It was Fletcher Holt. He held his mother in his arms, her head sagging back, respirations shallow and rapid, skin pale. Her blouse was saturated with blood.
“She’s been having nosebleeds . . . vomited in the car. She’s being treated for leukemia.”
“This way.” Macy pointed toward Taylor and the approaching gurney. “Let’s get her lying down and back to the trauma room quickly—follow us. You can fill us in on her history there.”
Fletcher leaned against the trauma room doorway and peered in. It had all happened so fast. She’d insisted she was fine and that the bleeding had stopped, but . . . Please, Lord. Help them help her. I’m trusting you with this.
There was staff everywhere. Dr. Carlyle, Charly’s oncologist, all the technicians, and an ear, nose, and throat specialist wearing a bright headlamp that made him look like someone attempting a cave rescue. And Macy Wynn was like a dozen people herself—overseeing things, carrying out the doctors’ orders, checking the monitors. Moving around that trauma room in those khaki scrubs like some sort of sleek cat on an African savanna. Protecting her territory, confident in her skills. And his mother was starting to look better. Her color, anyway, but there was that thing in her nose, and the oxygen, and the IVs, and—
“You can come back in,” Macy called to him, beckoning. “It’s okay now.”
“Thank you.” He hated that his legs felt rubbery. A cop passed out cold on the floor was the last thing this scene needed. Fletcher took a deep breath, cleared his throat. “When I signed her registration, it said she was being treated for ‘epistaxis’?”
“That’s medical for nosebleed.”
“Oh . . . and what’s that thing in her nose?”
“Nasal packing,” Macy explained. “Anterior and posterior. A sort of small double water balloon designed to hold pressure on the bleeding sites.” She read the confusion on his face. “Probably 90 percent of nosebleeds start at the front of the nose—” she touched her fingertip to her nostril—“and those are fairly easy to control. But your mother is also bleeding from the back of her nasal passage, more toward her throat. That’s why she swallowed all that blood, the reason she vomited and felt so faint.”
“I didn’t think it was so bad. If I’d known, I’d have called an ambulance. She was talking—joking even, the way she does—and hadn’t even had to wipe her nose until we were maybe two blocks from here. And then . . .” His gaze shifted to his mother. “If her blood pressure’s doing okay and the bleeding is stopped, shouldn’t she be awake?”
“It’s okay.” Macy touched his arm. The warm amber eyes connected with his. “She’s had some pain medication. The packing isn’t comfortable. She’s only resting; she’ll be able to talk with you. Don’t worry.”
Fletcher had a sudden memory of saying something similar to her the day of the shooting incident, when she was waiting impatiently for an ambulance for that child. He’d told her not to worry. He wondered if his reassurance had been any more effective than hers was now. “What’s next? Will she have to stay in the hospital?”
“At least overnight.” Macy’s gaze shifted to the monitors for a moment. “A lot will depend on what her labs show. This nosebleed may be a complication of her blood disorder—that’s her oncologist’s concern.”
“I . . .” Fletcher dragged his fingers through his hair, thoughts organizing. “I should call my father. And maybe—should I have her pastor come?”
“Well . . .” Macy tipped her head, and Fletcher noticed for the first time that one small section of her hair was lighter, almost reddish against the black. “If you mean her pastor should be here because she’s in critical condition, that’s not the case. She’s stable. But if you mean she might feel comforted by talking with her pastor . . .” She raised her palm. “That’s up to you. When it comes to that sort of thing, I bow out fast and page the hospital chaplain.”
“Got it.” Fletcher held her gaze for a moment, thinking there was much more to this beautiful woman than met the eye. “Thank you. I really appreciate your help, Macy. Give me a freeway shooter and I’ll cope. Do what I have to. But this—when it’s family . . . You know.”
“Of course.” Her brows pinched, expression unreadable. “Look, I need to get some things done. Go to the bedside; let her know you’re here. By the way—” a hint of a smile teased her lips—“she’s a keeper. Lucky you.”
