Charlaine Harris (87 page)

I gasped. I couldn't help it. I was acting like a fool.

“So I've pinned the clavicle. There was no major damage to nerves or blood vessels from the bullet, so he was a lucky man—if you can call anyone who gets shot lucky. He made it through the surgery just fine,” the doctor said. “And I think he's going to recover without many hitches. As far as what's going to happen next, he'll have to stay in the hospital for two or three days. If everything continues to go well, if no complications come up, he can be released. But he'll probably have to have IV antibiotics for a week after that. We can arrange for a visiting nurse to help with that, but you'll have to remain in the area, and I understand you don't have a residence here.” He aimed his gaze more or less between us, as he waited to see what would develop.

I nodded frantically to assure him I understood. “Anything you say,” I told Dr. Spradling.

“Where do you live, Miss Connelly? I understand he lives with you?”

I caught a glimpse of Matthew's face, and I thought maybe Matthew was about to try to take control of Tolliver's care. A huge fear bobbed to the top of all my other fears. Would they even let me in to see him if Matthew protested? I had to trump Matthew's fatherhood card. I opened my mouth and surprised myself by telling the doctor, totally out of the blue, “We're common-law married. What you call an informal marriage.” Texas recognized an unmarried union, and I was pretty sure that was what they called it. Common-law wife might beat out stepsister. “We have an apartment in St. Louis. We've been together for six years.”

The doctor couldn't have cared less. He just wanted to let me know what was going to be involved in taking care of Tolliver. He did, however, turn slightly so he was addressing me specifically. “It would be easier if you could find a place near to the hospital until he's stronger, when we release him. He's not out of the woods yet, but I really think he'll be all right.”

“Okay.” I ran all he'd said back through my mind, hoping I could remember it all. Broken clavicle, small-caliber bullet, no other major damage. Three days in the hospital. IV antibiotics a nurse would administer in the hotel. A closer hotel.

“They can stay with me and their brother if they need to,” Matthew said, and the doctor nodded, clearly uninterested in the details. I could guarantee that wasn't going to happen, but this wasn't the time to settle it.

“As long as he can have someone responsible with him. He needs to be quiet and comfortable, get up and move around several times a day, take his meds on time, avoid alcohol, and eat good food,” the doctor said. “And again, that's assuming he continues to do well. We'll know more tomorrow.” Dr. Spradling wanted to be sure we were sufficiently warned.

I nodded vigorously, shaking with anxiety.

“I'll stay in his room here tonight,” I said, and the doctor, who'd half turned away, made an effort to look sympathetic.

“Since he's just had surgery, he'll be checked on very frequently tonight,” the doctor said. “And he won't be awake. You'd be much better off going home, cleaning up, and coming back in the morning. If you'll just leave a phone number, they'll contact you if there's any problem at all.”

I looked down at myself. I had blood all over me, and it had dried. I looked . . . horrendous, and now I understood why everyone who walked by me glanced away. And I smelled like blood and fear. And I needed our car. So against my own inclinations, I asked Matthew to take me back to the motel.

The police had finished processing the ruins of our room by then. When I trudged into the lobby to talk to the woman at the front desk, I was greeted by the manager, an African American woman in her fifties with clipped hair and a sympathetic manner. She was anxious to get me out of sight of any guests who might come in, and when we were in the little room in back of the check-in desk, she made me sit down and brought me a cup of coffee, which I didn't remember requesting. Her name tag read
Deneise
.

“Miss Connelly,” she said, very earnestly and sincerely, “if you'll give your consent, I'll send Cynthia into the room to gather up your clothes and your personal items.”

I wondered where this scene was leading. “All right, Deneise,” I said. “That would be very helpful.”

She took a deep breath and said, “We hope you'll accept our regret that this terrible incident occurred, and we want to make this time as stress free for you as we can. We know you have so many things to think about.”

