Spider Web (23 page)

“Benni,” Yvette said. “Can you tell us what happened?”

“We decided to take the bridge and cut over to Monterey Street,” I said, glancing at Hud, then Yvette. “Miguel had to pick up a rosary for his mother. At the mission gift shop.”

Slowly, I described our route, trying to recall every detail. I knew that often the seemingly most innocuous thing might be a clue for the detectives.

Once I’d gone through the whole scenario, she asked me to repeat it. Then she asked me to tell it a third time. My water bottle was empty now, and I was gripping it with both hands, the crinkling sound from the plastic somehow a comfort.

After my third telling, Jim Cleary stepped in. “I think we’ve picked her brain clean. Let’s have an officer drive her over to the hospital.”

I gave him a grateful look and stood up. For a moment, my legs felt numb, and I started to sway. Hud darted up and caught me before Jim could move.

“Take it easy,” he said, his arm around my shoulders.

Jim called over the young officer who’d been the first to come at my cries for help. “Officer Russo, drive her over to General Hospital. Make sure she gets inside.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are you going to be okay?” Jim asked.

I nodded yes, though I wasn’t sure. “Do you know where Gabe is?” “At the hospital. He called to check on you while you were talking to Detective Arnaud. He said he’d see you there.”

Despite the crowds, Officer Russo maneuvered his squad car out and onto a side street. As we pulled away, I glanced up briefly and saw the hundreds of curious people. It occurred to me that the sniper was still out there. The person who shot Miguel might be standing in that crowd staring at the spectacle he or she had caused, as satisfied and sated as an arsonist who watches a forest go up in orange flames.

I hunched down in the passenger seat, turning my head, trying to ignore the gawkers. For a moment, I understood what it must feel like to be hunted by paparazzi. I felt vulnerable, scared and angry. On the drive to the hospital, using the officer’s borrowed cell phone, I called Dove. If she hadn’t heard about it yet, she would soon. The San Celina grapevine was as fast as a Japanese bullet train.

“Gramma?” I said.

“What’s wrong?” My tone put Dove immediately on red alert. “Are you okay? Who’s hurt? Where are you?”

Before I could answer, I heard her yell, “Ben, start the truck!”

“Wait,” I broke in, my words tumbling over each other. “I’m fine, I’m fine. I’m on the way to the hospital, but it’s not me. And it’s not Gabe.”

I heard her take a deep breath. In the background, I could hear my dad’s gruff, worried voice. “Dove, what’s going on? What’s wrong?”

“Benni’s fine,” she told him. “So’s Gabe.” She came back on the line. “Why are you going to the hospital?”

“Miguel was shot. I was with him . . .”

“I’ll be there . . .”

“No, wait. It would be better if you didn’t. The hospital is probably a madhouse, and you’d have a hard time getting past the guards. I just wanted to let you know I’m okay. It’s probably on the news right now. I gave my statement already, and an officer is taking me to the hospital . . .”

“Gabe?”

“He’s at the hospital. I’ll call you when we hear something.”

“Honey bun.” Dove’s voice, as familiar and comforting to me as the wind, calmed my racing heart. “Our poor little Miguel.”

“The paramedics said he’d be okay.” It was a little lie, but she didn’t know that. Maybe he would be. He
had
to be.

“I’ll call the prayer chain,” she said softly. “We’ll start lifting him up. You tell Señora Aragon we’re praying for her boy.”

“I will.”

At the hospital, we passed through two checkpoints set up by the San Celina police. A security perimeter that would rival a presidential visit had also been set up around the hospital. I glanced at my watch and realized only an hour and a half had passed. It felt like both days and seconds since Miguel was shot.

Officer Russo pulled in front of a side door off the doctor’s parking lot where two police officers stood guard. After a few words with them, Officer Russo ushered me through the door. It led into someone’s private office. I followed him through the office into one of the hospital’s quiet, low-lit back corridors. We walked through places in the hospital I’d never known existed. In five minutes, we were in the Intensive Care waiting room. Elvia, her mom and dad, various brothers and sisters-in-law and my cousin Emory were in the room watching a news report of the shooting. A quick glance told me my husband wasn’t in the room.

“Benni!” Elvia rushed over to me, Emory behind her. “Are you okay?” She pulled me into a tight hug. Emory put his arms around both of us.