He wiped the cloth over the rifle stock again. The cleaning was complete—a ritual he performed step by step, carefully, the same every time—but he wanted to draw the process out. Sit here with his father’s old cleaning kit. Run his fingers over its patches, brushes, and the brown glass bottle of solvent, breathe in the scent of the old Parker Hale gun oil. Let it all take him back to those good times . . . His father, the woods, that old canvas Army tent, dumping cans of beef stew in a burnt-black camping pot. And the dogs, they always had their dogs. He closed his eyes, remembering their names, the feel of their noses against his palm, that great smell of gunpowder, wet dog, and fresh-kill pheasant . . .
He brought the rifle to his chest, letting his eyes sweep what he could see of the attic in the dim light of the camp lantern. He’d have to be more careful this time. Be sure he counted the shell casings, kept out of sight. A part of him hated what he was going to do. But they caused it. They’d done the same and more to him. They were to blame.
He’d waited after the freeway, asked himself if that was enough. Taking down the gravel truck, popping some windshields—scaring folks a little. But no, it wasn’t enough. He had to make them pay. Really pay.
14
“I’M SORRY,” MACY WHISPERED, seeing the phone in Mrs. Holt’s hands. She was supposed to be on her way home; why had she come up here? “I wanted to peek in on you. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“No, you’re not—I’m finished. Come in, please.” She rolled her eyes, pointed at the nasal packing. “Between this thing and the pain medication, Jessica said I sound like an Elmer Fudd cartoon.”
Macy smiled, pulling up a chair. The narcotics had definitely added another layer to the woman’s Texas accent. “Jessica?”
“Adopted daughter in Houston—or that’s how we always think of her.” She lifted her phone and pulled up a photo of a couple in costume. Fletcher and a stunning young blonde wearing a glittery tiara. “It was taken at the Tacky Country Christmas Cotillion last year, a benefit for the Make-A-Wish Foundation.” Mrs. Holt smiled. “Those costumes . . . astronaut and princess. It brings back so many memories.”
“She’s beautiful,” Macy admitted with a strange sense of disappointment. Though why she should care that Fletcher Holt had a girlfriend made no sense whatsoever.
“She and her sister, her family, are our neighbors in Houston,” Mrs. Holt explained. “Fletcher and the girls grew up together. Jessica Barclay was always a free spirit, a delight—and a complete handful. The girl could whip up chaos like a tornado. Fletcher has always taken his role as a big brother very seriously.”
Macy glanced at the photo again, wondering if this mother had missed something. The way her son was looking at his princess . . .
“I think . . .” Mrs. Holt rested the phone against her chest, closing her eyes for a moment. “I think it was because Jessica was three when Fletcher first met her. The same age as his sister when we lost her.”
Macy’s throat tightened. “Oh, I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you.” Mrs. Holt shook her head. “And I apologize for rambling on like this. I usually let visitors get a word in; that medicine is playing havoc with my manners.” A smile creased the edges of her lavender-blue eyes. “Any minute I expect to give way to a rousing rendition of the University of Houston fight song. Promise you’ll stop me.”
“I promise.” Macy smiled. “But I really should go. You’re tired, and I have a kickboxing class to get to.”
“Looks like my nurse has a touch of tornado too.”
“Probably.” Macy rose to her feet. “I’m glad you’re feeling better,
Mrs. Holt.”
“Please, it’s Charly.” She patted her heart. “And thank you, Macy. You were so kind to me in the emergency department—a blessing, truly. My mother always told me that nurses were angels. You’re proof of that.” Her lips quirked. “Now go give something a good swift kick.”
“Absolutely.” Macy offered a hearty thumbs-up and headed for the door. She knew now why she’d climbed the stairs, come up here. Even in their dramatic, messy encounter in the ER, Macy sensed that Charly Holt was someone special. Even if she got it wrong about angels and blessings—an effect of the medication, no doubt. Macy was nothing close to that. She was a tough survivor who’d learned to land on her feet—no angel, for sure. Still, for that moment, from that mother, it had felt good.
“No more word on the blood tests. Maybe tomorrow.” Fletcher switched his phone to the other hand, shifting position on the chair in the last row of the empty and dimly lit hospital chapel. “She’s anemic, but I guess some of that is chronic. From the leukemia. No plans for a blood transfusion . . . yet.”
“Hang in there, buddy.” Seth raised his voice over some background chatter, making Fletcher think he was probably in Starbucks. Between chaplain duties, no doubt. “I can be over there in forty minutes.”
“No need. I’m okay.”
Seth chuckled. “We all wear that I’m-okay badge. Heavier than it looks. Sometimes we’ve got to unpin it and let a friend help out.”
Fletcher smiled. “Thanks. But I really am okay. Once I made the handoff to the ER staff. She’s in good hands here.”
“She’s always in the best hands. No matter where she is. You can trust that.”
“Right.” Fletcher glanced toward the chapel’s nondenominational altar decorated with a basket of white roses and a trio of candles. He knew what Seth was saying. God’s hands. Fletcher had said over and over that he was trusting God with this, with everything. But lately things had been going so wrong. And today he’d carried his unconscious and bleeding mother in his arms.
Are you really listening, Lord?
“Is your father flying in from Alaska?”
“Not yet. Mom’s fending him off; it depends on what we hear tomorrow.” Fletcher caught a glimpse of someone passing the chapel door and stood. “Hey, Seth, I need to go. I’ll give you a call later.”
“No problem.”
Fletcher jogged to the door and peered down the hallway. “Macy?”
She turned, walked back his way. Once again he was struck by her. Hair down around her shoulders, that confident stride . . .
“Hi. I was just—” he gestured toward the chapel—“sitting for a minute.”
“Sure. That’s why it’s there. Quiet, away from all of this.” She glanced around the bustling hospital corridor. “Did you need something?”
“Not really.” He tried to remember why he’d run out here to catch her. “I just wanted to say thank you. For opening that door from the waiting room and getting my mother back to the ER so fast. Helping her like you did. And for letting me stay there with her. I know there are rules and you didn’t have to do that. Especially since—” He stopped himself.
“Since you pitched me onto a highway and tried to arrest my friend?”
“Yeah.” There was nothing coy about this woman. “I don’t suppose it helps that your Mr. Rush isn’t holding a grudge; in fact, he sent me some basketball tickets.”
“That would be Elliot.” Macy’s expression left no clue if the truce extended to their relationship too.
“Anyway,” Fletcher repeated, “thank you for helping my mom. It meant a lot to me. And to her.”
A hint of a smile crept across Macy’s face. “She’s pretty great. I just came from visiting her. She said the pain meds and nasal packing were making her sound like a cartoon character, and she might start singing football songs any minute.”
“That’s Mom.”
“Well . . .” Macy glanced at her watch. “I should go. I have a class.”
“And I need to get back upstairs. Thanks again.”
“Sure.”
He’d started to walk away when Macy called his name.
“Yes?”
“About the freeway . . .” She crossed her arms over her scrubs. “Even with all of that, I should be grateful. That bullet came really close. You might’ve saved my life. So . . . thank you, Fletcher.”
“You’re welcome.”
He watched her walk away, still not certain where they stood. Maybe they were just even now. If Seth were here, he’d probably say God arranged it: Fletcher kept Macy from harm out there on the freeway so she could be there to open that door for him today. If that was true, then a full truce wasn’t necessary. Even was more than good enough.
It seemed as if Macy’s old Audi drove to the little Tahoe Park house on autopilot. One minute she was stowing her hand and ankle wraps in her gym bag, taking a swig of her vitaminwater, and saying good-bye to her coach. Then, before she knew it, her car was picking its way down this street while she held her breath to see if the For Sale Bank Owned sign was still pounded into the sparse yard. It was.
Macy sighed and lifted her hair away from her neck; even half an hour after leaving her class and despite the cool evening, she was still perspiring. It had been a good workout: rope work, medicine ball, core work, and the bag work and sparring. She’d felt it, cardio and muscle. All toenails intact. So different from the ballet, but much more fitting to real life. Her current life.
