Callie’s Last Dance

44.

THE MEDICS SHOWED up and worked heroically to get her heart started, and managed to do so, but she died again in the ambulance, and again at the hospital. Each time they managed to bring her back to life.

“She’s a fighter,” one of the doctors said.

“No shit,” I said.

They pulled her away from me and got her on a gurney and started wheeling her down the hall.

I yelled, “Don’t die on me, Callie Carpenter! Don’t you dare fucking die!”

“That girl’s a fighter,” one of the nurses said.

“You have no idea.”

Now I’m in the waiting room, scared to death. Callie and I have been apart nearly three hours and no one’s given me any information. The police have been in and out asking nonstop questions. They’ve researched me and learned enough of my legend to clear the waiting room and station half a swat team with me in case I decide to go Rambo on them, in which case they’ve been ordered to take me down.

Cincinnati SWAT is an impressive group. They’re respectful, which I appreciate, and deadly, which I respect. At some point a police detective tells me the cops at the hotel believe they’ve got the whole story sorted out.

“You’ve just gone from suspect to witness,” he says.

“What happened?”

“Classic love triangle. Guy named Ridley caught his wife cheating with Tom Bell.”

“Who’s that?”

“What planet are you from? Tom Bell? World champion contender? Mixed martial arts?”

I shake my head.

Detective says, “Ridley thought Connie and Tom were in room three-sixteen, so he got the room below them, intending to shoot them while in the act of sexual congress.”

“Sexual congress?”

“That’s what we call it.”

I make a mental note to tell Callie. She’ll like that. Sexual congress. Finally a congress we can endorse!

“What room were they in?” I say. “Connie and Tom Bell.”

“They made a fuss at the front desk about not being able to get room three-sixteen. But as you know, it was being used. So they took three-fifteen, across the hall.”

“Lucky for them, huh?”

He shrugs.

“What was so important about room three-sixteen?” I ask.

“It’s Connie’s lucky number. Her birthday, March sixteenth.”

“Connie and Tom,” I say.

He nods.

“What’s Connie’s last name?”

“I already said more than I should.”

I nod. Then ask, “What about the gun? I never knew a civilian gun that could bore through concrete like that, though now that I think about it, the floor wasn’t as thick as I would have expected.”

The detective checks his notes. “Nitro Zeliska.”

“What’s that?”

“Make of the gun.”

I make a mental note to tell Callie that, too.

Then I say, “You’re telling me Callie might die because Connie and Tom Bell liked to fuck in Callie’s room.”

“No. If Callie dies it’s because Connie’s husband shot her.”

He leaves first, then the SWAT team, and then I’m all alone in the room. I think about calling my daughter, but decide against it. She’ll tell Gwen, and Gwen will insist on being here. I’d rather avoid that situation, and figure Callie would feel the same way.