A Cold Heart

51

Petra hung out in the ICU observation area, doing nothing. The closest she’d gotten to Eric was looking at him through the glass wall.

No new information since an hour ago when the trauma surgeon, a good-looking guy named LaVigne who looked like a TV doctor, had told her, “He’ll probably make it.”

“Probably?”

“He’s not in imminent danger right now, but with abdominal wounds, you never know. The key is preventing infection. There’s also the blood loss. He’s almost been totally replaced. He was in shock, out, could go in again.”

“Thanks,” she said.

Something in her tone made LaVigne frown. “I’m being honest.”

“Only way to be.” She turned her back on him.

Shortly after that, Milo came by with Rick, and he used his MD credentials to read the chart, confer with the staff behind closed doors.

He came out, looking doctorly, and said, “No promises, but my instinct is he’ll pull through.”

“Great,” said Petra, drained, weak, useless, guilty. Thinking: Hope your instincts are worth a damn.

When she stepped out into the waiting room, the only other person there was a blond woman in her midthirties, sitting in a corner with a copy of Elle, wearing a tight, black, ribbed turtleneck, equally snug white jeans, high-heeled sandals, pink toenails. This one had it all: the hair, the chest, a once-flawless face now only terrific.

Dress for distress.

She and Petra exchanged glances then Petra sat down and the woman said, “Excuse me are you a… police person?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The woman stood and walked over. Petra recognized her fragrance. Bal a Versailles. Lots of it. Pink nails, too. A lighter pearlescent shade. She wrung her hands nonstop.

“Can I help you?”

“I’m a… I know Eri- Detective Stahl. The hospital called me because he had my number on a piece of paper in his pocket, and they…”

The woman trailed off.

Petra stood and extended her hand. “Petra Co

“Kathy Magary. Is he all right?”

“He’s doing better, Kathy.”

Magary let out a long whiff of spearmint breath. “Thank goodness.”

“You and Eric are friends?”

“More like acquaintances.” Magary was blushing. “I mean we just met. That’s why he had my number. You know.”

Stahl, you Don Juan. May you live long enough to keep surprising me.

Petra said, “Sure.”

Magary said, “I mean I didn’t know if I should come over. But they called me. I felt kind of… an obligation?”

“Eric needs friends,” said Petra.

The woman seemed confused. Given the circumstances, that seemed the appropriate state of mind.

“I do hope he gets okay. He’s a nice guy.”

“He is.”

“What… exactly happened?”

“Eric was involved in a police incident,” said Petra. “Apprehending a suspect. He got stabbed in the abdomen.”

Magary’s hand flew to her perfect mouth. “Omigod! All they told me is he was hurt. And then, when I got here, they said I couldn’t go inside.” Pointing to the ICU door. “I guess you got in because you’re a police person.”

“I’m his partner,” said Petra.

“Oh.” Magary’s eyes got wet. “I’m so, so sorry.”

“He’s going to be all right,” said Petra with phony confidence. Magary relaxed and smiled.

“That’s great!”

Maybe, thought Petra, I picked the wrong career. There’s always telemarketing.

Magary said, “I guess I’ll go now. Think it’s okay if I come back tomorrow? Maybe he’ll be better, and I can go in there?”

“It’s more than okay, Kathy. Like I said, he needs all the support he can get.”

Something about that knocked Magary down a notch. “It’s still real bad, isn’t it? Even though he’s going to make it.”

“He incurred a serious injury. He’s getting really good care.”

“Good,” said Magary. “The only doctor I know is my orthopedist. I’m a dancer.”

“Ah,” said Petra.

“Well,” said Magary. “I’ll be going. I’ll come back tomorrow. If Eric wakes up, tell him I was here.” She kissed her fingertips, waved them at the ICU door. Smiled at Petra and sashayed down the hall.

Shortly after that, Petra spotted Dr. LaVigne exit an elevator, talking to two gray-haired people. The three of them stopped and continued their conversation out of her earshot.

The man was in his sixties, short, slight, wore a brown sport coat, a white shirt under a tan sweater, and pressed beige slacks. Gray crew cut, steel-rimmed glasses. The woman was tiny- maybe five feet tall, also slender. Blue sweater, gray slacks.

LaVigne said something that made both of them nod. They followed him past Petra, into the ICU. LaVigne emerged a half hour later, ignoring Petra as he hurried by. A quarter hour after that, the gray-haired couple came out.

Petra had been slumped in a horrid orange Naughahyde chair that squeaked every time she exhaled. Trying to chase away her thoughts by reading a magazine. The words might as well have been Swahili.

The woman said, “Detective Co

Petra stood.

“We’re Eric’s parents. This is the Reverend Stahl, and I’m Mary.”

“Bob,” said her husband.

Petra reached for Mary Stahl’s hand, covered it with both of hers. “I’m so sorry, ma’am.”

“They say he’ll be all right.”

Reverend Bob Stahl said, “We’ll be praying.”

“We sure will,” said Petra.

“How did it happen?” Mary Stahl asked her. “If you know.”

“What I know,” said Petra, “is that your son’s a hero.”

What she thought was: It didn’t need to happen.

Stahl had stopped calling in an hour before the confrontation with Shull. She’d tried reaching him twice on the tac band but couldn’t get through. Meaning he’d ignored her. Or switched off his radio.

Why?

She sat with Bob and Mary Stahl for over an hour before the answer took shape.

Learning they lived in Camarillo, where Eric had grown up, a short drive from the beach. Eric had been a good student, lettered in baseball and track, loved junk food, played the trumpet. Surfed on weekends- so her initial guess hadn’t been that off, after all. She suppressed a smile. Suppressing wasn’t hard, thinking of Eric lying there, his abdomen stitched from sternum to navel. Shull’s blade had ravaged his intestines, missed the diaphragm by millimeters…

Mary Stahl said, “Eric’s always been a good boy. Never a lick of trouble.”

“Never,” Bob agreed. “Almost too good, if you know what I mean.”

Petra urged them on with a smile.

Mary Stahl said, “I wouldn’t say that, dear.”

“You’re right,” said Reverend Bob. “But you know what I mean.” To Petra: “The P.K. syndrome. Preacher’s kids. It’s hard for them- keeping up the image. Or thinking they need to. We never pressured Eric. We’re Presbyterian.”

As if that explained it.

Petra nodded.

Reverend Bob said, “Still, some kids feel the pressure. My other son did. Put himself under serious pressure and sowed some wild oats. He’s a lawyer, now.”

“Steve lives on Long Island,” said Mary Stahl. “Works at a big firm in Manhattan. He’ll be flying in tomorrow. He and Eric used to surf together.”

“Eric never seemed to be bothered by the pressure,” said her husband. “Really easygoing. I used to joke that he’d better get upset about something, or he wouldn’t have any blood pressure.”

Mary Stahl burst into tears. Petra sat there as Reverend Bob comforted her.

“Pardon me,” she said, when she recovered her composure.

“Nothing to pardon, dear.”