A Cut Above (21 page)

He steps to our boss’s side. “Please tell me you didn’t funnel them into your high heels.”

She turns, takes a deep, uneven breath, and taps the toe of her pump against the floor. “Pshaw! Of course I didn’t, Max. They’re in the studio’s vault. Where else would you have me put them?”

He shakes his head. “You women are going to make me nuts.”

Welcome to my world
. Now he knows how I felt when I first learned Miss Mona had the vault access built into the far corner of the ladies’ room at the studio.

The elevator dings open, and we walk out into the hall. While hospitals are rarely quiet places, there’s an uncomfortable hush down here. I shudder. Pain, strain, life, death. It’s all too real.

Without waiting for the other three, I head to the waiting room. There, I choose an overstuffed chair by the broad window. A glance at the fan of magazines on the table wedged between my chair and the next one to my right only registers a kaleidoscope of color, so I choose at random, then drop it on my lap once I sit. I’m not sure I can focus enough to read, but at least the shiny pages will give me something to do with my hands while I wait.

Max takes the chair to my left. “Hmm . . . I didn’t know you had a burning interest in fly-fishing, Andi-ana Jones.”

I look down, and get the picture. I meet his gaze. “What can I say? I’m concerned. You know I couldn’t care less about fly-fishing.”

“But you care about Laura.”

“Just like you.”

He takes my hand in his. “Let’s pray.”

Hours later, after the surgeon has given us the good news about Laura’s leg and Rodolfo Cruz has arrived, we split up and go our separate ways. Rodolfo heads to his daughter’s room, anxious to see her for himself. Miss Mona calls Davina, the studio’s chauffeur, and she and Aunt Weeby go on home. Max and I opt for dinner at the hospital’s cafeteria.

“Would you look at that?” he says as we walk up to one of the various food stations.

“At what?”

He indicates the cafeteria. “It looks more like a restaurant than a hospital dining room.”

“Back when Aunt Weeby was in here about a year ago, I read something about the hospital bringing in a fancy chef to upgrade their chow.”

At the stir-fry area, he takes a plate and points at the chicken breast strips for the gentleman behind the counter to dish out. “This is much better than I thought we’d get. At least it’s real food.”

The sizzle and scent of chicken and soy sauce makes my mouth water. “You’re in the south, boy!” I chuckle. The pasta station calls my name, and I know I’ve found my meal. “We know how to eat around here.”

He gives me a mock frown. “You’d better quit with that southern chauvinist deal. I’ve been a transplanted southerner for a long time now. I’m sure some of it has seeped in over the years.”

“You’re a sponge of the extra-large variety, huh?”

“Something like that.”

The next hour passes by along those lines. Max enjoys his stir-fry and I my linguine with clams. Once we’re done with that part, we scarf down wide wedges of lemon meringue pie with steaming cups of coffee. By the time I’m about to pop, Max stands.

“I’m ready to go check on Laura before I head back home. I still need to spend a couple of hours catching up on some reading. There’s a gem identification seminar coming up at the GIA in a couple of weeks.”

I still can’t believe he’s really going through with the Gemological Institute of America’s Graduate Gemologist training. Who’d a thunk the surfer boy would go that far? “How’s that going?”

He grabs both of our trays and we head toward the conveyor belt along one wall. “Let’s just say I have even more respect for anyone who’s gotten to Graduate Gemologist. It’s no cakewalk to earn that title.”

This Graduate Gemologist—now Master Gemologist, I’ll have you know—lets herself smirk. “Toldja.”

He drops the used tableware on the rolling black rubber contraption, then with an exaggerated flourish, he gives me a little mock bow. “I genuflect at the feet of your greater wisdom, oh Poo-Bah of gemstone erudition.”

Laughing, I swat at his shoulder. “Come on. I think the exhaustion from our trip really fried what brain cells you had left. Let’s go see Laura so you can catch a few z’s before we have to meet in front of a camera tomorrow.”