I finally got it. Deneise was wondering if we considered the motel to blame in the shooting, and she wanted to feel me out about my intentions. And I think she was genuinely shaken up and sorry the whole thing had happened.

After Cynthia had been dispatched to the ruined room to salvage what she could of our stuff—to my relief, Matthew offered to go with her—Deneise got down to terms. “You may not want to stay here another night, Miss Connelly, but if you do, we'd love to have you.”

I felt that was less than sincere, but I also didn't blame the woman.

“If you do decide to stay, of course we'd be glad to supply you with a comparable room free of charge, to show our regret that you've been . . . inconvenienced.”

I almost smiled. “That's an understatement,” I said. “Yes, I'd like to have a room for the rest of the night, but I'll be checking out first thing in the morning. I have to find something closer to the hospital.”

“How is Mr. Lang doing?” Deneise asked, and I told her he was going to be all right.

“Oh, that's good news!” She seemed relieved on several different levels, and I didn't blame her a bit.

Now that the motel situation was settled, I was anxious to get into a room and get clean. The manager called Cynthia on her cell phone and told her to take our luggage directly to room 203.

“I thought you might feel better if you weren't on the ground level,” she explained as she hung up.

“You're right,” I said. I thought of the black hole of the window, and I shuddered. My face and shoulders were hurting, I was covered with dried dots and smears of blood, and suddenly I began shivering, now that I had the luxury of time for myself. Now that I thought Tolliver would be all right.

Matthew appeared in the office doorway. “Your stuff's in your new room, and I don't think anything is missing. Everything seems to be in your purse.”

I didn't like the idea of Matthew having access to my purse, but he had been a real help tonight, and I had to give the devil his due. I told Deneise I was grateful she'd been so thoughtful, and with my new key card in hand, I went out to the lobby with Matthew to get in the elevator.

“Thanks,” I said, as it rumbled up to the open area with snack machines and the ice maker. A couple coming up the stairs glanced at us curiously, and when they'd absorbed my bloody state, they hurried away to their room.

“That's okay,” Matthew said. “I heard the shot, and I heard you scream. I ran across that parking lot pretty damn fast.” He laughed.

I hadn't even realized I'd screamed.

“You didn't see anyone in the parking lot?”

“Nope. And it makes me nuts, because the shooter had to have been really close to me.”

I stowed that idea away to think over later. “Well, I guess I'll see you at the hospital tomorrow, if you can get off work,” I said. Abruptly, I wanted to be alone more than anything.

“You want me to call Iona?” Matthew asked.

When I said, “No!” he laughed, a choky sort of laugh that made him sound like Tolliver for a moment.

“You don't mind me saying so, you're pretty dependent on my son,” Matthew said, chiming in with my thoughts so neatly that I was instantly angry.

“Your son is my lover and my family,” I said. “We've been together for years. While you were gone.”

“But you need to be able to function on your own,” Matthew said in the righteous tone of someone who's had counseling; and because he was trying to sound gentle, I was even angrier. I may not be your garden-variety person, but I am not as fragile as I seem. Or maybe I am, but that wasn't any of Matthew Lang's business.

“I don't believe you have the right to tell me how I ought to live, how I ought to be,” I said. “You have no rights over me. You never did. You never will. I appreciate your help tonight. I'm glad you finally did something for your son, though it took him getting shot for you to do it. You need to go now, because I have to shower.” I used the key card, and the door to the new room swung open. The lights were on, and the room was warm. Our suitcases sat on the floor beside the bed.

Matthew nodded to me and walked away without saying one other word, which was a very good thing. I looked at Tolliver's suitcase and began to cry, but I made myself go into the bathroom and shed my blood-speckled clothes. I took a very careful bath, mindful of my scores of cuts and nicks. I put on my pajamas.

I called the hospital again, and found Tolliver was still the same. I reminded them again to call me instantly if there was any change. I put the phone on the charger, and lay in bed, and listened for it to ring.

