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a pair of glasses. “You left these at the restaurant,” he said, dropping them on the counter.

I took note of the empty spot on his belt. “Where’s your gun?”

“I had to surrender it for tests,” he said in a weary voice.

I touched his back and noticed the cotton shirt was damp. It was then I noticed the beads of sweat on his forehead and on the bridge of his nose. “What? Why?”

His eyes flicked up for a quick moment. “The gunman died,” he said, his voice devoid of emotion. He could have been talking about the weather.

He turned on the faucet, pumped some soap onto his palm and began to wash his hands. “They’ve given me a week of administrative leave while Internal Affairs conducts the investigation,” he said, scrubbing himself over and over.

I covered my mouth. “So you could be charged? For doing your job?”

He continued to wash his hands, ignoring me. Finally, I just reached around him and switched off the faucet. He turned to me, his hands dripping at his sides. “It’s procedure. This is what happens with every shooting that results in death.”

I closed my eyes and swallowed hard.

“A police officer died today, Elsie,” Henry said barely above a whisper, as if afraid someone else would hear and judge. “Franklin was a good man. He was a decorated veteran. I should be mourning his loss, not . . .” The voice hitched in his throat. “Not worrying about having taken a life.”

I held him, feeling his heart thudding against my cheek. I didn’t know if there was anything I could say that would make him feel better, but couldn’t think of anything meaningful.

He leaned his chin atop my head and heaved a deep sigh. A second later, I felt something dropping onto my hair, the moisture seeping into my scalp.

“I killed a man today, Elsie,” he said into my hair quietly. “I don’t know how to make peace with that.”

My heart broke for him in that moment. How should I comfort a man who was suffering under the weight of his guilt? “Isn’t war the same?” I asked, trying to give him some perspective.

He shook his head. “This is different, Els. It’s different seeing the face of the person you’re shooting. It’s different seeing their body recoil from the blast of your gun.” He pulled away from my arms and started to undress, his movements jerky and erratic. He turned away when he said, “It’s different because at war, you don’t see the light go out from their eyes when they die.”

I held him that night, just hugged his back to my chest and said nothing. What else could I say to a man who had already judged himself guilty of murder?

—

Henry woke up with a shout.

My eyes flew open, my heart thumping hard when I found Henry sitting up, nearly hyperventilating. I flipped on the lamp and saw the panicked look on his face.

When I reached out to him, I found his skin clammy with sweat. “You okay?”

He shook his head, the motion causing my hand to slip off his back, but he didn’t offer a reason. He just climbed out of bed and went to the bathroom. I waited for him, still snuggled under the covers, and watched as he came out and headed directly for the closet.

I didn’t need to see him in order to know he was putting on his workout clothes. And sure enough, a minute later, he emerged in sweat-wicking shirt, shorts, and running shoes. He sat on the edge of the bed to tie his laces.

I nudged him with my foot. “Why are you running away?”

“I’m not going far. I’ll be back.”

“Why don’t you stay and we can talk about it instead?” I said. “And don’t pretend you didn’t just have a nightmare. I know you, Henry. I know you’re avoiding the issue again.”

It was alarming, how much it reminded me of the time he came back from Afghanistan, when his sleep was disturbed and his way of dealing with his issues was to punish his body with exercise.

This time, however, I had the wisdom of history on my side. I sat up and grabbed his hand. “Please, Henry.”

He shook his head as if trying to throw off the lingering remnants of his nightmare. “No,” he said, pleading with me with his sad blue eyes. “Just let me deal with this on my own, okay?”

He whistled for Law and left without another word.

“Why don’t we go for a vacation this week?” I asked as we ate a late breakfast. “I haven’t taken time off in a long time. We can go to Dallas and see Julie and Will.”

If I thought my suggestion would cheer him up, I was wrong. “No thanks,” he said, draining his second cup of coffee.

“Seeing Will might cheer you up.”

“I don’t need cheering up,” he said. “Besides, I have to see a counselor this week. Talk about my feelings and shit.”

“It could be good for you.”

He eyed me with something like disdain. “Yeah. Sure. I can talk about how I’ve dreamed about that motherfucker’s face two nights in a row. How I keep killing him over and over but he just won’t stay down.”

I felt a little spark of hope from that confession. “Yes, you could talk to the counselor about that.”

“So she can tell the chief that I’m a nutcase?” he asked.

“This is not the same as the military, Henry,” I said. “There’s not that stigma attached to getting psychiatric help.”

He stood up and grabbed our empty plates, taking a long time to rinse them and load the dishwasher. When he was done with the dishes, he wiped down the counters over and over.

“Henry?”

“He can’t see me like this, okay?” he suddenly yelled, taking me aback. He slammed the rag into the sink and stalked off.

I followed him downstairs to the basement where he was already laying blows on the heavy bag with his bare knuckles. “Who? The chief?”

Only the sound of skin slapping vinyl and his heavy breathing could be heard in that cool room as I stood there and waited for his reply.

After several minutes of intense jabbing, he grabbed the bag to stop its swinging. “Will,” he finally said. “I don’t want him to think I’m . . .” He pressed his forehead to the bag and let his words fall away.

I touched a hand to his back and kissed his shoulder. “Then do something about it. Don’t go down this path again.”

“What, you think I’m letting this happen?”

“I don’t know what to think, to tell you the truth.”

“Well I’m trying my best, Elsie,” he said, eyeing me steadily. “But I don’t know how to combat the nightmares or the guilt.”

I didn’t know how either, but slowly I could see the darkness winning, threatening to suffocate the very things I loved about my husband.

“I just . . . need you to leave me alone and let me deal with it on my own, okay?”

His words stung, but what could I do? If I kept pushing, I’d only end up angering him. So even if it was against my nature, even if it was the last thing I wanted to do, I left him there on his own, just like he’d asked.

—

“Thanks for meeting with me,” I said as Sondra and I sat down at an outdoor café.

“It’s no problem.” She waved the waiter over and ordered a glass of wine. “And you?”

“Just an iced tea please.”

Sondra didn’t waste any time beating around the bush. “Look, I know it must be tough with what Logan is going through.”

“You know?”

“Yeah, with the investigation and Franklin’s death, I don’t know anyone who would enjoy this kind of weeklong break.”

“But it goes beyond that,” I said, unsure of how much I could say. Henry might trust her enough to tell her everything, but I sure as hell didn’t.

Sondra watched me carefully. “Every cop goes through a rough patch, especially when they see a colleague die on the same day they make their first kill. Put yourself in his shoes.”

“I have and all I can think of is that I’d be seeking some professional help.”

“He’s getting professional help. He’s at the counselor’s office right now, isn’t he?”

I played with the condensation on my drink, afraid to voice my worry that it wouldn’t work. He’d gone to a psychiatrist once before and it had ended with him breaking up with me. What would happen this time?

“Elsie, seems to me like you’re having trouble with this yourself.”

I nodded. “I guess you can say that.”

“Are you afraid of him? Disgusted with him?”

“No,” I replied. “I just . . . I don’t think the counseling is helping.”

For the past few days, Henry had come home after his sessions more shut off than before, evading even the simplest touch from me. He wouldn’t accept comfort, wouldn’t even let me near him sometimes. And I, in turn, suffered in silence, trying to be the strong one for once.

“I think it’s happening again.”

Sondra gave a nod, like she knew exactly what I was referring to.

“You told me before that it’s my job to keep it from happening again.”

“True, I did. But you can’t blame yourself. Some things go way beyond our control.” She gave a pause, eyeing me for a long, unnerving while. Finally, she said, “I went through something similar several years ago. I don’t tell a lot of people because the automatic reaction is that I’m too soft because I’m a woman.”

“Forgive me for saying so, but there’s nothing soft about you.”

She grinned. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It was.” I leaned forward. “So what happened?”

