Sand

Chapter Seven: Exit

Two uniformed police were waiting for him as the elevator doors dinged open on the ground floor. They stared at him with the slightly annoyed, expectant expression he knew so well. The other passengers in the elevator filed around him into the lobby, parting around the two officers like water around a boat. Wayne didn't move. He stood in the middle of the car holding the handles of a wheelchair with a plastic bag in the seat.

One of the police grabbed the elevator door to keep it from closing. "Are you coming out or not?" the officer asked.

It was time to pay the piper. He pushed his wheelchair into the lobby, ready to be handcuffed and read his rights, but the two officers brushed past him.

"Four," one of them said as the metal doors slid together.

He wondered, as he usually did, what had happened in the minutes he'd lost. He'd probably never know more than he could piece together with the evidence around him.

He ditched the chair and ducked into a handicap restroom with the plastic bag.

"What the..." Assorted denominations of wadded up cash and at least a dozen wallets mocked him from inside the take-out bag. What had he done? He fished around in the bag for anything that might jog his memory, knowing that nothing would, and swore. He found a nine millimeter pistol buried beneath the cash. It was identical to the weapons hospital security issues their plain-clothes security officers.

Dmitri! He had Dmitri's gun. "Please tell me I didn't kill him," he begged the face in the mirror. The clip was full, with one in the chamber. If he had killed Dmitri, it wasn't with this weapon. He splashed cold water in face and frantically tried to make a plan. Whatever had happened during his blackout, it would certainly mean going back to prison. The hospital security cameras would have captured it all. If he was blacking out again, though, wouldn't prison be the best place for him?

"Not before I see Sarah and Nathan," he said.

He tucked the pistol into one of his maintenance uniform's deep pockets and headed for the emergency entrance. The horseshoe driveway was busy as usual for an early Friday evening. Two ambulances, and EMT truck, and a police cruiser were parked outside. The crisp October evening air helped him focus, but even with the help of his rushing adrenaline, he could still feel the sand, waiting to smother him again. Waiting to steal his life away in seconds, or minutes at a time. He had gone months with no attacks. Why was he suddenly beset by several in one day?

The sack of money and stolen wallets weighed heavier on his conscience than in his hand. He had been a cop for twenty two years; a good one, too. He had never taken anything from anyone, or even accepted a single questionable gift. He had no intention of stealing some poor Schmo's hard earned wages, especially in this economy. He had to make sure every one of the wallets and every dollar from the till made it back to to its rightful owner.

Another police cruiser pulled into the driveway. A sign? The driver got out with a clipboard in hand and waved at a paramedic from one of the ambulances.

His options played through his head at different speeds and angles, but no matter how he twisted them or held them up to the light, he couldn't make any of them shiny or appealing. The right thing wasn't always the most pleasant option, though. In fact, it seldom was. That's why doing the right thing was always such a difficult decision. He had no real doubt what he should do. He had broken the law. He had violated his probation.

He accepted his fate and decided he would turn himself in, but first hehe needed to apologize to his daughter and make sure she and Nathan were alright.

"I hope you're one of the good guys," Wayne muttered as he strolled past the police car. The cop with the clipboard was taking notes from a paramedic by the front bumper. He was sort of facing Wayne, but his attention was completely on his clipboard. He didn't look up at all, even when Wayne tossed his bag of stolen loot through the open front door of his car. He fished his cell-phone from his pocket as he walked, and dialed a number.