His Frozen Heart (8 page)

I ran around to the other side of the
counter, grabbed my phone and called Mr. Sanders. His voice was
groggy when he answered. I don’t know what all I said to him as
words spewed out of me, but I heard him say, “I’m on my
way.”

The second officer guided me toward my
chair as I numbly took a seat.

My body went into robot mode. The two
officers asked questions as I answered one after another – but I
felt disconnected. Someone asked me for the keys to my car to dig
the bullet out of wherever it was lodged. I could only think of
Libby. They had called an ambulance for her. What had he done and
when had he done it? He had to have been right there in the house,
but I didn’t see him as I rushed out the door. Would he have
attacked me, too? My mind came to one conclusion: yes, he would
have. I had left the house so quickly, I wouldn’t have noticed a
polar bear in the house unless it was holding my car
keys.

Playing pool and watching Libby take
money from strangers never seemed dangerous – never. Sure, guys got
pissed off lots of times, but it was more of an assault on their
egos. None had ever threatened either of us before. The manicotti
Libby had made me was still in the casserole dish on the counter
where I had set it when I arrived – I hadn’t even had a chance to
lift the lid. Raw emotion grabbed hold of me as my eyes focused on
the casserole dish. She had to be okay. Trying to reason with
myself, I remembered the voice over the radio had said
“unresponsive,” not dead.

I described the robber, then proceeded
to tell them about our encounter with Teddy and Tony earlier
tonight. “They were on table four at Bank Shot tonight. Tony was a
tall slender guy. He had a lot of acne. He looked my age – early
twenties. His older brother was Teddy; he was shorter than Tony,
muscular, and seemed to be in his early thirties. Both had dark
hair.”

Officer Brown was scrawling down my
words in his notebook. “My roommate and Teddy were betting on
games. She took Teddy for four hundred dollars. He was seriously
mad, but he paid her. The bartender working tonight was Chris. If
they paid with a credit card, he might know their last name. I know
Teddy used the ATM while he was there.”

The place closed at midnight during
the week, so Chris would already be long gone. Had Teddy seen Libby
give Chris money before we left? Was he in danger, too? At this
point I didn’t know what to think, so I blurted out, “Hey, the
bartender, Chris – Libby owed him some money and paid him before we
left tonight. Do you think they would have done anything to
him?”

Both sets of eyes widened. Officer
Brown squeezed the microphone on the radio at his shoulder,
“Dispatch, we’re going to need a squad car to Bank Shot on Tipton
Drive.”

A static filled response came back and
Officer Brown responded, “Right, Dispatch, check the perimeter.
Verify that no incident happened with an employee there
tonight.”

The next fifteen minutes
were a blur. I told them everything I could think of about Tony and
Teddy. The robber had said Teddy gambled with
his
money. Teddy had pulled money out
of the ATM, so it wasn’t like he was holding the money for anyone
else. Each of the officers continued asking questions, and I
answered each as earnestly as I could. I didn’t care if we got
prosecuted for illegal gambling later, I didn’t care if Mr. Sanders
made me pay back every penny I had handed the guy through the
drawer – I only wanted this guy caught.

Libby had to be in the hospital by
now. I wanted to stop the interrogation to call the hospital, but
they needed my answers to find the animal who had attacked her. I
hadn’t seen Mr. Sanders drive up, or him walk into the store, but I
felt his arms wrap around me as he lifted me off my stool. “Candy,
I’m so sorry.” As I clung to his chest, he asked, “Are you
okay?”

I shook my head that I wasn’t okay,
and, in his embrace, tears began streaming down my cheeks. The
sobs, which hadn’t even threatened to surface through the hundreds
of questions and answers with the police, rocked my body when he
held me tight and told me everything was going to be okay. Why did
this always happen? I could go through any ugly situation and never
even threaten to tear up, but when someone showed me even the
smallest kindness, my body would revolt and start bawling like a
little baby.

Mr. Sanders was tall and slender. He
always wore dress slacks, a button down shirt and a tie – there was
never a hair out of place on his head or a hint of five o’clock
shadow on his face. He looked like someone who should be running a
Fortune Five Hundred company rather than owning a couple of
convenience stores. One time when we had problems with one of the
pumps, he was down on the ground pushing the reset button on the
pump in his slacks and tie. Tonight was the first time I had seen
him in blue jeans and a sweatshirt – I wouldn’t have guessed he
even owned casual clothes.

