Peter sat in the diner where he worked, lemonade in hand, sitting at a table across from Lt. Cooper. He had come into town to buy the gift for Paul and pick up his check from the diner. But he ended up staying longer when he ran into Lt. Cooper there. Now, clutching a small box all wrapped up with a note taped on top, Peter sat catching up with Cooper. He hadn't seen him (except in a picture in the newspaper) since the trial on Judge Bardwell. Cooper explained that Bardwell was most likely going to receive a sentence of a decade in prison, but would most likely get out in less time than that.
"I don't get that," said Peter. "How can someone just be let out if they haven't finished their sentence?"
Cooper shrugged. "Sometimes, justice doesn't seem like enough. But trust me, it is. In this country, it always is. That's how it supposed to be. You're supposed to be fair to fellow man, and give him what he deserves when you can. If he deserves that time in jail, make sure you nail him for the crimes. But then when someone deserves something good, you should always try and give it to him. The great thing about finishing a sentence is that you get a second chance. Though people may never look at you the same way again, you're still in charge of that destiny. And people should allow a man a second chance."
"I've never heard a cop talk like that before," said Peter. Then, he chuckled. "Well, you never hear cops on TV talk like that."
"I shot and killed a man once," said Cooper suddenly. "In New York City, before my wife and I moved here. It was only my first year as a cop. After that, I swore that I would never do something I would regret. Or that I would never pass up an opportunity that I would regret. And I always regretted that I killed him."
"Well, if you had to, you had to," said Peter.
"But I didn't have to," said Cooper. "I could've shot him were it wouldn't have killed him. But I was aiming to kill. He murdered a woman and her infant son, for just no reason. And when I saw him, I ran him down, and I killed him. Just like that, I took another man's life."
"At least you regret it," said Peter softly. "That makes you a good man."
"But I wish I hadn't ever made the decision in the first place," said Cooper.
"Why are you telling me this," asked Peter. "Did I do something wrong?"
Cooper laughed. "No. I guess the conversation just went this way. But it doesn't feel wrong, telling this to you. You're almost a man anyway. Leastways, you've proven yourself more than some men ever have."
Peter shrugged and looked outside. "I always thought that Cayuga Heights was different from the rest of the world. Nothing bad could ever happen here."
Cooper smiled. "Welcome to reality, Peter Burke. You'll see quickly enough that there's bad everywhere, but there's also good. You just have to look for it sometimes."
"Give it a chance to come out," asked Peter with a smile.
"Exactly," said Cooper. "Never let your guard down, but always allow room for hope and faith."
"I've never been so great about faith," confessed Peter. "I've never understood why bad things happen to good people."
Cooper shrugged. "No one knows. But you know what they say: 'What doesn't kill you makes you stronger.'"
"Actually," said Peter, absentmindedly. "Friedrich Nietzsche said that."
Cooper looked at Peter quizzically. "You're a smart kid."
"Not really," said Peter. "Paul tells me I never think before I act. He's always been smarter than I've been."
"Everyone's smart in their own way," said Cooper. "Everyone has their niche in the world."
Peter just smiled looked at his watch, and jumped up. "Shit—I mean shoot! I gotta get home!" He looked at Cooper. "Sorry, Lt. I always forget about the time. It's Paul's birthday today and everyone is coming over at 6. Actually, they're probably all over there by now. I was supposed to be there ten minutes ago!"
Cooper smiled and outstretched his hand. "See you later."
Peter shook it and threw on his hat, before starting for the door.
"Peter," called Cooper. Peter spun around just in time to catch the little package with Paul's gift inside.
"Thanks, Lt.," said Peter, before rushing out the door.
Cooper just shook his head while he watched Peter jump onto his bike and speed off. He wouldn't be surprised if that kid went somewhere.
Even though it was getting dark, Peter wasn't worried about getting home. He had ridden his bike at all times of the day in all sorts of weather; he knew how to get home. He was pretty sure that if someone blindfolded him he'd be able to get there…albeit a little longer than usual. This time, he rode for all he was worth, knowing that he would get quite a telling to by his mother for being late to his own brother's birthday. Peter was already running through all the excuses he could come up with. But he knew, as usual, that nothing would cut it. His mother would know he was lying through his teeth and she'd simply tell him that there was no excuse that should make him late for family.
