by Irene Hannon
Shoulders drooping, she set her bag down and fluffed her rain-dampened hair.
Wait for her dad to show up . . . go in search of her mother’s room . . . or call Luke?
No contest.
Hearing Luke’s voice would shore up her spirits and give her the boost she needed to deal with whatever lay ahead.
She rummaged through her purse until her fingers closed over her cell, and . . .
“Kristin!”
She released her hold on the phone and lifted her head.
Did a double take.
Could the man striding toward her in the wrinkled shirt, with a stubbled chin and disheveled gray hair, be her father?
Impossible.
John Dane was always impeccably dressed and groomed—and his hair was more brown than gray.
As he drew closer, the disconnect became more pronounced. Deep crevices were etched around his mouth, parallel grooves scored his forehead, and dark crescents hung beneath his lower lashes.
“I’m glad you’re here.” He touched her arm for a nanosecond, then bent and picked up her bag. “I’ll take you back to see your mom.”
She released the air trapped in her lungs.
Not much of a reunion for a father and daughter who hadn’t seen each other since she’d flown up for her mom’s sixtieth birthday bash three years ago.
But Dad had never been the demonstrative type.
She fell in beside him, searching for words to fill the silence as they walked down the hushed corridor. He’d already given her an update on her mom’s condition during their phone conversation less than fifteen minutes ago, leaving little to say about that topic.
“Have you, uh, been here since Mom was admitted?” Lame . . . but it was all that came to mind.
“Yes. I cleared my agenda for the rest of the week. I had my assistant bring me my laptop first thing this morning, so I can take care of any urgent business from here. I don’t want to leave in case she wakes up.”
“Has there been any indication that might happen soon?”
“No—but it’s possible. I’ve been reading up on brain injuries.” He detoured into a waiting room and walked over to a couch that held a crumpled pillow and blanket. “I managed to clock a few hours of sleep here last night when I wasn’t sitting with your mom.” He set her bag beside the couch and rejoined her. “I’ll take you to the ICU. It’s just down the hall.”
He accompanied her to the entrance, then handed her off to the nurse and backed away.
“Aren’t you coming in?” A wave of panic crashed over Kristin.
“I thought you might like a few minutes alone with your mom. I’ll be in the waiting room.”
Without giving her a chance to respond, he retreated down the hall—leaving her to face this alone.
What else was new?
Drawing a quivering breath, she straightened her shoulders. Fine. She could do this. So what if he hadn’t pulled her into a hug the instant she got off the elevator . . . or given her a kiss on the cheek . . . or offered words of comfort . . . or taken her hand and walked with her through this door into the scary place beyond?
Touchy-feely had never been her dad’s forté.
She ought to be used to it.
But Colin would have stayed by her side, if he was here. And Rick.
And Luke.
Definitely Luke.
“Have you ever been in a neuro ICU?” The nurse flicked a disapproving glance at her father’s retreating back.
“No.”
“Don’t be alarmed by all the monitoring equipment and unfamiliar sounds. Everything you’ll see is standard procedure for traumatic brain injury patients.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
The woman led her through a set of double doors.
As they approached her mom’s bed, the nurse spoke over her shoulder. “Feel free to stay as long as you like. And I’d encourage you to talk to her. Patients in comas might not be able to respond, but they can often hear voices.”
With that, she motioned Kristin forward and retreated.
Kristin took two steps toward the bed . . . got her first unobstructed view of her mom . . . and froze.
Merciful heaven!
She groped for something . . . anything . . . to hang on to, settling for an unused IV stand that was none too sturdy.
If she’d been shocked by her dad’s disheveled state, her mom’s appearance was like a punch in the stomach.
In all the years they’d shared the same roof, Kristin had rarely seen her mother look less than perfect. Alison Dane was the epitome of a high-powered attorney—expertly coiffed hair, designer-label clothes, flawless makeup. Even in her limited free time, clad in casual attire, she oozed elegance.
The woman in this hospital bed—wearing a standard-issue hospital gown, face makeup free, hair a mess, polished fingernails broken and chipped—bore only the faintest resemblance to her mother.
But . . . it was her.
And she was alive.
That was all that mattered at the moment.
Filling her lungs, Kristin edged closer to the bed and touched the back of her mom’s uninjured hand.
Now what?
The nurse had said coma patients could often hear voices . . . but what was there to say? Their mother-daughter conversations usually revolved around work or current events, topics inappropriate in the present setting.
That left personal subjects.
And they’d never discussed many of those.
Best to keep it simple.
“Hi, Mom. It’s Kristin. I flew in this morning. You’re getting excellent care here at Massachusetts General, and Dad’s on top of the situation, as usual. You don’t need to worry about anything. He and I will be close by, waiting for you to wake up. So, um, I’ll be back later to see you again.”
If her mother had heard her, she gave no indication of it.
Kristin started to turn away.
Hesitated.
Could her comments have been any more stilted?
If she were the one in the coma, would those bland, unemotional reassurances lift her spirits?
