FOUR
Joanna’s first visit to the ICU came at three o’clock in the morning. The daunting collection of machines, tubes, and wires took her breath away and left her feeling weak and angry. The person lying there on the bed looked like little more than a pale representation of the man she loved. She touched Andy’s thick strawberry-blonde hair, but his eyes remained closed. There was no response when she sat down beside him and took his warm limp hand in hers. She huddled next to him for the strictly enforced five-minute period while silent tears rolled down her cheeks.
By her fourth visit, just after seven, she was better able to handle the situation. When she emerged that time, Dr. Sanders was waiting for her in the hallway. “Care for a cup of coffee?” he asked.
She glanced at Marianne who waved her away. “Go ahead,” she said. “I’ll come find you if you’re needed.”
“Thanks,” Joanna said. She followed Dr. Sanders down the hall, thinking they were on their way to the cafeteria. Instead, he led her into a tiny conference room, showed her to a chair, and then went out and brought coffee back from somewhere nearby.
“Have you seen him already this morning?” she asked. Seating himself across from her, Dr. Sanders nodded.
“What do you think? Is he going to make it?”
“He’s hanging in there for the time being,” Dr. Sanders replied noncommittally. “That’s about as good as it gets at the moment.”
He leaned closer to her across the small conference table and seemed to study her face. His searching look made Joanna feel self-conscious, and she tried to hide behind her coffee cup.
“How long have you and your husband been married, Mrs. Brady?”
“Call me Joanna. Ten years. Ten years exactly. Yesterday was our tenth anniversary.”
“You love him very much, don’t you.”
Joanna bit her lip. “Yes.”
Dr. Sanders’ face was somber. His was not the look of someone about to deliver good news, and Joanna tried to prepare for it, to steel herself against whatever was coming.
“What is it?” she asked. “What are you trying to tell me?”
“How has he seemed to you lately?” “Seemed? What do you mean?”
Sanders shrugged. “Oh, you know. Has he been despondent about anything, angry, or upset, any of those?”
“We’ve been busy,” Joanna conceded. “We both work. We have a nine-year-old child. Andy’s been running for sheriff…” She paused and examined the doctor’s features warily. “I don’t understand why you’re asking about that.”
“Have you ever read the story about the Little Engine that could? It’s a children’s book.”
“Of course I’ve read it. Hasn’t everybody? It’s one of Jenny’s favorites, but what does that have to do with anything?”
“You remember in the story how the Little Engine says ‘I think I can?’ “
“Yes.”
“That Little Engine thought he could pull the train over the mountain. He wanted to do it, believed he could do it.”
“Yes, but…”
“You asked me if I thought your husband was going to make it, Joanna, and I’m telling you. It’s going to depend in large measure on his attitude, on whether or not Andrew Brady wants to recover, on whether or not he thinks he can.”
“You’re talking about paralysis, aren’t you? You’re telling me that if he’s going to be crippled for the rest of his life, he may not want to live.”
“No,” Dr. Sanders answered slowly. “That’s not what I’m saying at all. This morning I’ve already had two calls from one of the people down there in Bisbee, an investigator. Dick somebody.”
“Dick Voland. He’s the Chief Deputy, Andy’s boss.”
“Voland. That’s right. That’s the name. We talked for some time.”
“What did he say?”
Dr. Sanders rubbed his forehead. “You may find this information disturbing, but I think it’s only fair to warn you, Joanna. The people at the Sheriff’s Department are investigating your husband’s case as an attempted suicide.”
The room seemed to spin around her. The last sip of coffee rose dangerously in her throat. She fought it back down. “No,” she said. “You mean attempted murder.”
“I said exactly what I mean,” Dr. Sanders insisted. “The physical evidence there on the scene and also what we found here in the hospital-the angle of penetration, the powder burns on your husband’s hands-are consistent with a self-inflicted bullet wound, what we call around here a misplaced heart shot.”
He waited for Joanna to speak, but she simply shook her head. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Joanna. I can see it’s a shock to you, but I wanted you to have a chance to compose yourself. There are several reporters down in the lobby waiting to interview you. Once you venture off this floor or try to leave the hospital, they’ll be all over you. I didn’t want you to encounter them without first having some warning, some time to prepare.”
“Reporters,” Joanna repeated stupidly, as if her stunned brain had to struggle in order to grasp hold of a single word or idea from all he had told her. “Why would they want to talk to me?”
“ Cochise County may be small potatoes, but nonetheless, your husband is a political candidate. An attempted murder of a politician always causes an uproar. As of right now, it’s still being reported as an attempted homicide. That will change soon enough, but even so, when someone in the public eye attempts suicide, that’s also considered newsworthy. Regardless of which way it goes, until the case is resolved, you’re going to continue to find yourself shoved into the limelight.”
For a long moment Joanna stared dumbly at Dr. Sanders, not just looking at him but thinking about the implication of his words. Then her mind clicked out of its temporary paralysis and into gear. “You’re saying Andy tried to kill himself? That he did this?”
“Yes.”
Anger rose within her, but she remained to-tally clearheaded. “Where’s the weapon then? He didn’t shoot himself with his bare hands. I was there, with him, on the ground, and I didn’t see any sign of a weapon.”
“Voland told me they found it under the truck this morning when they towed it away.”
Suddenly she was bristling with fury. “Sure, he shot himself and threw the gun under the truck. And who the hell do you think locked the car doors?”
Sanders seemed taken aback by the sudden transformation. “I don’t know anything about locked doors,” he said placatingly.
“Well I do!” Joanna exclaimed. “Both doors were locked and his keys were in the ignition.”
“What does that have to do with it?”
Erupting in anger, she stood up, violently crashing her chair into the wall and leaving a dent in the plaster.
“I’ll tell you what it has to do with! Andrew Brady locked his keys in his car one time in his whole life. He did it once and only once, the first time he ever drove a car by himself, and it never happened again. Including yesterday! Somebody else locked those keys in his truck. When Dick Voland finds out who did that, he’ll have the right killer.”
Setting her shoulders defiantly, Joanna marched from the conference room and back down the hall. Marianne Maculyea saw the look on her face and immediately assumed Andy had taken a turn for the worse. “What did the doctor tell you, Joanna? How bad is it?”
Joanna fought to keep her voice under control, speaking slowly and deliberately. “He says Andy might’ve tried to commit suicide.”
“Andy?” Marianne said dubiously. “Andrew Brady tried suicide? The doctor’s got to be kidding.”
“Dr. Sanders isn’t kidding, and neither is the Sheriff’s Department. They’re investigating what happened to Andy as a possible at-tempted suicide.”
