two

Tuesday, Day 1—morning after the shooting

“You, Mrs. Lowenstein, have a very hard head,” said the male nurse, one Ned O’Malley, as he cleaned my wound. The sting of the alcohol wipe was subsiding but the smell lingered.

“That bullet could have done a lot more damage. Instead, it skidded along the side of your skull. Scraped a nice-sized groove in your temple. You’ll sport one nasty scar as a memento of your adventure.”

His wild, carrot-red-haired head bent over me as he gently pressed a fresh bandage on the wound that ran the horizontal length of my right temple. Finishing his work, he stepped back, looked me over, and nodded to himself.

“Please call me Kiki,” I croaked. My throat was dry and my voice was so hoarse that Kermit the Frog and I could have done a duet.

“Kiki,” he repeated. “I’m known as Ned the Red, because of the orange hair.” He removed his swinging stethoscope and tucked it into a pocket of his bright red scrubs with the dancing Elmo on them. The juxtaposition delighted me. I’m a scrapbooker and a very visual person, so I love putting orange and red together.

“You’re a lucky, lucky girl.” Easing his way into the seat beside my hospital bed, the nurse leaned forward on his elbows and smiled at me, a bemused sort of half-grin. His face betrayed the fact he’d lived a hard life, what with the creases, sunburned skin color, and pock marks. Probably in his forties, if the crow’s feet and the white hairs in his beard were any indication. Mixed with the spicy fragrance of his cologne was a hint of antibiotic soap, the kind they put in the dispensers at McDonald’s. Strong stuff that not only killed germs but also peeled the skin right off my fingers.

“Yeah. I feel really lucky,” I said.

“I’ve heard you’re a good shot. One of the cops who brought you in nicknamed you ‘Dead-Eye Dora.’ Believe me, he said it with total admiration.” Ned punctuated this statement with a short laugh.

“Thanks. I think.” I grabbed the box of tissues on the stand next to my hospital bed and dabbed my eyes.

“One of the side effects of any head injury is strong emotions. Of course, that’s also a part of being pregnant.”

“How is my baby?” Afraid to hear the answer, I stared down at the mountain range my toes made under the pale green cotton blanket that covered the crisp white sheets tucked over my legs.

“Fine. A mother’s body is an incredible vessel. The best space capsule ever. NASA’s got nothing on Mother Nature. I doubt your little passenger even knew his mama had been hurt. But I have a hunch these tears aren’t about the baby, are they?”

“No,” I said hastily, wiping at my eyes. “Okay, maybe. Some. I shot a man. Killed him.”

“That’s what’s bothering you?” Ned raised an eyebrow.

“Wouldn’t it bother you?”

“How about if I contact someone for you to talk to? Do you have a priest? A minister?”

“Rabbi Sarah Caplin. Montefiore Temple. Over in St. Louis. We’re still in Illinois, right?”

“Yes, ma’am. We were the closest hospital to the slough.”

“How are my friends?” My heart raced and a cold sweat broke out on my upper lip.

“Mrs. Lowenstein is fine except for a broken collarbone, a fracture of her forearm, a concussion, and bad bruising. Mr. Chambers is in critical condition. His spleen had to be removed to stop the bleeding, and he’s in a coma.”

“Oh.” A tear trickled down my cheek.

“Mr. Chambers did respond to stimuli though, and that’s a good sign.”

Thank goodness.

Johnny’s sister Mert Chambers was my best friend. She would never forgive me if he didn’t pull through. Mert was a typical Scorpio. You didn’t want to get on her bad side. Once you crossed her, you were toast. And we’re talking burnt toast here. She was under the impression that I’d cooked up this whole scheme and put Johnny at risk. Nothing could be further from the truth, but I knew she wouldn’t give me a fair hearing. Not now. When someone she loved was involved, Mert led with her emotions. It made her the best of friends and the worst of enemies.

That reminded me: “What about Brenda Detweiler?”

“Brenda Detweiler? Who’s that? She didn’t come in with you,” Ned said.

“Brenda Detweiler is the woman who shot Johnny and me. I’d like to know if she’s in custody.”

“You probably need to talk with an officer for details on your assailant.”

My assailant. Yeah, that described Brenda Detweiler to a T. Although she’d thrown her husband, Detective Chad Detweiler, out on Christmas Day, she’d grown furious when he decided to give in to our mutual attraction. I’d met Detweiler when he investigated my husband’s murder. We’d fallen in love despite our best efforts to stay “just friends.” But propriety and good sense had kept us at arm’s length until Brenda tossed him to the curb. Then, despite our best intentions to go slowly, our relationship moved forward at breakneck speed. In fact, he was all set to divorce Brenda when her father, Milton Kloss, asked him to wait because she’d agreed to go into drug rehab—for the third time. Without Detweiler’s insurance, the treatment would have been financially prohibitive. After we discussed it, Detweiler postponed the divorce proceedings. But finding a place for Brenda in a rehab facility didn’t happen overnight. Meanwhile she had grown bolder and bolder in her attacks on me.

At the same time that Brenda was making my life miserable, I was also receiving nasty letters and taunts from Bill Ballard.

Ned brought me back to the here and now. “You sure are lucky. Those two off-duty policemen crept through the cattails and discovered a crime in progress. They called for backup and ambulances, but if you hadn’t shot Mr. Ballard, both of your friends might have died.”

“I killed a man.” The words came hesitantly. The tears came easily.

“Listen. I served in Iraq.” He rubbed his mouth with a clenched fist. “There’s blood on my hands, too. Few people in our society ever are forced to make the sort of choices that you and I have made. But what else could you have done? Would you have stood by and watched your friends die?”

“I … I don’t know.” I blew my nose.

“Sure you do. The news reports call you a hero!”

I covered my face with my hands. “I don’t want to be a hero. I just want to be left alone.”