“I’m fine. I would have been here sooner, but a detective had to take my statement while it was fresh. How’s Miguel?” My first thought when I walked in was he had to be okay or people would have been crying.

“He’s in surgery,” Emory said, stepping back but keeping a hand on both my and Elvia’s shoulders. “Apparently he had a collapsed lung, but the doctors seem to think the bullet passed through without any unfixable damage. They’re worried about infection, of course, but he was darn lucky. A half inch to the side and . . .”

Elvia started crying, and I hugged her tighter. “Oh, sweetie, he’s going to be okay. Miguel has always been a tough little nut. Remember when he fell out of the peach tree and got a concussion? He’ll pull through this.”

“I know,” she said, her words muffled into my shoulder. “I hate whoever did this!”

“I know,” I said, this time glancing up at my cousin’s worried face. “How long will he be in surgery?”

“They don’t know,” Emory said.

At that moment, Sophie Lou, held by Señora Aragon, let out a strangled cry. Elvia instantly released her hold on me.

“She’s hungry,” she said, taking Sophie from her mother. “Maybe they have an empty room I can use.”

“I’ll come,” her mother said, glancing worriedly over at the door to the surgical unit.

“We’ll come get you if we hear anything,” Emory assured them.

After Elvia and her mother left, everyone found a place to sit. Ramon, Miguel’s younger brother, changed the channel since the news report was over and a rerun of the television show
M*A*S*H
started playing. It showed the doctors in a bloody operating room cracking jokes, not something that any of us wanted to watch right now.

“Let’s sit down,” Emory said, pointing to a quiet corner away from the television set, which was now showing a basketball game. “Are you really okay? It had to be pretty scary for you.” We sat down next to each other on the olive green tweed sofa.

“You know me, I’ll collapse two weeks from now when I’m shopping for eggs or ice cream or something.” It was how I reacted to things—days or weeks later when it made no logical sense.

“Maybe you should get checked out by a doctor,” he said, taking my hand. “Your hands are as cold as a chunk of ice.”

“Cliché,” I said, giving him a weak smile.

“Who can be William Faulkner during a time like this?”

“I don’t need to see a doctor. Who I need to see is my husband. Has he been here?”

“He dropped in for a moment right when they took Miguel in for surgery. Said he would be back before Miguel came out. I’m assuming he has someone monitoring it and keeping him informed.” Emory squeezed my hand.

“He said he was worried about you, but that he’d made sure you were in good hands.”

I nodded. I knew that. Once he heard I was physically okay, I didn’t expect Gabe to come running to find me when he had this critical situation to deal with. Every minute counted right after a shooting. I had learned long ago that this was part of being a chief’s wife. Our own personal fears and relationship would have to take a backseat until this was resolved.

I held Emory’s gaze. “Did he seem all right?”

Emory’s lips pressed together, a strand of blond hair falling over one eye. “He was completely calm and in charge. Same old Gabe.”

I inhaled deeply. “Yes, same old Gabe.”

“Hey, guys,” Ramon said, walking over to us. “I’m making a trip to the cafeteria. Need coffee or a soda or something?”

“Sounds good.” Emory stood up and reached for his wallet.

“Got it covered,
hermano
,” Ramon said, waving him back. “What do you want?”

“Black coffee,” Emory said.

“Hot chocolate, I guess,” I said.

After taking everyone’s order, Ramon and one of his teenage nephews left for the cafeteria. Minutes later the waiting room door opened and a doctor still in green scrubs walked in.

“Mr. or Mrs. Aragon?” he said. His face was long with heavy jowls like a human equivalent of a basset hound.

“Sí,”
Miguel’s father said, standing up. “I am Miguel’s father.” His sons and their wives stood behind him in a semicircle. Emory and I stood behind them. Señor Aragon’s gruff voice held a slight tremble. “How is my son?”

“I’m Dr. Chambers,” he said. “Officer Aragon’s going to be fine, eventually. It was a close call, but the bullet just nicked his lung. We have to worry about infection, of course, but he’s a young, healthy man and with some time and rest should be almost good as new. I wouldn’t recommend any strenuous exercise for a few months, but there’s no permanent damage.” He paused a moment. “He was very lucky. Another inch or two could have been a lot more serious.”

