Four
“Meant for Better Things”
31 October
13:05
University of Maryland Hospital,
Shock-Trauma Center
Zelda, Sandy and Robin had already been turned away when they tried to visit Vince. The doctor had told them, “He won’t even know you’re here,” and told them to get home and stay safe, and use the phone for updates. It was something he often had to tell people, and he never got used to the pain in their eyes or their tears of heartbreak and fear. Words that made them lose hope.
Sandy asked, “Doctor Sean, what are his chances?”
Having worked together a few times, he thought she should know better, that questions like those could not be answered. It was unprofessional.
But he led her aside and said, “Sandy, you’re the one who let him get this far. That was excellent field surgery and what you were able to clamp off or suture was perfect.” He sighed. “Sandy, you know as well as I do that he will never make it. You also ought to know that as soon as he goes into arrest, we can’t revive him. His wounds have him on his stomach. No CPR, no paddles. He’s going to die and I can’t save him. You might be able to, though. I know everyone in your organization is devoutly religious. Go home, Sandy. Go home, and pray as hard as you can, because a miracle is what he needs.”
Sandy, who had been renting one of Vince’s luxurious bedrooms ever since she entered medical school, thought the worst. God would never save a man as horribly torn as Vince was. Sometimes people had to die. That was just how trauma went. There was only so much that could be done.
The drive back to Jessup was not bad. The storm was still just in its beginning phase. Just moving into the area, the outer bands kissing the area. Soon that kiss would turn into a violent assault.
Zelda asked if she could stay with them. She didn’t want to be snowed in by herself; she had quickly fallen in love with Vince, the man she had waited for her whole life, and she was hurting too much to be alone, and they hugged her and were glad for her company. They could all pray together and comfort each other.
In Vince’s isolation unit, with nobody tending him at the moment, a man sat in the corner and held a rosary in his hands, sitting in a deep forward leaning position in a chair, the beads and crucifix dangling, and as he prayed, his hands moved on to the next bead and the next.
“Excuse me,” a nurse said indignantly, “You can’t be in here. You have to leave.”
“Did you not just tell his family that he would die?”
She nodded, her eyes lowered.
“And the doctor told them that he can’t do anything else?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Then let me do my job. He will soon need Last Rites, and I can’t leave him. Now please, I need to pray for his soul.”
So, after checking with the doctor, the nurse said he could stay as long as he needed to.
Time passed, but the man in the chair never moved. When he finally did stand, he bent at Vince’s side, leaned down and whispered, “I know the dark place you’re in. I’m very grieved you’re there. I want you to come away from there and join me. You were meant for better things, Vince. Will you help me?”
Still on his stomach, still naked, still having a mortal open wound on his back, and still having the broken and grotesquely twisted hip out of joint, packed off with heavy bandages, Vince, eyes closed, nodded.
“Good. Thank you. You’ll be helping a lot of people with your faith. Remember your faith. You lost it when you were attacked, didn’t you?”
Vince nodded. His head was to one side, but he managed to respond.
“Have faith now then.”
Alarms began beeping. Vince’s monitors were all doing odd things. A nurse ran in and the priest stepped aside. When the alarms were off and Vince’s vitals stabilized, she left. The man sat back down and prayed.
He waited a little bit longer and stood again. He bent over to whisper, “Vince, you are meant for better things. Are you ready to serve God?”
Again, Vince nodded. But his back was no longer shredded and laid open. His hip showed no sign of wounds. The man was going home, and the miracle he had told Sandy to pray for had happened. “I’ve arranged a ride. You’ll know when it’s time to leave. The storm will get worse but you’ll make it. I’ve brought warm clothes, a coat and hunting socks. They kept your boots and they’re still here. I’ll see you soon. Praise God for your miracle and tell others, Vince. Tell them where you’ve been and how the Father had mercy. Your friends await you at home, and so does the woman who loves you. Go tell them. Tell them the Good News is real. God is real.”
