Murder at Willow Slough (39 page)

45  

Commander

Kent didn’t give up.

He read Jamie the newspapers; not coverage of the case, but the sports section—Purdue football, keeping him up on the Big Ten— Yugoslavia occasionally, but it was depressing; advice columnists, editorials, business news he couldn’t make heads nor tails of; he read the comics and described the drawings. Every day he read Jamie his horoscope; he’d known from day one that Jamie was a Gemini on the cusp of bullheaded Taurus. “Today is a good day for traveling. A chance encounter with Sagittarius may lead to passionate romance. (Hey, that might be fun. Guess who’s a Sagittarius, Jamie?) A close friend needs your encouragement.”

Kent babbled and liked it. He never felt freer or worse. But mostly he sat quietly with the blond, bruised face, bland and unvarying, both of them numb and half dead.
***

Kent finally gave up. He’d cried five million tears. He’d said fifty thousand words. He’d prayed five thousand begging prayers. None of them mattered. God cared about zilch. There was no God.

Kent learned to accept that his friend, his sweet, pure heart, was a vegetable.

“Augh!” And with that scream, one last rebellion struck in fury. “Here’s the bottom line,” he cried, pacing around the tiny room. “You faced a choice! You or Daveyboy. Who would it be? Jamie, you stupid, ignorant fool, you have all the talent in the world. And you traded it for that lowlife? What? I’m supposed to stand here and let you trade? Get fucking real!

“He ain’t worth one-half what you are, one-fourth, one-tenth. When you gave us the patch we knew where to go, you asshole! Even if Davey had died we’d have caught ’em. Stand aside, you stupid civilian, and let me do my job!”

He exhaled deeply, over and over. The patch wasn’t enough; he knew it, hated accepting it. There was no escaping the central fact: when they lost contact with Jamie, had to regroup at headquarters, Ford and Jamie got such a head start on them that not even a chopper could get there fast enough.

So Jamie traded his life for some Daveyboy’s—some guy who, whatever his worth, didn’t deserve to die. “Jamie, I can’t deal with this. Not losing you! This is the most incredible act by a human being I’ve ever seen. Your life for a stranger’s? Wake up, damn you!”

He sat in sorrow and fury. And from somewhere Jamie said, in Kent’s mind, “Davey’s as important to humanity as I am. To your humanity; to mine.

“In this life we can take or we can give. You’ve faced that choice, and look at yourself, a police officer, a giver. And I’ve faced it. Don’t ask me to let the killers go, to let the poor man die. That would have destroyed me more than anything the killers could have done. I’m a Hoosier, a

smalltown boy. Don’t send casseroles if you can pull victims out of the car wreck instead.” As sentiment, as hope it was fine. Not a word of it actually got said. It was just Kent going berserk, trying to hang on. He took a break. Minutes later he was back in the room doing a relaxation exercise.
***

On Day 9, a Thursday evening, particularly dull, Jamie’s eyelids fluttered, opened; he tried to focus. He canvassed a wall near-sightedly. He felt extremely weird.

It took him three minutes to realize he was alive.

A hospital, I think. God, this place is ugly. Who designed this, Phyllis Schlafly?

He glimpsed a tall, dark-haired man. The man was looking down, maybe reading. Even near-sighted, Jamie could see the man was handsome.

Jamie closed his eyes, so overwhelmed by all the pains in his body he couldn’t think. He wanted to cry out but he didn’t have the energy for it. So he tried to switch off physical awareness entirely, feel only his emotion.

It was very difficult. But gradually he concentrated on the man; on the man’s face.

Didn’t know who he was or why he was here. But reading; waiting on him. Jamie had spent too much time waiting in hospitals not to know why the man was here. So they knew each other. Who was he?

Jamie opened his eyes again. Feelings came, intense, cascading. Masculine. Intelligent. Sensitive.

Is he my lover? But Jamie knew he didn’t have a lover. Rick was gone, Jamie was alone.

