by Sara Blaedel
The woman behind the counter asked for Artie’s birth date, and Ilka was startled when without hesitation Sister Eileen said, “April twenty-nine, 1974.” She also gave the woman his address and phone number, as easily as if she’d rattled off her own. Ilka hadn’t thought much about it before, but the two of them must have been almost like family from working together so long. The funeral home had been the framework of their lives. She squeezed Sister Eileen’s shoulder.
“They’ve just brought him in,” the woman informed them, “but he’s not registered in the system yet.”
“Where is he?” Ilka said. “Can we see him?”
“He’s in the treatment area. Family isn’t allowed inside.” She told them to take a seat in the waiting area beside A1, which was for patients taken to the intensive care ward.
Ilka felt out of breath, as if she’d been punched. Sister Eileen led the way, and before Ilka reached the large sofas against the wall, the tiny woman had poured two cups of steaming water from a white thermos on the coffee table. She added two tea bags and handed one of the cups to Ilka.
They hadn’t spoken since arriving, but now Sister Eileen cleared her throat and asked who Ilka had spotted in the foyer.
“Two of Fletcher’s men. He’s been keeping an eye on me since I came here. He wanted to find out what I was up to.”
Sister Eileen looked startled. “What you’re up to?”
Ilka nodded. She told her about what happened with Jeff when she was at Fletcher’s ranch looking for Amber’s horses, though she didn’t mention their escapade on the boat. “The horses weren’t there. But he accused me of helping Scott Davidson—being in cahoots with him, I think he said. So now I’m one of the enemy.”
Sister Eileen’s headpiece covered her forehead, as if it suddenly was too big for her. She looked frightened and confused as she stared at Ilka. “Because Davidson gave you all that money, and then left everything at the yard sale?”
Ilka shook her head. “It happened before that. Before I even met Davidson. Fletcher’s people spotted a black car following me, and it sounds like they think Davidson is protecting me.”
Ilka was at the end of her rope. To hell with them, she thought, and she buried her face in her hands. None of that stuff mattered anymore, with Artie fighting for his life close by.
Sister Eileen nudged her when the door to A1 opened. An Asian woman approached and informed them that they’d just put Artie Sorvino in an induced coma.
“His brain needs to rest while we determine the extent of his injuries.”
“Will he survive?” Ilka immediately regretted asking when she saw the physician’s expression.
“Unfortunately, it’s too early to say. Right now, we’re stabilizing him, and the best way to do that is to give his brain a chance to heal itself.”
“But for how long?”
The physician shrugged and said it was too early to say anything about that too. “It can take days, weeks, months. It depends on the injuries to the brain.”
“Isn’t it risky to put him into an induced coma when he’s already unconscious?” Sister Eileen said. She looked even paler now.
“It’s always a risk, but it gives the brain a chance to rest and recuperate. If he wakes up now, his brain would be using energy it needs to recover.”
She studied Sister Eileen a moment. “There’s a chance that if his brain is severely damaged, he may never come out of the induced coma. Does he have insurance that covers this possibility?”
Ilka looked over at Sister Eileen, whose eyes were lowered. “We’ll check. Is it possible to see him?”
She stood up as the physician shook her head and explained that Artie was on his way in to be scanned. “He’s been placed on a respirator, and as I say, we’ll be running several tests to determine the extent of his injuries. Does he have family, if it gets to the point where we should shut off the respirator? We’d need their permission.”
Ilka looked away, but Sister Eileen shook her head and repeated what Ilka had said earlier, that they were the closest he had to family.
“And what should we do in case of cardiac arrest? Should he be resuscitated if brain damage is serious?”
“How serious?” Ilka was nearly shouting. Sister Eileen was holding on to Ilka’s arm and biting her lip, and Ilka got ahold of herself before asking again, “How serious is it?”
