Tripwire

holsters. They were police officers. Both of them were old. Quite short. Quite broad. The heavy loaded belts made them ungainly.
    They were looking at her, patiently. She tried to giggle again. They were looking at the patient, patiently. The man was balding. The illuminated ceiling was reflected in his shiny forehead. The woman had a tight perm, dyed orange, like a carrot. She was older than he was. She must have been fifty. She was a mother. Sheryl could tell that. She was gazing down with a kind expression, like a mother would.
    “Can we sit down?” the woman asked.
    Sheryl nodded. The thick liquid was buzzing in her temples, and it was confusing her. The woman scraped a chair across the floor and sat down on Sheryl’s right, away from the IV stand. The man sat directly behind her. The woman leaned toward the bed, and the man leaned the other way, so his head was visible in a line behind hers. They were close, and it was a struggle to focus on their faces.
    “I’m Officer O’Hallinan,” the woman said.
    Sheryl nodded again. The name suited her. The gingery hair, the heavy face, the heavy body, she needed an Irish name. And a lot of New York cops were Irish. Sheryl knew that. Sometimes it was like a family trade. One generation would follow the other.
    “I’m Officer Sark,” the man said, from behind her.
    He was pale. He had the sort of pale white skin that looks papery. He had shaved, but there was gray shadow showing. His eyes were deep set, but kindly. They were in a web of lines. He was an uncle. Sheryl was sure of that. He had nephews and nieces who liked him.
    “We want you to tell us what happened,” the woman called O’Hallinan said.
    Sheryl closed her eyes. She couldn’t really remember what happened. She knew she had stepped in through Marilyn’s door. She remembered the smell of rug shampoo. She remembered thinking that was a mistake. Maybe the client would wonder what needed covering up. Then she was suddenly on her back on the hallway floor with agony exploding from her nose.
    “Can you tell us what happened?” the man called Sark asked.
    “I walked into a door,” she whispered. Then she nodded, like she was confirming it to them. It was important. Marilyn had told her no police. Not yet.
    “Which door?”
    She didn’t know which door. Marilyn hadn’t told her. It was something they hadn’t talked about. Which door? She panicked.
    “Office door,” she said.
    “Is your office here in the city?” O’Hallinan asked.
    Sheryl made no reply. She just stared blankly into the woman’s kindly face.
    “Your insurance carrier says you work up in Westchester,” Sark said. “At a real estate broker in Pound Ridge.”
    Sheryl nodded, cautiously.
    “So you walked into your office door in Westchester,” O’Hallinan said. “And now you’re in the hospital fifty miles away in New York City.”
    “How did that happen, Sheryl?” Sark asked.
    She made no reply. There was silence inside the curtain area. Hissing and buzzing in her temples.
    “We can help, you know,” O’Hallinan said. “That’s why we’re here. We’re here to help you. We can make sure this doesn’t happen again.”
    Sheryl nodded again, cautiously.
    “But you have to tell us how it came about. Does he do this often?”
    Sheryl stared at her, confused.
    “Is that why you’re down here?” Sark asked. “You know, new hospital, no records from the other times? If we were to ask up in Mount Kisco or White Plains, what would we find? Would we find they know you up there? From before, maybe? From the other times he’s done this to you?”
    “I walked into a door,” Sheryl whispered.
    O’Hallinan shook her head. “Sheryl, we know you didn’t.”
    She stood up and peeled the X-ray films off the light box on the wall. Held them up to the light from the ceiling, like a doctor would.
    “Here’s your nose,” she said, pointing. “Here’s your cheekbones, and here’s your brow, and here’s your chin. See here? Your nose is broken, and your cheekbones, Sheryl. There’s a depressed fracture. That’s what the doctor is calling it. A depressed fracture. The bones are pushed down below the level of your chin and your brow. But your chin and your brow are OK. So this was done by something horizontal, wasn’t it? Something like a bat? Swinging sideways?”
    Sheryl stared at the films. They were gray and milky. Her bones looked like vague blurred shapes. Her eye sockets were enormous. The painkiller buzzed in