by Sara Reinke
“What have I done?” he gasped. He began to weep, rolling onto his side and drawing his knees toward his chest like a small child. He shuddered, his sobs escaping him forcefully, shaking the entire bed, and when Jo folded herself atop him, he clutched at her in despair.
“It’s alright,” she whispered and she, too, began to weep. She kissed his ear, smoothing her hand against his hair, holding him. “It’s alright, Jay. Please…please don’t…”
* * *
“If the son of a bitch as much as jaywalks, I want his ass in handcuffs,” Paul snapped into his cell phone. It had been three days since Marie’s attack; three days since Jay had lapsed into a coma and been hospitalized. No one had seen or heard from Nathan Gambit.
Paul had ordered surveillance on the young man, but in the wonderful world of municipal bureaucracy, such things took time. By the time officers were en route to both the hospital and Gambit’s last known address, he’d apparently finished his shift and disappeared. His car was still in the hospital parking lot. It was an older Ford Taurus with tires matching the type that had left prints at Veronica Leyton’s waterfront crime scene, but that was of little comfort or consequence without the suspect to go with them. Gambit wasn’t due to work again until the following morning, and although Paul had a dozen officers posted throughout the hospital building and grounds waiting for him, he wasn’t holding his breath. He suspected Nathan Gambit was long gone.
Even if Gambit was still around, the fact was that Paul couldn’t touch him. There wasn’t sufficient evidence to get an arrest warrant issued for him. With only Jo’s testimony to collaborate, Gambit wasn’t officially a suspect yet. For the time being, he was simply a “person of interest” in the case, a fact Paul’s fellow task force member, Detective Dan Pierson, kept unnecessarily pointing out to him.
“I just don’t see why we’re wasting time and manpower here, surveying the hospital, when we’ve got nothing on him to begin with,” Pierson said, his voice over the phone grating on Paul’s already-frayed nerves like fingernails squealing on a chalkboard. They were both vying for Detective Sergeant promotions, and Paul knew it burned Pierson’s ass that Paul’s position as the head of the task force likely meant he’d get the nod first.
“We’re here because I say we’re here, Pierson,” Paul replied. “And we’re staying here until I damn well say otherwise.” He snapped his phone closed with a swift, angry gesture and shoved it forcefully into his blazer pocket.
Pierson had been making trouble for him, and Paul knew it. He’d repeatedly been called into his lieutenant’s office since his appointment to the task force and asked about certain expenditures and requests he’d filed. These were actions well within the parameters of his authority, but Paul had to explain himself anyway. He knew that Pierson had been the one to put such bugs in the lieutenant’s ear. Anything to make me look like a dumbass. He’d probably be getting a call about the hospital surveillance operation, too. Terrific.
He paced up and down the corridor outside Jay’s room; now he turned and saw his family regarding him with wary, apprehensive eyes. Vicki, M.K. and Bethany all stood huddled together, with one daughter tucked beneath each of Vicki’s arms. They didn’t need to say anything. They hadn’t needed to for three days. He knew what they were thinking.
This is all my fault. If I’d done my goddamn job, none of this would have happened.
Jay’s frantic cries as he’d entered his brownstone had alarmed one of his neighbors, and they had called the police. They found Emma hiding in a cabinet under the kitchen sink. She had huddled in there for hours, and had undoubtedly heard everything that happened that night. Because she wouldn’t talk―not one word since she’d been discovered―and because Marie was, for all intents and purposes, brain-dead, no one knew exactly when the assault had taken place, or how long she had hidden. Surely it had been hours.
All my fault, Paul thought.
Emma was now downstairs in the hospital’s psychiatric ward, under close observation. The doctors said it was shock, a sort of post-traumatic stress syndrome, that kept her from speaking. She was aware of the world around her, but no longer seemed interested in it.
It’s all my fault.
They were at a loss to explain the massive amounts of Marie’s blood on the floor because, by the time the police arrived, she was alive again and unharmed. Her doctors surmised that she must have had a bleed-out from whatever had caused her irreversible and catastrophic brain injury.
