by Jade Kerrion
Danyael and Zara did not exchange a word until they were in her dark blue BMW with Laura buckled into her car seat. Zara turned the key in the ignition. “How are you, really? You look like hell.”
And you look beautiful. He raked his hand through his hair, and turned to look out the car window as she pulled out of the parking lot. Even though she, of all people, was most likely to understand, he hesitated before speaking. The last thing he wanted was to appear weak. “I’m tired. I don’t think I’m putting in any more at the clinic than usual, but the pain and nausea keep me up most nights.”
“I didn’t realize that.”
He shrugged. “It isn’t terrible, just…draining.”
“And I bet it hasn’t occurred to you to stop using your empathic powers to heal people.”
“I’ve cut back,” he said, and then chuckled when she shot him a startled glance. “I’m not suicidal, Zara. I know how to manage my powers. I didn’t make the decision to amputate lightly. It came down to quality of life. I want to live long enough to qualify for senior discounts, and that’s at least thirty years away. My daily choices have to be sustainable in the face of my daily challenges. I’m trying to find the right balance.”
“By cutting off your leg?”
“By eliminating a major source of pain. I wrestle enough with other people’s pain. I don’t want to have to keep fighting my own.”
“You can eliminate that pain by fixing your leg, not cutting it off.”
“Considering how little money I save each month, fixing it is fifteen years away. I can’t wait that long. My leg grows weaker every day. If I did nothing now, in a year, I’d have to cut it off anyway. It would have deteriorated beyond fixing.”
She spared him a sideways glance. “I didn’t realize that. I wish you’d tell me more.” Her voice was quiet, her usual strident and antagonistic tone suddenly absent.
“About what?”
“You.”
“You know about me.”
“Apparently, not nearly enough.” Her generous lips pressed into a flat line.
The silence in the car, broken only by Laura’s happy self-chatter, lasted until Zara pulled up in front of the free clinic in Anacostia. He turned to wave at Laura, but the grin became a grimace when the muscles in his lower back cramped in protest at the sudden motion. He forced the words out through clenched teeth. “Goodbye, baby.”
Laura waved a chubby hand and blew him a kiss. “Love you, Daddy.” Her legs kicked an excited rhythm against his seat, each motion jostling stabs of pain through his back.
Zara turned and placed a hand on Laura’s feet, calming her. “Take it easy, sweetheart. Don’t kick Daddy’s seat.” Her violet eyes searched Danyael’s face. “Will we see you tonight?”
He nodded. “I’ll come over after work to put her to bed. I can stay with her if you want to go out.”
She shook her head. “I don’t have plans, other than a pint of our favorite chocolate ice cream.”
“You haven’t been out on any dates in awhile.”
Zara smiled. “I haven’t found anyone who has interested me recently.”
A pity. Laura could have used a real father, one with two working legs who could keep up with her. Danyael opened the car door, swung his crutch out, and stepped onto the cracked pavement. “I’ll see you later,” he promised before shutting the door.
As Zara pulled away from the curb, he limped toward the clinic. The free clinic at Anacostia occupied a single storefront on Good Hope Road, across from the local library. Graffiti and gang territorial markers adorned the concrete block buildings on either side of the clinic, but the clinic itself was a safe haven, enforced by the gangs out of equal parts respect and fear of Danyael.
He let himself into the building with his key. Jacquie Day, the nurse who did double duty as the receptionist, had already arrived and was sorting through the phone messages that had come in after they had closed last night.
A quick glance confirmed that the tiny reception area, though shabby, was clean. Both he and Sandra Keys, who worked the second shift each day, had wiped down and disinfected the three-room clinic last night before they had left. In addition to the reception area, the clinic had a doctor’s office where he met his patients, and a small operating room. He used the latter far more frequently than he would have liked. Gunshot injuries were common in Anacostia, and it was not unusual for him to tend to innocent victims who had been caught in the crossfire, and then treat gang members who had been injured in the same gunfight. Those days were particularly rough for him. The concern and alarm underscoring Jacquie’s emotions did not bode well.
“Are we expecting a heavy load today?” he asked.
She hung up the phone and looked at him. The African-American woman was in her early sixties and carried more weight than she should have on her stocky frame, but she oozed both efficiency and energy. “Not overly. Seems like a couple early cases of the flu. At least three families said they’d be coming in today. A man with a broken leg also called around two this morning.”
“If he comes in, bump him to the top of the line. The past ten hours couldn’t have been easy for him.”
“Right. The rest”—she shrugged as she flipped through the notes she had scribbled down on paper—“seems light. With luck, it’ll be an easy day.”
Her report did not explain her concern. “Are you all right?” he asked.
Her mouth twisted into a frown. “Just a rumor I heard. Didn’t want to worry you, but I should have known you’d pick up on it.”
“What rumor?”
“Friend of mine said the clinic might be closed down by the end of the year.”
“Where did you hear that?”
“She’s an admin assistant at the D.C. Department of Health. Said the DOH received a large grant toward the free clinic operating expenses next year, but it’s not enough to fund them all. Our clinic is on the chopping block.”