As we slip into the elevator, it occurs to me that Max and I haven’t had one single argument since very early in my trip to Colombia. In fact, we made a pretty good team down there, and now we’re even having fun together. I glance his way, catch his gaze, and offer him a tentative smile.

He wraps his arm around my shoulders.

I lean into his side.

Then, just as I’m really getting the hang of enjoying the closeness without nerves or fear raising their familiar heads, the elevator door yawns and spits us out on Laura’s floor. Max keeps his arm in place. He doesn’t let me step away.

This is getting serious.

Lo and behold, I’m not shaking at the knees.

Miracles do still happen.
Thank you, Lord.

In a haze of romantic contentment, I aim for Laura’s room. We find the door slightly ajar. We hear muffled sounds from inside.

“Do you think we’ll be interrupting one of the nurses?” I ask.

He knocks, then opens the door. “Only one way to know.” Neither of us is prepared for what we find. A man in dark clothes and a black knit cap pulled down low over his bearded face is struggling with Rodolfo, who is no match for the obviously younger and stronger attacker. Max rushes the two men and joins the fray.

“Help!” I yell. I turn to head back into the hall, but my shirt is snagged from behind, and I stumble past the fighting men. “Oh, help us, please!”

A particularly heavy thud tells me one of the three has landed a good punch. I hope it’s Max. But then Rodolfo stumbles backward. I reach out to catch him. I miss. His head strikes the metal foot of the bed.

He grunts. Crumples to the ground.

No! No, no, no, no, no. This can’t be happening.

“Rodolfo!” I cry. He doesn’t respond.

Since I can’t just barge through Max and the attacker, I skirt by them, dodge flying fists, and rush to the emerald vendor’s side. As I lean down, I catch a glimpse of Laura. What I see sends a chill down my spine. She’s pale, white as chalk, and her chest . . . I’m not sure she’s breathing.

Behind me, another fist lands a hit.

Another groan tells its tale.

“Max!” I call out. “Are you okay?”

“Silencio!”
the brute in black hisses.

Silence? That beast wants me to be silent? Well, I’ll show him. I scream. Again, again, and again.

My throat burns from yelling. Max and the goon pummel away. Rodolfo’s too still. Laura . . . well, Laura doesn’t look good at all. I’m torn. Do I help her? Rodolfo? Claw the monster off Max?

With dismay bordering on despair, I realize there’s little I can do alone. I have to get help. Inch by inch, I edge toward the head of the bed, the call-button gizmo my goal. I have to buzz the nurses’ station.

In another second, I’m there. I push the red button. Again. Twice. Three times.

I give another holler for good measure.

“Yes?”

The disembodied voice is more welcome than a life jacket during a seagoing hurricane. “Send security! There’s a . . . a—oh, just send us help before someone gets killed.”

With a last vicious jab at Max’s gut, the masked man lets out what can only be a pungent expletive in Spanish. He turns and runs from the room.

My knees give way.

I sag against the bed rail.

A nurse runs in, followed by an armed and uniformed guard. I’ve never been so happy to see one of Chief Clark’s men. And I’m no fan of his PD.

The woman’s frown would curdle milk. “What’s going on here—”

Her eyes widen and she yanks the call button from my hand. When it crackles to life, she doesn’t wait for a response. She rattles off a series of numbers—code for the situation, I’m sure. She signs off with the universally urgent “STAT!” Everything happens on speed-dial. More uniforms arrive, nurses’ uniforms as well as law enforcement ones. A gurney is rolled in, two orderlies load Rodolfo on its narrow mattress, and whisk him off. Max gets a great deal of attention, especially his bruised and cracked knuckles.

In the end, I go with Laura as she’s wheeled into an elevator and rushed to the Critical Care Unit. I can’t forget that promise to pray.

It takes the doctors no time to figure out she’s been poisoned. And while they need more tests to know for sure what exactly she was given, it’s clear that whatever it was, it’s affected her breathing.

“I suspect whatever it was went into the IV,” a Dr. Chapman tells me.

I know less than nothing about medicine, but I’ve watched my fair share of TV shows. For once, those lost hours in front of the boob tube pay off. “That would make sense. Maybe her father walked in on the creep as he was in the act.”

