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“If she survives,” I said. “Susan. I’m not her immediate family.”
Effie hung an elbow over the back of her chair and tapped a message out on her phone with one thumb.
Better settle in, then. Could be here a while.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
SHERIFF CLAY SPEARS walked up the ramp to Gate 12 at Eppley Airfield in Omaha at about midday, the little girl named Zoe Savage holding his hand. Clay was tired himself, but the kid was barely awake at all. For the whole flight from Beverly Regional, the girl had slept with her head against the window, her mouth hanging open and little snores coming from her now and then as she was disturbed by turbulence or the flight attendant’s cart going by. Clay had sat and watched the child, thinking that now that he knew she was a little girl and not a little boy, he wasn’t sure how he could have missed the distinction.
They’d talked a little back at the station in Gloucester, Clay stepping out of the little waiting room he’d settled the kid into to deal with multiple crime scenes. Mostly, though, Clay wasn’t sure what to say to the girl. It was possible, he assumed, that he could make matters worse by trying to explain it all to her: how April Leeler had abducted her, how her parents had beencharged with her murder, how her father was a fugitive. Clay thought he’d best leave that kind of thing to a child psychologist. He listened to what the kid said about her time with April Leeler, but didn’t comment on it.
He’d almost known the kind of story Zoe would tell, even before the child spoke. That April Leeler had been a teacher at Zoe’s school. That she’d been so nice and friendly. How she’d hustled Zoe into her car one afternoon, telling the kid wild stories about her parents not wanting her to be their daughter anymore. April had convinced Zoe that she was protecting her from her parents, who wanted to kill her. And that adopting a new identity, that of a little boy named Joe, would be their only safe option. April had shaved Zoe’s head, bought her boy’s clothes from the local Walmart, and driven the two of them out of the state as fast as she could.
What Zoe couldn’t tell Clay waswhyApril had done it; what sadistic malfunction in the woman’s mind, or gaping hole in her soul, had made her abduct a child. And Clay didn’t want to know. It hurt so bad learning that April wasn’t the woman he’d thought she was. Learning more about that lie felt like unnecessary agony.
Zoe Savage waited silently, rubbing her eyes and leaning a little against Clay’s leg, as two detectives from Omaha greeted them at the airport gate. They were standard police detective types—slightly overweight, world worn, dressed in wrinkled suits. They introduced themselves as Detectives Hanley and Erroldson and stood there for what must have been a full minute, gaping silently at Zoe.
“Well, Jesus,” Hanley said and ran a hand over his bald scalp. “That’s her, all right. I can’t believe it. I’m standing here lookingat her right now and I still can’t believe it. It’s like I’m looking at a goddamn unicorn.”
Erroldson shook his head at Clay. “We had the parents dead to rights. I just feel like the ultimate fool.”
“You rounded up the father yet?” Clay asked.
“Yeah,” Hanley said. “Guy gave himself up when he saw the news report that you’d found Zoe in Gloucester. Boy, ain’t he relieved. You found his daughter and you got him off the hook for murder. That man owes you a drink, Sheriff. Him and the mother both.”
“I don’t think so,” said Clay. He lifted a tired hand. “I’m just gonna turn around and catch the next flight back home.”
“What?” Erroldson laughed. “Hell, no. Sheriff Spears, you ain’t going nowhere! We got a big reunion of this little one with her parents planned down at the station. Every news camera in the country is gonna be there. You’ve got to enjoy your moment.”
“You’re the hero here,” Hanley insisted. “You can’t just walk out on your time as a hero.”
“Yes, I can,” Clay said.
While the detectives stood there, gaping silently again, Clay crouched down and pulled Zoe Savage into a hug. He told her that she was a good girl. That she was brave. That everything was going to be OK. And then he shook hands with the detectives and walked down the concourse toward Departures.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX
IN THE MOVIES, when someone might be dying, their loved one sits in a waiting room for a few hours, just enough time to slowly rise from the hard plastic chair at any sign of news looking slightly stale and tired. It didn’t work out like that for me. For the first six hours after I drove Susan to the hospital, I did sit and rise and pace and wait, looking stale and tired and no more, and there were many possible signs of news. But the news didn’t come. Eventually, Effie went away, and I was told that Nick was in post-op for his shattered knee. I didn’t go and visit him. The emergency department waiting room seemed to be where the nurses expected to find me, so that’s where I stayed.
When the news came, it was not the definitive “She made it!” of Hollywood movies. There was no one around to high-five and hug me. I’d been waiting eight hours, and they told me that Susan was resting from her first surgery and was about to go infor another round. They couldn’t tell me if she would live or die, or under what circumstances either might happen.
After a day, my beard stubble was appearing and my clothes were reeking from worry sweat. They told me they’d had to remove half of Susan’s left lung, as it had been torn to shreds by the bullet. They couldn’t tell me if she was in or out of the proverbial woods.
After two days, my hair was crazy and my eyes were wild from lack of sleep and refusal of food. They told me Susan was in an induced coma, which was bad, but there was no sign of brain damage, which was good.
After three days, I was walking like a zombie from catching naps in corners, on chairs, on a bench outside the waiting room doors, and while Effie had brought me new clothes, I hadn’t put them on. My skin was oily, and my teeth were furry, and my thoughts were fragmented from stress. When I was sleeping, I heard the hospital’s alarm and announcement system in my dreams, and my eyes ached from the fluorescent lights. They said Susan was showing signs of waking.
On the fourth day, I was roused from a drooling slumber, propped against the vending machine, drawn there by its strangely soothing hum. It was a nurse who woke me. She said I was allowed to visit Susan.
I ran, forgetting that I’d taken off my shoes and tucked them under the chair in the waiting room. In socked feet I almost slid over as I was coming to a halt at the door of the room the nurse was pointing to. It was dark and warm inside. Sitting up in the bed, Susan was awake and waiting for me.
Her eyes were sleepy, but she still frowned as she took me in.
“Bill,” she said. “Jesus. You look awful.”
I fell into the chair beside her bed and took her hand, put her palm against my face. She made a sound that might have been a little laugh, had she been stronger, had it not hurt so much. I cradled her fingers against my face and just looked at her, thanking God or the universe or dumb luck or whatever the hell was responsible for her being alive with every ounce of my soul.
“I’ve got a question for you,” I said eventually.
