Out of Nowhere, page 4
Chapter 4
Glenda. I won’t survive this.” Elle bent at the waist, buried her face in the stuffed bunny she’d been holding in her lap, and sobbed into the nubby fabric that smelled of Charlie.
Glenda laid her hand on Elle’s back and rubbed consoling circles. “I know you don’t think you will, but you will. One baby step at a time.”
Elle continued to cry and wasn’t even aware that her friend had turned off the car and come around and opened the passenger door until Glenda reached in and guided her out.
She stood beside the car and looked at her front door, dreading the moment she would enter the house, knowing that when she did, the reality of what had happened since she’d left it the previous afternoon would slam into her. It might be more than she could withstand.
“Baby steps,” Glenda whispered. “Come on.”
She never could have made that walk without Glenda’s support, but together they reached the porch. Glenda magically produced her door key, although Elle didn’t remember giving it to her. She unlocked the door and gently ushered Elle inside.
There sat Charlie’s fire truck on the entry table where she’d placed it as they were leaving for the fair, having convinced him that it was too bulky to fit in the bag they were taking along and assuring him that he wasn’t leaving the treasured toy forever, which in his two-year-old mind he was. She’d promised him that it would be there when he returned.
As promised, it was. But Charlie wasn’t returning.
She sobbed. Her knees went weak. Glenda took her arm and led her into the living room and over to a wide, upholstered chair. She collapsed into it like a rag doll.
From the perspective of that chair, she spied one of Charlie’s sneakers underneath the sofa across the room. The sneaker had gone missing several days ago. She had looked for it everywhere except, apparently, under the sofa.
She must remember to get it later, but for now, all she had the wherewithal to do was sit and look at the small, empty shoe through eyes that filled with fresh tears.
Glenda knelt in front of her. “Do you want something?”
“Yes. I want to wake up and discover that this has been an ungodly dream.”
“What can I do for you, Elle?”
“Turn back time?”
“I wish with all my heart that I could. But I can’t.”
“Then there’s nothing. Besides, you’ve done enough already. You must be exhausted. Go home.”
“Not a chance.”
“You don’t have to stay.”
“I’m here, and I’m staying.”
She stood and went over to the sofa, where she sat down and tugged off her cowboy boots. Her fringed jacket came off next; then she began unwinding the ropes of beads from around her neck.
Glenda was wearing the same clothes she’d had on when she’d arrived at the fair. At some point in the past twelve hours—Elle couldn’t remember precisely when—someone, whom she didn’t recall, either, had provided her with a set of scrubs and a pair of rubber flip-flops to exchange for her clothes and shoes, which were stained with blood. That of the older man she’d chatted with, and Charlie’s.
Her healthy son had had a sturdy little body. She’d often teased him about it as she playfully poked him in the belly. But he had felt very small, defenseless, and fragile when she’d clutched him to her, screaming prayers that he would take a breath, make a sound, that she would feel a heartbeat. His sweet body, the one that had chugged around so energetically and industriously, had remained unmoving and limp. Lifeless.
She gave another harsh sob.
Glenda dumped the strands of beads on the coffee table and went back to Elle’s chair. “You’re taking a shower while I scramble some eggs. After you’re fed, I’m giving you one of the sedatives you refused to take earlier and putting you to bed.”
Glenda hauled her up out of the chair. When Glenda was in managerial mode, it was easier to go along than to balk, so Elle didn’t argue or put up any resistance as she was propelled out of the living room and down the hall.
“Do you need help with that?” Glenda pointed to the cold pack on Elle’s right elbow.
“It’s just Velcro. I’ll manage.”
“Okay. Undress. I’ll get the water going.”
Glenda left her standing in the center of her bedroom, where everything was so familiar, but nothing would ever be the same. She removed the cold pack and laid it on the end of the bed, then mechanically began to take off the scrubs.
When Glenda returned from the bathroom, Elle was down to her panties. Her bra had been too bloodstained to salvage. “It’s ready for you,” her friend said. “Take as long as you like. I’ll be in the kitchen.” She pulled the door closed behind her when she went out.
Although Elle longed for the restoration a hot shower could provide, she was reluctant to wash off the last physical vestiges of her son. His scent, the sticky imprint of his hand on her cheek, the smear of drool that had dried on her neck.
Knowing it had to be done, she stepped into the shower stall and stood directly beneath the spray, head bowed. She let it beat down on her for a full minute before opening her eyes. The water swirling around her feet toward the drain was tinged pink with her child’s blood.
Not until the water ran clear did she reach for the soap and begin to wash.
Glenda forced her to eat some of the breakfast she’d cooked, then gave her a pill, strapped a fresh cold pack to her arm, and tucked her in. The sedative was effective. She went almost instantly to sleep. When she woke up, she enjoyed a few precious seconds of forgetfulness before memory blasted in.
Gauging by the slant of the sun coming through her bedroom window, it was late afternoon. Still a bit fuzzy from the medication, she dressed and left her bedroom.
In the living room, Glenda had her large leather-bound day planner lying open on her lap. She was talking on her cell phone, confirming a two o’clock appointment for the following day.