One floor below, a new patient had arrived a few hours ago, and was now also near death.
The trauma team that did the intake on Detective Sergeant Joe Routson had just found out the worst: his brain stem was not getting any blood. The steel shards had penetrated and blocked the arteries in his neck, each one critical for survival. His EEG showed total brain death. Nothing registered.
Currently on life support, he would be disconnected from it within the hour. He was already dead. Even if he could “survive,” his soul couldn’t possibly still be in his body. And only the religious nurses had that thought; others were already convinced long ago that death was final. The end of life, with nothing beyond, so either way, another cop was dead. He was a number now, nothing more. And since no next of kin had been found, no one would even care.
There was a note, though, on his intake record. Captain Adrian James was to be notified of any change in the patient’s condition. She entered something into the computer, sent it by email to the charge nurse, and in seconds, a phone call was made.
At HCPD Headquarters, Adrian picked up the phone, identified himself and listened.
He walked into the squad room where the few detectives who were still there sat. They all knew about the shootout. They knew that the mocked and bullied Joe Routson had fired blind, at point-blank range, and taken two mobsters down with him. The men were mercenaries, contract killers wanted in four states by the FBI, and were evasive, good at their jobs and they were merciless.
Routson had finally drawn his weapon in anger and fired true, taking two extremely dangerous killers off the wanted posters permanently.
But he was not going to make it. Adrian gave out the news with quiet solemnity, with dignity, but ended up breaking down, falling into the nearest chair, and began to sob uncontrollably and out loud.
The detectives looked away. Their captain was a strong man, and it was scary to see him like this.
The lone woman in the room ignored the others and the uniformed officers who came in to see what was going on. When the detectives told them, one went straight to the beat officer’s squad room to pass the sad news. She went and knelt beside Adrian and reached up to put an arm over a shoulder. Adrian’s grief told her that it was worse than the “He’s not expected to live” that he had just announced.
“Angie, he’s dead,” Adrian whispered. He controlled the sobs that wracked his body, and, with tears freely flowing down and glistening on his black-coffee colored cheeks, he choked, “The owners called it in. They were trying to get past the bodies to check on him when the backup and ambulance got there. By then his brain stem wasn’t getting any blood flow, and he was brain dead, so he’s been gone for hours.
“I know, Angie. I saw the look in your eyes every time you looked at him. You loved him, maybe even more than I did. It hurt you to see him just sit there every day, wasting away. I’m so sorry.”
It was true, Angie O’Connor had been mad for Joe for years, ever since she had come to the detectives from Alpha Beat. He could see it, she couldn’t hide it. And being younger and one of the most sought-after women to ever wear a county badge, he had desperately wanted to tell Joe, but his best friend wouldn’t have believed him. Joe was too down on himself and too closed off.
Angie was heartbroken. Never before had she felt pain like this. And even though she wanted to go to the women’s restroom and cry, she held back. She decided to be strong for Adrian.
The one man who knew everything there was to know about Joseph Routson had dug up everything from family history to his earliest days on the force, long before Adrian was out of middle school. One Halloween…on this very day, three decades ago, Adrian and some of his Ellicott City friends had played a prank. It ended badly. The responding officer was Joe. After letting Juvie officers take care of the mastermind and determining that Adrian had only been tagging along, he saw the pain and fear in the boy’s face. Gently, he put a hand on Adrian’s shoulder and led him to his cruiser. “Don’t be scared, son, you’re not in trouble. I want you to sit up front and listen to me for a minute, then you can go home, okay?”
Once inside, Adrian, still trembling with fear, was surprised to see Joe pull a business card out and hand it to him. “If you ever get in over your head again, or if you need any kind of help, or even just need someone to talk to, you better call me, hear?” The boy nodded, tears in his eyes, still shaking with fright. “Hey,” Joe said softly, “You don’t need to be scared of me. I see in your eyes you’re a good kid. Know what I see?”
