Page 114 of Nobody's Fool

“The broken nose and shattered cheekbone,” I say.

She nods.

“Buzz said you both ran after he got released. But they caught him. He walks with a limp now.”

She closes her eyes again. “We were both damaged goods, Harm and me. I know we were con artists, but when you’re in it, it doesn’t seem so bad. You see some brat flashing money at a ritzy resort. So you take some. What’s the big deal? And Harm—I’m so glad he’s okay.”

“He said the same thing about you.”

“Wait. So he knows…?”

“He does now, yeah. He said to tell you that if you ever need him, he’d be there.”

It is then, right then, before she or I say another word, I see her eyes look past me and widen in shock. And then everything goes wrong. I don’t know if I heard the gunshot first or if I felt the hot bullet on my shoulder, a searing, blistering pain as it tore the skin. And I wonder now, as I wondered then, at the very moment, if the bullet had beena centimeter lower, if that first bullet had hit my shoulder bone in full instead of skimming the top, if that would have stopped the bullet or slowed it down enough so that it wouldn’t have continued and hit Victoria on the side of her neck.

Blood spurts from her artery.

She slumps down like someone has ripped all the bones from her body. I jump toward her. A cacophony of screams thrums in my ears. I reach out and grasp her neck, clasping my hand over her wound. At a distance it probably looks like I’m choking her. Her blood pours through my fingers, coating my hand. I grip tighter.

That’s when the second bullet hits me.

This one isn’t a skim. I try to fight through it, try to hold on to her neck, but it feels as though a giant hand has smacked me on the back. My entire body jerks forward, my head landing on the corner of the bench. I blink and try to fight it off. But I can’t anymore. I am lost.

And then there is blackness.

They bury Victoria Belmond five days later.

I stand by a tree, in the distance, my arm in a sling, still somewhat high on the opioids.

Turns out one of those baseball coaches hitting grounders in the park was an ER doctor named Ken Liss. Once he was sure that his kids were down and safe, once everyone seemed certain that the shooter had run off, Liss hurried over to Victoria Belmond, but there was nothing to be done. For my part, I was flat on my back, my eyes blinking into the sun, nearly floating in a thick pool of blood, very little of which, it turns out, was my own.

She bled out lying next to me.

Some would find poignancy or karma in that, my blinking intothe sunlight once again, lying next to her dead body twenty-two years after she pretended something similar. But I am not one of them. I have been through my share of tragedies and the truth is each one gets a little easier. The first cut is indeed the deepest. You mourn so deeply, and when that wound is finally healed the scar tissue is so thick and protective that you can never quite get there again. You won’t let yourself. And so right now, as I watch the private family burial, I don’t cry.

But this death is crushing me.

Victoria/Anna was only forty-two years old. And now she is dead.

That’s pretty much the sum of it.

The second bullet hit me in the back near my upper shoulder. It was never life-threatening, but the throbbing pain seems to never quiet. It will take a while to heal, maybe months or even a year before I’m all the way back. The doctors did not want me to come today, but I have to be here. There is a certain momentum to everything in life. I am near the end, close to having all the answers, and I’ve lost a few steps now.

I can’t waste more time.

I had visitors at the hospital. Molly, of course. My dad. Arthur spent more time with me, in part making sure that even if the Belmonds may want to terminate my employment, I get all monies due. In fact, Arthur wants to insist that I get extra cash, some kind of workman’s comp for suffering an injury on the job. I tell him to let that go. The Belmonds have lost a daughter. Twice, in a sense. Their loss is unfathomable. I can see it now in their thousand-yard stares. They spent eleven years in the dark thinking she was gone forever. They got a reprieve, a miracle, and now, fourteen years later, when everything seemed pretty damn good, grief has thrown them back into that bottomless, dark pit.

From this distance, I can see and even feel the devastation. Archie,Talia, Tom, Madeline, Vicki, Stacy—they all have the grief-stricken faces of someone surprise-punched in the gut. Talia and Archie are leaning on one another—literally, that is—and I keep looking for the poignant or meaningful when there is nothing.

The casket is lowered. Talia Belmond’s knees buckle. Archie, fighting off his own collapse, holds her up. Thomas steps forward first. He throws ceremonial dirt on top of the casket. Archie half carries Talia toward the recently dug hole. They both do the same. Archie keeps his eyes on the casket. The sadness emanating off him almost makes me take a step back. He raises his eyes and meets my gaze. I try to hold it, try to offer up something like sorrow or regret.

Archie signals for Thomas to help his mother. Thomas takes her arm, and Archie trudges toward where I’m standing alone. I brace myself, not sure what he is going to say or do. As he walks toward me, I remember Victoria’s last words—her last request.

That I protect them.

When Archie reaches me, I say the obvious: “I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you,” he says. He gestures toward my sling. “How are you?”

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