by CJ Lyons
But she was there, alive and relatively whole. Finally he felt able to breathe again.
"Dr. Hart, the patient really needs his rest," the nurse told her.
Hart took Drake's chart. "JP drainage minimal, chest tube to water seal, good I and 0's. You should be up and about in no time, Detective," she said. "When are they pulling the chest tube?" she asked the nurse.
"Dr. Alexander said tomorrow if his x-ray is okay."
"How 'bout his gut?"
"Postop ileus. After he passes gas he can have clears." Both women looked at him expectantly. "Have you passed gas yet, Mr. Drake?" the nurse asked.
Drake closed his eyes. "I hate hospitals," he moaned.
He heard footsteps leaving the room and risked opening his eyes again. Hart smiled at him. Then he looked closer. There was a sadness in her eyes.
"Are you all right?" he asked. "You look like a truck ran over you."
Her smile faded. "I'm fine."
"What happened to Sinderson?" Parts of it were coming back. Drake remembered lying on a cold floor, watching Sinderson convulse, his head bloody and drool pouring from his mouth.
She took his hand as if preparing him for bad news. "He's dead. Thanks to you."
He frowned. "All I remember is coming down the stairs and the gun going off. I don't remember ever hitting him."
"You didn't, but you got the tire iron close enough to me so that I could grab it." She paused, a shadow crossing her face. "I killed him."
Drake was silent for a moment. Had he really done something so stupid as going down there armed only with a tire iron? How had she managed to kill Sinderson on her own?
Shame tackled him, grabbing his insides and giving them a hard kick. He should have been the one to take Sinderson down, not her.
"Are you all right?" he asked, squeezing her hand, but she let it lay limp in his, not returning the gesture.
"I'm fine."
He couldn't meet her gaze, what could he say to her? He was the one who lived with a gun at his side, she was the one who was supposed to save lives. How could she stand to be near him after he had let her down like that?
He looked into her eyes, the light there that had mesmerized him was faded, gone dull. Because of him, because he hadn't been able to protect her, to do his job—jeezit, it was almost as bad as Pamela. No, worse. Hart he cared for, he had thought—stupid, man, letting himself dream—maybe they had a future, a chance together.
He dropped her hand. "Well," he cleared his throat, suddenly his mouth was parched. "Just so long as you're okay."
He didn't risk looking at her face, just watched as her hand lay there, next to his on the white sheet. Then, slowly, she pulled it away. He waited for her to say something but she was silent. Okay, so he was going to have to suck it up, do the hard work for both of them.
A memory of her bloody body, lying on the floor at her house when he hadn't known if she was dead or alive flooded his vision. As much as he wanted to be with her, he couldn't ignore the fact that she'd almost died. And it was all his fault. He should have been a better protector, a better cop—a better man.
Pamela all over again. He blinked hard, hating the sting of tears. Sucked in a breath only to be sucker-punched by pain. The pain gave him the strength he needed—reminded him of what she'd went through in that Uniontown cellar. He needed to make a clean break—she deserved that—before he could hurt her more.
"Look, Hart. A lot has happened—to both of us. It's going to take some getting used to."
There was another moment of silence. Then her breath whooshed out, circling above him. He still didn't risk looking up at her. Coward. But it hurt too much already. Cutting her out of his life was more painful than any cut the surgeons had made.
"Oh. I see." She gathered her crutches. "No problem. I just wanted to make certain you were going to be okay," she told him, already backing toward the door. "Your mom and friends will be wanting to come and see you. Don't let them tire you out--doctor's orders." She paused at the doorway and he couldn't help himself, he glanced up. She gave him a heart-breaking half smile. "Take care of yourself, Mickey."
Then she was gone.
Drake looked at his hand, pressing it against his face. He could still feel her warmth. She had finally called him Mickey. He covered his eyes. Where was the nurse with her pain medicine when he really needed her?
Cassie slumped against the wall outside Drake's room. Tears burned her eyelids, spilled over despite her best efforts to hold them at bay. She swiped at her face with her good hand, hating the stares two candy-stripers gave her as they passed.
