Dark Blue (South Island PD Book 1) (27 page)

Her mind was shrinking in on itself, caging thoughts that made her head spin. This seemed almost surreal, and yet, the weight in her chest and the tightness in her throat told her it was really happening.

“No good reason. I’d say he was in the wrong place at the wrong time, but he wasn’t – he was doing his job. He probably saved that woman’s life.”

It was cold comfort. Belle wouldn’t wish harm on anyone, but she didn’t know that woman.

And she knew – and loved – Jackson.

“The guy just started shooting when he got there? Was Jackson alone?”

Something in Elijah’s expression darkened. It was as if he’d stepped back into the shadows beneath the ER awning, but he hadn’t – he was still right beside her.

“What?” Her gut balled up even tighter, leaving her feeling nauseated.

“He wasn’t alone – Sanders was there.”

Her teeth ached, pressed hard into their sockets as her jaw tensed. “Was he shot too?”

She suspected the answer before Elijah replied.

“No. He’s fine.”

He said “fine” as if it were an obscenity.

“Look, Belle – Sanders is a piece of fucking shit. He and Jackson approached a house together and he walked away without a scratch while Jackson had to be rushed to the ER before he bled out. I’m not clear on what all went down yet, but I’m sure that out of the two of them, Jackson was the only one doing his job right. I can’t let myself think about that now, though.”

Belle looked up, her gaze searching Elijah’s.

“You know Jackson doesn’t have any family. You and I are the closest thing he’s got to it.” He lifted his shoulders, as if acknowledging how sparse the comparison was. “So let’s focus on him right now and worry about Sanders later.”

She nodded, her mouth dry. “Okay.”

“Come on – let’s go back inside. We’ll stick together until he gets out of surgery.”

When Jackson woke up, his mind was blank for about five seconds. Then reality set in.

Fuck
. The thought echoed through his mind like a whisper bouncing off cave walls, but his mouth was too dry to speak and his throat was sore.

It felt similar to a case of strep, but it was nothing compared to the pain in his left leg. The entire thing felt as if it’d been cut open and stuffed with hot coals that burnt deep into tissue, threatening to burst through his skin.

He must’ve taken a bullet. Nothing else made any fucking sense.

With that realization, his thoughts started to grow fuzzy. He focused on his surroundings: white ceiling, beige walls. White sheets covering his body.

Hospital
. It was as if he’d blinked during a nightmare, and it’d all gone away – through some trick or twist of time, he was somewhere else, with no memory of how he’d gotten there.

No memory, and no idea how much time had gone by.

It wasn’t like on TV, where people always seemed to wake up to find the concerned faces of family or friends hovering over them. At first, there was just the ceiling, and then he realized a voice had been calling to him for – how long now?

Fuck, he didn’t know.

A face clouded his vision, female and unfamiliar. Judging by the scrubs, she was a nurse.

“Jackson? Jackson.”

She knew his name, but he didn’t know hers, so he settled for making a sound deep in his throat.

It felt like gargling rocks, but she seemed satisfied.

“You’re just getting out of surgery. The anesthesia is still wearing off, but I need you to stay awake, okay? In a few minutes, we’ll move you to another room.”

His heart slammed against his ribs in slow motion. Surgery?

He focused on the pain in his leg and took comfort in it – at least it meant it was still there. Unless he was experiencing that phantom limb shit, or whatever it was called. Straining to lift his head, he stared down at the silhouette of his body beneath the sheets.

He seemed to be all there.

“Your left leg needed surgery. Dr. Moses did the operation, and he’s one of our best. You’re in good hands.”

He wanted to ask questions, but his mind was swimming in a fog and his tongue was like a bar of lead in his mouth. He willed his mind to clear and his tongue to lighten.

By the time he could actually hold up his end of a weak conversation with the nurse, she was moving him.

She didn’t really answer his questions – just said the doctor would see him shortly.

The room they moved him to looked like a standard hospital room, nothing fancy. Which he took as a good sign. At the same time, everything seemed shrouded in a dream-like fog.

He remembered the house on Mead Avenue, the battered woman and the gunfire. And he remembered Sanders hiding somewhere in the background, the traitorous bastard. But his anger was dulled by shock and anesthesia, which combined to leave him feeling as if his head were stuffed with cotton.

The pain didn’t help his clarity of mind, either.

A sinking feeling settled in his chest, hollowing him out emotionally. Though his thoughts were fogged, he was fully aware that he was bedridden – his leg felt like a burning log joined to the rest of him by aching muscle and sinew. Walking was out of the question.

How bad was the damage, though? Would the pain be a flash in the pan, or had he worked his last shift for the PD without even realizing it?

The thought was like a physical blow. He’d worked so hard to make something of himself, and someone had literally shot his leg out from under him. Lying in that hospital bed, he didn’t feel like himself.

His mind raced to catch up, to establish a grip on what had happened. Meanwhile, he focused on steeling himself for whatever news the doctor delivered.

* * * * *

Jackson’s surgery took a couple hours. During that time, Belle and Elijah sat side by side in a waiting room. They were silent most of the time – what was there to say, other than what’d been said outside, beneath the ER awning?

Elijah’s mother came by. She was petite, blonde and looked nothing like her six foot plus son, except for a slight resemblance in the eyes. She brought homemade food, which Elijah insisted on sharing with Belle.

It smelled good but she couldn’t taste it. She ate anyway – there was enough for at least three people, and she’d need the energy since sleeping that night was out of the question.

Mariah came by too while on break and gave Belle a silent hug.

