K Is for Killer

could see her stir, blind with pain and confusion. I kept saying, "You're going to be okay. You're fine. It's over." I wasn't even sure she heard me, but I had to hope the reassurances were getting through. She was barely conscious. The flashing yellow lights were reflected in the plate-glass storefronts as we sped up State Street. The siren seemed somehow disassociated from events. At that hour of the night the streets were largely empty, and the journey was accomplished with remarkable dispatch. It was not until we reached the emergency room that we heard about the multicar wreck out on 101.
    I sat out in the waiting room for an hour while they worked on her. By then most of the accident victims had been tended to, and the place was clearing out. I found myself leafing through the same Family Circle magazine I'd read before: same perfect women with the same perfect teeth. The July issue was looking dog-eared.
    Certain articles had been torn out, and someone had annotated the article on male menopause, penning rude comments in the margin. I read busy-day recipes for backyard barbecues, a column of readers' suggestions for solving various parental dilemmas involving their children's lying, stealing, and their inability to read. Gave me a lot of faith in the generation coming up.
    Cheney Phillips walked in. His dark hair was as curly as a standard poodle's, and I noticed that he was impeccably dressed: chinos and sport coat over an immaculate white dress shirt, dark socks, and penny loafers. He moved to the reception desk and flipped out his badge, identifying himself to the clerk, who was frantically typing up admissions forms. She made a quick phone call. I watched while he followed her into the treatment room where I'd seen them take Danielle. Moments later he stepped out into the corridor, again in conversation with one of the ER doctors. Two orderlies emerged, maneuvering a rolling gurney between them. Danielle's head was swaddled in bandages. Cheney's expression was neutral as she was rolled away. The doctor disappeared into the next cubicle.
    Cheney glanced up and saw me. He came out into the waiting room and took a seat next to me on the blue tweed couch. He reached for my hand and laced his fingers through mine.
    "How's she doing?" I asked.
    "They're taking her up to surgery. Doctor's worried about internal bleeding. I guess the guy kicked the shit out of her as a parting gesture. She's got a broken jaw, cracked ribs, damage to her spleen, and God knows what else. Doctor says she's a mess."
    "She looked awful," I said. Belatedly I could feel the blood drain away from my brain. Clamminess and nausea filled me up like a well. Ordinarily I'm not squeamish, but Danielle was a friend, and I'd seen the damage. Hearing her injuries cataloged was too vivid a reminder of the suffering I'd witnessed. I put my head down between my knees until the roaring ceased. This was the second time I'd found myself fading, and I knew I needed help.
    Cheney watched with concern. "You want to go find a Coke or a cup of coffee? It'll probably be an hour before we hear anything."
    "I can't leave. I want to be here when she comes out of surgery."
    "Cafeteria's down the hall. I'll tell the nurse where we are, and she can come get us if we're not back by then."
    "All right, but make sure Serena knows. I saw her back there a little while ago."
    The cafeteria had closed at ten, but we found a row of vending machines that dispensed sandwiches, yogurts, fresh fruit, ice cream, and hot and cold drinks. Cheney bought two cans of Pepsi, two ham-and-cheese sandwiches on rye, and two pieces of cherry pie on Styrofoam plates. I sat numbly at an empty table in a little alcove off to one side. He came back with a tray loaded down with the food, straws, napkins, plastic cutlery, paper packets of salt and pepper, and pouches of pickle relish, mustard, ketchup, and mayonnaise. "I hope you're hungry," he said. He began to set the table, arranging condiments on matching paper napkins in front of us.
    "Seems like I just ate, but why not?" I said.
    "You can't pass this up."
    "Such a feast," I said, smiling. I was too tired to lift a finger. Feeling like a kid, I watched while he unwrapped the sandwiches and began to doctor them.
    "We have to make these really disgusting," he said.
    "Why?"
    "Because then we won't notice how bland they are." He tore at plastic packets with his teeth, squeezing gobs of bright red and yellow across the meat. Salt, pepper, and