Alone, yet somehow in love with this man.

That felt good for a minute, bizarre; what is so strange as being in love with someone you don’t even know?

But he was quickly overpowered by a dark, menacing shroud that made him want to hide under the covers. He didn’t have the energy to cry, no way to express his terror but to let it wrack his body, already wracking.

He wasn’t supposed to be in love with this man. That meant the man was Straight.

His spirit plummeted, the heartache of falling in love uselessly. He wanted to die. But he couldn’t even manage that, it took too much energy.

Minutes later, he tried to figure out, to sense really, who the man could be. The man waited; that counted for something. A friend, maybe.

He sank into his body, let it feel whatever it felt, no words, let go of words.

From somewhere deep inside an image slowly formed; Kentland.

He knew the man wasn’t from Kentland, but there it was; the Nu-Joy.

A car. Riding together. We didn’t stop, we talked about it. Headed where? White Sox.

Ice cream. Morocco to Kentland.

Why Morocco? What’s there anymore?

The Slough?

Oh no. His body shivered, ice cold for minutes.

Some poor guy; God no, those poor guys. Every cell of his body filled with pain.

Policeman. A trooper? He shook my shoulders. I was terrified. And then, I wasn’t. Nice man. Safe. He saw another image, another highway. South. Toward Mom’s? Blue

lights. Oh no! Oh God no. He wept, tearless into eternity.

Finally, another image, same car, to Indianapolis. Woods. A clearing, bright as day.

Devils? He could see them, horrible fright. Anger too; fury.

And I told God I loved this man.

He opened his eyes, and this time the man saw him. His eyes got big, he put down his report, his tanned face turned white. He hurried over.

You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Let not your heart be troubled.

Kent stood motionless, watched green eyes move. He wanted to shout, but he was scared beyond belief. He finally whispered, “Hi.”

Beautiful brown eyes, so worried. The man was in as much pain as Jamie was. Jamie wanted to reassure him. How, though?

Jamie blinked. Breathing was a horrible chore. He looked down at his body. There were plastic tubes everywhere, he could feel them—including places they ought not to be. His dick ached. A catheter? Get this god-damn thing offa me.

And this handsome man, looking like death warmed over and life overjoyed.

Prettyboy, relax now, you’re making me nervous.

Jamie tried to smile, tried to remember the man’s name; but his skin felt like sandpaper, all taut and wrinkled too and nasty.

He thought of his mother for a long time. His feelings wanted to cry, but his eyes were so dry, even blinking hurt.

His side ached. His stomach felt folded in on itself. His back was on fire. He tried to shift but couldn’t manage it.

He had a tube down his throat, a plastic lung machine. His throat was raw and dry, had been invaded. His throat wanted to scream from the pain.

He remembered the forest. Lots of people. Bad people.

You came. I knew you would. You came.

The murders somehow. A wave of horror passed over him. He didn’t know what happened. Something terrible. I prayed, though. I love you.

We slept on a pallet and I fell in love with you.

His head clicked. He knew exactly who the man was.

Then he knew what to say, what would help him. But it took minutes to work up to a single word. He got his lips apart; he couldn’t get any breath to go out. He had to breathe more deeply, and that hurt.

Like this man hurt. “Com-mand-er.”

Kent stared, eyes like saucers.

Jamie’s voice was strange, weak, raspy, slow, disembodied. But it was his somehow, he knew it was, so he visualized pushing words and breath out of his mouth, like Sisyphus up the mountain, past the ventilator tube. “How man-y, did we, get?”

Kent’s heart burst. “Oh, Jamie! Thirteen on the scene, four higher-ups. And maybe more, it’s not done yet. My God, you’re alive! Oh Jamie, you’re alive! We did it, man. You did it! Welcome back!”

Jamie sighed, felt incredibly tired, knew he’d conk out soon. That scared him; what if he never woke up again? Commander wouldn’t like that. Jamie concentrated like Sisyphus near the summit. “Fan-tas-tic,” he said, in his wispy, grating voice. He pointed his finger shakily at the trooper. “You, big, s-tud.”