When the nurse Elijah had been badgering regularly for updates finally told them they could see Jackson, Belle tensed with sudden purpose.

She felt drawn to his room like the tide was drawn to shore, but at the same time, her dread multiplied with every step. As she followed the nurse into Jackson’s room, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was waiting for the other shoe to fall – for the happiness she and Jackson had been enjoying to be cut out from under them.

Seeing him lying between white hospital sheets sent a sharp pain through her chest. He didn’t look like himself in that bed, with a grey patterned gown draping his broad shoulders instead of his usual uniform or t-shirt. Maybe it was due to the blood loss, or just the lighting, but he looked frighteningly pale.

The golden-tan hue was gone from his skin, and it made his strawberry blond hair seem shockingly bright above his pale face.

His eyes were the same beautiful blue they’d always been, though – and they were open.

“Hey man,” Elijah said, approaching the bed. “We’ve been waiting for you to get out of surgery. Hear it went okay.”

“That’s what the doctor says.”

Hearing Jackson speak was a relief, but Belle’s heart kept on pounding.

“The shooter is in custody and being treated for gunshot wounds,” Elijah continued. “You stopped him. His girlfriend is here being patched up – she’s in rough shape but they expect her to pull through, thanks to you.”

Jackson’s face was impassive. “What about that fuckwit Sanders?”

Elijah maintained an impressively controlled expression. “He’ll get what’s coming to him, but he’s not a priority right now.”

“I had my body cam on.”

“I know. Like I said, he’ll get what’s coming to him.”

Elijah sounded sure. Jackson looked … exhausted.

Belle reached for his right hand, which – unlike his left – was clear of IV lines. It was warmer than it looked beneath the bleaching hospital lights.

“I’m so glad the transfusion and surgery were successful,” she said. “How do you feel?”

“All right.”

“Sure… Make sure you tell the doctors and nurses the truth, okay?”

“No promises – they might keep me here longer.” His lips twitched – he wasn’t quite smiling, but it was something.

“So what? You’re exactly where anyone who’s just been shot is supposed to be.”

“Not looking forward to the hospital food.”

“My mom came by with food while you were in surgery,” Elijah said.

“Rub it in… Bastard.” Jackson’s lips twitched again.

“I’m sure I can talk her into bringing you some tomorrow. You know her – she’s probably cooking right now.”

“Here’s hoping.”

The exchange seemed to exhaust Jackson – Belle could practically see his eyes sinking deeper into the dark circles beneath his lashes. The nurse returned to check on him, and Belle and Elijah kept out of her way. Afterward, Belle didn’t want to wear him out with too much talking.

Questions chased themselves in circles inside her head, but she kept her worries to herself. Elijah provided a sense of solidarity. Concern for Jackson, anger toward Sanders and disbelief over the whole thing – as Jackson’s friend, Elijah had to be experiencing that cycle of emotion too.

It was probably way past visiting hours, but the nurse left without telling them to do the same. Presumably, Elijah’s uniform went a long way.

“I can tell we’re keeping you awake,” Belle said. “I want to stay here for the rest of the night, if that’s okay with you. I’ll let you rest.”

She couldn’t stand the idea of walking away and leaving him alone.

“You don’t have to do that. Go home and get some sleep, Belle.”

Elijah took a step toward the bed. “It’s her or me, man – your choice. You shouldn’t be on your own this soon after surgery.”

For a second, Belle was afraid Jackson would choose Elijah.

“Who’d choose your ass over her? No offence.”

Elijah nodded. “I’ll come by in the morning with breakfast. Sound good, Belle?”

“Sure.” Morning was only a few hours away. “Any chance you could bring coffee?”

She probably wouldn’t get any sleep, although there was a chair that looked as if it might fold out into some sort of cot.

“It wouldn’t be breakfast without coffee.”

“Thanks.”

Elijah seemed to sense Jackson’s fatigue and left without fanfare, promising to return after sunrise.

Alone with Jackson, Belle gave his hand a squeeze and turned, preparing to settle down in the seat against the wall.

Jackson squeezed back, stopping her before she could take a step. “Belle.”

“What is it?” She eyed the button beside the bed that called the nurse’s station.

“Thanks for coming. If you get tired, go home – you don’t have to stay and watch me sleep.”

“Fat chance. Don’t waste your energy trying to get rid of me, Jackson.”

“Stubborn.” His grip tightened a little more around her fingers.

“That’s right. Now get some rest – I’ll be here if you need me.”

She settled into the chair – which didn’t fold out after all – and the vinyl squeaked as she slumped into a semi-comfortable position. Jackson drifted off in what seemed the blink of an eye.

She had a harder time resting. Though she was mere feet away from Jackson, she felt a non-physical distance between them – a void of worry and uncertainty.

It wasn’t that she felt any differently about him – not at all. It was that the future she’d been looking forward to with him had been threatened, and that had shaken her to her core. Watching him sleep deeply in that hospital bed, she realized how tightly she’d been holding onto the expectation of a happy future with him.

What she felt for him was serious and deeply-rooted. The intensity of her pain now matched the intensity of the happiness she’d grown accustomed to over the summer.

There was no question that he’d made her happy. Bits and pieces of the past couple months rushed back to her, and it felt like looking back on a honeymoon. A heavy, oppressive gloom settled over her as she tried to imagine how different the fall would be than the summer.

Jackson would suffer physically and obviously wouldn’t be able to work. Then there was the matter of Sanders, who she now thought of as “that fuckwit,” as Jackson had so appropriately referred to him.