“Some gang member at a gas station just started shooting at me. Luckily he was a lousy shot and only clipped my leg,” she said, her gaze unwavering. “For the longest time I couldn’t get over the fact that he was so young. He couldn’t have been more than twenty. I had the hardest time making peace with that.”

She tore off a piece of bread and chewed on it for a moment. “I won’t pretty it up: It took awhile. I don’t know anyone who’s invulnerable to it. We have our Kevlar to protect us from bullets, but we don’t have anything to protect us from the guilt and shame.”

“Then what the hell do I do?”

“Be prepared. Get ready to be frustrated and angry—sometimes so angry, you want to hurt him—and be prepared to be pushed away so many times you’ll be tempted to just leave. But don’t. Don’t give up. Not if you want to see him recover.” The way Sondra talked, the way she kept her eyes fixed on me, spoke volumes about her experience.

“Why do it? Why be a cop knowing that what you’ll experience may very well fuck you up emotionally?”

“Why not? Every job has its hazards,” she said, the tough police officer back. “Most of us don’t enter the force out of some heroic idea, or because we like the power trip. Even if it means we carry a burden on our shoulders, some of us do it just to make a difference.”

—

On the third day of his administrative leave, I came home after work to find Henry still in his pajamas, playing Xbox on the couch. He had a dirty plate beside him and several bottles of beer on the coffee table.

He didn’t even take his eyes off the television when I bent down to give him a kiss on the cheek. I ran the back of my fingers against the beard on his face, remembering that, once upon a time, it had been a turn-on to see him so scruffy. Now it was just another piece of evidence that he was starting to unravel.

“Have you even taken a shower today?” I asked.

“Nope,” he said, making an obnoxious popping noise with his lips.

“You went to the therapy unwashed and in your pajamas?”

He gave me a look as if I was the one losing it. Which may very well be the truth. “Really?”

I rolled my eyes and backed off when I felt my temper flaring. Pregnancy hormones and an irritating husband should never be combined. “You got dressed, went out, then came home and changed back into your pajamas. Got it,” I said, taking my shoes off and making my way up the stairs.

In our bedroom, I let out an overlong exhale, trying my best to keep from crying.
Be strong,
I kept telling myself. Henry needed me to keep it together.

I jumped when hands wrapped around my arms. “How was your day?” Henry asked, his tone much different than a few minutes before. I sank back onto his chest, taking advantage of his momentary affection. His hands slid around to caress my stomach.

“Work was fine. But my back is hurting.”

He kissed the top of my head before going to the bathroom and drawing me a bath. I followed him in and found him lighting some candles.

He turned to me with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I was waiting to take a bath with you.”

I turned my back as I undressed, and the little move didn’t go unnoticed.

“Don’t hide yourself from me,” he said, taking me by the shoulders and spinning me around. “I don’t care if you’ve gained weight.”

It was a sweet thought, but my brain got stuck at the fact that he mentioned my weight at all. The scale said I’d gained nearly fifteen pounds already, due to stress-eating more than the growing fetus inside me. I was self-conscious enough without having it pointed out.

“Come on, I’ve seen you like this before,” he said, pulling me into the bathtub. He sat behind me and wrapped his long legs around mine.

I couldn’t relax, however. “When?”

“Your first year away in college when you gained the freshman fifteen. Or twenty,” he said with some humor in his voice. “A lot of it went to your ass, but you had a lot to grab on to elsewhere.”

I knew he was kidding; I knew this but I couldn’t help but feel the sting of his words. “Shut up,” I said, sitting up and sliding away from him. “Just stop talking.”

“What? What did I say?”

I stood up to get out of the tub, but my foot slipped on the way out. Thankfully, Henry was quick and caught me before I fell. “Damn it, Elsie, be careful!”

I turned to him with tears in my eyes, but the words stuck in my throat. I wanted to use every curse word in my arsenal, but didn’t want the situation to get out of control. So I just grabbed a towel and stomped out of the bathroom.

Henry, in his first display of good sense, stayed put.