“We can only hope,” the young physician says. “Even the slightest amount he might have failed to deliver will help her.”

Oh, Lord Jesus . . . please.
“Is there anything I can do?”

“For her?”

I nod.

He shakes his head. “We’ve dosed her with something to help her breathing, but it’s up to her body now to withstand the poison, since we don’t yet know if there’s a better medication. Once we get the lab results back, we’ll be able to do more.”

“I promised her I would pray, and I can at least do that.” Just then, Aunt Weeby runs up to my side. “We’re back, sugarplum. Max had us called, and we hurried over as soon as we could. And you know we can both of us pray up a storm, can’t we, Mona? We’re fearsome prayer warriors, if I do say so myself.”

I fall into the Duo’s joint hug, irrationally relieved by their arrival. There’s nothing they can do. Their presence, though, eases my loneliness.

Time creeps by, each second longer than the last. The three of us stay outside the glass-walled room where Laura lies frozen, staring at the slight body in the bed, the sweet girl hooked up to tubes and lights and beeping machines.

A short while later, Max comes back. “Any word?”

I turn. “Oh, ouch! You poor thing.” Red is turning to puce around one of those beautiful baby blues. “Is your eye going to be okay?”

“I’ll live.” He dips his head toward Laura. “How about her? And Rodolfo? Any change?”

“How much did they tell you?”

“That she was poisoned with something that affected her breathing and her heartbeat, and that Rodolfo’s in surgery to drain blood from his brain.”

“That’s what we were told.” I’d hoped for more info, but I suppose there’s not much more to know until Laura’s test results return and the neurosurgeons finish with Rodolfo. “How are your hands?”

“They’re no big deal. Not compared to Rodolfo and Laura. They’re both trying to hang on to life. We don’t know if either one’s going to pull through.”

“Hush, Max!” the paper-pale Miss Mona chides. “Don’t give the devil a toehold with thoughts like that.”

He slips an arm around her and gives her a hug. “Then we’ll just focus on prayer. For that, though, you need your rest. You didn’t have to rush back. Andie and I are still here, and if I know anything about her, no one’s going to get her to leave until she gets word on both our patients.”

I glance at Laura and see no change. “How about we go down to the chapel? It’s quiet there, and they’ve hung a nice, big old cross on the wall behind the altar. That’ll help us look in the right direction.”

As they join me, and we head down to pray, I get the strong feeling I’ll be spending a good chunk of time there in the days to come. I’m going to be learning what it means to keep a vigil.

Does that mean I’m finally growing up?

Lord Jesus? Father God? I sure hope so.

As I walk into the quiet room, a bolt of memory zaps me. Something I’d heard but let slide by. How I could have done that, I’ll never know. True, it had happened in the heat of the moment, at the most frightening stage.

The man who’d poisoned Laura, gravely injured Rodolfo, and given Max a doozy of a shiner had spoken Spanish. We’re no longer in Colombia. Kentucky’s not exactly the heart of Latino immigration.

Who is he? What is he doing here?

Is he after the gems?

Or is something more going on?

Only God knows the answers to these questions. I’m going to have to trust him. I’m going to have to put the pedal of my faith to the metal of this gig.

Trust. That sticky little part of faith.

I hope the Father doesn’t find me lacking.

This time.

1400

While neither Max nor I are able to get Aunt Weeby and Miss Mona to go home, Chief Clark can. And does. But then, once they’re on their way, the Andie-grilling begins. Why is it I’ve been subjected to more fire since I came home a year ago than the average slab of ribs at a July barbecue?

By the time I’ve answered more questions than I would think a body could ever ask, I’m glaring at the chief. Something I seem to do with alarming regularity. “You done with me yet? ’Cause I sure feel well done.”

He arches a brow. “It’s like this, Miss Andie. I’m thinking I’ll be done with you once I have the guy who’s done this behind bars, and not before then. Since you and Mr. Max here are the only ones I can ask, then I’m going to do all the asking I have to do.”