When he turned onto his street, he didn't notice the car slowly pull off the curb and follow him.
He only noticed it when another car passed from the other direction. Peter watched them go by, and that was when he saw the car behind him. He drifted further to the right, giving the car ample room to pass. But it never did. Peter looked behind him again, this time realizing that the car was creeping slowly behind him. Peter quickly looked forward, the hair on the back of his neck rising. A chill swept through him. He was being followed.
Scenarios ran through his mind. But one thing was sure. He had to get off the road as quickly as possible. He knew he was only another two minutes from his house by now. Ahead, he could see the drive of his neighbors' house. He took a deep breath. He couldn't let his tail know what he was thinking. He kept at his same pace, not even rising from the saddle of the bike. Then, as soon as he passed his neighbors' mailbox, he stood up and started pedaling like he had never pedaled before. He made a sharp right turn into his neighbors' gravel drive. If he could just get past the trees, he could turn into their yard, ditch his bike, and run into the woods. They would never catch him there.
But he never made it those last few yards past the trees. A shot rang out. He felt the force of the bullet before the pain. The force knocked him off his bike, making him tumble over his handle bars. He hit the ground hard, and rolled into the steep ditch, landing with his face in the mud.
At first, he laid still, his adrenaline pumping like a broken dam. Then, he felt his shoulder. He could feel warm blood going down his arm and over his back. His shoulder was beginning to feel like it had been ripped off. The pain was excruciating and making him gasp. He gritted his teeth to keep from crying out, afraid that his assailant would come to finish him off. Sure enough, he craned his neck some, just the slightest movement causing him to shudder with a wave a pain, and looked up. Above the sound of the running engine, he could hear footsteps. But he knew that the light was causing a glare, and only unless the man came down there, would he find Peter still alive. The shooter's silhouette appeared above him. Peter couldn't see a face, but he also saw the silhouette of a rifle. He lay as still as possible.
There was a holler, from off towards the neighbors' house. The shooter looked that way and cocked the rifle. But then, he could hear dogs barking. The shooter must've decided that was too much because he didn't even glance down at the ditch again. He just took off. Peter watched the car lights turn and the engine rev.
And then it was just him, lying in the mud.
His hat was gone. His bike lay in the gravel drive, wheels still spinning. And the little box with Paul's gift lay in the mud beside him, the wrapping paper and note smeared. With his good arm, he reached out to it. But the movement sent another wave of pain through him and it was too much. He let himself go limp and closed his eyes, hoping to get some rest, before trying to move.
He heard the dogs barking again and someone hollering; louder this time. He tried to open his eyes, but he couldn't.
Five minutes prior, Marie was setting out the cake on the kitchen table. People were migrating towards the kitchen.
Paul stepped over to her. "Where's Peter?"
Marie shook her head. "Oh, that boy. He went into town to get your gift and pick up his check from the diner. He probably got distracted by something and lost track of the time."
Paul smiled. "That's Peter. But we'll wait for him, won't we?"
"That's up to you," said Marie. She reached for her camera on the counter and opened it up to make sure there was film. She shook her head. "And I asked him to go get some film from the drug store."
Their neighbor, Tom, heard the comment while talking to John. "Oh, don't worry Marie. We have plenty of film. I'll go run over and get some."
"Don't bother, Tom," said Marie. "It's not important."
"Of course it is," said Tom. "I know how you women are. You always need your pictures and this is important. Your boy is becoming a man today. I'll be right back."
He left through the side door. The neighbors had a shortcut through the little bit of woods in between their homes, so that they didn't have to go via the road all the time. Jimmy came into the kitchen, plopping party hats on everyone's head. Paul rolled his eyes.
"I don't think so," he said.
"Why not," said Jimmy with a pout. "There's one here that say 'Birthday Boy'."
"Hell no," said Paul.
"Come on, Paul," said Anne, making a puppy dog face. "Just for when we sing Happy Birthday."
"No."
"But—".