God, if only I’d picked up the phone, made a couple of calls, got the surveillance ordered faster, none of this would have happened. If I’d just dropped what I was doing and listened to Jo, come down here myself, they would still be okay. This is my fault. Sweet Jesus, all my fault.
He heard the door to Jay’s room open, and he turned as Jo stepped into the corridor. “He’s awake,” she said, adding quickly, “Barely. He’s still pretty weak and groggy, and keeps fading in and out.”
“May I see him?” Paul asked.
* * *
Jo had turned off the fluorescent overheads, leaving only a corner lamp aglow to light the room. After a resurrection, Jay was always excruciatingly light-sensitive. Paul sat down in a chair at his brother’s bedside and reached out, taking Jay gently by the hand.
Jay looked like he was sleeping, but he stirred at Paul’s touch, turning his face toward him and opening his eyes slowly. He blinked at Paul dazedly. “Hey…” he breathed.
“Hey,” Paul said, blinking against the sting of unbidden tears. How many times are you going to do this to him? His mind railed against a cruel, unresponsive and sadistic God. When is it going to be enough for you? When will you let it stop―when it takes all he’s got left? When he’s the one who’s dead?
Jay closed his eyes again, and Paul said nothing. He watched his younger brother sleep for at least ten minutes, and then, all at once, Jay gasped softly, his eyelids fluttering open again. “I…I’m going to be sick…” he groaned.
Paul grabbed a wash basin from the bedside table and got his arm beneath Jay, helping him sit up just as the first wrenching waves overtook him. Jay cried out feebly, retching up a thick mouthful of foamy bile. Again and again, he jerked against Paul, heaving into the basin. When he finished, he began to shudder, and Paul held him fiercely, tucked beneath his arm just as Vicki had held the girls in the hallway. “It’s alright,” he whispered to Jay. “It’s alright now. You’re alright.”
To his surprise, Jay planted his hand against Paul’s chest and tried weakly to push away. Paul let him, and when he moved to help Jay lie back, he shrugged clumsily loose. “Go…go away,” Jay groaned, his brows furrowed. “I don’t…need you here.”
Paul blinked at him, wounded and surprised. Jay was always humiliated by his frailty following a resurrection, but he had never refused Paul’s offers of help before. “Jay, it happened again,” he said, thinking Jay was confused. “You’re at Metro Hospital. Marie was attacked. You―”
“I know what happened,” Jay said, the furrow between his brows deepening. “I…I remember. He was there, at my house, waiting for me. You…you let him get in my house.”
Paul drew back from the bed, his eyes widening. “What?”
“You said it was Rich,” Jay murmured. “You said he hurt Jo, but it…it wasn’t him and you knew it. You knew it.”
“I said that because I didn’t want this to happen,” Paul said, reaching for him. “Listen to me. I knew if the Watcher was following Jo, it could wind up with you involved―you and Emma. I was trying to protect you. I―”
“Fuck you, Paul,” Jay seethed, jerking away. “You said she wasn’t in danger. You said he was through with her. He was in my house, you son of a bitch. He went after my daughter.”
“I’m sorry,” Paul whispered. Jay’s words cut into him brutally, the pain visceral and deep because he was right; it was true. Jay said aloud what Paul himself had thought all along; what no one else had the courage to say. It’s all my fault.
Jay closed his eyes. “Just leave,” he whispered, the angry edge in his voice softening to despair. A solitary tear fell from the corner of his left eye, trailing slowly down his cheek, glistening in the soft lamplight. “Get out of here, Paul. Leave me alone.”
* * *
The cool look Jo awarded him as he ducked back out into the corridor and she brushed past him, returning to Jay’s bedside, let Paul know that she, too, was still pissed off about the Rich incident. She hadn’t said anything to him about it―yet―but clearly, had told Jay plenty.
Paul averted his eyes, not meeting her gaze. He deserved her anger, and Jay’s. It’s all my fault.
“Paul, I think we’re going to go,” Vicki said. She and the girls shrugged their coats on, and he watched as Bethany tugged a sock cap over her head, and M.K. wiggled her fingers into her gloves.