Drake almost died--because of her. Just as Fran and Trautman had died because she refused to mind her own business. And Richard still lay in a coma.
Not to mention Sinderson. Images of his lifeless eyes, blood splattered face, mouth opening and closing in silence cascaded through her brain. She clenched her hands around her crutches as she leaned on them, staring blindly at the linoleum at her feet. How could she ever forget Sinderson?
No wonder Drake wanted nothing to do with her. Who could blame him?
She hobbled down the hallway, paused at the door to the stairway, looked at the elevator. Gritting her teeth, she punched the elevator call button. She'd been a fool to think that she'd ever been in control of anything--might as well start getting used to the idea.
The doors opened on the empty elevator and she pushed herself across the threshold. She could kill a man with her own hands, she could bloody well face a ride in an elevator. Backing into the corner of the metal box, she hunched over, forced herself to endure the short ride up two floors to the rehab unit.
The nurses there stared at her, then quickly looked away when she met their eyes. Even here, in the twilight quiet of the neuro-rehab ward where patients balanced between coma and wakefulness, they had heard that she was a killer. She glanced down at her hands, opened and closed them against the handles of her crutches.
Then she limped over to Jane Doe's bed. Sarah Yoder--that was her real name. The Holmes County Sheriff had called Adeena this morning with the news. A few hours ago the Yoders had arrived from their home in Millersburg, Ohio, driven by a Mennonite friend.
Cassie spotted the gray-haired couple at Jane-Sarah's bedside immediately. She raised her estimate of their ages, at least early fifties. They were both plainly dressed in homemade clothing and the wife covered her hair in a small white cap.
She took a moment to glance at Sarah's chart. Since being transferred out of the ICU yesterday, she'd begun to respond to stimuli. Although she hadn't fully awakened yet, it was definite progress.
"Mr. and Mrs. Yoder?" She approached them, leaning her crutches against Sarah's bed. They startled at her voice, their hands intertwined as they turned together to face her. "I'm Dr. Hart. I was the initial physician involved in Sarah's care."
She stretched out her hand, but they ignored it. The expression they shared resembled that of deer caught in headlights. "I'm so pleased that we were able to locate you," she continued, dropping her hand back to her side.
"The social worker said you went to considerable trouble for our daughter," the mother said, her voice hushed as if afraid they would disturb sleeping Sarah. "Thank you, Dr. Hart."
"You're quite welcome," Cassie said, feeling awkward at their gaze of appraisal. But they said nothing about her unorthodox appearance. Mr. Yoder turned back to Sarah's bed, gripping the bed rail in his rough-hewn hands. "Has she been gone a long time?"
Mrs. Yoder seemed to be the appointed speaker for the duo. "Almost two years now," she said in that same soft whisper. "Ran off with Bill Kleindietz. He was eighteen, much too old for Sarah, but she wouldn't listen."
"Where's Bill now?"
"Jail in Youngstown. Caught trying to rob a 7-11. When we heard about him, we thought we'd finally get Sarah back, but," she shrugged, "it was too late. She'd gone off on her own." A single tear slipped down the older woman's cheek. "If you only knew what this meant to us--"
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"She's not out of the woods yet," she told them, not wanting to give them false hope. "But every day she's showing signs of improvement."
"That's all we can ask for. The good Lord will take care of the rest. Thank you again. You'll always be in our prayers, Dr. Hart."
Cassie nodded, leaving them to become reacquainted with their lost daughter.
She went back to the hallway, thinking about the Yoders and their faith that things would work out for the best. God's plan. She was envious of such depth of faith. Wished she could share in it.
Was what happened to Sarah, to everyone since that night when Cassie had saved her, was that all part of a greater plan, somehow all for the best?
If she relinquished control of her life to a higher power, did that somehow absolve her of her role in the deaths of three people?
