Damage (24 page)
The toughest part of the evening was his visit from Amy. She arrived shortly after midnight with her neighbor, Ed, a short man with graying hair and a muscular build, at her side for emotional support. Ray had met Ed on several occasions. The stupor that clouded his thoughts cleared instantly when Amy stepped into view at the foot of the gurney. Every second of their discussion was a delicate balance between understanding what had happened and hysterics at the loss of her husband. One thing was certain. No matter what Ray said, she would forever blame him for Billy's death.
"I just identified my husband's body downstairs in the morgue," she said, her voice trembling, her eyes focused on the wall behind him. "You were with him when he died."
"Yes," Ray managed to say.
"Did he suffer?"
"No," Ray lied. How could he not have suffered?
"Did he..." Amy leaned to one side. Ed caught her and straightened her up. She took a moment to regain her composure. "Did he kill those people?"
"Yes," Ray whispered.
"Did he take his own life?"
Ray didn't want to answer. He couldn't lie to Amy, yet he didn't want to confirm Billy had committed suicide, that the idea of running a bullet through his brain offered him greater peace of mind than any other option open to him. Amy turned her eyes to Ray and repeated the question, her voice laced with bitterness. Struggling to keep from turning away, all he could manage was a slight nod of his head.
She stared at him a moment longer, tears streaming down her cheeks, before turning to Ed . "Take me home."
Just before they left the room, Ray called to her. "He told me to tell you he's sorry."
Amy paused and started sobbing. Without looking back, she was led from the emergency room in the arms of her neighbor.
Pritchard quietly returned a short while later with a cup of coffee in one hand and a copy of the Citizen-Gazette under his arm. He strode over to the bed when he saw Ray's eyes were open and staring at the ceiling.
"How's your hand?"
"Okay, I guess," Ray mumbled, not turning his attention away from the stained ceiling tile directly above him.
"I brought you today's paper," Pritchard said. He held it out.
Ray glared scornfully at the newspaper. Pritchard placed it next to him, pulled up a chair and sat next to the bed, facing Ray.
"Do you think they'd let me see her?" Ray asked.
Pritchard shook his head. "Raymond, we've been over this several times already. Not only will they not let you visit Mrs. Wallace, you won't be leaving that bed until they take you back for your surgery. Besides, what good is it going to do you?"
Ray shrugged.
"If it's any consolation, I checked on her again just now," Pritchard said. "She has a long recovery ahead of her, but she's awake and alert and alive, thanks to you. You should be proud of yourself. If you hadn't tagged along Monday morning, she'd probably be downstairs in cold storage next to her husband."
"I don't feel proud," Ray said.
"That's survivor's guilt talking. Find yourself a good therapist and get over it."
"Knock, knock," said a woman's voice through the pull curtain that hung around the foot of his bed. Becky poked her head through and smiled sympathetically at Ray. "Is it all right if I come in?"
Ray nodded. Pritchard stood. He made a hasty introduction to Becky and excused himself.
"He really is the cutest little man," she said once Pritchard was out of earshot. She noticed Ray's bandaged hand and her mouth dropped open. "Oh, my God. So, is it true you got shot? I need details, please. Oh, my God!"
Ray had held up his hand so she could see it more clearly. Even through the layers of gauze it was evident there was a finger missing.
"Pinky's mostly gone," he said. "The rest isn't worth saving so they're gonna take it off tomorrow."
"And on your right hand," Becky sympathized.
"It's okay," Ray said. "Semicolons are overrated anyway."
A weak attempt at a smile tugged at his mouth. Becky walked over to him and sat on the side of the bed. She didn't have to say anything. Just by the expression on her face, Ray knew she understood how much he had lost in the past few days. What made it worse was he overwhelming and irrational sense of responsibility he felt about everything that had taken place. If he had been quicker to understand what he was going through, he might have been able to save a life, possibly several lives. He wasn't even sure Amy would let him attend his own cousin's funeral. Emotions rose like flooding tides inside him. Becky touching his arm startled him. He had forgotten she was there.
"Someone looks like he needs a hug," she said.
He tried to answer her. Tears streamed down his face as she leaned over to embrace him, holding him tightly until he could feel himself gradually regaining control. He patted her back and drew several deep, refreshing breaths through the tangled curls of her hair.
"Thank you," he whispered.
"Just tell me one thing," she said, propping herself up and wiping tears from her face. "Where the hell is my car?"
Mark Feggeler has worked as a newspaper reporter, public relations manager, and hospitality salesman. Through it all, he has maintained an active interest in writing. He lives in North Carolina with his wife and three children.
Other books available from the author include:
The Psi Squad: Book One
The first in a series of novella-length paranormal adventures written for children 9-12 years old.
Ramblings of a Very Pale Man: Volume One
A collection of posts from the first year of the author's blog about family life and work.
To follow the author's
Ramblings of a Very Pale Man
blog, visit: