This isn’t about you. You wouldn’t even be breathing right now if it weren’t for that life hanging in limbo in the other room.
Guilt settled the score, pushing his compulsion into remission.
He kept waiting.
At the end of her shift, Regina came out to update him. “Nothing has changed so far,” she said. As Patrick frowned, she added, “But that’s actually not bad news. Her condition hasn’t worsened, either. She’s critical but stable.” Then she smiled. “And I’ve got better news.”
He perked.
“Doctor said you can see her now.”
They moved down a vacant hallway, the walls feeling oddly close, the ceilings oddly low. “You can visit every hour for twenty minutes, on the hour,” she said as they turned a corner. “If you want to stay in the ICU waiting room during the off times, you can. No cell phones permitted inside. No live plants or cut flowers, either.”
Going from the waiting room to the ICU was like dropping into another world—one with beeping monitors, flittering lights, and an assaultive, medicinal smell that hung heavy on the air. The contrast caught Patrick off guard, but he fought the accompanying feelings away, trying to stay focused and prepare himself for what lay ahead.
“This is Candy,” Regina said when they reached the nurses’ station. “She runs the show. Whatever she says goes. Now if you’ll excuse me, it’s time to get home.”
“Regina, thank you,” he said.
She waved it off with a hand, flashing one of those expressions that people who selflessly do good often give, then went on her way.
“Let’s get you over to see your sister,” Candy said with a smile.
Patrick straightened his posture, trying to pull himself together, and then followed.
They entered the room. A mass of tubes curled their way over Tristan’s body like wandering tree roots, with even more taped to her mouth, nose, and arms. A ventilator was doing her breathing, each hiss forcing air into her lungs: mechanical support for a body too weak and damaged to do it alone. In the background, a heart monitor kept an unsettling, punchy rhythm, staccato beeps announcing with precision and clarity that a life was hanging by a thread—one that could break any minute.
Patrick stopped a few feet from the bed and drew in a deep, weary breath, settling his gaze on her, trying to keep it together.
You can do this. What she went through for you is much worse.
He stepped to the side of the bed.
Standing over her now, he could see with staggering certainty just how severe her injuries were, head and face badly swollen, wrapped in bandages—ones that could barely keep the damage in check, let alone the blood from seeping out. Her eyes were taped shut and a bolt protruded from the top of her head, wrapped in dressing, tubes snaking out on each side. Candy had explained that the bolt was inserted to monitor the brain swelling. Patrick took it all in, sadly shaking his head, the weight of this moment heavy in his chest. In her current state she looked so broken, like a delicate teacup shattered to pieces, then haphazardly taped together again, everything oddly out of kilter, in utter disharmony. Destroyed, much like the figurine she had smashed in Dr. Ready’s office.
So fragile. Our lives are so ridiculously fragile. We move about in this world feeling as though we’re invincible, hard as nails, not knowing just how vulnerable we really are. Like walking, breathing eggshells. Then we cross the wrong person’s path, and in a blink of the eye reality shows us with horrifying detail just how delicate we are, how easily we can be broken open.
If not for her courageousness, he would be the one lying here, barely hanging onto life. Then came a sobering realization: there would have been nobody to stand by his bedside, nobody to worry about him. Oddly enough, that truth, while cold and harsh, felt like a connection with Tristan.
He smiled.
Not in his wildest dreams could he ever have imagined he’d end up feeling anything for this woman, and yet he did, and in that moment, Patrick knew he wasn’t going anywhere. He would be here for as long as she needed him. He didn’t care if he had to sit in this room for a month—longer, even. He would see this through no matter what. If she didn’t make it, he would be here. And if by some miracle she woke up, he would be here for that as well. Live or die, she would do neither alone.
He placed a gentle hand on top of hers, tilting his head to see her better.
Who are you?
He studied the scar running across her face, for the first time getting a good look at it.
Who did this to you? A jealous ex-boyfriend? An abusive parent? Some heartless stranger looking for a place to vent his twisted anger?
“I’m sorry.”