Danyael’s brow furrowed. It made no sense. The need was critical in Anacostia, and their clinic had one of the lowest operating expenses in the health care system. “It’s only October. They could find more donors by the new year.”
“I don’t know. She made it sound like there was some kind of political motivation behind shutting down the Anacostia free clinic.” Jacquie sighed. “I can’t afford to lose this job. Not in this economy. Not at my age.”
He laid his hand over hers and eased her dread away. “It’s not over yet. Many things can happen in two months.” He glanced through the glass doors at the line forming outside the clinic. “Give me five minutes before you start sending them in.”
Danyael went into his office and settled into his chair. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, in and out. His heartbeat settled as he consciously drew a layer of peace over his own emotions, bracing himself for the day. Five more minutes of rest, and then there would be a constant stream of people seeking medical help. The free clinic was the last public safety net, and nowhere were its services more desperately needed than in the poor neighborhoods like Anacostia, Washington, D.C., and Brooklyn, New York, where he had also worked once before.
The work kept him busy and frequently exhausted him. The free clinics did not have enough resources—supplies or drugs—to treat everyone, and he usually supplemented the patient’s natural healing processes with his own special touch. Walking the fine line between helping others to the detriment of his health was always a challenge, one he struggled with each day.
That day was no different. Most of the demands were routine, easily handled through his training at the Johns Hopkins Medical School, his few years of experience as a general practitioner, and the clinic’s available resources. The unconscious girl, who was brought in at 7:17 p.m., pale and bleeding profusely, was a different matter. The patient he had been speaking to—a young, expectant mother in for a routine prenatal checkup—had been shown to the door and asked to return another day. He had then taken the little girl from her hysterical mother and c
arried her into the operating room.
“Need help?” Jacquie looked in on him as he laid the girl gently on the operating table.
He grimaced against the vicious tug of pain along the full length of his left leg. “See if you can get two pints of…” His empathic powers wound around the girl. “AB positive blood from one of the hospitals or blood banks. Keep her mother calm.”
“The first one is easy, the second one much harder.” Jacquie sighed and shut the door behind her.
Danyael turned back to the patient. Blood pumped out of the little girl, rivulets of bright crimson flowing from the jagged tear in her chest, keeping pace with her fading heartbeat. Her skin was clammy and growing colder with every passing second.
He did not have time to do things the conventional way. No time meant few choices—
Danyael closed his eyes and placed his hands over her bloody body. Precious seconds passed, the silence broken only by his increasingly labored breathing.
The miracle began. Deep internal injuries closed, and the tear in the girl’s left lung repaired itself as blood vessels wove into a flawless tapestry. The visible injury knitted together, the initial covering of scar tissue fading as new skin—pink and healthy—layered over the scar.
Her breathing stabilized. Her fluttering heartbeat eased into a slow but steady rhythm.
Danyael pulled away and spared a quick glance at the clock on the wall. Four and a half minutes. It had felt far longer, but the price paid had been worth it. He allowed himself a faint smile of relief as he looked down at the little girl. One more life saved.
Exhausted, he sank to the floor and leaned his head against the wall. Vertigo swayed his world. He closed his eyes and clenched his stomach against the nausea that threatened to bring up whatever remained of his breakfast. It would pass. It always did. He needed to focus beyond himself and get out from under his own pain.
He just needed time.
“You all right?” Jacquie’s voice, carefully lowered, rang through his aching head.
“Yes.” He forced his eyes open and tried to focus. “Sorry, I needed a minute.”
“Take all the time you need.” She turned to assess the little girl. “She’s looking good. The blood arrived; did you want me to set it up?”
“Already?”
“Already? It took twenty long minutes to get here from the point when I put in the call.” Jacquie placed her hands on her hips. Her eyes narrowed. “Did you lose track of time again?”
“I guess so,” he murmured, slowly rising to his feet with her help. “How’s the mother?”
“Still hysterical. She got cut on her arms when she tried to defend her child.”
“I’ll take care of it if you can get the blood transfusion going. Can you send the mother into my office in about five minutes? I need to change into a clean shirt.”
Five minutes later, feeling cleaner though not much steadier, Danyael received the child’s mother in his office. She was still tearful, but her smile was radiant when he told her that her daughter was going to pull through. As he cleaned and bandaged the cuts on her arms, he listened to her story of spousal abuse, and of the poor child who had been caught in the middle. He did not advise her to call the cops—he had worked in neighborhoods like Anacostia and Brooklyn long enough to know that distrust of the authorities was the common thread that bound both aggressor and victim together—but he did convince her to spend the night with her daughter at a women’s shelter, a conversation that would have taken a great deal longer if he had not applied a great deal of empathic persuasion in the process.
It was almost 8 p.m. when the cab finally came by the door of the free clinic. Jacquie helped the woman into the cab, and Danyael, following behind, lowered the sleeping three-year-old girl onto her lap. The child’s color had returned, her cheeks were flushed, and her steady heartbeat was normal. He placed a hand against her forehead and confirmed that she was well, before giving the address for the shelter to the cab driver. Danyael paid in advance for the fare and the tip, and then pulled two twenties from his wallet and gave them to the grateful woman before sending her on her way.