“Thank you. We’ll be there.” She clicked off and set her phone and calendar aside. “I took the liberty of scheduling you an appointment with the funeral director.”
“I appreciate that, but I don’t know when they’ll release his… his body. I was told it could be several days.”
“When they do, you’ll have the preparations already behind you.”
Elle sat down, leaned back in her chair, and gazed up at the ceiling, thinking of all the arrangements she needed to attend to, how exhausting those chores would be, and how unmotivated she was to do a damn thing.
After a lengthy pause, Glenda tentatively resumed. “Your parents are due in at eight-thirty this evening. I scheduled a car to pick them up at the airport, bring them here, and then wait until they’re ready to go to the hotel, where I’ve reserved them a room.”
At Elle’s request, Glenda had called them from the morgue to deliver the news. It was an impersonal and insensitive way to inform them of their only grandchild’s death, but, at the time, Charlie had looked so cold and pale that to leave him alone would have felt like abandonment.
Glenda had reported that her parents, who lived in Michigan, had heard of the mass shooting on CNN, but, of course, they never would have dreamed that Charlie and she were victims.
It had been the middle of the night when Glenda had called them, but they’d told her they would book themselves on the next available flight and would text her their itinerary.
Glenda said now, “Of course you have the option of having them stay here with you.”
“I suppose I should extend the offer.”
“Do you want them here?”
She gave a feeble smile. “Not really.”
“Then don’t offer, Elle.” Glenda leaned forward and said with earnestness, “Get this straight. You don’t have to cater to anyone except yourself. You don’t have to be stoic or an example of how to grieve elegantly. You don’t have to do or be anything you don’t want to.”
“Except to go on living.”
“You don’t mean that,” Glenda said softly. “I know you don’t. Think of the awful legacy that would lay on your precious Charlie.”
When Elle didn’t respond, Glenda took a deep breath and continued with the practical matters. “I also notified Laura.”
Laura Musgrave was Elle’s literary agent.
“At first, she was in shock; then she became distraught. She wanted to speak to you immediately. I told her you were sleeping but that I was certain you would contact her soon. She plans to fly down for the funeral. We’re to send her the details when we have them.”
“I’ll call her in a while. There are so many people I need to notify.”
“Taken care of,” Glenda said. “I got into the contacts on your phone and made a list of first-tier friends and acquaintances, people I thought you would want notified sooner rather than later. I sent all the info to my staff. They’re making those calls on your behalf.”
“What about Jeff?” Elle asked.
“I didn’t know how you’d feel about that, so I left him out.”
“He’s my ex-husband. Word will get around to him.”
“Which, to my mind, relieves you of an awkward conversation.”
Elle extended her hand in a gesture of gratitude. “You’ve been busy while I was knocked out. Did you get any rest?”
“I took a nap.”
“Thank you for handling things.”
“Don’t thank me yet.”
Elle withered. “What?”
“Since the fairground isn’t within a city limit, the investigation falls to the county sheriff’s office. Detectives want to talk to you, but they’re extending you the courtesy of coming here rather than having you go to them. If you hadn’t woken up when you did, I would have had to wake you. They’re due here soon.”
“The culprit killed himself,” Elle said. “What is there to investigate?”
“I guess you’ll find out.”
Just then a phone rang, and Glenda said, “That’s yours. Want me to get it?”
“Please.”
She answered Elle’s cell phone, which was sitting beside hers on the coffee table. After identifying herself, she listened, then said, “She’s unavailable, especially to the media, and how did you get her number, anyway?”
More listening, then she covered the mouthpiece. “Shauna Calloway. Channel seven. She said to tell you that she’s a close personal friend of Calder Hudson.”
“Who’s that?”
“The name doesn’t mean anything to you?”
Elle shook her head.
“Me, either.” Glenda went back to the phone, through which Elle could hear a woman still talking in clipped, imperative tones. “I don’t care who you’re friends with. Ms. Portman is unavailable for comment. Don’t call again.” Glenda clicked off and huffed, “Honestly. Pushy bitch.”
“It will be all over the news, won’t it?”
“It already is, Elle.” She motioned toward the television. “Do you want to—”
“No.”
“I didn’t think so, which is why I haven’t watched, either.”
The doorbell rang. Swearing under her breath, Glenda said, “It’s Grand Damn Central Station in here.” She went to the front window and peered out.
“A man and a woman who I would bet are the expected detectives. They’re right on time.” She turned back to Elle. “Are you up to this? Say the word and I’ll barricade the door.”
“It won’t be any easier later.”
“Talking to cops is never easy. I have a lot of high-profile celebrity clients, remember. Occasionally one gets into a scrape. Police provide a much-needed public service, but keep in mind that they have their own agenda.”
Elle looked down at her ragged jeans and one of her T-shirts that needed an upgrade. “Am I at least presentable?”
“Who gives a shit?”
Elle blurted a humorless laugh. “Let them in.”
Glenda left her, went into the foyer, and answered the door. Introductions were murmured. Glenda said, “I’m Elle’s friend Glenda Foster. Is this absolutely necessary right now?”
