|
"What's
wrong?" Fran asked, already afraid of the answer.
Anson sat
down at the table. "Fran, I'm so sorry."
"Oh my
God, Herman."
"He was
shot last night."
"Is
he...dead?"
"Yes."
"Oh
God," Linda gasped, sitting next too Fran.
"Fran
stared at Anson, unable to speak or move, until she looked up and saw
Captain Wakefield standing in the kitchen door, large body sagging, face
more worn, more wrinkled. She stood up and he came over, embracing her
gently. Then came the tears and great sobs that wrench the soul so
painfully. "Go ahead. It's okay," Captain Wakefield whispered.
After a few
minutes, Fran regained control of herself, and asked, frantically,
"God, why?"
He was a
good policeman doing his job. And when a good policeman does his job,
the chance of being killed is always there. That's the only answer I can
give you."
"Does
anyone give a damn anymore?" she sobbed.
"We do.
And I believe the good people in this city do."
Fran drank a
few sips from the glass, then put it on the table. Linda took a
handkerchief and gently wiped the tears from her eyes and cheeks.
"We can't take away the hurt," she said. "No one can, not
even God. That's the way it's supposed to be, because you loved him. One
day the pain will go away. Believe me Fran, it will."
Fran took
Linda's hand and held it tightly. "God, I hope so," she said.
"Let's
go upstairs. You can lie down for awhile. I'll call your mother and
father. And Father Art." Linda put an arm around her. "Come
on."
"Fran,
I'm sorry," Anson said. "But I can't waste any time. I know
it's hard, but I need to ask you some questions."
|