“I’ll clean and lock up,” Jacquie said from behind him. “Why don’t you go? I know you’re planning on seeing your daughter today.”
“Are you sure?”
She nodded, the expression in her brown eyes kindly. “You did good today.”
“All right. Thanks, Jacquie.” He returned to his office to retrieve his backpack, but as he passed through the doorway, pain punched through him. The world exploded behind his eyes. He stumbled against his desk and doubled over, his hand pressed against his stomach to contain the nausea.
“Danyael!” Jacquie’s voice came from a long way off. The echo of her voice vibrated through his aching head.
He tried to reassure her but the words would not come. Trembling from the brutal cold that clutched at him, Danyael scarcely felt the impact of crumpling to the floor. Darkness crept across his vision and settled on him like a heavy blanket, dragging him down to a place where the pain was mercifully reduced to an afterthought.
CHAPTER TWO
A quiet evening was rare in a home with a harridan for a wife. Earlier that day, however, Marcia had left Washington, D.C., on their private jet and was likely, right then, sitting down at dinner with their daughter, Chloe, at an upscale Manhattan restaurant. A celebration was in order—Chloe, at thirty, had been appointed the youngest news anchor at NBC News.
Alone at home, Senator John Patrick Sullivan III of Montana raised his glass of port and toasted the large family portrait hanging over the fireplace. He considered himself part of the family celebration—financially, if not in body or spirit.
Their investment in Chloe had paid off in spades. She possessed her mother’s spirit but not her spite, her father’s strength of will but not his obstinacy. She was also as lovely as her mother, though John had insisted that Chloe have his eyes. He was glad he had put his foot down; the fact that Marcia had refused to speak to him for weeks after was only the icing on the cake. He liked to think that Chloe’s large, brown eyes added a twinkle of humor and glow of humanity to the icy beauty she inherited from Marcia.
He glanced at his watch, a Patek Philippe that Marcia had presented to him for their fiftieth anniversary the previous year. In less than an hour, he would have to head to the club and join his fellow senators in a late game of bridge, but for now, he had the house to himself. He relaxed into his recliner, the leather butter-soft beneath his fingertips. Ah, the bliss of privacy. Instead of the harsh glitter and sensory overload of New York City, he had the lofty wood ceilings and stone tiles of his den. The only sound was the snap and crackle of flames in the fireplace. He closed his eyes and imagined himself back at his family home, a century-old ranch house presiding over 175 thousand acres of the finest horse and cattle land in Montana.
When his term in D.C. was done, he would return home to Montana and never again leave. Marcia could have the run of their houses in Washington, D.C., and London, for all he cared. Better yet, they may never see each other again; the political expediency—the only reason for their marriage—would end with his final term as a senator. The marriage had failed the day she realized he harbored no political ambitions for the White House. The fact that he did what most people considered a damn fine job representing a state in which cattle outnumbered people three to one did not imply he was capable of leading the country. He had to convince his colleagues, many of whom would be at the club in an hour, to stop bringing up his name in the presidential-nominee discussions.
He was tired; all he wanted was to go home.
“Long day, John?” The man’s voice, a polished tenor that hinted at expensive breeding and education, seemed familiar, but John could not place it.
His eyes flashed open. His fingers twitched, but otherwise, he did not move. Aplomb, cultivated through years in the political arena, kept his voice steady. “Who are you? How did you get in here?”
&n
bsp; Beyond the glow of the fire, a man stepped out of the deep pools of shadows and into the light.
John’s eyes narrowed. “You? What are you doing here?”
“Tying up loose ends.”
“What do you mean?”
“Thirty years ago, you contributed to the greatest tragedy in the history of mankind.”
His jaw dropped. “What?” John shook his head. “What are you talking about?”
The man chuckled. “Your indignation is so real. Like all the others, you’re convinced that your pretense of ignorance justifies your denied responsibilities.”
“What am I ignorant of?”
“Of the child you fathered.”
“Chloe?”
The man shook his head. His smile mocked the senator.
“Chloe is my only child,” the senator insisted.
“And you are certain?”
“Of course I’m certain. Do you think my political career could have survived the decades-long scrutiny? There are no other children.”
The man sighed. “You are no different from the others. I find it ironic that the only one who acknowledged his responsibility and tried to help was the one least equipped to do so. Perhaps Danyael Sabre’s plight convinced the rest of you to deny me.”
“You?” For a single, terrifying moment, John’s mind blanked. He shook his head, the motion frantic. “No, that’s impossible—”
“Thirty-one years ago, you and your wife sought the advice of geneticists, including Roland Rakehell from Pioneer Laboratories—”
He shot to his feet. “For Chloe, not for this—” John shook his head, his teeth clenched in a grimace.
“This?” the man echoed. “This, what? Abomination?” He took a single step forward.
The senator, known for meeting all his political challengers with a steely gaze, stumbled backward into his recliner. He cowed as his unwelcomed guest closed the distance.
The man did not raise his voice. “Does my perfection make me less human than your precious daughter, the in vitro?”
