Witness to Death (44 page)

Michelle was sitting up in bed, as she had been the last time he saw her, this afternoon. She was wearing pajamas, white with pink bulletss. The blanket was pulled up to her waist. She didn’t look at Callahan when he entered.

She didn’t look at anything.

Michelle had been this way since Callahan found her, sitting on the ground near the Hudson River. She lay there, covered in dust, water, and probably blood, shaking. He wrapped her in his arms and tried to talk to her but she didn’t respond. They brought her to the hospital and tried to treat her with lorazepam and benzodiazepines. It seemed to work for a while. But after a few hours, she’d freeze up again.

It’d been that way since she’d gotten home. Actually, it seemed to get even worse. The incidents would last for hours at a time. She was rarely lucid and didn’t seem to sleep.

Callahan pulled a chair next to the bed and sat. He filled the spoon with soup. He blew on it to cool it, and lifted it near Michelle’s lips. She didn’t open her mouth. He pressed the spoon to her lips, and they parted a bit. She took some of the soup off the spoon. Callahan hoped this was a sign.

“Michelle?”

Nothing.

He took another spoonful and repeated the process.

“Are you okay? Say something to me, baby.”

No response.

He gave her more. She swallowed it.

Callahan took a deep breath. Every day was the same thing.

“That day, on the Hudson,” he said. “John—before he saved you—he wanted me to tell you something.”

Michelle didn’t blink, didn’t shift, didn’t look at him.

Callahan said, “He told me to tell you he loved you.”

He waited. The soup bowl trembled in his hand. When Michelle didn’t react, he took some more soup and fed it to her.

“I love you too,” he whispered.

After she finished the soup, Callahan gave Michelle a kiss on the cheek. He dropped the spoon into the bowl and got up. Once he brought the spoon and bowl back downstairs, he planned on checking his email and then getting Michelle ready to sleep. He gave her one last look, and then left the room.

He took the stairs more quickly this time, the spoon clattering against the bowl as he went. The popping sound came when he reached the third step from the bottom. His toes stopped working and he toppled head first to the bottom of the floor. The soup bowl shattered when it hit the ground. Callahan followed it, face first. He felt a shard of the bowl tear into his cheek.

It felt as if the back of his right ankle had been kicked with a steel-toed shoe. He lifted his right knee toward his chest and reached with his hand toward his ankle. He looked over his shoulder toward the ankle and saw blood flowing. It felt as if his leg—from calf to foot—had been lit on fire.

“Good to see you again, Peter.”

Christine Verderese came out from behind the stairway and hovered over him. She held a knife.

No!

Christine crouched next to his left leg. Callahan tried to bring it up to his chest as well, but she grabbed it and held it tight. He wasn’t as strong as he was three weeks ago. Too much sitting, too much waiting.

Christine pressed the knife into the back of his ankle, and slashed. Another
pop
and the flames shot up toward his calf again. Callahan’s vision started to cloud and he felt sweat on his forehead.

“Now,” Christine said. “I need to see Michelle.”

“No!” Callahan screamed, but it sounded to him like it came from somewhere else.

Christine turned and took the steps two at a time. Callahan was barely able to dig his hands into the ground and turned toward the stairs, when she was already at the top and turning toward Michelle’s room. Callahan realized she knew the layout of Sandler’s home. That was where he’d first met her.

He dug his hands into the carpet. His muscles bulged as he pulled.

Michelle could be dead already.

“Christine!” he screamed.

Grabbing the bottom step, he dragged himself forward. He though his triceps were going to explode. Pulling hard, he got his chest against the steps. The fire in his legs didn’t matter. The throbbing in his muscles meant nothing.

If he couldn’t get upstairs, he’d lose Michelle too.

By the midpoint of the stairwell, he was out of breath. The tendons in his neck felt like they might snap as he gritted his teeth and strained. Blood ran inside his shoes. He went up the stairs hand over hand, using his knees to help him as best he could.

He was six steps from the top. He yelled for Christine again.

No answer.

“Michelle!”

Nothing.

“Oh God,” he said.

He closed his eyes and reached for the top step. Wrapping his fingers in a few loose carpet threads, he pulled as hard as he could.

Belly crawling like a G.I., he pulled himself to Michelle’s door. It was already open. He looked through the doorway and saw Christine, knife in hand, squatting like a catcher on Michelle’s bed. She leaned in close to Michelle’s ear, and her lips were moving. She held the knife against her left leg as if she were hiding it.

“Christine, don’t.”

Neither woman flinched. Callahan pulled himself into the room. His shirt had been pulled close to his chest and he was sure his stomach was rug burned. Sweat had dripped into his eyes and his vision was blurry.

“Don’t,” he repeated.

Christine revealed the knife to Michelle. Pressed it against her throat and waited. Michelle didn’t flinch. Her eyes were wide, as they always were, staring off into nothing. Christine whispered something else.

Callahan kept crawling. He had to be at least ten feet from the bed.

The knife snapped back down to Christine’s side. She moved her lips one last time and dropped back to the floor. Without a word, she ran past Callahan. He heard her go down the steps, and then the front door opened and slammed shut.

She was gone.

Callahan pulled himself the last ten feet to the bed. He reached up and pulled himself up. His muscles were numb now. He looked back toward the door to make sure Christine wasn’t returning. All he saw was the trail of blood he’d left.

He pressed himself against Michelle and wrapped his arms around her. She smelled like strawberry shampoo. He tried to cradle her, but she was stiff and didn’t adjust for him.

“I’m sorry,” he said, hugging her as best he could. “I’m sorry.”

Callahan pressed his forehead to her cheek and closed his eyes.

Special Thanks

To Scott Neumyer for formatting the book for all the e-Readers.

To Amy and John Saal for the fantastic cover.

To all my readers, who’ve supported me through these past few years.

To my parents and brother for all their help.

To my wonderful wife, Erin, for her love and support. I love you.

Dave White is a two time Shamus Award nominated author. He has written two novels: When One Man Dies and The Evil That Men Do. He’s also published a short story collection: More Sinned Against. He is also a middle school teacher and covers Rutgers basketball for the sports blog “On the Banks.” He can be found blogging at “Do Some Damage.”