"I thought I'd find you here," Adeena's too-cheerful voice cut into Cassie's thoughts. The social worker was pushing a wheelchair down the hall. "You know you're not really supposed to be using those crutches yet."
She bundled Cassie into the chair, laid her crutches in her lap and wheeled her down to the elevator. "Once we get you home, you'll have to promise to stay off your feet and let me and Tessa take care of you. She's baking brownies and a London broil in honor--"
"I'm going home," Cassie interrupted her as the elevator arrived.
"Of course you are." Adeena pushed her inside the box where a man and two women already waited, the man holding the door open until Cassie was positioned inside.
The elevator began to move with a lurch that jolted through Cassie. Sweat began to pool, sliding between her breasts and down from her armpits. Her breath became ragged and her fingers grew numb. The crutches slid from her grasp with a clatter.
The women jumped back as if they were contaminated, while Adeena bent down to collect them. Cassie squeezed her eyes shut, swallowed against the nausea. Just as she was about to give voice to the scream that had clawed its way up her throat, the doors opened. They were the last out, the man standing against the doors to hold them open. Adeena thanked him, her voice a distant blur as Cassie hung her head, gulped in the fresh air of the lobby.
"I need to go home," Cassie told Adeena as they rolled outside into the frigid air and pulled up beside Adeena's waiting Civic.
"That's where we're going." Adeena handed her the crutches so that she could transfer into the passenger seat, then stopped, staring at Cassie with apprehension. "You don't mean your house? Cassie, you can't expect to take care of yourself, not after everything that happened."
Cassie felt her jaw clench tight at the thought of being looked after, scrutinized every second, unable to grieve in her own way. She'd never have her old life back--she knew that. But she still needed time to mourn its passing. She wasn't the person she thought she was, the person she hoped she was--the person Rosa and her parents had raised her to be.
So who was she? A doctor who killed with her own two hands? A woman who manipulated her friend into risking her job, her life? A wife that an ex-husband would kill to possess?
A lover who watched her love risk everything for her and almost die.
She sagged back down in the chair, had only strength enough to raise her eyes and meet Adeena's. The social worker frowned, then finally sighed in surrender.
"At least come to lunch," she conceded. "Otherwise, I'll never be able to convince Tessa that you're all right." She crouched down beside the chair, her eyes level with Cassie's. "You are all right, aren't you?"
"I will be," Cassie assured her, feeling a tiny flicker of hope at her words. She might be a stranger even to herself, but she could take care of herself, greet this new life of hers on her own terms. Maybe that was the most anyone could expect. She felt herself smile, the movement tugging at the tiny stitches, making her mouth feel lopsided. Adeena mirrored her smile, sun sparkling off Adeena's copper-colored beads. "I will be.
CHAPTER 70
Drake sipped at his Guinness and paid no attention as Pitt came from behind to advance to the Sweet Sixteen. Andy Greally joined him.
"So when are you going to go see her?" he asked.
Drake didn't bother looking up. "What?"
"Earth to Drake, do you even realize that the game is over?"
"Yeah, sure it is. Why are you bothering me? Don't you have other customers?"
"Just go see her, that way you can stop coming in here every day and making my life miserable." Andy shook his head. "You did tell her you were back, right?"
After he was discharged from the hospital three weeks ago, Drake had stayed with his mother, allowed her to pamper him and remind him constantly how his father had never gotten shot, not in thirty years of policing, so it better not happen again to her son.
He shook his head at Andy. "She doesn't want to see me."
"How do you know? She never said so, did she? You mean to tell me, you find a gorgeous, gutsy woman who's willing to put her life on the line to save your sorry butt, and you're just gonna walk away?"
Andy looked up as Jimmy Dolan entered the Stone, a Pirates' ball cap covering his short cropped hair. Jimmy took the stool next to Drake and nodded at them.
"Who won the game?"
Drake shrugged. Andy placed a Guinness in front of Jimmy.
"Pitt, came from behind."
Jimmy took a slug of the stout. "He still moping?" he asked Andy, gesturing at Drake.
"Yeah, won't you please take him back to work with you?"