No one spoke, contemplating his words for a moment.

“He can still work as an officer?” Señor Aragon asked. “He will ask me that first.”

Miguel’s family nodded in agreement. Miguel loved his job and would want to come back to work as soon as he could.

“No reason he can’t do everything he did before,” Dr. Chambers said, smiling. He glanced up at the television set. “Any news about the sniper?”

“No,” said Rafael, the oldest of the six Aragon brothers. “Not that we’ve heard.”

I turned to Emory. “I need to tell Elvia and Señora Aragon the good news. If Gabe comes by . . .”

“I’ll keep him here until you get back,” Emory said.

“And call Dove,” I said. “I told her I’d let her know how Miguel was.”

“Will do.”

The hospital hallway was quiet, since visiting hours had ended an hour ago. Police officers guarded either end of the hall, and I wondered where else they were stationed in the building. Though I would never actually second-guess my husband and his work decisions, I could not help thinking—Miguel is the last one in danger right now. The sniper
already
shot him. Then again, I didn’t know the whole situation, and Gabe was very good at his job.

I walked to the center nurses’ station and asked where Elvia and her mom went to feed Sophie.

“Room sixteen,” said a nurse wearing green scrubs. “They . . . oh, there they are now.” She pointed behind me.

I turned and saw them walking down the hallway toward me. Señora Aragon carried Sophie, so Elvia ran toward me.

“What . . . ?”

“He’s out of surgery,” I told her. “He’s going to be fine.”

Elvia crossed herself, then burst into tears. I put my arms around my friend and held her as she sobbed. Señora Aragon kissed the top of Sophie’s head over and over, murmuring “
Gracias
, El Señor,
gracias
,
gracias
. . .”

“Can we see him?” Elvia asked.

“I didn’t ask. The minute I heard, I came to find you. Your dad and brothers probably have more information.”

Back in the waiting room, Gabe stood next to Señor Aragon, explaining something to him in Spanish. Seeing me, he said to Elvia’s father,
“Un momento.”
He crossed the small room in two strides, pulling me into his arms.

“Querida, querida,”
he whispered into the top of my head. “Are you all right?”

“You heard about Miguel? He’s going to be okay.”

“Yes, I had someone here keeping me informed. I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you were questioned . . .”

I pressed my cheek into his chest, trying to absorb his warmth. “I was in good hands. Jim was there. You had a job to do.”

He hugged me again. “I have to go on camera in a few minutes. For the eleven p.m. newscast.”

I looked over at the large black and white clock next to the muted television. It was a quarter to eleven. “I can’t believe it’s this late.”

“What are you going to do?” he asked, glancing over at Elvia and her mother.

“I’ll offer to spend the night, but I know they’ll refuse. They’ll probably take shifts, and the ones staying will keep everyone else informed. You know Señora Aragon won’t leave.”

Sure enough, a few minutes later Elvia called her family together and they started drafting a chart, deciding who was staying, who would go home and sleep, who would come back tomorrow and relieve the night watch. Neither Miguel nor his parents would ever be alone.

“I’ll meet you by the rose garden in twenty minutes,” Gabe said, kissing my forehead. “The interview shouldn’t take long. There’s not much I can do except tell them we, the sheriff’s department and every agency who can spare someone are working on it. And that there’s now a $75,000 reward for information leading to the capture of the sniper.”

“Maybe that’ll convince someone to step up and give information.”

Gabe’s face was shadowed, his cheekbones stark, like they had been laser cut from a hunk of granite. “We can only hope. Right now, we don’t have enough information to do much.”

For some unrealistic reason, I felt guilty. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be more help.”

He stroked my cheek with the back of his knuckles. “Yvette said you were great. That you remembered an extraordinary amount of detail.”

“It happened so fast. I hope something I told her will help.

“You never know what will be the link. Chances are this person knew this area well enough to use the woods by where you and Miguel were walking, then run down the creek bed so that it would be difficult to find any trace of him. Whoever is doing this is smart.”

“What can your detectives do then?”

“There’s a group of homeless people who tend to camp down by that section of the creek, so we’re interviewing them. Every spare officer I have is on this. The FBI is working up a profile. The bullet they cut out of Miguel is on its way down to the forensic lab in Santa Barbara with a rush on it.”