She’d packed away her equipment, and then instead of a hot shower and a homemade veggie burrito—if her roommates hadn’t eaten all the ingredients—Macy ended up right here, parked across the street from a house she could in no way afford. Shouldn’t even want. But . . .
The porch light must have had a solar sensor because it blinked on in the deepening dusk, giving Macy a better glimpse of the door—painted red. Hadn’t she read somewhere that a red door meant “welcome”? Maybe even happiness . . . protection? She wasn’t sure. Nonni’s door wasn’t red, but her house had been the most welcoming, happy, and protected place Macy had ever known. And it was the first time she’d been given a key to someplace she lived. Been trusted with that.
Macy closed her eyes for a moment. There had always been tricycles on the patchy lawn, stepping stones cluttered with leaves in every season, and Nonni’s battered Wipe Your Paws doormat, stenciled with dog prints. Three steps to the porch. The tarnished brass door handle felt cool under her fingers, the latch worn shiny-like-new by the fingers of countless foster kids. There was a soft click when she pressed it down, a small and miraculous signal that always brought Nonni. She could count on that. The same way there would be the scent of oatmeal cookies or maybe shortbread and the sounds of praise music filling the hallway, and Nonni’s voice . . . “Welcome home, Macy girl.”
She wondered now, as she had so many times before, if Nonni’s door handle set would fit this door. Then reached into her gym bag and pulled it out: heavy, still tarnished, the lever not so kid-shiny anymore. It had been wrapped in an old kitchen towel for more than a decade. Since the night Macy broke a window in Nonni’s vacant house, held a flashlight between her teeth, unscrewed the door set, and took it away. Stole it, people would say. But it hadn’t felt that way at the time, in the painful mix of grief and anger that followed her foster mother’s death. Macy had imagined standing on the porch, lifting a fist, and boldly telling the bank that they couldn’t take the house because she had a key. Because it was the only real home she’d ever known. She’d imagined all that and, in the end, simply stolen the door hardware in the darkness.
She ran her thumb over the lever, heard the familiar click. Did Leah remember this the way she did? Macy had meant to ask her.
Macy’s phone rang, startling her. Taylor.
“Did I catch you at a bad time?” she asked.
“No.” You just caught me with stolen goods. “What’s up?”
“Have you seen the news?”
“I’ve been at the gy
m. What’s going on?”
“Another sniper attack, they’re saying—this time he shot a police dog.”
15
“FOUR NEWS VANS,” TAYLOR REPORTED, peering through the Starbucks window toward the veterinary hospital across the street. “Almost as many as there are patrol cars now. Titus is making national news. I wish it was for a happier reason. Like an amazing litter of puppies.”
“Puppies?” Seth peered at her through the steam rising from his Bold Pick of the Day. “The tabloids would chopper in for that one. Our heroic K-9 is a male.” His expression sobered. “I’m afraid the odds aren’t good that Titus will survive this second surgery.”
“I hate the thought of that. It’s tough just watching our golden retriever getting old and slow.” Greg’s dog, outliving him. “I can’t imagine losing a pet that way.”
“Bad enough without imagining what could have happened with all those kids at the grammar school.”
Taylor winced. The incident had shaken the whole community. A K-9 officer making a goodwill school visit. Shots ringing out as he walked the veteran German shepherd toward the building. Though the officer had been unharmed, his dog was seriously injured with wounds to his head and jaw. There had been critical blood loss. All the adjacent schools were immediately put on lockdown. And remained closed today. The crisis chaplains would make visits next week. “Have there been any more leads?”
“Not that I’m aware of. Only that report of a suspicious white van seen in the neighborhood. You want to take a guess how many white vans there are in the Sacramento area? My dad owns one. So does the mobile dog groomer who visits half a dozen homes in my neighborhood.” Seth patted his breast pocket and pulled out a packet of antacids. He never seemed to be without them. “I don’t know the details, but they’re saying the probability is high that this is the freeway sniper.”
By Your Side Page 8