The physician hesitated; then she sat down and looked at them solemnly. “We can’t say yet. We found a significant accumulation of blood in his brain, in back, but we simply don’t know how bad it is until the swelling subsides.”
Ilka struggled to control her voice. “Can he recover and be normal again?”
The physician nodded. “Yes. But it could go the other way too.”
“Can we see him when he returns from the scanning?” Sister Eileen asked. Her hands were folded in her lap now.
The physician promised to come out for them when they brought Artie back. “It might be late, though. Maybe you should go home and get some sleep. If his condition worsens during the night, we’ll of course contact you.”
Ilka’s voice was almost a whisper. “It could get worse?”
“Yes, it could. You should prepare yourselves for the worst. He might not survive.”
Artie was brought back at four a.m., and Ilka and Sister Eileen were led to a room on the next floor. Ilka stopped in the doorway at the sight of him over by the window, nearly hidden behind all the machines and tubes. She approached slowly, conscious of the wheezing sound of the machine helping him to breathe.
His face had been washed and hands bandaged. They’d cut his long hair, and the sight of a rubber tube inserted into the back of his head made Ilka cry. Sister Eileen looked devastated, but she retreated when Ilka told her to sit down in the chair by the bed.
“No, please, you take it,” the nun said. She sat down in an armchair over by the wall. As if she couldn’t stand to be so close.
Ilka pushed the over-bed table back and collapsed in the chair. During the hours they’d been waiting, the absolute worst scenarios kept running through her head. Artie died, and it was her fault. She hadn’t taken it seriously when Amber said no good ever came from taking on Raymond Fletcher. She should have stayed out of it. Minded her own business. Or maybe she should have told the police that someone was following her. That she felt threatened.
Most of the night she’d been crying. She’d also gone down into the foyer to look for Jeff; she wanted to know why Fletcher’s men were at the hospital, and also what he knew about the attack on Artie. A few people were sitting around, very likely waiting for news about someone; otherwise the lobby was deserted. For a second she’d thought she’d found him when a man in a hoodie stood up, but he sat down again. It wasn’t him. Jeff was gone.
Ilka dozed off occasionally, and every time she opened her eyes, Sister Eileen was sitting upright, watching Artie’s face. Carrying the world on her shoulders. And her expression. Full of despair, yes, but her eyes flickered nervously at every sound out in the hall. She jumped in her chair when the door opened, and when the doctor walked in, she seemed to shrink further inside her head covering. In a nutshell, she looked terrified, and Ilka had no idea how to calm her down. She wanted to comfort her, tell her everything would be okay, but she didn’t believe it herself. Someone had tried to eliminate Artie, or at least send a strong message that they intended to do so. She thought about Jeff down in the foyer; he must have arrived the same time as the ambulance.
She’d considered telling Sister Eileen about her talk with Frank Conaway, telling her that Mary Ann had been driving the car. And that Fletcher had paid to keep it a secret—but why? That she couldn’t figure out. It was tragic, but accidents did happen.
“Do you think Mary Ann would have divorced my father, if she’d had the chance?”
Sister Eileen slowly looked over at her. Apparently she was lost in her own thoughts and hadn’t heard Ilka’s question. When Ilka repeated it, she shrugged. “I don�
��t know anything about their relationship. Artie and I never had much to do with the family.”
Ilka gazed at him, wondering why he was the one they’d targeted. She couldn’t sit still. The physician had been by and asked again if Artie had insurance that covered the hospital stay and treatment. She’d had to admit she didn’t know.
Fletcher was going to pay for what he’d done, even if Ilka had to wring the money out of him. She thought about Amber, in a private room in the building behind them. Artie’s room wasn’t half as big, though for now he had it all to himself. The doctor had promised that.
Her anger with Fletcher—could that be what was keeping her going? Once more she assured Sister Eileen that Artie’s condition wouldn’t have been any different, had she called for an ambulance immediately. But the nun looked down at her hands and silently shook her head.