The police told him that they believed
I had been targeted and this wasn’t a run-of-the-mill robbery. Mr.
Sanders didn’t mince words, “Whatever it takes to find this guy –
do it. You have our full cooperation.”

Mr. Sanders had always been great to
me. He moved all the other schedules around so I could have the
shift I did – he knew I was putting myself through college and
needed the study time. He had even asked me why I didn’t take out
bigger student loans so I wouldn’t have to work so many hours just
to survive. I only took out enough to cover my tuition so I
wouldn’t be in as bad a shape as all the unemployed college
graduates my professors kept talking about.

He kept one arm wrapped around me as
he fished his cell out of his pocket. He dialed a number as he shot
me a reassuring smile. “Marjorie, I’m sorry to call you at this
hour. It’s Glen Sanders. There has been an incident at the store.
Can you come in and cover the rest of Candy’s shift?” There was a
short pause while she gave him his answer, “Thank you. No. Overtime
won’t be a problem. Candy is going to need a few days off. We’ll
work that out when you get here.”

Shit. He was firing me. I locked onto
his eyes, pleading with him while my mouth started spewing rapidly,
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for this to happen. I’ll pay for
everything. Please don’t fire me.”

His arm tightened, still holding me
against his chest. Mr. Sander’s voice was gentle as he answered,
“It’s okay. I’m not firing you. I’m just glad you’re okay. You’ve
been through a lot.”

My words came out in a rush, “I can
finish my shift. I swear I’m okay.”

Mr. Sanders did something I never
expected: he put his phone away and wrapped both his arms around
me, then gently kissed the top of my head. His voice was sweet,
with not a hint of anger toward me, “I never liked you working this
shift. It’s too dangerous.”

I didn’t know what to say. Dangerous?
It was the least dangerous shift here because no customer could
even get into the place. If I hadn’t have been working this shift,
I might be dead right now. It was only because I was in a
bullet-proof cage, in a locked store that had cameras on every
angle, with a panic alarm hooked directly to the police station,
that I was able to stand here and cry. Didn’t he understand that
this shift at this place was safer than taking Santa photos at the
mall at Christmastime?

Ignoring the two police officers still
in the store, I pleaded, “I’m okay. For real. It’s not
dangerous.”

Mr. Sander’s eyes roved toward the
glass with the enormous indent from the bullets – he didn’t agree,
but he didn’t argue with me either.

Officer Brown piped in, “Miss Kane,
nothing out of the ordinary at Bank Shot. Do you know Chris’s
address?”

I didn’t. I didn’t even know his last
name. I described him to Officer Brown, and he left to try to
figure out who one of my favorite bartenders really was. My stomach
tightened. I should have known his last name. I’d talked to him
hundreds of times. He had given Libby and me free food nearly every
night we came in. Why didn’t I know his last name?

Mr. Sanders poured me back into my
chair, squeezed my shoulders, and then walked to the far side of
the room in front of the forty ounce singles. I watched him make
one phone call after another. A third squad car pulled into the
parking lot at the same time Marjorie pulled in.

Marjorie was supposed to be my relief
in the morning. She wasn’t supposed to be here until 7 AM. I had
always liked her; she was older than me by a decade but, by far, my
favorite employee here. She didn’t look like she had just been
woken up in the middle of the night and called into work five hours
early. Marjorie eased herself behind the counter as her eyes looked
at the glass that had been shot to hell, “Damn, girl. You all
right?”

My eyes were dry. My adrenaline was
waning and my thoughts were consumed with my best friend. I looked
in her direction, but not at her eyes; I couldn’t afford to break
down again. “Yeah, I’m okay. Thanks for coming in.”

Mr. Sanders spoke to the three
officers; I hadn’t seen the third one come into the store. “If you
need me,” he pulled a business card from his wallet, “you can reach
me here. I’m going to get her to the hospital to make sure she is
okay.”