The words came from behind. He spun around to find Candy standing there.
“I’m afraid your time is up,” she said softly. “You’ll have to go now.”
He nodded, then turned toward Tristan again, leaning over to whisper his final words—ones he’d been wanting so desperately to tell her since this all began.
“Thank you.”
He hoped that somehow, by some miracle, she heard him.
Chapter Twenty-Five
With his visiting time up, he walked down the cold, bland hallway, feeling his body succumbing to exhaustion. There was no denying that he needed to get home, get some rest, and reassure Bullet. Poor guy was waiting for him, probably wondering where his best friend had gone, whether he’d abandoned him, and most importantly, where the food was.
As Patrick neared the end of the hallway, he was startled by a sudden movement at the corner ahead. He stopped and stared, wondering if his exhausted mind was playing tricks on him. It was entirely possible that someone had been walking ahead of him and turned into the next hallway. It was also entirely possible they weren’t even there, that he’d just glimpsed a reflection or an odd shadow.
But he could have sworn he saw someone stepping around the corner—someone moving backward, not forward.
He shook his head, knowing this was no time to trust his mind or his senses—both were shot. He turned the corner wearily. No boogeyman waited for him. A good night’s rest—that’s what he needed.
Patrick spent the next day sitting for short stretches at Tristan’s bedside and long stretches in the ICU waiting room. He spent that time surfing the Internet and making calls on the Clark case: so far, no new developments—at least nothing Pike was divulging. When he had exhausted the possibilities of the Internet, he sat and thought about why Tristan was so alone in the world. But that was like looking in a mirror.
All day long, all his waiting, and her condition still hadn’t changed.
He returned that night to Bullet, feeling depressed.
“She might not make it, buddy,” he told the dog.
The next morning as he drove from the beach cottage, down the interstate, and onto the Washington Avenue exit, he glanced at the passenger seat and saw it was empty. It wasn’t supposed to be. His computer was supposed to be there—the computer he’d apparently left behind.
He sighed.
As he parked his car at the hospital, his gaze traveled from the empty passenger seat to the empty notebook lying on the floorboard below. He’d bought it to replace the one stolen at the beach, and now the virgin pages were practically calling out his name.
Don’t do it, the voice in his head warned. Don’t go there.
But the inside voice didn’t stand a chance compared to the inside urge.
As if independent of his will, one hand reached for the notebook while the other dug in his shirt pocket, pulling out a pen. With shaky hands and rapid breaths, he pressed the tip against the paper and wrote the word helpless eight times.
Then he squeezed his eyes and slung the pad across the seat as if it were on fire, disgusted with himself for being so weak. And yet, as much as he hated to admit it, as much as he despised the act itself, he couldn’t deny that it brought him pleasure, relief now flowing through him quickly and easily, as unencumbered as the blood shooting
through his veins, as the oxygen filling his lungs.
And he wanted more of it, so much more; he needed it like a junkie craves the sting of the needle.
He picked up the pen and notebook again, wrote helpless twenty-five more times.
Relief.
But as he walked into the ICU, disgust superseded relief, the place itself just making him more depressed. Cold steel, stark white walls, and shadowy doors with sick people behind them. And pain. Lots and lots of pain.
As soon as he reached Tristan’s bed, Patrick noticed that the bolt in her head was gone. He turned around as Candy bustled into the room.
“The neurosurgeon removed it late yesterday after you left,” she said. “The pressure’s stable. It’s a good sign.”
Patrick felt some of his own pressure ease, and all he could do was smile.
“She’s not out of the woods yet,” Candy cautioned, jotting some information down on Tristan’s chart, “not by a long shot. She’s still got a tough battle ahead.”
Patrick kept smiling; he couldn’t help himself. Suddenly, all the waiting and all the worry felt worthwhile. Now there was hope.
Candy left the room, and Patrick turned back to Tristan. He reached for her hand, squeezed it gently, and said, “You’re getting better. You’re going to make it.”
She squeezed his hand.