“Jo said Jay needs to rest,” Vicki said, zipping up the front of her coat and shouldering her purse. “And there’s no change with Marie or Emma. We’ve got my sister coming in for Christmas Eve dinner tomorrow night, and I…”
“Go on,” Paul said, shaking his head. “What the hell. You’ve spent your obligatory…what… hour here this morning?”
He wished he could take the words back as soon as they were out of his mouth. He wasn’t angry with Vicki, or the girls; he was angry at himself, but unfortunately, they were on hand, and had just inadvertently caught the brunt of it.
Bethany blinked at him, her blue eyes wide and hurt. M.K. stopped snapping her gum long enough to regard him with bewildered surprise. Vicki’s brows narrowed slightly, a discernable crease forming between them, and twin, angry patches of color suddenly bloomed in her cheeks.
“Nice, Paul,” she said dryly. “Really tactful.” She slipped a hand against each of her daughters’ elbows and steered them out, marching them past him.
He could have gone after them and tried to salvage things, but he knew that would only open a can of worms best left closed. Things had not been good between him and Vicki for some time now, although he couldn’t necessarily pinpoint when their relationship had begun its slow but steady deterioration. There were hard feelings and bitter resentments unspoken between them since way before he’d started working on the Watcher task force. Keeping so many long hours at work didn’t help either. It wouldn’t take much, a minor disagreement or inconsequential argument, to unleash the frustrations they kept repressed. The hospital corridor, with their daughters as an unwitting audience, was probably not the best forum for confrontation.
He let them go, helpless to do anything but return Bethany’s mournful gaze with a sheepish and apologetic one of his own. Don’t worry, sweetheart, he thought, forlornly. In a couple more years, you’ll hate me, too.
He went to see Emma. The doctors thought it was helpful for her to have as much interaction with her family as possible, but Paul had been unable to face her. He was too ashamed, too seized with remorse and culpability.
“Hi, kiddo,” he said, settling himself into a chair at the girl’s bedside. He’d gone to her house two days earlier and brought her favorite teddy bear, Mr. Cuddles, to the hospital. She held it against her tummy, hugged against her. She looked up at the television set, where a montage of noisy cartoon clips played. She didn’t acknowledge his entrance or respond when a round-faced nurse told her he’d come to visit. She didn’t as much as bat an eyelash as he sat beside her and didn’t turn at the sound of his voice.
“You mad at me?” he asked. When he received no reply, he smiled sadly. “You’re in good company if you are. Seems like everyone is all of a sudden. Your Aunt Vicki, your Daddy. They have every reason to be.”
He picked up the remote control and turned off the television. Silence immediately settled upon the room, heavy and stifling. “You know how you always ask if I’ve caught the bad guy?” he asked quietly, pained. “Sometimes it’s not that easy, kiddo. I wish it was. I really do.”
Paul sighed wearily, hanging his head. “I’ve tried really hard to catch the bad guy who did this to you and Marie. I’ve been trying for awhile now, but I haven’t yet. Maybe if I was a better policeman, I could have found him by now, and then Marie wouldn’t be hurt, and you…”
His voice choked, his eyes flooding with tears. He pressed his lips together, struggling to compose himself. “I’m sorry, Emma,” he whispered. “This is all my fault, and I’m sorry.”
Her hand draped against his, a soft and sudden warmth that drew his startled gaze. “You’re wrong, Uncle Paul,” Emma said quietly.
He blinked at her in surprise, his tears spilling down his cheeks. “I…” he began. He cleared his throat and swatted his hand across his face to dry his eyes. “Well, hey, kiddo,” he said, forcing a smile onto his face and bright cheer into his voice. “You’re awake!”
He wondered if he should call someone, or ring for the nurse. Emma hadn’t so much as blinked in the last three days; surely, this was some kind of miraculous breakthrough.
“I wasn’t sleeping, Uncle Paul,” Emma said calmly. “I was listening to Grandma.”
Paul blinked again, startled anew. “Grandma?”
She nodded. “She talks to me sometimes in my dreams. And sometimes, she just talks to me inside of my mind. She tells me things. That’s how I knew to hide under the sink, like you and Daddy used to at the farm. She told me the bad man wouldn’t find me there. And that’s how I knew to stay there, that he hadn’t left the house yet, even when Daddy came home.”