Not a fraction of an inch.
She needed to do better.
Maybe her mother hadn’t been a strong maternal role model . . . and maybe they hadn’t been all that close . . . but given her present condition, it might help her to hear the words that had only been spoken on rare occasion in the Dane household.
Gripping the rail on the side of the bed, Kristin bent down and kissed her mother’s cool forehead.
“I love you, Mom. I always have. Please come back to us.” Her voice hoarsened, and as she straightened up, the room around her began to swim.
Blinking to clear her vision, she choked back a sob. She and her parents might not have the closest relationship, but she wasn’t ready to say good-bye to either of them.
Yet as she left the ICU and walked down the hall to rejoin her father, she knew her mom was in very real—and immediate—danger of losing her life.
Worst of all, there was nothing she could do to help her recover.
Except pray.
“Yusef Bishara has an interesting history.” Motioning for Luke to take a seat at the same conference table they’d used during their last meeting at the FBI offices, Nick pulled out a chair for himself.
“I agree.” Luke sat and laid the folder of background material he’d amassed on the table.
“So let’s compare notes.” Nick opened the file in front of him. “I’ll give you my topline. Bishara is a Syrian native and spent all of his life there until he immigrated to the United States nine years ago. He earned his PhD in archeology at Damascus University, taught there for two decades, then became the director of two different museums in the country. His wife died ten years ago, and he has one son, Touma, who didn’t emigrate with his father. As far as I can tell, the son is still in Syria.”
“That matches what I found. I was curious why he left, so I scoured some of the articles written a
bout him after he took the job here, hoping to find some answers.”
“Good idea. I didn’t get that detailed.”
He wouldn’t have, either—but what else had there been to do in the middle of the night with thoughts of Kristin keeping sleep at bay?
“I didn’t find much, but in one article he cited safety concerns.”
“Not surprising, given the volatile environment over there. I compiled quite a bit of general information”—Nick indicated his file—“but nothing suspicious. Did you uncover any red flags?”
“No. Following the initial flurry of articles after he took the job at the museum, he’s maintained a low profile. And he seems to have kept his nose clean. I didn’t find even a parking ticket.”
“I know. He pays his bills on time, shows up for work, is a member of some professional organizations. The man’s led a full and busy life, but if he’s hiding anything of a questionable nature, we’ll have to dig deeper to—” Nick pulled his phone off his belt. “Huh. I think this is Bishara’s number.”
Luke hiked up an eyebrow as Nick put the phone to his ear, greeted the caller . . . and nodded. “Good afternoon, Dr. Bishara . . . No, I’m free to talk . . . Yes, we’d be happy to. When did you have in mind? . . . Nine o’clock tomorrow morning in your office?” Nick looked over at him.
Luke gave a thumbs-up.
“That works. Detective Carter will come with me . . . We’ll see you then.” Nick set the cell on the table. “Bishara said that after giving our meeting yesterday further thought, he has some additional information that may be useful to us.”
“Which he didn’t want to share by phone.” Some sixth sense began to prickle along Luke’s nerve endings. Like it had in the man’s office yesterday, after Bishara had grown uncomfortable with their black market questions.
“Right.” Nick tapped his pen against the table. “I was going to discuss plans for next week, but in light of this development, it might be better to wait until we hear what he has to say.”
“I agree.”
“Sorry to bring you down here for such a short meeting.”
“No problem. I’d rather proceed with more information than less.”
“Let’s hope whatever he has is useful. Shall we meet at his office again?”
“Fine with me.”
Nick rose. “I’ll walk you out.”
After shaking the agent’s hand and exiting the building, Luke picked up his pace as he headed toward his car. The double homicide that had come in this morning meant all hands on deck for the rest of the day . . . and possibly into the night.
But come nine o’clock tomorrow morning, he’d be back in Bishara’s office.
And by the end of their meeting, they might be a whole lot closer to shutting down a terrorist operation that had been functioning right under law enforcement’s nose for far too long.
16
Purse slung over her shoulder, tote bag dangling from her arm, and juggling two venti coffees and a breakfast sandwich from the Starbucks she’d noticed on the drive to her parents’ condo last night, Kristin peeked into the waiting room on the ICU floor.
It was empty early on this Friday morning except for her dad, who was stretched out on the couch, forearm resting on his forehead, eyes closed.
Before this day ended, he needed to go home, take a shower, and get a few hours of sleep in a real bed. She could stand vigil here while he was gone—an offer he’d refused last night, but one she intended to push hard today.
She crossed the room and stopped a few feet from the couch. “Dad?”
No response.
She set his coffee and sandwich on an end table. Maybe it was better to let him sleep. She could always nuke his . . .
His eyes fluttered open, and he squinted at her. “Kristin?” He peered at his watch and swung his feet to the floor. “You’re back early. Didn’t you sleep well?”
“I’m always restless in a strange bed—but I had a much better sleep than you did. That couch can’t be comfortable.”
“It’s an improvement over most of the planes I’ve slept on during overseas flights. Any news on your mom?”
