As with the previous chapter, I've borrowed TheGodmother2's character Dr. Bob Chandler, though this time he's only there in memory. Thanks again, Godmother!
Chapter 39
The explosion ripped through the floor of Canis Latrans Productions' enclosed fifth wheel, blasting out the rear gate and side walls in clouds of gray smoke and orange fire, and sending lethal pipe shrapnel and sharp splintered plastic spinning off in all directions.
Jason Smith, the cameraman, was the sole casualty. Everyone else had taken a ride out to the Red Pony.
At about the same time, fourteen miles north, Karl Angola rolled off his side of the bed to the worn carpet of his guestroom at the Cowpoke Motel just outside Sheridan. High-powered round upon round upon round riddled the door, thumping into the drywall, shattering a lamp and a bottle of bourbon, and spraying the sheets and the rustic pine furniture with a fine layer of Jim Beam.
The young, by-the-hour occupant of the other side of the bed, the side closest to the door, wasn't quite as lucky as Karl.
At least that's what Ferg tells me when his call wakes me from my dusky nap on the living room floor—not because I was in an emotional stupor when I got home, though it's fair to say I was, but because lying on my back on a firm surface, under the influence of a double dose of Vicodin, provided the most comfort I'd felt since the mayhem commenced yesterday morning.
"Smith's in critical condition here in town," he says. "The other guy, the uh . . ."
"Prostitute?"
"Yeah. He's up in Sheridan." He pauses, and I hear him shuffling papers, then opening and closing a drawer. "Eighteen years old. They don't expect he'll make it."
"That poor kid's family," I say, gazing up at the silhouette of the ceiling fan through the dim yellow glow from Walt's timed porch lights.
"What do you mean?"
"I doubt they know how he makes his living. They might not even know he's playing for the other team."
"You know who did this, right?" Ferg says, setting up a detour around the seediness.
"I'm pretty sure I know who tried to take Karl out," I say. "But domestic terrorism?"
"Pipe bombs are simple to make, Vic."
"Making one isn't using one."
"Detonation isn't all that complicated, either."
"Yeah, that's what I meant, Ferg," I say.
No one this side of the Mississippi brings out the sarcasm in me like Ferg does.
"So you're coming by with groceries?"
I make a futile attempt to sit up.
"Sorry," he says. "No."
A little involuntary grunt slips out as I ease myself back into the prone position.
"What was that?"
"Nothing," I say, my voice strained. "I just tried to move."
"Actually, Vic," he says, "the Sheriff asked me to give you a call."
My stomach tightens.
"Really? Why?"
"They're bringing Mendenhall in. We can't transfer her to the detention center 'til tomorrow, so she's here overnight."
"Okay," I say.
"Since she's female and all, we kind of need you. If you're feeling up to it."
"In case she has to go to the bathroom."
Of course, there's more to the gender consideration than that, but when it comes down to it, at least in Absaroka County, that's the primary issue.
"Only if you're feeling up to it," he says again. I get the impression he's following orders he doesn't agree with.
"I am," I say. "If I can get up off the floor I will be."
"If not, Walt says there's a female deputy over in Campbell County we might be able to borrow."
"No, Ferg, it's fine. I can do it. I can be there in about forty-five minutes."
"Bud has your truck," he reminds me.
"I know. I can walk. It's like a mile and a half."
"What the hell, Vic? You're not walking," he scoffs, and I imagine he's shaking his head, just asking to be clocked. "The Sheriff told me to pick you up."
"Well, we wouldn't want to upset the Sheriff," I say.
When we get to the station, even after stopping by the Taco John's drive-thru, Bud and Walt still aren't back. It's close to 8:00, and I'm sleepy despite the nap.
I roll my chair over to Ferg's desk and eat my compact bean and cheese burrito while he shows me the crime scene photos on his laptop. Though I already know it happened out at the Van der Horn place, and I know what to expect, the images are disturbing. The sight of the wreckage itself—the twisted metal and caution tape and blood soaked dirt in the debris field—are nothing compared to the sight of the farmhouse and the outbuildings beneath the wide Wyoming sky.
A cold sweat breaks out at my hairline and under the clavicle splint, and I feel lightheaded, maybe slightly nauseous. I put the burrito down on Ferg's desk and take one of those breaths that warns others of possible unpleasantries to come.
"I killed a man," I said.
It was like the fourth time the words had come out of my mouth in precisely the same order with precisely the same inflection, but I still hadn't quite wrapped my mind around what they meant.
"You think you should have handled it differently," Chandler said, clarifying, which up to that point seemed to represent the bulk of what he had to offer.
"Yeah. I think I should have."
"Even though that would have required you to completely disregard your law enforcement training."
"At least that way I wouldn't be marked by this."
"Come again."
"People don't get it. They weren't actually there and they never get the whole story, but they're the ones with the voice. They've got a fucking opinion about everything."
"Who? The public?"
"Yeah. I mean, every time you hear about an officer-involved shooting on the news, you've got multiple random dumbasses saying, 'Why didn't he just shoot to injure the guy? Was it really necessary to kill the suspect?'"
"Ah," he said. "A pattern emerges."
"Seriously? Are you trying to piss me off?"