But it didn't. All night.

 

 

 

THE
next morning as I went through a McDonald's drive-through, I realized I had to call Iona to tell her what had happened. Otherwise, she might read it in the papers. I didn't expect anything from her, and it was a strange feeling to realize that there was someone I should report to; Tolliver and I are used to being on our own. If we hadn't been in the same urban area, I would never have considered calling Iona about Tolliver's injury. I got to the hospital early, looked into his room to find Tolliver sleeping, and returned to the lobby to use my cell phone. The reception in the lobby wasn't good, so I stepped outside with the smokers. It was a cold, clear day, with a brilliant blue sky.

I checked my watch, felt there was a chance Iona hadn't left for work yet, and called the house. Iona wasn't best pleased to hear from me early in the morning, and she let me know it.

“Tolliver got shot last night,” I said, and she was silent.

“Is he all right?” she asked, even now sounding grudging.

“Yes, he's going to make it,” I said. “He's in a regular room at God's Mercy Hospital. He had some surgery on his shoulder. He'll be in the hospital for a couple more days, the doctor thinks.”

“Well, I don't believe I need to tell the girls right now,” Iona said. “Besides, Hank's already taken 'em to school. We'll talk about it when they come home today.”

“Suit yourself,” I said. “I've got to call Mark.” I clicked the phone shut, angry and disappointed. It wasn't that I wanted my little sisters upset and worried, especially after the skating rink incident yesterday—it was that I knew my interaction with them would always be ruled and regulated by the troll squatting across the draw-bridge that led to them. I was being pretty ungrateful to Iona with that comparison. I should be glad
every day
that she and Hank had had the nerve and grace to undertake the raising of two girls from such a damaging background.

But going through her was such an uphill battle.

For the first time, I thought Tolliver might be right. Maybe we should just butt out of our sisters' lives and send them Christmas presents and cards on their birthdays.

Then Mark answered his phone in a drowsy voice, and I had to chuck aside these bad thoughts and deal with the here and now. Mark had worked late the night before so he wasn't too coherent, but I made sure he got the gist of the story and knew the name of the hospital. He promised he'd come by when he could, probably later in the morning.

Then I had nothing else to do but return to the dreary room and watch Tolliver sleep. Of course I had a book in my purse, and I tried to read for a while, but I kept losing track of the narrative. Finally, I put the book away and simply looked at Tolliver.

Tolliver is seldom sick, and he'd never been hurt this seriously. The bandages and the IV and the gray tone of his skin made him seem almost a stranger, as if someone had crept in and usurped his body. I sat staring at him, willing him to sit up, willing the vigor to return to his body.

That worked as well as you'd expect.

I knew I had to be the strong one now. With my brother down, I had to take care of him, of us. It was good that we'd planned on spending a few days in Texas, because I knew we didn't have any other jobs booked that I should be rescheduling. However, I'd have to check the laptop for new messages. I'd have to take care of
everything.
I immediately began to worry that I wouldn't do a good job of it, that I'd forget something critical. But what could I forget that would matter so very much? As long as we didn't miss an engagement, as long as I kept gas in the car so we didn't run out, I would be doing a good job.

Finally, Dr. Spradling came in. Tolliver had been moving around a little, so I knew he was about to wake up. Dr. Spradling looked even more tired and old today. He gave me a glance and a nod before approaching Tolliver's bed. He said, “Mr. Lang?” in a penetrating voice. Tolliver's eyes flew open. He looked past the doctor, right at me, and relief relaxed the lines of his mouth.

“You okay, baby?” he said, trying to hold out a hand to me.

I stepped past the doctor, circled the bed to the other side. I took his left hand in both my own.

“How are you?” I asked.

Dr. Spradling was looking into Tolliver's eyes, reading his chart, and listening to our conversation.

“My shoulder hurts. What happened to you?” he asked. “The window exploded. Someone throw a brick in? You have cuts on your face.”