He gasped and fell into a stone cold sleep.

Kent dashed for the nurse. “He woke up! He’s alive, he woke up, he talked to me!”

Nurses ran, gathered, celebrated, stared at the TV monitor on Room 9 while two hurried in to check. “What did he say, what did he say?” Kent told them, glorying in every word.

“A complete sentence? Two of them? Ten whole words?” Nurses stared at each other; no coma patient starts out in sentences. Most take days for words.

It was lost on Kent. “Yes! He’s out of the coma! He talked! Two whole sentences!” He laughed, wanted to run, clap, sing, turn handsprings the length of the corridor. “He’s out of the coma. Thank you Jesus. Thank you Jesus. Oh God, thank you Jesus!”

Major Slaughter happened to arrive then, carrying flowers for the nurses, a sandwich for Kent; he saw the commotion, set down his bags.

There in the hallway, Sergeant Kessler told him all about it; then clung to a macho shoulder and, without warning, cried his goddamn guts out.

46  

Flashcards

They tried removing the ventilator; Jamie breathed okay. His brainwaves were always very active; indeed, Kent could set his Timex by Jamie’s REM-sleep erections. His urine output was moderate, his blood pressure was good, his pupils reacted to light, and he didn’t like it when they stuck a pin in his arm to test his spinal cord. He was never decorticate or decerebrate, and easily tolerated nurses’ repositioning him flat on his back—an improvement over his withdrawal into the fetal position. These were all crucial readings. His stab wounds, though severe, were relatively easy to sew up; but when he lost so much blood, his brain started to die for lack of oxygen.

There was talk of removing the tiny tube inserted into his right front brain to relieve swelling. But still he slept, didn’t wake again.

The next day the neurologist removed the tube and briefed Kent, the major and the nurses. Without being rude, the doctor basically called Kent a liar. If Jamie had in fact awakened, much less recognized him and spoken ten whole words, he was highly conscious. All tests were favorable. So why couldn’t they wake him up today? “We can’t get any response.”

“I didn’t imagine it,” Kent said hotly. “He talked, he was lucid. Please remember, sir, I’m a state trooper. I deal in facts.”

The doctor apologized. “But he’s off the charts. I don’t know whether to worry or be optimistic. I’ve got calls in to Harvard.”

Slaughter said, “Maybe his brain’s wired differently. He does have an abnormal brain, doctor. This is a very intelligent individual.”

“You’re telling me,” Kent muttered.

Slaughter said, “He was tested in junior high, shipped off to Purdue and tested again. One of our crisis psychologists ran the tests. Jamie’s got an IQ in the 99th percentile.”

Kent asked, “Would that make a difference in your charts, doc?”

“This isn’t a question of intelligence, it’s brain physiology.”

A nurse suggested, “Maybe he’s got so many brain cells that when some are knocked out, the others take over.”

“Come on, little guy,” Kent prayed.

Slaughter looked into space. A feeling started up in his gut. He let it grow, closed his eyes, emptied himself, tried to tune into what Jamie needed.

For some reason Slaughter’s testicles moved. He tried to puzzle out a sexual motive. Finally he smiled. He opened his eyes, which rested on his young sergeant. “Kent, you try this time.”

The doctor and nurses gathered around the monitor while George stood outside Jamie’s door. “Go ahead, son.”

Kent swallowed, went to the side of the bed, looked down at the pasty-white, bruised face. He crouched, picked up a hand, held it. “Jamie? Can you wake up, man? I need you, partner. Will you wake up for me, Jamie? I need you.”

Kent breathed. Nothing happened.

Then Jamie’s green eyes blinked open. There, at eye level, were Kent’s beautiful browns.

A peaceful feeling settled over Jamie. Maybe it was wrong, he wasn’t supposed to feel what he felt; but he felt it anyway. He loved those eyes and that face. “Com-mand-er.”