Silent, the boy shook his head.
“I see a handsome young man who’s bright, strong and who just learned a very painful lesson. A lesson he’ll never forget.
“I want you to do as well in school as you can, help your parents, be a good son, and make yourself into a fine young man who will help people who need someone as sensitive and big-hearted as you. What do you want to do with your life?”
The boy, still silent, pointed a finger at Joe’s chest. “No. You’ll be better than me. If you become an officer, you’ll make the world a better place. And you’ll join others around the world who also make a difference. That’s the most honorable and courageous thing you can ever do, but you have plenty of time to think about it. The job is dangerous. People never thank you. You can die in the line of duty. But no matter what, you’ll give other people hope. You’ll give them protection and some peace. That’s why you’re sitting here. Now, I’ll tell you a story. And I want you to listen carefully, please.
“When I was a teenager, not really much older than you, I had an older sister. My father gave her a Ouija board one Christmas. I was too naive to know what that was but I didn’t like it.
One day after school, about this time of year, when it gets dark early, she had her girlfriends over and they were in her room playing with it. I don’t know how much time passed, I was little. The girls all ran out, screaming. The girls from down the street never came back.
“My sister was never the same. She had fits where she fell and seemed like she couldn’t control her body. Finally she was taken away. My parents told me she was staying with an aunt I never heard of. I’ll never forget that day. I was left alone while they took her. The trees were beautiful that fall. As the sun set, it made the leaves bright with golden yellow, red, and orange. I’ve never looked at autumn leaves and seen any beauty in them since, and I never saw my sister again. They say that the devil talks through those boards. Well I don’t know about all that, but I will tell you this. There’s trouble, then there are the kinds of trouble you can’t get out of. And I don’t want you getting into something that you can’t get out of. You never told me your name, son. What do I call you?”
“James,” Adrian had told him, not lying but not telling the truth.
“James, I’m going to drop you off at home. I won’t say anything to your parents, I’ll just go on my way. Don’t forget, you call me anytime you need a friend. Okay?”
And that was it. “I studied hard. I played sports. And after a law degree I came home and joined the academy. Joe saved me and he can’t remember it because of the traumas he’s been through since. Nobody understands that. They hear ‘PTSD’ and equate it with weakness. But he was the toughest and bravest man, and cop, I’ve ever known.”
“I know, Adrian. I followed him a few times. I got worried when he left here with that two thousand yard stare. Oh, I knew what it was. I knew he was free from child support and his car was paid off. I wondered why he didn’t get a house or a better apartment.”
“You saw something he never wanted anyone to know.”
“Yes, I did.”
“Over by the strip mall, the one that’s gone now. There was this girl who lived in the streets, hooking and eating out of trash cans. I saw him pick her up, take her to a motel and pay several days in advance for her to eat, stay warm or cool, get cleaned up. He bought her new clothes and bags of personal hygiene stuff. She always cried because I guess nobody else considered her to be human. He would hug her and stay on the lookout for her and others like her. Just think, if more people did that…”
“I know. What a world it could be. Did he make you?”
“Nope. I was off his radar. I doubt that he even knows my name.”
And now he was dead .
“He was a good man,”Adrian said. “The best.”
“I’ll never love another,” Angie replied eyes wet and full of grief, and smiled. I’m still in shock, but at least he was loved and there’s nothing wrong with that.”
The room was dark, as if he could be sleeping. Sometimes nurses did these things, small gestures that made no sense or difference.
Trauma nurses were a special breed. There were none like them, and they had patients die all the time. They had to keep working because that was the only way to stay used to losing patients, which, of course, came with the job. It wasn’t so much that they didn’t feel. It was more like they couldn’t afford to let their emotions show, or even let them register for long. You only endangered your sanity that way.
But sometimes, a patient stood out. The detective who was already dead wasn’t one of them. When they were already dead, you couldn’t give them a second thought.
