The_Amazing_Mr._Howard (21 page)

“Chest pains,” he grumbled, “she gives me ass pains every goddamn day. The doctor’s should pump her stomach. They’d probably find a hundred Ding Dongs.”

Confusion set in. It came from being a cop. Certain situations dictated he must act in a way that went against human nature. Looking down at the body of a murdered child, he should express outrage or sadness. Instead, he stood like stone, his chest as hollow as a Tin Man’s. Doris was his wife and the mother of his children. Didn’t she deserve his compassion? He took out his wallet and stared at a photograph taken on their wedding day. “Hell no,” he said and slipped the wallet back inside his pocket.

The six-story hospital appeared in the distance like a giant tombstone against the bright blue sky. He pulled into a parking spot reserved for police vehicles and shut off the engine.

“I was already having a crappy day, now you had to go and make it worse with this little drama of yours,” he said, climbing out of the car.

Inside the crowded waiting room, a woman behind the counter, who reminded him of Margo’s pet stick bug, greeted him with a doleful expression.

“Can I help you sir?”

He leaned over the counter to whisper. “I’m here about my wife, Doris Willard.”

“You don’t have to whisper, sir.”

If you knew my wife, you’d understand why I’m whispering.

She typed in Doris Willard on her computer keyboard and read the information on the screen. “Please take a seat in the waiting room and I will have someone come out to see you.”

“Can’t I just go back and visit her?” He looked at his watch. “I should get her home before
Judge Judy
comes on. She loves that show.”

The woman glared at him through her eyelashes. “Please have a seat, sir.”

He grunted softly and dragged himself toward the waiting room like a prisoner on his way to the death chamber. The idea of sitting with a bunch of lowlifes made him want to shoot someone. He walked over to the chairs, dodging a plastic block thrown by a toddler wearing only a diaper, and squeezed between two women the size of Doris. One of them smiled and winked. A soap opera played on the television. He closed his eyes and shook his head.

I’m in Hell.

By the time a nurse came out to see him, he’d read ten magazines, watched four soap operas that flashed just enough skin to make them interesting, ate a bag of potato chips, and drank two cups of coffee. The nurse’s nametag said Bethany. She had a cute smile with dimples and when she bent over to talk to him, he imagined standing behind her, pressed against her ass. “Mr. Willard?”

He tossed down the
Redbook Magazine
in his hands. “Yeah?”

“Your wife is in surgery.”

The word surgery slammed into his brain like a pile driver. “What on earth for?”

“Emergency bypass. She’s a lucky woman, a few more hours and she wouldn’t have survived.”

He should be celebrating Doris’s apparent victory over death, but the thought of living with her as she recovered made him want to hit something. Would her mother, Paula, come to stay with them? Christ, their grocery bill would double. Paula ate as much as Doris and bitched twice as loud. A few weeks with her and he’d be breaking out handcuffs and duct tape.

“How much longer will she be in surgery?”

Bethany looked at her Hello Kitty watch. “I can’t say for certain, but I’d guess another four or five hours.”

Christ. What was he going to do at the hospital for four or five hours?

“I can take you up to the surgery waiting room.”

If she looked anything like Doris, he’d decline her offer, but the idea of walking behind Bethany brought a smile to his lips. “Appreciate that.”

***

Seven hours without a word. He sprang out of the chair in the surgery waiting room and stood with his hands on his hips. A stinging pain shot through his kidneys and the throbbing in his knees made him dread growing old. Thankfully, he’d called their neighbors Tom and Janice and arranged for them to pick up the kids and let them sleepover. Maybe their mother’s brush with death might persuade them to stop mimicking her eating habits.
Nah, the little shits could never give up their junk food.
When they kicked off, he’d paint little golden arches on their coffins.

He sank back into the chair and sighed. The air smelled like pine cleaner, an improvement over the stench inside the emergency room. Through the windows afternoon shadows lengthened. Parking lot lights flickered to life and cast a pale glow. A tall man with dark skin emerged through a set of double doors. He wore a white lab coat and green scrubs. Willard didn’t need anyone to tell him this was the surgeon. He walked straight over and held out a hand.

“Mr. Willard?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Doctor Kapoor.” He took a seat.