Kent burst into a grin. “Oh, Jamie! Wake up, partner. Wake up!”

Jamie tried to clear his throat, couldn’t. “Uhh. Wa-ter.”

Kent straightened, poured, tried to be calm about it, kept hold of that hand. He brought the tumbler; Jamie stared at his cold little hand in Kent’s big warm one. Kent got the straw to Jamie’s lips. “Don’t gulp, just sip.”

Jamie sucked in slowly, and tasted water. “That’s the best stuff.”

He nodded slightly, and Kent withdrew the water, crouched again. “The doctors want you to stay awake as long as you can.”

Jamie groaned, tried to shift. “I, hurt.” An unseen nurse charted his every word; those two qualified as a complete sentence. The doctor frowned at the TV screen.

“I know, man. But you’re alive, Jamie. Thank God, you’re alive.”

Jamie looked into brown eyes. My body feels like it’s dead.

Oh, look at you. I want to live.

He felt again his hand in Kent’s, and tried with a mighty effort to squeeze. Kent must have felt something, because he squeezed right back. “Do it again,” he said excitedly. “Squeeze my hand.”

Jamie did it again. “Cool,” Kent cried. “Another rep. Let’s work out!”

Jamie squeezed. This was fun. What a wonderful guy.

“Danny’s coming, he’s on his way.”

“Dan-ny. My big, Bro.”

“Jamie, I’m so overwhelmed I don’t know what to say.”

Jamie squeezed. “Just… hold my, hand?”

Kent squeezed back. “I will, partner. I will. Now stay awake for me.”

A woman came in, introduced herself, asked what she could do to make Jamie more comfortable. “Ack,” he coughed, trying to tell her. Coughing was excruciating. She didn’t understand. He pointed at his catheter, forced out more words. “Take… this out.”

She smiled, turned into a nurse. “Do you know this man’s name?” “Com-mand-er.” Jamie’s brow furled. “Makes Dil-lin-ger’s mo-ther, sing like, cana-ry.” Kent chuckled proudly. “You’re very close,” the nurse encouraged, “Commander is his title. His name is Kent.” Jamie smiled for the first time, at big brown eyes. “Ser-geant Kent Kess-ler. Indi-ana State, Police. You, take down, bad guys.” “Man oh man!” Kent yelled, so excited he made a fist in front of his chest. “You know my name!” Jamie stayed awake for twenty whole minutes, and Kent held his hand. They squeezed back and forth the entire time.
***

Jamie was tested for balance, coordination, motor control, his mother’s maiden name. He was told that functionally, his condition was similar to a light stroke. What one half of his body could do, the other half might not for awhile. “But we’re amazed at your verbal skills.”

He smiled, “The mouth, al-ways did, work, pretty well.”

He read first-grade flashcards and did a thousand stupid tasks, pointing at his ear, his nose, his chest, and finally caught on to a mean nurse’s game. It was the same one he’d gone through years ago in school; nobody ever believed he was smart. He pointed between his legs, “My dick!”

She stopped playing, went away in a huff. Kent high-fived George. Jamie told the major, “The Times.”

George went to the lobby, bought The New York Times, laid it before him on the pull-table. Jamie read, haltingly but aloud, “Pro-gress On AIDS, Brings Move-ment, For Less Sec-recy. More Re-porting Urged. The Med-ical Benefits, of Early Detec-tion, May Outweigh, Some Privacy Concerns.”

He was proud of himself, but frowned at the headline. “No, they don’t. Wait till, Casey and I, get hold of, this. Start with, Ry-an White’s, moth-er. Doc-tors can be fasc-ists. I want, this cath-eter, removed!”

Slaughter tossed the paper at the doctor and walked out.

The fascists waited a day, but finally Jamie sat in a chair, shakily fed himself Jell-O, even demonstrated his remarkable ability to pee without plastic jammed up his urethra; so he made another request.