But there was another person in the room, out of sight behind the partially closed curtain, and the glass door was closed. No one would come in until it was time to ship him to the cooler.
The man sat still, a rosary hanging between his hands, and he was crying. The detective had lived a miserable life. His family had hurt him. His wife had hurt him. His job had left him in a pathetic, mangled mental state.
Now it was time for him to come back, to fight a bigger battle than he had ever had to engage. And he was special. He would be doing things for God that even the priest wouldn’t understand.
“Joe, I know you. I’ve seen into your past. I’ve felt the pain that you felt. It’s time to come home. I need you. God needs you. Will you help us?”
Joe Routson opened his eyes. His face, care worn and deeply lined, was now smooth. His hair, eyebrows and mustache had turned a snowy white, and his eyes, brilliant blue, shined with joy and he smiled.
“Welcome back, Joe.” He reached into his pocket and helped Joe raise his head, and slipped a thick gold chain under his neck. In front, it bore a large, heavy gold cross.
“You have somewhere to be, somewhere I can’t know, or go with you to. But be brave and have faith, and I’ll see you soon.”
Nobody on either floor would remember the priest. But it soon spread all over the hospital that two dead men were up and talking. One was preparing to leave the hospital shortly, in a National Guard Hummer, homeward bound. The other would, in moments, just walk out the exit on the ground floor, vanishing in the snow.
“Melvin Belvedere”
Ellicott City
If ever anyone had made his own lot in life bad, it was Melvin Belvedere, who, at age 97, was as miserable and grumpy as he could be. The last member extant of the family, the bloodline ended when his time to die came.
He sat in his old stuffed chair beside a small reading table in his study, an old antique red glass lamp sitting on it. He had an unlit pipe in his mouth, an old cardigan keeping the chill off and a fire going in the fireplace. The walls, complete with tattered wallpaper, had oil sconces on them, long since disused. A filthy old rug lay beneath him, smelling of dust and dirty socks. He sat there, feeling the icy draft around his ankles, and became grouchy. That is, more grouchy than was normal for him. “Wellington!” He rasped.
His butler, John Frederick Wellington, was getting up in years too, and at age seventy, was no longer able to cater to the needs of Melvin Belvedere, and certainly no longer possessed the patience to put up with his demands. Or his verbal abuse.
Or remain in this wretched mansion. He swore that it became more dark and sinister every day, and lately his nights were full of vivid, horrible dreams the likes of which he had never experienced, and he knew it was this house and creepy Melvin Belvedere causing them. The man looked more like a cadaver, and smelled worse than an abandoned slaughterhouse in July. He knew that Belvedere Manor and its owner had to have something to do with nightmares that were so vile. The mansion knew it was dying, or that’s what he thought, and Wellington was thinking about quitting and leaving them both here to die together.
“You called for me, sir?”
“Yes, I called for you. It is time for tea. If you please.”
“Will the Master be taking Earl Grey or Darjeeling this afternoon?”
“I shall be taking Ceylon with milk and sugar, sir.”
“Very good, sir.” Wellington walked out to the kitchen to brew a cup of Darjeeling, since to his knowledge, Melvin Belvedere had never drank nor asked him to purchase Ceylon tea. He knew his employer was losing his cognitive function, because anyone sophisticated and fussy over tea would never put milk in Darjeeling, and he had to know that there was no Ceylon tea here. Was he senile or just fucking with his butler?
In fact, the more he thought about it, the more he liked the idea of skipping the tea and pulling on his heavy tweed coat and his felt bowler and leather gloves and going to stay with his sister. She had begged him to leave “that awful man” for years now, promising her big brother that she would take care of him. At a mere age 60, Elizabeth could help him with things he was no longer able to do for himself, and he could leave the few belongings Melvin had allowed him to keep in his room.