"No. Am I pissing you off?"
"What do you think?"
"I think you're upset, and I think you have every reason to be."
Then he just sat there, huge hands flat on his snazzy-Wranglered thighs, prepared to calmly watch me totally lose my shit.
"No one stands up for the cop and says he's trained to do exactly what he did," I said, sort of choking it out, trying not to tear up again. "We shoot for the center mass. No one thinks about what that poor cop would have to live with if he aimed for a leg and missed, hit someone else, or the injured suspect got three or four rounds off, killing some bystander, maybe killing his partner."
Without realizing it, I was clenching my left fist, nails digging into my palm.
"The problem here," Chandler said, "isn't so much that you think you did the wrong thing."
"You don't know what I think."
"Just hear me out. I have a strong suspicion, based solely on what you've chosen to share with me, that you expect to not be believed. Maybe that's your default. But deep down, Vic, I think you know you did what you had to do."
"You don't know what I know."
"True, but you said it yourself. It was him or you. Or, your bigger concern, him or Ferg. In that split second, you were doing exactly what you were supposed to do, and I believe you know it."
"I was trained to shoot for the torso and I hit him in the forehead."
"Lying on the ground with a broken collarbone twenty feet below the target."
I shifted in the chair, my ribs aching and my shoulder throbbing, already two hours past due for my Vicodin fix.
"You expect to be judged unfairly."
"Bullshit."
"Vic, you can listen to them—the abstract them—or you can listen to you. I personally haven't discovered a way to do both."
Ferg and I have moved on to the surprisingly gruesome photos from the Cowpoke Motel when Walt brings Sherry in. She looks like a completely different person, dressed head to toe in black tactical gear, hair slicked back in a single, neat pony tail. She keeps her head down as they cross the office, like she's avoiding the paparazzi.
Ferg opens the cell and unlocks the cuffs. When the door is closed, Sherry says to Walt, almost in a whisper, "I'll need an attorney."
"That you will," he says, and it's tinged with sadness. "When you're ready, Ferg will help you make a phone call."
He comes over to where I'm sitting then, and he gives me a nervous smile, his right hand resting on the butt of his gun, his left on the handle of his knife with his thumb tucked under his belt.
Our eyes meet, but he's got the wall up.
He says, deep and uneasy, "Thanks for coming in, Vic. We'll set it up in here so you can rest until we need you."
It feels like we've gone back in time.
"I'm fine right now," I say, then lowering my voice, "but maybe we could talk about this morning? I didn't mean to upset you."
He nods. "There's a lot going on right now."
"Maybe later then," I say, but he's already walking away.
"You've been together how long?" Chandler asked.
"A week."
"A week?"
We didn't get into the timeline on the first pass.
"Yeah," I said, sort of emphatic. "I'm serious. A fucking week."
"And the split with your husband was three months ago?"
"About that."
"Been in Durant close to three years," he said, reviewing his notes.
"About that."
He smiled.
"And you've known him about as long?"
"Yup."
"How'd you two meet?"
I bit my lip, deliberating.
"Maybe I could tell you that later, if I come back."
"Would you like to come back?" he asked.
Through the cracks in the closed blinds the daylight was fading.
"I think I would."
"You said you told him you wanted some time."
"Yeah. It upset him."
"In what way?"
"I'm not sure. He didn't say anything, I just knew. I didn't do a very good job of explaining myself."
"What did you mean?"
"Just that I don't want to start a relationship in crisis, especially not this relationship. We both have issues, and that's fine, but I want to put everything I've got into this, and I can't do that while I'm fending off demons."
"The shooting. The divorce."
"Among other things."
"What do you think upset him?"
"Maybe he thought I was ending it."
"Were you?" he asked, blue eyes neutral, but kind, always kind.
"No. I just thought maybe we could slow down."
"Stop sleeping together for the time being?"
"I mean, seriously, we just started."
"You think I'm judging you?"
"Aren't you?"
"No."
"Yes, I thought we could just hold off for a little while."
"How long?"
"Until I'm not an emotional wreck."
"You don't want him to see you falling apart."
"I know where you're going with that, and yes, of course that's part of it, but it's less than you might think. It's just he's been through a lot himself. He might think he can help me with this, but the reality is I need help he's not able to give. Just like I wouldn't be able to help him come to terms with his wife's death. He had to do that on his own, or maybe with someone like you."
"Did he see a therapist?"
"Honestly, I don't know."
"What would you like to see happen?"
"I want him to have a conversation with me about it without getting all hurt and focusing on that. I want him to understand that I'm into this, but I need to get myself straight first."
"How long are you talking?"
"I don't know. A month or two."
"Have you considered that maybe for him it's now or never?"
"I've thought of that. It scares the shit out of me."
"There's the rub."
"What's that? Macbeth?"
"Hamlet," he said.
"Okay. So where's the rub?"
"You've got a chance at something you want so deeply, yet you realize in order to truly have it, you need time. If you take the time, you risk losing the relationship. If you don't take the time, you risk blowing it up."
"Sounds pretty grim."
"Not grim. It's just something that happens when you start evolving."
After Ferg leaves for the night, I walk over to Walt's door, and I knock.