"Can't do it. He still has to pass his psych eval and recert at the range."
"Why hasn't he seen the shrink yet? I thought he was supposed to go last week."
"Said he forgot, missed the appointment." They both looked at Drake.
"Would you two stop talking about me like I'm not here?"
Andy swiped at the bar with his rag. "He's your partner."
"Yeah, well, you trained him."
Andy walked down the bar. "Tell him to go see her already, why don't you?"
Jimmy picked up his Guinness and stood. "Grab your drink, we need to talk," he told Drake and headed toward an empty booth.
Drake sighed. Why couldn't everyone just leave him alone? But he followed Jimmy over to the booth.
Jimmy lifted his ball cap and scratched at his scalp. He stared at Drake. "You fucked up again, kid."
"I don't think so," Drake replied. "Actually, I've thought it through, and I think that I'm avoiding a lot of pain and trouble for both of us."
"So you made this decision for both of you?" Jimmy shook his head. "Your problem is that you've never been in love before, you don't know what to do."
"I've been in love many times," Drake protested.
"No, you've been in lust." Jimmy looked around the bar. "Look," he continued in a low voice. "This isn't something that I would tell anyone but my partner, but I'm not going to let you screw up again. See with Denise and me--we just looked at each other and we knew."
"Yeah, love at first sight, fairytale romance, I've got the picture."
"Would you for once in your life just listen? Like I was saying, for me and Denise it's different. She knows what the job is about, but we don't ever talk about it. We don't have to, it's just the way we are, been that way since the beginning. This is going to sound crazy to you, but Denise is the only woman I've ever made love to--and the only woman that I ever want to make love to."
Drake looked up in surprise, was this his partner talking? He shook his head. "Sex is definitely not the problem." He took a deep drink of the stout. "The problem is that I acted like a fool out there. I almost got her killed, and then I almost got killed myself. I should have found some other way to handle the situation. Maybe taken the car and found a phone, gotten backup, waited until I had the drop on Sinderson instead of rushing down there, I don't know.
"All I know is that I couldn't think of anything but her being down there with him, and I couldn't stand it, I couldn't leave her there for one more second." He leaned back and rubbed his eyes. "G
od, what a fool I was. All my training, experience, thrown out the window because she was all I could think about. I don't like feeling that way. Out of control."
"And how do you feel now?" Jimmy asked.
"Like shit," he admitted. "I see a pretty model on a commercial, all I can think of is Hart. I walk by a store and see something nice and I want to go in and buy it for her. I read an interesting story in the paper, and I want to talk to her about it--God, Jimmy, I think I'm going crazy."
"Welcome to the real world. Why don't you just go talk to her?"
"No, everything is too complicated. Besides, I don't think she wants to see me. I remind her of too much pain."
"You selfish bastard. Is it her you're worried about, or yourself? If you let her go now, you'll always regret it."
"But we can never have what you and Denise have."
"Of course not, what works for us won't work for you. Hart won't be content to not ask the difficult questions, and she won't accept easy answers. Look at her, what she does, she needs to be involved. I know you. You always try to take the easy way out, and Hart's not gonna let you do that."
Drake thought about that, thought about the way Hart pushed him past his limits, past the boundaries he'd drawn in his life. "I don't know if I can live like that."
"The question to ask is: do you want to live without her?" Jimmy finished his beer. "It's up to you to decide." He stood up. "I'll see you later. I've got to get home, see what Denise has planned for tonight."
"Hey, Jimmy," Drake called out. "Thanks a lot."
"Sure thing, partner."
A picture had been forming in Drake's mind ever since Adeena Coleman told him about Hart's parents. He left the Stone and walked home, colors and images swirling, almost blocking out the scenery around him.
A love so strong it didn't end with death. He remembered the photo of Hart's father, the way he looked only half in this world, yearning, longing for someone no longer there. Even as he held his daughter. Had Hart felt like she wasn't enough, never enough to command all of her father's love after her mother died? Was that part of what drove her?