“I just got here.” She handed him a coffee and the sandwich. “I’ll run down and talk to someone at the ICU while you have this.”
“You didn’t need to bring me breakfast.”
“I was there anyway, getting some food for myself. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
Leaving him to eat, she ducked in to see her mom, had a quick exchange with a nurse, and returned to the waiting room.
Her father looked up as she entered, the empty bag crumpled on the table, the coffee already half gone. “Any change?”
“No.”
The fleeting flicker of hope that had sparked in his eyes died. “We’re closing in on forty-eight hours. She should be awake by now. This is going on too long.”
That was true. Based on the googling she’d done, every hour that passed without any signs of returning awareness was bad news.
“She could wake up anytime.” The platitude sounded hollow even to her ears, so she didn’t dwell on it. “The nurse said the doctor would be here soon to give us an update.”
“Okay. I’m going to freshen up. Is that the gear I asked you to bring?” He indicated the tote bag.
“Yes. Toiletries, change of clothes, cell phone charger.”
“Thanks.” He picked up the bag and the coffee. “I’ll be back as fast as I can. If the doctor shows up, knock on the men’s room door.”
With that, he left her to her coffee.
As it turned out, the two men converged on the waiting room from opposite directions ten minutes later.
Her father introduced her to the neurosurgeon, who motioned them to some chairs and sat facing them, his demeanor serious.
Kristin’s stomach clenched, and the egg-white breakfast sandwich she’d downed congealed into a hard lump.
“You don’t have good news, do you.” Her father’s comment was more statement than question, mirroring her own reaction.
“Not the best.” The doctor rested his elbows on the arms of his chair and linked his fingers. “We’re seeing some swelling. That’s not unusual in this type of injury, but if the pressure inside the skull increases too much, it can restrict blood flow.”
“And the brain needs the oxygen the blood carries.” Her father’s already pasty skin lost a few more shades of color.
“Yes. Swelling also prevents other fluids from leaving the brain. In severe cases, we remove part of the skull to relieve the pressure—but I want to try a less aggressive procedure first. It involves cutting a small hole in the skull and inserting a drain tube.”
Kristin pressed a hand to her stomach, willing her breakfast to stay put. Cutting a hole in someone’s skull sounded pretty aggressive to her.
“There’s no other option?” Based on the strain in her father’s voice, the two of them were tracking the same direction for once.
“The tube is the fastest way to deal with the problem. If we wait, and the swelling gets out of control, we risk brain injury. That complicates recovery after a patient comes out of a coma.”
“So you are expecting her to recover?” Kristin didn’t care if she sounded desperate for reassurance.
“Anything is possible.” The man’s tone was measured—and cautious. “But she’s in a deep coma, and those are hard to predict. What we do know is that every day it persists makes the recovery more difficult and less comprehensive. Are we in agreement to insert the tube?”
“Yes.” Her father didn’t hesitate, but his answer held none of its usual decisiveness.
“We’ll get her prepped.” The doctor rose. “After this procedure is over and she’s stable, I would suggest you go home for a few hours and get some food and rest. We can call you if there are any changes. Your wife—and mother—will need you more after she regains consciousness than she does now.” He turned and disappeared out the door.
Thirty seconds of numb
silence crawled by.
At last her father rubbed his bleary eyes and expelled a shaky breath. “I can’t believe how much a world can change in the space of forty-eight hours.”
She could . . . ever since terrorism had put her—and WorldCraft—in the middle of a deadly plot two months ago.
But he didn’t know about that—and this wasn’t the time to tell him.
“It makes you appreciate ordinary days, that’s for sure.” She swirled the dregs of her coffee.
“How long are you staying?” The hint of anxiety in his question suggested her presence meant more to him than she’d expected.
“I booked a return flight for late Sunday afternoon. I can change it if I have to.”
“You have someone covering the shop while you’re gone?”
“Yes. Through tomorrow.”
“Your mom wouldn’t want you to neglect your work to sit in a hospital.”
“That’s what you’re doing.” She hadn’t even seen him check email yesterday. That had to be a first.
“I’m her husband.”
“I’m her daughter.”
His Adam’s apple bobbed, and his eyes grew moist. “She’d be touched by the effort you’ve made to be with her. I’m touched.”
Pressure built in her throat at his out-of-character comment. “This is what daughters do.”
He kneaded the bridge of his nose. “To tell you the truth . . . I’m not certain we deserve that kind of devotion.”
“Dad, I—”
He held up a hand. “Let me finish. In between snatches of sleep, a remark your mom made last month as we were driving home from the wedding of a friend’s son came back to me. She said we kind of missed the boat on the family thing.” He stared at his shoes. “We didn’t dwell on it, but last night it kept looping through my mind. I think she was right—and I regret that.”
In the silence that followed, Luke’s comment the night she’d told him about her relationship with her parents replayed in her mind.
It was their loss as much as yours.
How sad that it had taken this long for her parents to recognize the truth of that sentiment.