And that’s exactly what he did do. He put the ancient tea kettle on the stove and turned it on, one of the few true electric things Melvin Belvedere owned. Then he went to the entryway for the old servants, and slaves before that, who were ghosts now, shrugged into his coat and hat, donned his gloves and left the door open, walked through three inches of snow, and started his El Dorado. After clearing the snow from the windows he got in and headed toward the long road that led down the mountain.
Up above, Melvin Belvedere was fit to be tied. Although he claimed to be English, Melvin had often accused him of being a lazy Welshman, and he did so now.
“Lazy Welshman, I shall overlook such a dereliction only this once. And now, sir, my tea.”
There were many reasons why Melvin Belvedere only used two rooms in such a large mansion, built so long ago that he had no idea when it came to be, and its once beautiful granite exterior and lavishly furnished rooms with rich walnut wainscoting and papered walls had been the setting for generations of big families, celebrations and childbirths. But where once the sounds of happy children at play filled the hallways, now there was silence.
Eerie silence, and it had scared the last of the Belvedere family members badly, affecting their nerves and mental health.
He knew about the third floor room in which scary things had been reported, and he had never been higher than the second floor. He could no longer climb steps, so this room and the first floor master bedroom with a fireplace were all he used. There were real things about this mansion that were terrifying. Melvin Belvedere stayed away from them. The place had gone to seed, but he knew that it had always been a scary place.
There were huge ivy vines growing up the side of the outside walls, and only rats lived in the upper floor bedrooms. Melvin didn’t go anywhere near the grand staircase, and he had paid a mint to have the main electric cables and breaker boxes moved from the basement to the back of the pantry so that he never had to go down there again. The last time he had, there was something there with him. He heard something banging on wood, and he’d had to get Wellington to call an ambulance. He spent three days in St. Agnes Hospital with a mild heart attack.
He had tried not to think about the thing in the basement. He vaguely remembered something his father had told him, but he was so young and his father died after that, and he didn’t remember. Wasn’t it something about the old root cellar that nobody was supposed to open?
The wind picked up. It howled. Melvin was getting spooked. The tea kettle whistled and he nearly fell out of the chair, a feat of no small part, since he was sunken in and almost welded to the chair. He managed to get to his feet, hobble into the kitchen and turn the stove off. There was no cup and teapot setting out, and he gave a raspy scream, “Wellington!”
No response. Even for Wellington, that was odd. He went back to the study, walked to the heavy green velvet drapes and looked out. Damn.
He couldn’t see a thing. Could Wellington be out there sneaking one of those smelly cigarettes which Melvin had forbade him to smoke on the property? The snow was a bit much for him to believe that. Wait! Did he just see something move out there?
He squinted and saw, or thought he saw, a tree with no branches move!
He shut the drapes, and now his chest was hurting. “Wellington! You’re fired, do you hear me? Do you? I want you out of this house tonight, and the storm be damned, goddamn you sir!”
Wellington did not answer. Did not come and beg to keep his job. It was damn peculiar to him.
He went to the river side of the building where the entrance to the outbuilding that housed the generator was. Looking out through a small window, he clearly saw that Wellington’s car was gone!
As angry as he was, Melvin Belvedere was far more frightened. And now he was alone in this house he hated so much but had so stupidly kept out of spite when the county gave him an offer of ten million for his property and an extra one million for the mansion.
He had heard something after all, and it was down in the basement!
Old boards being smashed apart, splintered, clanking On the concrete floor. It was some…thing. He tried to remember the secret of the root cellar, but it was no use. Then, closer, on the steps: a hissing kind of growl.
He panicked. His mind raced. He couldn’t very well try to leave; he would never start that old Lincoln and clear the glass. He wasn’t physically able.
He felt trapped, and he felt doomed. Whatever had broken through those ancient timbers had started coming up the steps, coming to get him, and it sounded unearthly, like a monster, like it was hungry!
There was nothing he could do but stand and face it. He waited for the basement door to open or to be smashed through, and it didn’t take long.
As it came into the dim light, he froze, his body let go of all control, and his bowels and bladder let go. He couldn’t even scream.