Hospital? I didn’t need to go to the
hospital. Nothing had happened to me. I’d followed all the rules
that he had drilled into us: Stay in the cage. Don’t let anyone in
the door. Push the panic button if you need help.

Mr. Sanders’ voice prodded me, “C’mon,
Candy. Let’s get you checked out.”

Like a robot I stood up from the
chair. Libby’s casserole dish still set on the counter. Looking at
the dish, memories of Libby assailed me. I was fine, but I needed
to see Libby. I slung my backpack over my back and reached for the
dish. Somehow my hand didn’t work right, and the dish crashed to
the floor, spewing bits of marinara sauce all over everything. When
I kneeled down to pick it up, one of the sharp pieces of glass
sliced the palm of my hand.

It was surreal – the red from the
marinara sauce clinging to surfaces as it had splattered the floor,
while the fresh blood dripped down my wrist. Mr. Sanders grabbed a
t-shirt off of a rack and wrapped it around my hand, took my elbow
in his hand, and guided me to my feet. “Marjorie will clean it up.
Let’s get you to a doctor.”

I didn’t argue. He held my coat for me
as I slid my good hand through the armhole and let it hang loosely
over the shoulder of my bleeding hand. Mr. Sanders carried my book
bag for me and guided me toward his car.

Chapter 6

The cut from the casserole dish hadn’t
been deep. We had only driven two blocks when I pulled the t-shirt
off of my hand and saw the bleeding had slowed. Mr. Sanders had
insisted on driving, and as much as I hated leaving my car at the
gas station, I couldn’t drive it. The bullet hole had been placed
directly where my face would be while I was driving, and the glare
from headlights in all the cracks would have blinded me if I had
tried to operate it. The shots in my safety cage had been
well-placed, and I wouldn’t ignore the message of the one in my
windshield. The shooter was sending me a message, and I received
it.

We pulled up in front of the
hospital’s emergency entrance where the ambulances parked. I didn’t
feel like this was any kind of an emergency, so I pointed to the
garage across the street. “Let’s leave this spot for someone who’s
missing a limb, okay?”

Mr. Sanders furrowed his brow at me,
as if to disagree, but must have decided he would be wasting his
time. Instead, he did as I asked, and parked in the adjacent
garage. As we got out of the car, the below zero temperature took
my breath away as I pulled my coat tight around my chest. Mr.
Sanders shoved his hands into his thick downy coat, tucked his head
down and ushered me toward the entrance to the skywalk for the
hospital. Once we were sheltered from the wind and cold in the
skywalk between the two structures, he awkwardly said, “You may not
feel too bad now, but I think that’s just because it hasn’t sunk in
yet. I want you to take a week off.”

I couldn’t afford to take a week off.
If he knew how broke I was, he wouldn’t have even suggested it. My
monetary situation was what got me into this mess to begin with: we
would have never gone to Bank Shot tonight if we hadn’t needed
money for food. If he knew how strapped I was, he’d probably let me
cover some of the other workers’ shifts. “I’m fine, Mr. Sanders. My
hand’s okay. I just want to check on my roommate. I’ll be back to
work tomorrow night.”

Compassionately he offered, “Sometimes
the stress of something like this isn’t immediate. I’m taking you
off the schedule until next Tuesday. If you need more time, call me
and let me know.”

We were midway through the glass
enclosed skywalk between the parking garage and the hospital when I
stopped him. I didn’t want to sound like I was ungrateful, but with
Libby banged up, I was somehow going to have to come up with her
share of the rent. My hand was still wrapped in the t-shirt he had
given me, and I allowed myself to concentrate on it when my small
voice confessed, “I can’t afford to be off work that
long.”

He stepped into me and hugged me hard
to his chest, much the same as he had done at the gas station when
I broke down – the same way Dad used to hold me whenever I needed
it. Mom and Dad moved to New Mexico a couple years ago, so neither
were going to hold me and tell me everything would be fine. Mr.
Sanders was old enough to be my father, and I worried I might fall
apart all over again in his embrace. He lifted my chin so I was
forced to see the kindness waiting for me in his eyes. “It’ll be a
week with pay. This is on me. You don’t have to use any of your
accrued vacation time. I just want you to be a hundred percent
before you come back.”