“Kapoor, that’s Indian right?”

“Yes.”

“Been in the States long?”

Kapoor blinked several times. “My family came to America years ago.”

“So, what’s happening with Doris?”

“Doris suffered a heart attack at work. The paramedics arrived within minutes and gave her Nitroglycerin. When she arrived here, we did an EKG. Doris had an abnormal heartbeat, and inadequate blood flow. Based on the EKG, the ER doctors ordered a nuclear scan that revealed severe blockage to the right coronary artery, left anterior descending artery, and the left main coronary artery. At that point, I was contacted and made the decision to perform an emergency coronary artery bypass. I used a blood vessel from Doris’ leg to create an alternate pathway of blood. The surgery required that we…”

Blah, blah, blah was all Willard heard as he pretended to be interested. When the he finished explaining the procedure, the doctor asked, “Do you have any questions?”

“Doris is too fat.”

Doctor Kapoor appeared uncomfortable as he massaged the front of his neck. “She is obese. Perhaps she suffers from Genetic Susceptibility. Are her parents also obese?”

“I never met her father, but Doris’s mama is a heifer.” He reached up to scratch where the shoulder holster had been rubbing all day. “Doris eats like a hog. Watch her stuff her pie hole and you’ll never want to touch food again.”

“Doris needs to incorporate diet and exercise into her daily routine. With support, she has an opportunity to lose weight and regain much of her health.”

“Oh, I get it. Everything is my fault. I’m the one force-feeding her junk food.”

“I didn’t say that, Mr. Willard.”

“You implied it.” He stood and stared at his watch. “How long will she be in the hospital?”

Doctor Kapoor regarded him for several seconds. “Two days in ICU, followed by three or four on the floor unless there are complications.”

“I’d best see her before I go.”

The doctor rose from the chair. “A recovery nurse will come get you.” He held out his hand.

Willard pulled his phone from his coat. He stared at the doctor’s hand hanging in space, offered a quick nod, and punched in the numbers for Dave’s cell phone. Doctor Kapoor shook his head as he strolled toward a set of double doors. Dave answered his cell phone with urgency in his voice.

“Dad, how’s Mom?”

“Still fat.”

“What?”

“She had a heart attack.”

“Oh my God, is she going to be all right?”

He wanted to reach through the phone, grab Dave by the neck, and slap him. “You know why she’s here, don’t you? It’s all that goddamn junk food she eats. The body can only take so many Ding Dongs until it explodes.”

“She’s sick, Dad.”

“Yeah, she’s sick, and she won’t get better unless she stops eating all that crap and joins a gym. And the way I figure, the same thing is going to happen to you and your sister one day if you don’t stop stuffing your faces all the time.”

A long silence followed before Dave said, “How long is Mom going to be in the hospital?”

“Well, she had to have surgery, so if we’re lucky, at least a couple of weeks.”

“What kind of surgery?”

“Bypass surgery. That’s what happens to fat people, son. They get sick and die.”

“Don’t you care about Mom at all?”

“Hey, I’m here, aren’t I? Listen, you and Margo stay with the Masons tonight.”

“When can we see Mom?” Dave sounded as if he were about to cry.

“Man up, boy. Your mom’s going to be all right. I’ll talk to you and Margo after school tomorrow. Good night.”

“I love you, Dad.”

“Good night, Dave.”

Jesus H. Christ, what a pansy. Maybe trying out for wrestling will be good for him
.

He rifled through a stack of women’s magazines before settling on a
National Geographic
. Skimming over articles about Global Warming and oil exploration at the North Pole, he settled on a story about the Mazooba Tribe of Central Africa. The photographs showed half-naked tribal women dancing in a fertility ceremony.

“Mr. Willard?”

A nurse stood before him. Her gaze traveled to the magazine and he snapped it closed. “Yes.”

“You can see your wife now.”

“Uh, yeah, reckon I’d best do that.”

She led him to the ICU unit. He remembered visiting the ICU when his mother died. He hated it. The place smelled strange, a combination of iodine and death. Behind the tiny glass-walled rooms, life support machines beeped in rhythm with the wet ragged breaths of the patients. During the day, the sobbing of visiting relatives added to the depressing cacophony.