Anne was cut off when they all heard the loud report of a shotgun. The house fell silent as everyone turned their heads in the direction of the sound.
The dogs started barking from the back porch. Soon, everyone could hear Tom's dogs barking as well.
There was a collective race out the door by most of the men in the house. The older boys set out as well. Paul had never seen his father run so fast. And he wasn't sure where his father had acquired the shotgun on the way out. When they got to the end of the drive, John whistled for the dogs. Rose and Freddie were there in record time, catching up with the men as they ran around the bend in the road. As soon as they came around the bend, they saw a car turn around and speed away. No one had noticed Jimmy or Andrew on their bikes, but they flew by everyone else in their pursuit of the vehicle. Someone called after the, but they were on the warpath. The dogs ran ahead, coming up to where Tom was peering into the ditch, with his own dogs pacing and whining around him.
"It's Peter," he cried.
John pulled up short before the ditch, while Paul wasted no time jumping into the mud. He knelt over his brother.
"He's alive!"
There was a commotion.
"Someone get to the house and call the police!"
"Get the truck!"
Within five minutes, Peter was lying in the bed of a truck, Paul beside him, and his father stepping on the gas to get into town.
Two hours later the only sound that could be heard in the waiting room was the rain pattering against the window. About an hour earlier, the rain had started coming down in sheets. Outside somewhere in it, was Paul, riding around in the truck looking for Jimmy and Andrew. Also out in the rain were the police officers, trying to figure out exactly what had happened and trying to track down the shooter. But the only person that could tell them what had happened was lying in surgery at the time.
Then, the doors suddenly opened up, and Paul, Andrew, and Jimmy walked in, soaking wet. Their mothers went to them, crying and upset about them taking off like that. Andrew and Jimmy were just as upset, having believed that Peter was murdered. It was only when Paul found them that they learned that he was still alive. Then, Lt. Cooper had found them and sent them to the hospital, bearing the news that the shooter had been caught.
"It was Terry Dixon," Paul softly said. He was looking at his father. John was leaning against the window sill as he watched the night rain. "They have him in custody."
"Come sit, Paul," said Marie.
"Have you heard anything," asked Paul.
"No," said Anne, as she climbed into her brother's lap. "He'll be all right, won't he?"
"Of course," said Paul, hoping his voice sounded assuring.
Anne just nodded and let her head rest under Paul's chin.
A few minutes later, a nurse came out. She told them that Peter was out of surgery and being placed in a room. But they were to wait for the doctor to talk to them before they could go see him.
They waited anxiously for another few minutes, before a man in scrubs came out. "Peter Burke's family."
"We can all hear it," announced John from his position at the window.
The doctor nodded. "First off, he'll live. That's the good news. The bad news is that it's going to be a painful and long recovery."
There was a collective sigh of relief.
"Are you the surgeon," asked Marie.
"Yes, I'm Dr. Lagmann," he said.
"Thank you," replied Marie.
Lagmann just smiled and went on. "I'll just give you the complete rundown of the situation and then you can ask questions." He took a breath as everyone listened closely. "The bullet didn't pass through, but lodged itself between the shoulder blade and clavicle—his collar bone. The top of his shoulder blade was shattered and the collar bone was cracked. The shoulder blade and collar bone are the bones where all of the rotator cuff muscles attach. The rotator cuff also contains tendons and ligaments. All of this allows us to move our shoulder in all the different directions. A good amount of damage was done to two of the tendons and also the muscle. We spent a good amount of time stitching that up. He'll have limited movement for a while." The doctor took a deep breath. "I know this is all probably very overwhelming, but trust me, it will get better All you should worry about now is getting some rest yourselves. Peter probably won't wake for another hour or two and even then he'll be drowsy once we give him a higher dosage of pain medication."
Everyone just looked at him before John walked over and shook his hand. "Thank you. May we go see him, now?"
"Of course," said Lagmann. "But I'm going to have to say immediate family only for right now. The rest of you should just go home." They all nodded. "I'm on call all night so I'll be here when he wakes up and if you need me for anything. He's in room 122."
He gave them all another sharp nod and left.
