Stephen Cannell - At First Sight

The room was getting cold, so she went into the bedroom to put on a sweater, her lower back throbbing painfully with each step. Her MRI showed a slight extrusion at the S-7 vertebra. Dr. Baker had advised her against long-distance running, but when pressed, he admitted that the damage was already done, and said that in due time the disk extrusion would be absorbed. If she could withstand the pain, it probably wouldn't get worse. She decided to keep training and treat it with painkillers. She loved the feeling she got when she was pushing it. Five or six miles out, her endorphins kicked in, her spirit soared, and her body never felt more precious to her. So she kept early-morning runs in her schedule and endured the discomfort.

She returned to her easel and worked for a few minutes longer on the painting, which depicted the sandy Maui beach where she and Chandler had walked each evening at sunset. Several photos she had taken were clipped to the side of her easel. The two distant cone-shaped mountains of Molokai rose majestically from the turquoise-and orange-tinted ocean. Chandler joked that her painting looked like Madonna's leather concert bra.

Hawaii had been a time of immeasurable love. Except for a few dinners with the Bests, she and Chan had been mostly alone. They had walked the beaches holding hands. They would talk until midnight, lying on the beach chairs on the balcony of their room, listening to the distant surf and the sound of palm fronds rattling in the breeze. Then they would strip out of their clothes and screw like bunnies, laughing and holding each other for hours until she would finally suggest they go to bed, knowing they wouldn't.

"Eat me," Chandler would tease.

"You first," she'd giggle, and then, likely as not, they would start all over again. Hawaii had been the happiest time of her life.

Paige loved having sex with Chandler. He was an emotional but tender lover, willing to take her to undreamed-of heights, then hold her up there letting her ride the edge of ecstasy just short of orgasm. She couldn't seem to get enough of him and saw no reason to stop trying.

It was after twelve when she decided to call the drugstore to see what had happened to Chandler. Maybe he'd had car trouble. His cell was in the charger on the desk. Nobody picked up the phone at the drugstore. The answering machine finally clicked on with a message about store hours. They had closed at midnight.

Now she was really worried. Where was he?

A few more restless tries at getting the burnt sienna right on the underneath tips of the billowing clouds at sunset. She was tense and was botching it, layering it on too heavily. She set her paints aside and closed the tops on her oils, then spent another forty minutes pacing.

When the phone finally rang, she jumped at it, snatching it up so' fast that she fumbled it out of its cradle.

"Hey, babe, where the hell are you?" she almost shouted.

A slow, drawling voice said, "This is Robert Butler. I'm parked outside your house calling on a cell phone. Is this Mrs. Ellis?"

"Yes… Robert who?"

"I'd like to see you if I might," the voice continued softly. "See me?"

"Yes ma'am. It's a police matter. If I might, I'll go on up to the front door and ring. See you in a second."

"Police? What police?" she said, but he had already hung up. Dread and fear now choked her.

She rushed to the door and fumbled for the latch chain with numb fingers, swinging it open to face a thin, middle-aged man with narrow shoulders. He was wearing khaki pants and a wrinkled blue blazer. His salt-and-pepper hair was cut into an old-fashioned, fifties-style flattop, which framed a sun-creased, friendly face. He was holding a badge in one hand and a Bible in the other.

"What is it?" she said, her voice shaking with anxiety.

"Could we step inside?" he inquired gently.

"What do you want?" she implored, taking a step backward as he followed her in and closed the door.

"I regret to inform you, ma'am, that your husband was run over by a car in the Walgreens drugstore parking lot. They didn't stick around to report the accident so it's a hit-and-run." He said it fast-gave her the bad news in two sentences, as if practice making these kind of calls had taught him not to draw it out.

The words staggered her. This narrow-shouldered, plain-looking man had just hit her with a sentence more powerful than a fist. Her knees went weak and she found herself reaching for a chair.

"That's absurd," she heard herself say.

"The paramedics who picked him up listed him as 'death imminent.' That's the classification they use until the docs at County Hospital can make it official."

"He's dead?" she said dumbly, feeling the blood draining out of her head. She suddenly felt sticky and wet, white with fear. Her voice was disembodied, and although vaguely familiar, seemed shrill.

"Yes ma'am, I'm terribly sorry. He was dead at the scene. But like I said, the doctors at the hospital have to be the ones to pronounce him."

She felt an agonizing sense of grief sweep over her. Suddenly, her legs buckled and she sank to her knees, falling forward, banging her head on the carpet.

Detective Butler rushed to catch her, but he was a split second late and she went down anyway. He helped her to her feet, then led her to the sofa in the living room.

"Where's the kitchen, ma'am?" he asked.

She didn't answer. She had her head in her hands and could hear herself moaning-long, wailing, groaning sounds that she didn't even recognize as her own until she realized they stopped each time she took a breath.

Robert Butler turned away and went toward the back of the house. She heard water running, but all she kept thinking was, death imminent? A two-word phrase so immense she was still unable to comprehend it.

Seconds later, Bob Butler was back at her side, handing her a glass of water. She took it and looked at it, not sure what he wanted her to do.

"Drink," he said softly, and she obediently sipped the water, her hands trembling before her eyes.

"Mrs. Ellis… I'm sorry to have to do this now, but if we want to catch this perpetrator, time is of the essence." She didn't answer, so he continued. "I'm going to have to ask you a few questions. Is that going to be okay?"

She nodded her head but still couldn't speak.

"Could you tell me why your husband went to the drugstore so late at night?"

"Pills for my back," she finally managed to say. "He was picking up a prescription for me:'

"You've been here the whole time? You didn't leave the house?" he asked.

She nodded.

"Can anybody confirm that?" She shook her head. Then he leaned back and studied her carefully. He seemed to make a decision, then continued on. "What I want you to know, Mrs. Ellis, is I'm not going to let this hit-and-run go unsolved." He waited, then added, "That's a promise. Me to you."

Somebody hit Chandler and drove away, leaving him to die alone? The idea was preposterous. Chandler was… He always seemed so… Charmed.

"My own wife was the victim of a hit-and-run, three years ago," Robert Butler was saying. "So while most people won't understand what you're going through right now, I want you t'know I understand exactly how you feel:'

She looked at him, not really processing much of this. They were just words that buzzed in her anguish. The detective was looking at her with sad understanding, as if they shared a secret.

Then this soft-spoken, plain man picked up his Bible, opened it to a dog-eared page, and began to read, first from Philippians 4: "Rejoice in the Lord always, again I say, rejoice." His voice was soft, soothing. "And the peace of God which passeth all understanding shall keep your hearts and minds through Jesus Christ. I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me."