That gave Kent an idea. “Tell me what to bring you, just name it. Something to comfort you or entertain you, something that tastes good, anything you want.”

What would comfort him? “A toy, basket-ball? Or lit-tle weights?”

Kent got excited. “I know exactly where to get ’em.” That night he presented Jamie with two one-pound dumbbells covered in plastic.

“Pink,” Jamie frowned, “for la-dies. Sor-ry. But use-ful. Th-ank you.” He did a curl or two.

And then the crown jewel, a six-inch foam rubber basketball marked PURDUE BOILERMAKERS, with Boilermaker Pete waving his sledgehammer. “You can squeeze it, see? It’ll help your hand strength.”

Jamie, eyes shining, rubbed it against his cheek and squeezed. “Wonder-ful.” “Man oh man, you’re gonna come back!”
***

A different doctor sat quietly with Jamie, asked a bunch of questions. “I can’t believe you remember Officer Kessler. You only met him a month ago. The same part of the brain that goes into coma knocks out short-term memory. It always happens that way, the parts of the brain are directly connected. But not with you. Do you have any idea why you remember him?”

I’m in love with him, that’s why. But this doctor wore a wedding ring and bragged about his baby daughter. “He has, a great deal, of emo-tional, signif-icance, to me. Per-haps I, stored his f-ile, in my longterm, mem-ory.” The doctor looked doubtful. “He is not, just some, off-icer. He is an, im-portant, friend.”

“And it was an intense case.” The doctor showed him the photo of Glenn and Gary that Glenn kept on his desk. “Do you know these people?”

Jamie studied them. “No.”

A picture of Trooper Julie Campbell elicited a shrug. Mr. and Mrs. Walker with son LeRoy were just a nice-looking Black family. Jamie couldn’t identify Lt. Jack Snyder. The only person Jamie’d met recently and remembered was Kent. The doctor seemed encouraged. “What do you remember of the night it happened?”

Jamie described the image in his head: bright sunlight, several people, lots of trees. That was all. Nothing happened.

“How does it make you feel?”

Jamie frowned, “Not good.”

“Do you feel frightened? Angry? Are you worried or anxious or happy?”

“Scared, may-be. Ang-ry. Yes. But also, some-how, in control? They were, bad guys, weren’t they?”

The doctor didn’t say. “What can you tell me about Sgt. Kessler?”

“He played, Ma-jor, League Base-ball. Tall, mus-cled. A skilled, investi-gator, cert-ified, in some-thing. He thinks I’m, shorter, than I am.” Kent, listening in at the nurses’ station, laughed delightedly. “He’s from, farm country, up north. But not, Kentland. He drives, a big, pickup truck. Shiny wheels. A… studmobile.” George elbowed Kent. “He’s, very, thoughtful. Kind. Funny. Smart. Eats a lot of, fat, though.” Jamie pointed his finger. “But no one, will ever, out-commit him!”

Kent suppressed some emotion over that.

“That’s a lot to remember about somebody you just met.”

“He sat with, Arn-ie. He brought us, food. And a, pie.”

“Anything else you remember about him?”

Jamie scowled. “He, ad-justs himself, in front of, women.”

“How do you feel about that?”

“Hate it. But he said I, should have,” Jamie grinned big, “insur-ance, on my, hair.”

“Anything else?”

Jamie thought of the pallets, but shook his head no.

“Okay, good job, get some rest for me.” The doctor left, went to the nurses’ station. “Well, was he accurate?”

“Accurate, very detailed, in everything but the sunshine,” Kent said. “It was nighttime, those were camera lights he saw.”

The doctor propped his butt on the desk. “You drive a studmobile and adjust yourself in front of women?”

Kent laughed.“He just… never mind.It’s a pickup, not a studmobile.”

Alone in his room, Jamie thought, When you fall in love, you don’t put him in your short-term file. You pray he stays in your long-term life.

Lord, a Straight man. What have I done?