John looked at his the others in the room, just Andrew and Jimmy's families. "Thank you all for staying. But I think Dr. Lagmann is right. There's nothing more we can do here. You guys should just get some rest. Boys…" he looked at Andrew and Jimmy. "…I'm sure you guys can stop by tomorrow to see Peter when he's awake. But you should just go on home now."
The good-byes were said and the waiting room cleared except for the Burke family. John took his wife's arm and they went down the hallway. Anne took her brother's hand. "Paul?"
"I think I'm just gonna go," said Paul.
"Why?"
"I just don't wanna see him right now."
"Why not?"
"I just can't is all. He's just sleeping right now anyway. You go on, Anne. Tell Mom and Dad that I went home."
Anne gave him a quick hug and then hurried off. Paul glanced down the hallway and then left.
Paul didn't know what he expected to find by going to the police station. He just really didn't want to go home to an empty house and that was the only place he could think of going. When he got there, he asked if Lt. Cooper was in. He was brought to the man who was bent over paperwork.
"Lt. Cooper," said Paul.
Cooper looked up, startled to find Paul standing there. He stood up quickly. "Paul, what's up?"
Paul shrugged. "I don't know. I just didn't have anywhere else to go."
"The hospital? How's your brother?"
Paul sat down. "He's out of surgery. A lot of damage was done to his shoulder. It'll be a long recovery, but they said he'll be okay in the end."
"That's good," said Cooper.
"What about this guy, Dixon," asked Paul, bitterness evident in his voice.
Cooper sighed. "I'm just getting together his paperwork. There's a lot of evidence against him. He was found in that car with a shotgun that had the gunpowder residue left on it. His fingerprints are all over the gun. And not to mention he's wanted anyway for the drive by shooting that Winters sold him out about."
"But he'll go to jail for shooting my brother, right," asked Paul.
"He's going to jail for both of those acts," said Cooper. "And he'll be in there for a long time."
Paul nodded.
"Oh yeah," said Cooper. "This was recovered at the…scene." He pulled out Peter's hat and the small gift-wrapped box that was smeared with mud. "We brought his bike back to your house."
"Thanks," murmured Paul. He noticed that the hat and box and been wiped up and dried off. He looked at the note, but whatever had been written was just a blob of ink on the paper.
"Whatever it was, he was proud of it," said Cooper. "I saw him at the diner before he left."
Paul smiled. "I think I'll wait to open it." He stood up. "Thanks, Lt. I'll be going home now."
"Stay safe."
Paul smiled at the irony, but he wasn't laughing inside.
()()()()()()
Neal looked out the window. The street lights were still on. The clock read 3:00 AM. He looked at Peter.
"Does it ever hurt still," asked Neal.
"It aches sometimes," replied Peter. "When it gets real cold, or when the weather changes. Some doctor told me something about atmospheric pressure…but it doesn't limit me in anyway. I just couldn't ever throw a curveball or put a lot of heat on a fastball like I used to."
Neal nodded. "Did you ever play baseball again?"
Peter nodded. "Well, that school year, my junior year, I acted as a manager on the school team. I coached the younger pitchers too, but wasn't capable of doing anything until that summer when summer league started up. I played then, but I never pitched again. I learned to throw with my left hand, but it wasn't the same. It just paled into comparison with what I could do with my right. I tried, my senior year. When we were training, I tried to throw, but I couldn't last very long and it was painful. So, I became an outfielder and could throw the ball in just fine with my left hand."
"No scholarship," asked Neal softly.
"No," said Peter. "Well, I didn't get an athletic scholarship. But I got an academic one to Cornell."
Neal turned the page of the album to reveal the next three articles: Burke Shot by Dixon and Dixon Brought to Trial for Both Shootings and Athlete Maimed by Shoooting.
"So you weren't a mathalete in college," said Neal with a smile.
Peter rolled his eyes. "Now, even if I dislike you using that term I will defend myself here. I was not maimed. That's some reporter making it sound more dramatic than it was. I still played intramural basketball at Cornell. We actually won our conference championship. So, I still was good at math and a good athlete."
Neal smiled. "I'm sure you were."