The assault was the evil Ilka had seen that night, but what had gone on earlier revealed its intent. She was certain a car had followed her part of the way to the Conaways’, but it hadn’t been behind her when she’d turned into the driveway. Which led her to think someone was making sure she wasn’t around when they attacked Artie. The message was for her, a clear warning to stay out of their affairs.
Ilka pressed her lips together; she felt alone. And vulnerable. And angry.
Late that morning a new physician came in to check Artie. He asked Ilka and Sister Eileen to leave the room. Ilka paced around then began studying the posters and notices about first aid and support groups for families, collections for the church and volunteer nurses who offered help to the seriously injured after they returned home from the hospital. Finally she joined Sister Eileen, who looked as if she would jump a mile if someone tapped her on the shoulder.
Artie had a new bandage around his head when they were called back in. The IV bag had also been changed. A nurse explained that the drainage tube should help lessen the accumulation of blood. “He needs rest now.”
Ilka looked down at his closed eyes. “For how long, do you know?”
The nurse shook her head. “It depends—” Someone knocked on the door, and the nurse turned. The officer Ilka had spoken with at Artie’s house stepped inside and stood by the doorway, but before he could say more than hello, the nurse strode toward him shaking her head. “It’s too soon.” She promised to contact him if Artie woke up.
If. Ilka looked out the window. She needed some fresh air.
After the officer left, she thought a moment: She should have asked his name. She jumped up and jogged after him. Steve, he said. His last name she didn’t catch, something beginning with Cam, but he gave her his phone number, which she stuck in her pocket when she returned to the room.
“Maybe we should go home?” she said to Sister Eileen. “We can come back this afternoon.”
The nun stood up, and they walked out to the elevator. She stared at the floor as they walked through the foyer, while Ilka checked to see if Fletcher’s men were around. She relaxed when they reached the big glass doors; nobody seemed to be keeping an eye on them.
When they’d almost reached the car, a man in a hoodie yelled out, wanting to know what time it was. Frantically she searched her bag for the car keys. When she looked up, the man was staring at Sister Eileen. And not only staring; it was as if he was memorizing every detail of her face.
Ilka stepped in between them, held up her phone, and told him it was ten minutes past twelve. He stood his ground and kept staring, now at Sister Eileen’s gray habit. Ilka sensed the nun behind her retreating a step, obviously aware of his interest in her.
She unlocked the car as fast as she could. Sister Eileen had pulled her headpiece forward to cover her face, and now she was enveloped in gray as Ilka shoved her inside.
The man stood a few yards away as she slid in and started the car. In the rearview mirror, she saw him turn and watch them drive out of the parking lot.
When they reached the highway, she asked, “Do you know him? He was looking at you like he did.”
Sister Eileen hadn’t spoken since leaving the hospital. She gazed out the passenger window. “I’ve never seen him before.”
A while later, Ilka asked her if she knew Gregg Turner. “My father’s friend, the old undertaker.”
Sister Eileen nodded. “He stopped by occasionally at the funeral home.”
“Do you know where he lives?”
“No, he had to move after the funeral home chain took over his business.”
Instead of driving straight home, Ilka parked behind Oh Dennis! and told Sister Eileen to wait in the car while she checked to see if he was there. She ran over to the door and spotted him down at his usual table; then she turned and waved at Sister Eileen to come inside.
It wasn’t because she thought the old man could do much if someone wanted to harm Sister Eileen, but a public place was safer than the funeral home.
“Would you please stay here with Sister Eileen?” she said to Turner. “And call me if you need to leave.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
Sister Eileen was still pale, her skin almost opaque, and she hadn’t spoken for several minutes, but now she nearly pleaded with Ilka. “I’d much rather go home.”
She might be in shock, Ilka thought. Maybe she should have spoken to that doctor back at the hospital.
“You’re staying here. I need to take care of something, but I’ll be back soon.”