More murmuring, then the shuffle of feet as the two detectives came inside. They preceded Glenda into the living room. She introduced them as Detectives Perkins and Compton. “This is Elle Portman.” She motioned them into a pair of armchairs.
Compton dragged hers several inches closer to the easy chair in which Elle sat. She tipped her head toward the compression sleeve on Elle’s arm. “How is it?”
“Nothing bad. I landed hard on my elbow and caused temporary numbness. Like when you hit your funny bone, except about a hundred times worse. It’ll be all right.”
She’d been told all that by the intern in the ER after her arm was x-rayed. Her elbow hadn’t been dislocated. No bones were broken. Her arm had been wrapped in the cold pack and put in a sling. She’d been given prescription-strength ibuprofen to take for inflammation and then released… to reunite with Charlie in the morgue.
Her attention was brought back to Compton, who was speaking softly. “On behalf of everyone in the sheriff’s department, I want to extend our deepest sympathy, Ms. Portman.”
“Thank you.”
“Detective Perkins and I realize what an intrusion our visit is and apologize for the necessity of it.”
“Why is it a necessity? Word filtered down while I was still in the emergency room that the shooter had taken his own life at the scene.”
“We’re trying to establish his motive.”
“Then I’ll help you any way I can,” Elle stated. “Because I want to know why. Why did my son die that way? Why?” Her voice cracked. She covered her face with her hands and began to cry into them.
In an instant Glenda was beside her with a box of tissues. “Do you want some water? Anything?”
Elle pulled a tissue from the box and blotted her eyes. “Nothing, thanks.”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Portman. You’ve suffered a terrible loss. Words are inadequate.”
She met Compton’s gaze and nodded a thank-you. “You are exactly right. Words are inadequate, so don’t waste them. What I want, need—demand—is an explanation beyond the banal. Since you’re investigating, I charge you with finding out why he did it.”
Chapter 5
Compton remained calm, no doubt having heard similar mandates from victims of violent crime. “We have personnel working day and night, in conjunction with state authorities, to provide you with answers as to why this individual did what he did. We can’t bring your son back, but, I assure you, Ms. Portman, that we wish to give you whatever closure we’re able.”
She reached into the pocket of her blazer. “The suspect.” She passed Elle a photograph.
It was a mug shot. The young man staring back at her embodied hostility and insolence. He was smirking with contempt. “His name?”
“It’s being withheld because he was only sixteen, and we’ve yet to locate a parent or guardian. He’d been in trouble since puberty and had a police record.” She gave Elle a rundown of the teen’s criminal history.
Glenda muttered a profanity under her breath and said, “And this miscreant was walking among us?”
“He didn’t have any outstanding warrants,” Perkins said. “His fingerprints were linked only to his previous arrests.”
“That’s a huge comfort,” Glenda said, glaring at him. “I feel much better now.”
The detective remained unmoved by her sarcasm.
Compton continued. “He skipped out on his probation officer in Houston over a year ago and definitely worked the system.”
“Dysfunctional system,” Glenda said.
“He was crafty enough to get himself employed at the fairground. But they didn’t check the information on his application form very well, if at all. His name was authentic, but the New Mexico driver’s license he used for his ID was fake. He filled in a Dallas zip code, but the street address doesn’t exist, which makes it extremely difficult to track his recent actions, including those of yesterday afternoon.
“We’re trying to learn where he went and who he saw prior to the shooting. Had he posted rants or grievances on social media? He didn’t have activity like that on his phone, but it could have been a burner that he used only to make calls. He could have had a computer tucked away somewhere. We’re investigating all that because there may be others involved that we don’t know about.”
“You mean accomplices?” Elle asked.
“Well, in this situation, that’s a broad term. The suspect might have been commissioned, dared, or threatened by a radical group with an agenda. Under duress, he martyred himself. Or he acted entirely alone, a victim himself of ridicule, shaming, romantic rejection—”
“Sociopathy.”
Compton, who’d apparently had it with Glenda’s editorial comments, shot her a dirty look before coming back to Elle. “Or he could have been mentally ill to one degree or another. We won’t know his circumstances until we locate his next of kin or acquaintances.”
“Where are you with that?” Elle asked.
“Not far, I’m afraid. There were only a handful of contacts in his phone, and those we’ve spoken with claimed not to have seen or heard from him in months.”
“And you’re taking their word for that?”
Compton shot Glenda another dirty look. “Of course not. We’re following up, but it’s taking time, because these few individuals are scattered over several states, leading us to believe that the suspect was a transient.” She hesitated, then with reluctance said, “There’s something else that’s working against us.”
“I can hardly wait,” Glenda muttered.
“I told you he was cagey. He must have known where the fairground security cameras were located, and he avoided them, except for those near the game booth where he was working.
“Between customers, he’s seen going in and out of the tent there, probably to smoke marijuana. It was found on him. Three minutes before the first shot was fired, he’s seen looking around furtively, then slipping into the tent where his body was found. But we haven’t yet detected him in the crowd firing the weapon.”