“This way,” she said, leading him past the nurse’s station. She stopped outside a room. “She’s still groggy from the anesthetic and has a breathing tube, so don’t expect much. Try to keep the visit short.”

“No problem.”

He stepped into the room and his mouth fell open at the sight of Doris on the bed. Her skin was the color of fresh cream. A plastic tube red with blood and what appeared to be guts snaked out from beneath the covers near her chest. Two IV lines pumped medicine into her veins. A breathing tube dangled from the side of her mouth. He shivered as he pressed against the side of the bed. Why did they keep the place so damn cold? It was as if they were preparing the soon-to-be dead for their trip to the morgue. Her eyes opened, her gaze coming straight to him. He reached for her hand and pulled back. It didn’t feel right. He wasn’t in the mood to play the part of loving husband. “Fine mess you’ve gotten yourself into.”

He clutched a handful of the bed sheet. “What’s happened to you, Doris? What’s happened to us? We used to love each other. You used to care about me. Now all you care about is stuffing your face. Look what all that eating has done to you and the kids. Is this how you want to live? You make it so hard for me to love you. Is that your plan, to drive me away?”

She blinked several times, her chest rising and falling. A tear rolled onto her cheek.

He shook his head. “Don’t take on like that, Doris. I’m not leaving you. A divorce is too damn expensive.” At the nurse’s station, the nurse who guided him to the room watched with a stern expression. He looked back at Doris. “It’s going to be okay. Maybe I’ll bring you some flowers tomorrow. Well, got to go home and get some rest. Take care of yourself.”

He hurried from the room without a second glance.

Mr. Howard sat in the living room grinding knuckles against his temples. The stress building inside his head made his skull feel like it had been cleaved with an ax. What was happening with Willard? Should he call the PI for a progress report? Damn it, he hated when events spiraled beyond his control. In the past, killing was easy. If a village girl disappeared in the night, her neighbors hid behind locked doors and prayed for salvation. The local population never took action until several girls had vanished and by then, he was well on his way to a new killing ground. Now he must be sneaky and clever, and worry about detectives like Willard.

He put on Brahms
Sonata No. 3 in F Minor
, the somber piano matching his mood, and poured a glass of Chateau Petrus in which he mixed a small vile of Stephanie’s blood. The music and wine did little to cheer his mood. The buzzer near the front door went off. Someone waited outside the gate. He finished the wine in his glass before walking over to answer.

Probably Willard wanting to ask more questions. If he wasn’t a cop, he would soon find himself in a grave.

He pushed the button to respond. “May I help you?”

“Professor Howard.”

The soft voice belonged to Dean Tolliver. A smile crept up his face. “Jennifer, is that you?”

“May I come inside? We need to talk.”

“Yes, of course,” he answered. “I will unlock the gate. Please come up.” A warm feeling spread from his chest at the thought of seeing Jennifer again. He opened the door and stood outside. She navigated her black BMW sedan up the road to his house and pulled into the driveway. The engine went quiet and Jennifer emerged, a hand raised in greeting.

“Thanks for seeing me.”

“My pleasure.”

The skirt she wore revealed her narrow hips. Teenage hips. Mr. Howard waved for her to enter. “Come inside, I will fix you a drink. You like wine, yes?”

A playful grin formed on her cherry lips as she breezed past. “Wine would be delightful.” Her head swiveled as she took in the house, and the shining hardwood floor, the spotless white leather furniture, the impressionist paintings that adorned the walls, and the Steinway grand piano in the foyer. “Your home is beautiful.”

“Thank you,” he answered, closing the door.

“Your books must have sold well.”

He lightly pressed a hand against her back to steer her toward the living room. “No, not at all. There does not seem to be much interest in ancient mythology outside of my classroom, and even there, I am afraid that most of the interest belongs to me.”

She continued to look around as she eased onto the sofa. “Your house is so—”

“Large. Yes, everyone who visits wonders how a professor can afford such a place.” He went into the kitchen. “The truth is I brought money over from the old world.”

“Your family is wealthy?”

“That depends on how you define wealthy. We were not the Rockefellers, no, but we lived comfortably.” He poured a glass of wine. “Here you go.”