Ilka pressed the button at the entrance until the iron gate swung open. She roared down the driveway and hit the brakes beside the front steps, gravel flying up around her.
The immaculately clad young butler was waiting when she jumped out of the car. He stepped back to let her inside, and immediately she headed for Fletcher’s office. He was sitting behind his desk.
Before she could speak, he said, “Is he going to make it?”
“What in hell is wrong with you?” she said. “You try to murder a man, in fact execute him, and you ask me if he’s going to make it? What kind of a person are you?”
Fletcher had pushed his chair back from the desk as if to stand up, but he changed his mind. A frown creased his forehead below his neatly trimmed white hair. The hallway door stood open behind her, and she sensed a shadow out there. Most likely the pretty boy, she thought.
Fletcher spoke calmly. “You’re wrong. We got to Sorvino’s place shortly after you, and whoever did that to him was already gone, like you saw.”
In fact, she hadn’t seen that; she’d been almost totally focused on Artie. But she winced inside at the thought that Fletcher’s men had been there without her knowing. That they had seen what had happened without doing anything. “If you were there, why didn’t you call for help?”
“You were already on the phone.”
“I saw Jeff at the hospital.” She suddenly remembered that she wasn’t supposed to mention his name.
Fletcher nodded. “When I heard about the attack, I sent my people to the hospital to make sure nothing happened to any of you.”
“You don’t need to take care of us!” Her strength began fading, and she sat down and lowered her voice. “If it wasn’t you, then who was it?”
He studied her coolly. “That’s exactly what I was going to ask you.”
“Does it have anything to do with Scott Davidson? I know the truth about the accident, but Artie didn’t. He hasn’t been involved in any of that, and he didn’t know I was going out to talk to Frank Conaway either.”
“We’ll take good care of Artie Sorvino,” he said, ignoring her question.
“We don’t want your help or your sympathy!” she said. “All you’re doing is moving pieces around in your little game. I’m going to pay a visit to Scott Davidson and tell him everything I know about the accident. And I know it won’t make any difference, but he deserves to hear the truth.”
Fletcher showed no emotion as she spoke.
“And if you’re going to pressure him into sharing his inheritance with Leslie, even though her mother was to
o good for the Davidson family, go ahead, I can’t stop you. But Scott has a right to know what happened, otherwise it’s not fair.”
“I want to go with you.” Ilka turned; Mary Ann held a purse in her lap, with a sweater draped around her shoulders. “Ilka is right. It’s time for these old family secrets to come out. Leslie has locked herself in her room and refuses to speak to me. My younger daughter is in the hospital, and her horses haven’t been returned, as you promised they would be. I’m done with all this.”
Mary Ann swung her wheelchair around and said she was ready to leave.
Fletcher was standing now, though he didn’t move. But when Ilka followed Mary Ann out, he shouted, “It wasn’t my men who attacked Artie Sorvino.” His voice was less steely now. “But somebody’s after all of you, and it looks like they mean business. If you go out to Scott Davidson, we’re not on the same side anymore.”
“You’ve never been on my side,” Ilka said. “And I’ll never be on yours.”
Ilka fumbled around with the start button on Mary Ann’s station wagon. She’d managed to shove the wheelchair in back, and she’d also lifted her father’s wife into the car without it being too awkward. Mary Ann fastened her seat belt and touched up her hair. Ilka realized the woman’s icy attitude toward her had thawed. She pointed at the start button and told Ilka to push it, that the car would start. “It takes the place of a key.”
Ilka nodded and started the car.
“Does Davidson know you’re coming?” Mary Ann sounded a bit uneasy. Maybe even nervous, Ilka thought. “Is he even home?”
“Yes.” She explained that she’d messaged him when she left the pub, and a few moments later he’d answered and said she was welcome to come.
They drove in silence for a while, until Mary Ann cleared her throat. “Maybe I should have seen him one last time. But I couldn’t.”
Ilka sent her a questioning look.
