“This is Officer Lebow with the Tarry Ridge Police Department,” the young woman said slowly. “I’m afraid there’s been an incident.”
Eight
Robin
INCIDENT.THE WORDthrobbed in Robin’s head as she headed out to her car, clicked open the door, and drove the three short blocks to her parents’ home.Incident.The police officer’s clean, clinical voice.There’s been an incident.
Robin clutched the wheel, her palms sweating, heart pounding so hard she felt it in her face, her throat. It was hard to breathe.
“It’s okay.” She said it aloud, a harsh whisper, just to drown out that word and the thoughts that came with it, growing too loud as she approached her parents’ house, three police cars, two ambulances in the circular driveway, lights flashing in such a way it was almost festive, made her think of Christmas, that one Christmas when they had a tree. Dad had brought it home—a surprise.How come we can’t have a tree, just because we’re Jewish?Robin had said that so many times, begged and pleaded with her parents, but she hadn’t thought they’d ever do it, and then Daddy had come through the door smiling. “Come look outside,” he’d said, Mom stifling her laughter, eyes sparkling. “Come see what Santa strapped to my car!”
As Robin pulled into the driveway and got out of her car, she heard a voice saying her name.Dad.But when she whirled around, it was her parents’ longtime neighbor, Mr. Dougherty. “Robin,” hesaid again. “My God, Robin.” He wore plaid flannel pajama bottoms, a T-shirt that readDUKE UNIVERSITY. His daughter’s alma mater.
Mr. Dougherty’s wife had died a year ago of bone cancer. Robin knew this too and it made her feel bad for him, even now, the way he was looking at her, head shaking, cheeks drawn, all the sympathy in the world in his eyes. She didn’t want to think about why. “I thought it was a backfire,” he said. “Then I heard the others.”
“Where are my parents?”
“I don’t know.” Mr. Dougherty’s gaze moved to a point behind her. She saw the lights flashing in his eyes, across his face. “Oh,” he said. “Oh my God,” and it was as though she were stuck in a dream. An awful dream. Ambulance lights. She whirled around, saw the first ambulance pulling away and then paramedics wheeling a gurney out, a flash of her father’s barrel chest—such a big man, though she’d never thought of him that way. A linebacker on his college football team. Big enough to earn the respect of his former patients, the criminally insane. But now... the white sheet across his chest... the blood...
And his face.
“Dad!” It barely escaped her lips, the faintest whisper. Her feet headed toward the ambulance of their own accord and she said it again, louder. “Dad!Dad!”
“Ms. Bloom?”
Robin didn’t even turn at first, unused as she was to her maiden name. But then she heard it said again, felt a hand on her back. She recognized the same cold clinical voice as she’d heard over the phone, only so much more fragile in the warm night air, the shifting swirling lights.
Officer Lebow caught up with her as the second ambulance sped away, siren echoing, both of them staring after it. Robin gave her aquick glance—a sturdy young girl with a sweet face, the uniform the only thing about her that was truly off-putting. “What happened?”
“We’re trying to find that out, ma’am,” she said. “There seems to have been a break-in.”
Dad flashed through her mind again—on the phone, then on the gurney. The blood-drenched sheet, the speed with which the paramedics attended to him. His face... Robin heard herself talking, but it was as though her voice were coming from a different body than her own. A weaker one. “They’re still alive, right? They’re going to be okay? Did you see my mother? What did she look like?”
“Ma’am, when was the last time you spoke to your parents?”
“My mother... They were shot?”
“Yes. They’re both on their way to the hospital. Don’t worry.”
How can you tell someone not to worry? What kind of a bullshit directive is that?Robin gritted her teeth. Tried to catch her breath, though she had none to catch. Her arms and legs felt as though someone had pulled the bones out.She means well. Help her. Answer her questions and she’ll answer yours. “About eightP.M., I guess,” she told Officer Lebow. “I spoke to my father. He said my mom was at the grocery store. Did you talk to them? Are they conscious?”
“What was your conversation about?”
“The Yankees.”
“Did he talk about enemies? An unwanted visitor?”
“Enemies? No.”
“How about your mother? Has she mentioned enemies?”
A breeze pushed Robin’s hair from her face. Her gaze drifted up to the cloudless sky, the dirty sliver of moon. “No one that I know of.”
“How often do you talk to her?”
“Every day,” she said.
“So you’re close. She would confide in you.”
