Double Shot

had an officer patrolling Aspen Meadow. They’d have radioed and told him to hightail it over here.

“Mom!” Arch yelled, his eyes wild.

It had been a long time since Arch had let me hug him, but he did now. He was trembling violently.

“Mom—” His voice cracked. “Please!” He wrenched away. “What happened? Why won’t you tell me?”

“I don’t know what happened. If I did, I’d tell you.”

Arch put his head in his hands. He began to sob, wrenching cries that felt as if they were ripping my chest open. After a while, I reached out for him, but his hands batted me away. The tear-stained face he turned to me was filled with rage.

“Tell me what happened, Mom! Who was that guy who was here? Did he shoot Dad?”

“I don’t know! That’s why the police are—” Mrs. Korman, do you have my money? What kind of money problem had John Richard gotten himself into? Had he plunged himself into a debt jam? One he couldn’t climb out of? My mind wheeled and bumped over the possibilities as Arch continued to cry.

Without warning, the van’s back door rumbled open, startling both of us. Arch used his shirt to wipe his face, then adjusted his glasses.

“It’s me,” Tom’s deep, authoritative voice announced. He climbed in, sat heavily in the rear seat, and wordlessly handed each of us a homemade quilt. These thick handmade creations were for victims and survivors of violent crime, stitched by volunteers in the county. I wrapped myself in mine, a red-and-white beauty with, ironically, a heart motif. Arch let his black-and-gold-patterned one fall to the floor.

My cell phone chirped and I picked it up. The caller ID indicated it was Marla. Tom gently removed the phone from my hand and pressed Talk.

“Yeah, Marla. It’s true. Goldy and Arch are right here with me, in the van. Yeah, I sped up to Stoneberry. No, don’t come. I’m telling you, stay away. Keep your cell next to you and we’ll call you back. Yeah, soon.” Then he pressed End.

A sudden rapping on the side window made me jump. It was the same sound the skeleton-faced fellow had made when he’d asked for his money. I wanted to tell Tom about that, but I didn’t want to upset Arch more than he already was.

My son’s face was very pale. He was shivering and biting his bottom lip. I picked up the quilt and tucked it behind his shoulders.

“Schulz,” said a uniformed cop. “They’re asking for you up on the driveway. They want to know your relationship with all this.”

Tom climbed from the van. I watched his commanding swagger as he accompanied the cop up the driveway. Three police cars now ringed the dead end. I turned to my son, who had pulled around the edge of the quilt to cover his face.

“Arch, honey,” I said gently, “what can I do for you? Do you want me to call Todd? See if he can come over here? The cops are going to want to talk to me…because I found your dad. They’ll probably talk to you, too. Then I’ll have to go down to the department. When I do, would you like to go over to the Druckmans’? Or do you want to stay with me?” I paused. “I’m willing to have you with me every minute.”

Arch hesitated, then poked his head out of the quilt. He was scowling, trying to keep a lid on his feelings. “I don’t know. All right, I’ll be with Todd.” He raised his eyes to mine. “What about you, Mom?”

“I’ll be fine,” I said, with more calm than I felt.

I called the Druckmans’ house and told the machine that we’d had a family emergency. If Eileen could come to the Stoneberry cul-de-sac to wait for Arch, we would deeply appreciate it. I closed the cell phone, thinking I should call St. Luke’s Episcopal Church, where John Richard was a sometime parishioner. But I couldn’t face it. I stared out the windshield, unable to think. The sun’s glare on the dust burned my eyes.

Cops swarmed all around us. Once again, Arch’s breath began to come out as soblike gasps. I hugged him. Shoulders heaving, he accepted the embrace.

Tom startled us by opening the back door. He slid in again, his face grim. Still, he reached over and patted Arch on the back.

“Hey, buddy. I’m sorry. We’re going to take care of you.”

Arch cleared his throat once, twice. Then the three of us were silent. What if the cops insisted Arch go to the department with me? I couldn’t contemplate it.

When Eileen Druckman’s black BMW wagon roared up, I thanked God. Eileen leaped out of the car and trotted toward the van. She wore a gray sweatsuit. Her dark hair was wet, as if she’d just gotten out of the shower. Bless her for answering my desperate call so quickly.

I jumped out when Eileen was intercepted by a cop. He seemed to accept her explanation for why she was here, and let her go. As I walked over to meet her, I noted that what had to be my heightened adrenaline from finding John Richard had diminished the physical pain from that morning’s assault. Once again, I shook my head at the irony.

“John Richard’s been shot,” I murmured. “He’s dead.”

Eileen’s slim, pretty face twitched. “Good Lord.”

With Tom helping him, Arch slowly descended from the van. He still had the black-and-gold quilt pulled tightly around his head and shoulders. On this breezy, dusty June afternoon, he needed the protection. Before my son was allowed to leave, though, the same policeman intercepted him.

“We need him to give a statement, ma’am,” the cop informed me.

My shoulders slumped. “Can’t it possibly wait?”

He shook his head, but his tone softened. “The detectives aren’t here yet. Tell you what, I’ll take a preliminary report. You need to be here, though.”

I nodded. Of course. I knew a parent had to be present when a minor was questioned. But I sure didn’t look forward to it.

We walked to his car, which smelled of tuna sandwiches and old vinyl. In a halting voice, Arch told the patrolman everything he’d seen, from the old man in the blue sedan (he’d been up knocking on the door when the guy asked for his money), to there being no answer at his father’s house. When we got to the part about how I’d told him to wait while I went to the garage, the patrolman flicked me a look. Still numb, I pressed my lips together and shrugged. When Arch broke down and started crying, the cop told him he could leave.

Eileen walked over and held Arch. “Todd’s waiting for you. Oh, you dear boy, I’m so sorry.”

“Arch!” Tom called after him. “I’ll come over to the Druckmans’ house as soon as I finish here with your mom. All right?”

Arch looked back and nodded, his face a pale sliver inside the dark quilt.

When Eileen’s wagon had belched smoke and taken off down Stoneberry, Tom muttered to me that he’d return in a few minutes. He strode back up the driveway. I couldn’t think of what I was supposed to do. The policeman said I needed to wait for the detectives, so I climbed back into the van’s driver’s seat. There were now six Furman County Sheriff’s Department cars parked at various angles in the cul-de-sac.

It was going to be a long afternoon.

Cops came and went. One unrolled yellow crime-scene tape around John Richard’s rental property. The coroner arrived.

I had no idea how much time had passed. Finally, finally, Tom came walking back down the driveway. When he climbed into the passenger seat, his ordinarily rosy face was drained of color.

I said, “Now what’s—”

He held up his hand. Then he reached forward and opened my glove compartment. My glove compartment that I usually kept locked.

It was empty. I stared at the vacant space, not comprehending.

“Dammit!” Tom whacked the compartment closed. This unusually violent act unnerved me. My ears began to ring.

“Tom. Don’t tell me they found my gun in the garage.”

He shook his head. “You know they’re not going to let me be part of this investigation. But…I happened to see the thirty-eight beside the driveway, like someone had tossed it there. I just didn’t want to believe it.”

“I did not shoot him. I swear.”

He reached out for my hands and held them. “I know.” He paused. “After you accidentally fired at the mice