Hunched in a plastic chair in the room where he’s told to wait, down the hall from the surgical theater where Spellman is lifting the embedded chains from Deanie’s face, he broods. If he conned the old lady at the front desk out of Lord’s room number, he could find a window to break with whatever’s left of the miserable fucker’s face. The bad thoughts drive him to his feet. He can’t breathe and he can hardly see. Tripping over his own feet, he stumbles down the corridor toward the Emergency Room and the parking lot outside, where he can get a dose of cold air and find some tires to kick.
At the desk, in conversation with a couple of staff, Sergeant Woods and the chief of police, Art Poloniak, observe his erratic progress.
“Speak of the devil.” The Chief grins.
Woods finds nothing to be amused about. His dark eyes are full of concern. “How’s Deanie?”
“Right now there’s a doctor picking chain out of her face. How do you think she is?”
Sam’s distracted freeform flow past Art Poloniak is arrested by the Chief’s chubby but surprisingly quick hand. “Easy there, son. You don’t need to take that tone with us. Where do you think you’re going?”
“Nowhere. Out to the truck to get my Walkman and something to read while I wait.”
“Come on down to the cafeteria,” Poloniak says in a kindly way. “I’ll buy you a cup of cocoa and you can tell us what you know about this mess. It’ll kill some time for you.”
Time. The word triggers a vague itch in Sam and his eyes go to the clock over the desk.
“I’m missing practice,” he says stupidly.
“Never mind,” Sergeant Woods reassures him. “This is more important.”
As he allows the pair of cops to lead him like a distracted toddler back down the corridor toward the cafeteria, Sam is in sudden withdrawal; his fingers twitch for the ball, his spine loosens and he wants to sink into the familiar aggressive half-crouch, his legs want to drive his body into the angles and leaps. He no longer wants to maim, mutilate and murder Tony Lord—the thought of further violence now sickens him—nor does he want to hide behind the wall of noise from his Walkman ‘phones or to fall down the rabbit’s hole of a book. He just wants the sweet rubbery ecstasy of the game to take him away from this endless corridor, the cops and their questions.
Smelling like unwashed armpit, the familiar cafeteria odor of overcooked food reminds Sam he has gone without lunch. All at once, he identifies a goodly portion of his queasiness, headache and emotional distress as sheer hunger. He orders two cheeseburgers and a double order of fries and a milkshake—better make it three and a triple on the fries—and a chef’s salad to scrub his lights.
When he takes out money at the cash register, Sergeant Woods waves it off.
“Town’s buying, right, Art?”
The Chief’s twitching in the vicinity of the desserts but Sergeant Woods frowns at Poloniak’s beltline and the Chief sighs and coughs up for Sam’s grub.
“So tell us about it, Sam,” the Sergeant urges as Sam forks up salad while he’s waiting for the real food. “From the beginning.”
Sam’s immediately confused. “Beginning of what?”
The two cops look at each other.
“Today, let’s start with today,” Poloniak suggests.
Slowly, with much backing and filling, they sort it out.
Wolfing burger, Sam feels a drip onto his hand. He swallows hard and licks bloody juice from his fingers. From his mouth, his fingertips travel unconsciously in a diagonal from the left nares to earlobe and linger briefly at the corner of the jaw. He takes a deep breath. “Her face chuh-chuh-chains—” Sam registers Poloniak’s undisguised amusement at his struggle and Woods’s annoyance with the Chief. He spreads his hand over the side of his face. Emphasizing a word, any word, helps steady him. “Must a bin a gluh-glancing blow. Spellman said. Right on, would a broke her jaw.”
Sergeant Woods clears his throat. “Our likely perp’s hospitalized in worse condition than the victim and the victim’s already told two conflicting stories.”
“I hate these frigging domestic cases,” Poloniak grouses.
“We want a confession from this bozo or the truth from Deanie,” Woods continues.
Poloniak snorts. “Jesus. If she knows what the hell happened. She was probably as loaded as he was.”
Noting Sam’s fists clenching, Sergeant Woods drops a hand on his right forearm.
“If the mother was there, maybe she’ll talk.”
“If shuh-she knows what the hell happened,” Sam mocks the Chief. “She was probably as luh-loaded as he was.”
Poloniak’s face reddens.
“Look here, bub—” he growls.
Woods intervenes.
“We’ll be talking to her. He got himself to the hospital and never said word one about the girl being injured, let alone missing, so she went without care overnight in an abandoned building. If that’s not negligence and endangerment of a minor, I don’t know what is.”
Poloniak agrees. “Time to have a look at that place.”
“You come with us, Sam,” Woods suggests, “tell us if it’s the way you left it.”
Sam has no desire to go back there and less to see Judy Gauthier but it’s something to do while he is waiting for Deanie.
Being in the backseat of a police cruiser evokes a strong sense of guilt about every bad thing he has ever done. He hopes no one sees him as they drive through town.
“Sam.” Sergeant Woods breaks in on his thoughts. “Have you ever seen any signs of prior abuse?”
The silence from the backseat draws the cop’s eyes to the rearview mirror.
“Somebody put a cigarette out on the back of her hand a few weeks ago. She said it was her mother. She was stealing Judy’s butts.”
“Did you believe her?” Poloniak
