That’s the thing about second-guesses. They’re still only guesses.
“But for now,” Abelman continues, “I don’t want you to think about the future. I want you to think about the past. I need you to tell me what happened last night and see how your recollection of events stacks up against Miss Carter’s.”
For the next hour, we rehash every second of my confrontation with George Sullivan. And then, once we’re done, we go over it again. Finally, to my great relief, Abelman sits back, drops his pen atop his legal pad, and flexes his fingers.
“Good.” He nods with clear satisfaction. “Your story aligns perfectly with Miss Carter’s.”
“Funny how that happens when both people are telling the truth,” I mutter.
Abelman checks the time on his watch. “The detective who’s been assigned to work your case will be in soon to question you. Stick to what you’ve told me, and we shouldn’t have any problems.”
“After I answer his questions, will I be free to go?”
Abelman’s frown has my hopes plummeting. “Doubtful. I suspect they’ll hold you on suspicion of homicide. And given it’s a holiday, it’ll probably take me a day or two to get you in front of a judge for an arraignment hearing.”
That’s right. Itisa holiday, isn’t it?
What a truly messed up way to start the new year.
Chapter Sixty-eight
______________________________________
Maggie
Airports see more kisses than wedding chapels, and hospitals hear more prayers than churches.
I read that somewhere once, and as I sit in an uncomfortable plastic chair in a private hospital room, waiting for Cash to return from yetanotherset of scans, I know it’s true. It’s been hours since we arrived here. I haven’t stopped praying since.
I’ve even appealed to Saint Roch a few times. It can’t hurt, right? And seeing as how he and Cash are on speaking terms, maybe it might actually help.
The lone window in the room frames clouds the color of an old metal bucket. A hard breeze rattles the fronds of a palmetto tree outside, but I hear the soft sound only in my head. In reality, the chaos of the hospital accosts my ears.
At the nurses’ station, three efficient-looking women in various shades of pastel scrubs talk animatedly about something I can’t make out. A patient in a hospital gown and rubber-soled socks shuffles by, thesqueak-buzz-squeakof the wheels on his rolling IV stand sounds like a dentist’s drill, making me wince. And then there’s the constantbeepandshushof machines doing God only knows what to God only knows who.
I poke my head into the hall when I hear a familiar voice. I explained to the doctors here at Tulane Medical Center that Cash was under the care of Dr. Beckett at the VA. Now the man himself is here. He’s walking beside the physician who’s been taking care of Cash. I can catch only snatches of their conversation.
“…Sergeant Armstrong’s transfer is…”
“…I’ll speak to Miss Carter myself…”
“…always a shame in someone so young…”
The Tulane doctor peels off to chat with a nurse, but Dr. Beckett continues my way. When he sees me turkey-peeking around the corner, he smiles and adjusts his wire-rimmed glasses.
I meet him in the hall, twisting my fingers anxiously. “I didn’t know if having them call you was the right thing to do, but I thought—”
“It was exactly the right thing to do,” he assures me, placing a comforting hand on my arm. “Let’s talk.” He gently turns me back into the stark white room with its gadgets on the walls and its narrow door leading to a bathroom the size of a shoebox. “Have a seat,” he indicates the chair I vacated.
“Have you seen Cash?” I ask. “He hasn’t regained consciousness in all these hours, and the doctors won’t tell me anything because I’m not his next of kin. A nurse tried to shoo me away earlier, but I gave her a look that said I’d force-feed her the rotting testicles of a dead donkey before I’d step one foot out of this room, and she wisely let me stay.”
Beckett smiles. “I’ve just come from him. He’s awake and talking and—”
“Oh, thank God!” I cover my face with my hands and promptly burst into tears.
I like to think of myself as a tough nut. Someone who’s learned how to roll with the punches. But I’m going on thirty-six hours of no sleep. I’ve been held at gunpoint, watched a man die rather violently, been questioned by the police for what seemed like an eternity, and found someone I love unconscious and bleeding.
It’s all caught up with me.