Paul stared at her in stunned disbelief. “He stayed in the house?”
She nodded again, her eyes round. “He was waiting for Daddy. Grandma told me so. And she told me you’re wrong, Uncle Paul. She said it’s not your fault. You’re just looking in the wrong place.”
* * *
“He’s not Santa Claus.”
That’s the message his mother had given Paul, through Emma. “Grandma said he’s not Santa Claus,” the little girl had said, looking up at him with wide, earnest eyes. Paul reminded himself that Emma was just a little girl, due to turn six on the day after Christmas. She was a traumatized child who dreamed that her grandmother spoke to her. He shook his head, astounded that he’d given the message credence even for a fleeting moment.
“I’ll keep that in mind, kiddo,” he told Emma, leaning over and pressing his lips against her brow. “You want me to have them bring you a snack? Something to drink?”
“Some apple juice, please,” Emma replied, and she wrapped her arms around Paul’s neck, kissing his cheek. “I love you, Uncle Paul.”
I’m glad someone does, Paul thought, as he waited for the elevator. He tried to call Vicki, to tell her the good news about Emma’s awakening, but Vicki’s cell just rang through to her voice mail. He knew damn good and well what that meant. Vicki turned her phone off if she wasn’t able to get to it conveniently. If it rang and rang until her voice mail kicked in, it meant the phone was on and Vicki either didn’t hear it, or checked her caller I.D. and didn’t want to answer. He suspected the latter and frowned, snapping his phone closed and shoving it into his pocket.
He checked his watch as he stepped onto the elevator. Nathan Gambit was supposed to clock in for his next shift at seven o’clock the next morning, and while Paul didn’t have a hope in hell of catching him, he planned to be at the hospital well before that, just to be sure. It was time for some take-out Chinese and some sleep. He figured he’d go by the office and nap. They had a fold-out cot around there somewhere.
* * *
Jay slept through the night, not rousing again until shortly after five in the morning. Jo spent the night with him, dozing in the recliner beside the bed. The chair rattled as she rose, and at the noise, Jay stirred.
“Well, hi,” Jo said, smiling. She brushed his hair back from his brow and leaned over, kissing him gently on the mouth.
“Hi, yourself,” he murmured dazedly.
“Go back to sleep,” she told him. “I’ve got to be on shift at seven. I brought my uniform with m
e, but I need to get ready. I’m going to take a quick shower.”
Despite his grogginess, he managed to arch his brow. “Can I watch?”
Jo laughed. “Behave yourself,” she said. “We have company.”
He glanced to his left and realized with surprise that Emma lay curled in bed beside him, still asleep. He nearly burst into relieved tears as he touched her hair, smoothing her disheveled curls back from her face. “How…?” he whispered, looking up at Jo.
“She was asking for you,” Jo said. “And her doctors thought it would be good―for both of you.”
He put his arm around his daughter, drawing her near, smiling as she snuggled against him. “Thank you,” he whispered, his voice choked.
“You’re welcome,” Jo said, walking toward the adjacent bathroom.
He listened as water began running in the shower. He stroked Emma’s hair and canted his face, leaning forward to kiss her. She murmured, wriggling beside him somewhat, and opened her eyes sleepily, blinking at him. “Hi, Daddy,” she whispered.
Jay smiled. “Hi, lamb.”
“Are you all better now?” she asked.
“I’m working on it,” he replied, dropping her a wink.
She nodded, still more asleep than awake. Her eyes closed again, and she seemed to drift off. Jay drew in the soft, clean fragrance of her hair against his nose and held her close. “He killed Skittles, too, you know,” she said after a moment.
Jay had nearly dozed off again himself, and he started at her soft voice, opening his eyes. “What?”
Emma propped herself up on her elbows, her hair tumbling down into her face in haphazard curls. She pushed them back with one hand and looked at him solemnly. “The cat, Skittles. The bad man killed him, too.”
For a moment, Jay thought he was dreaming, the conversation sounded so absurd. And then he remembered, and he blinked, his breath drawing sharply still, as if he’d just been doused with ice water. “How do you know about that?” he whispered.
