Read Online Boldt 03 - No Witnesses by Ridley Pearson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Ridley Pearson
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could switch places with her—that this would be his son, Miles, lying there, and she the visitor. Since that comment not a word had passed between them. The glances they shared needed no explanations. She blamed Boldt for this, without meaning to. And without meaning to, Lou Boldt accepted it.
As the hours passed, as Friday slipped into Saturday, as the doctors and nurses came and went, Boldt imagined this boy a young man, the young man an adult. He envisioned the successes and failures, the joys and heartbreaks that compromised his own life, and he loaned these to Slater Lowry believing that a borrowed dream was better than none at all.
At two in the morning the father returned to the room, dulled and incoherent in his few attempts to share. Boldt rose to leave them, but the woman said, “Stay if you want,” and Boldt sat back down. He was not certain what drew him to this boy or this woman or this room, and he knew firsthand the trials of taking a personal interest in the victims—a detective needed a certain degree of distance—but he kept his seat and stayed. For some reason he found it impossible to leave.
At two-forty, several of the electronic monitors sounded alarms at once, and Boldt’s pulse quickened as Slater Lowry’s faded. A team of nurses and physicians swarmed the boy’s bedside. Their work silence the alarms, and twenty minutes later, with the boy stabilized, the doctor held a private conference with the parents. After that, Boldt remained outside the room, viewing the boy through the glass window that communicated with the nurses’ station, where the monitor signals were repeated on small television screens tucked beneath the counter. Inside the room there was only enough space for three chairs, and Boldt’s was now occupied by a woman minister who prayed quietly, her chair pulled close alongside the bed, the boy’s limp hand clutched between her own, her lips moving in silent prayer. Boldt realized there were to be no more beaches for Slater Lowry, no more late-summer nights, no more smiles or complaints or singing or trading football cards—no more birthdays.
The nurses offered Boldt a seat and offered him coffee. When a third woman reminded him the cafeteria was open twenty-four hours, he turned and snapped, “It’s him that needs you, not me!” And there was no time to apologize to her, for the monitor alarms called out for a second time, ringing in Boldt’s ears like church bells.
The moment of death, recorded as 3:11 A.M. Saturday, June 30, played out before Boldt in an eerie and hollow silence. The monitors cried out the truth, though Boldt clung to hope. He encouraged the boy to recovery, a spectator rooting from the sidelines. The nurses and doctors once again rushed to revive the boy, but for all their efforts, all the technology, there were no miracles left.
The parents hugged tightly in terror; the minister stepped out of the way and closed her eyes.
In the midst of a silent scream, Betty Lowry glanced over her shoulder and met eyes with Boldt through the window, and though only a fraction of a second, he saw that her pain and hope had given way to the disbelief of acceptance.
The boy’s final heartbeat was followed by a series of straight green lines in a race across the screens—chasing the next patient.
The doctor turned and offered apologetic eyes filled with sympathy and compassion.
Boldt imagined this boy huddled over his model of the Space Shuttle, eyes curious and sparked with challenge. He imagined the excited expressions in his own son’s eyes, and hoped never to lose him, never to count him among the statistics.
“No more,” Boldt whispered aloud, his promise fogging the glass, his right hand gripped in a fist. A promise made from the most sincere, the most private place in his heart.
A promise soon to be broken.
Boldt arrived home sometime after four. His entrance awakened Miles. Liz rolled over in bed and admonished, “You caused it. You handle
As the hours passed, as Friday slipped into Saturday, as the doctors and nurses came and went, Boldt imagined this boy a young man, the young man an adult. He envisioned the successes and failures, the joys and heartbreaks that compromised his own life, and he loaned these to Slater Lowry believing that a borrowed dream was better than none at all.
At two in the morning the father returned to the room, dulled and incoherent in his few attempts to share. Boldt rose to leave them, but the woman said, “Stay if you want,” and Boldt sat back down. He was not certain what drew him to this boy or this woman or this room, and he knew firsthand the trials of taking a personal interest in the victims—a detective needed a certain degree of distance—but he kept his seat and stayed. For some reason he found it impossible to leave.
At two-forty, several of the electronic monitors sounded alarms at once, and Boldt’s pulse quickened as Slater Lowry’s faded. A team of nurses and physicians swarmed the boy’s bedside. Their work silence the alarms, and twenty minutes later, with the boy stabilized, the doctor held a private conference with the parents. After that, Boldt remained outside the room, viewing the boy through the glass window that communicated with the nurses’ station, where the monitor signals were repeated on small television screens tucked beneath the counter. Inside the room there was only enough space for three chairs, and Boldt’s was now occupied by a woman minister who prayed quietly, her chair pulled close alongside the bed, the boy’s limp hand clutched between her own, her lips moving in silent prayer. Boldt realized there were to be no more beaches for Slater Lowry, no more late-summer nights, no more smiles or complaints or singing or trading football cards—no more birthdays.
The nurses offered Boldt a seat and offered him coffee. When a third woman reminded him the cafeteria was open twenty-four hours, he turned and snapped, “It’s him that needs you, not me!” And there was no time to apologize to her, for the monitor alarms called out for a second time, ringing in Boldt’s ears like church bells.
The moment of death, recorded as 3:11 A.M. Saturday, June 30, played out before Boldt in an eerie and hollow silence. The monitors cried out the truth, though Boldt clung to hope. He encouraged the boy to recovery, a spectator rooting from the sidelines. The nurses and doctors once again rushed to revive the boy, but for all their efforts, all the technology, there were no miracles left.
The parents hugged tightly in terror; the minister stepped out of the way and closed her eyes.
In the midst of a silent scream, Betty Lowry glanced over her shoulder and met eyes with Boldt through the window, and though only a fraction of a second, he saw that her pain and hope had given way to the disbelief of acceptance.
The boy’s final heartbeat was followed by a series of straight green lines in a race across the screens—chasing the next patient.
The doctor turned and offered apologetic eyes filled with sympathy and compassion.
Boldt imagined this boy huddled over his model of the Space Shuttle, eyes curious and sparked with challenge. He imagined the excited expressions in his own son’s eyes, and hoped never to lose him, never to count him among the statistics.
“No more,” Boldt whispered aloud, his promise fogging the glass, his right hand gripped in a fist. A promise made from the most sincere, the most private place in his heart.
A promise soon to be broken.
Boldt arrived home sometime after four. His entrance awakened Miles. Liz rolled over in bed and admonished, “You caused it. You handle
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