"What did he do then?"
"After that, he wasn't as quiet. Since he didn't see me, he must have thought no one was at home. He went into the kitchen and began… searching."
"Searching?" He seized on the word.
"That's what it seemed like. He looked in the cabinets, because I could hear the drawers and doors opening and closing. He even looked in the refrigerator."
"What for?"
She raised her hands in a helpless gesture. "I don't know."
"Okay, what did he do then?"
"He turned the kitchen chairs upside down and looked under them." Her voice mirrored her bewilderment.
He wrote in his little notebook. "What did you do?"
"I—I didn't think I could get out of the apartment; from where he was, he had a clear view of the door. I tiptoed to the phone by the bed and put the receiver under a pillow to muffle the noise, then dialed nine-one-one."
"Good thing you did," he said. "The responding officers were less than a block away. They didn't know what apartment, but the street address was enough to get them there."
"They figured out what apartment," she said, staring blindly at the floor. "It was the one where shots were being fired."
He cleared his throat. "Uh—yeah. What happened then?"
"I tried to sneak into the bathroom, because that's where I keep my hairspray."
He gave a brief smile, and for a moment he was a man instead of a cop. "Smart. That stuff gets in your eyes, it burns like hell."
"I know. It was all I had." She swallowed, trying not to remember the terror of facing an armed burglar with nothing more than a can of hairspray. "The bathroom door squeaked a little. He heard it. I—" She took a deep breath. "I thought he must have, because the noise from the kitchen stopped. I just stood there in the bathroom with the can in my hand, watching the door to see if it moved. He shoved it open, and I sprayed him in the face. He had the gun in his hand," she finished, and fell silent.
"Did you know him?"
She shook her head.
"Maybe seen him around?"
"No."
"So what happened then?"
"I shoved him, but he caught my gown, and we both fell on the bed. I sprayed him again, and he hit me." Unconsciously, she touched her cheekbone. "I hit him on the nose, with the can of hairspray. I remember kicking him with both feet… then I rolled off the bed and crawled to the door, and he started shooting." She fell silent, remembering the blur of details, the terror, the rage. Detective Suter didn't ask any more questions, didn't prompt her, but she could feel him waiting for the rest of the story, for what happened after the police officers arrived. She rubbed her forehead, trying to get the details straight. "I made it out the door of the apartment… the officers were just coming up the stairs. I almost ran into them. The man came out of the apartment and aimed his gun at me, and they shot him. He didn't fall. He… he laughed and shot at me again, and they shot him again."
"Did anyone say anything?"
"Both officers yelled at him to drop the gun. That's when he laughed and said… ah—" She looked at the detective and cleared her throat. Funny, she normally wasn't such a prude, but she simply couldn't say the word in front of this man who was old enough to be her father. "To paraphrase, he said, 'Screw you.'
Then he shot at me the last time."
He looked down at his notes and nodded, as if she had corroborated something he already knew. He closed the notebook and slipped it inside his jacket. "That's all for now. Where can I get in touch with you, if I need to talk to you again?"
She stared at him. "I don't know," she said blankly. "You won't let me back into my apartment."
"Do you have family here?"
"No." Her throat closed. "No family."
"Friends?"
"Yes, but I don't—" Piper had offered her house, her company. "Maybe Piper Lloyd. She's a nurse here at the hospital, too." She gave him Piper's number. "Even if I'm not staying there, Piper will know where I
am. Or you can reach me here at the hospital. I work nights."
He gave her a shrewd look. "I bet you won't work tonight."
"Of course I will," she said, automatically rejecting the notion that she wasn't fit. Why did everyone keep acting as if she had suffered more than some minor bruising and a small cut?
He sighed and rubbed the back of his head. "Ms. Whitlaw, it's none of my business, but I think you should cut yourself some slack. You handled the situation just about as well as possible, under the circumstances. You kept your head, didn't panic, alerted nine-one-one, and defended yourself with the means you had at hand. But you haven't had any sleep, you've been in a fight—and believe me, you're going to start feeling all sorts of bruises and aches. Look at you. You're shivering and huddling under that blanket, but it isn't cold in here. You're a nurse. What does that tell you?" Shock. Her mind immediately supplied the diagnosis. Her blood pressure had dropped after the surge of adrenaline that allowed her to fight off the burglar. Karen was annoyed. She should have recognized the symptoms and been lying down. This was twice she had been oblivious to what her own body was telling her, she who was one of the best on the surgical floor at looking at patients and quickly summing up their overall condition.
"All right, so maybe I won't work tonight," she admitted. "I need a uniform, anyway. How do I get my things from the apartment?"