Patrick’s eyes shot wide with surprise. He shouted, “Candy!”
Within seconds the nurse was back in the room, her expression one of cautious concern.
“She squeezed my hand!” Patrick said. “I told her she was going to be okay and she squeezed it. She can hear me!”
Candy moved slowly and deliberately toward Tristan with guarded interest. She rested both arms on the bed railing, observing her for a moment, then reached down and took hold of her hand. Patrick watched, his nerves a jumble of apprehensive excitement.
Speaking loudly, Candy said, “Tristan, you’re in the hospital. You’ve suffered a head injury, and I’m your nurse. My name is Candy. Can you hear me, Tristan? Squeeze my hand if you can hear me, okay? Squeeze my hand, Tristan.”
Nothing.
She looked at Patrick and frowned, shaking her head.
“But she did it for me!” he said. “I swear she did!”
Candy started to speak, then suddenly looked down at her hand. Patrick saw Tristan’s grip tightening. He was speechless with excitement.
Candy said, “Tristan, are you able to release your grip on my hand? Can you do it right now? Tristan, let go of my hand if you can hear me.”
The grip remained firm.
Candy waited a moment longer, watching, then turned to Patrick. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but this is something we often see in comatose patients. It’s a reflexive action. It’s not purposeful.”
“How much longer will this go on?”
“There’s really no way of knowing.”
“But why isn’t she waking up?”
“We don’t understand why. There’s no evidence to show that she shouldn’t. We removed the clot, and there’s no brain swelling, which was our concern. She could fall into the small category of patients where there’s no identifiable reason for not waking up—we’re hoping she will, but there’s the possibility she may not.”
Candy offered a sympathetic smile as she left the room.
Her words struck Patrick hard. He felt hope slipping through his hands, his heart sinking. But at the same time, he could not abandon Tristan. All his life, people had given up on him when times got tough. He remembered the profound pain, and most of all, the insurmountable damage it had caused him, damage that he was still trying to repair.
He turned to Tristan. He took her hand again.
“I’m going to do this, damn it. I’ll do it even if it kills me. I won’t stop. I won’t give up. I won’t let you be alone. I’ll stay here. I promise.”
He looked up at the clock. It was time to head back to the waiting room. He squeezed Tristan’s hand and repeated, “I promise.”
On his way out of the ICU he passed Candy doing paperwork at her desk. “Patrick…” she said. “I really admire your commitment to your sister. It’s not something we always see around here, but when we do, well… it’s just very touching.”
Patrick gave a tentative nod.
“She’s lucky to have you,” Candy continued, then she smiled, and this time, there was indeed happiness. “She must love you something fierce.”
Patrick headed for the door, a peculiar mix of sadness, guilt, and tenderness moving inside him.
Chapter Twenty-Six
He drove back to the cottage for his computer and to offer Bullet some love before returning to Tristan’s bedside for the next round of visiting.
But when he entered, there was no sign of the dog. Patrick couldn’t remember a day when Bullet wasn’t front and center, anxiously waiting for him.
“Bullet-boy?” he called out, unblinking eyes darting around the room, mind veering toward concern.
Silence.
Now he was more than concerned. He was downright worried.
“Bullet?” he said, louder this time, moving forward, his stomach feeling heavier with each step. “Bullet-boy?”
He heard a click from the rear entrance. When he got there, he reached for the handle and found it unlocked. He stepped outside, cautiously scanning for an intruder, for Bullet, for anything that might offer an explanation. Then he heard an engine roar and tires squeal. By the time he ran to the front of the cottage, the street was empty except for a couple in the distance casually strolling toward the beach.
Patrick rushed inside, and then heard another noise—like scratching on a wall. The hair on the back of his neck stood straight up, his pulse hammering in his ears. Worry snapped into panic. He ran from room to room, but still there was no sign of Bullet. He could take just about anything, but not this. Not his boy. That dog was his lifeline. He crammed his hands under his armpits, hugged himself tightly.
Then he heard a faint and distant whimper. Patrick shot his head in that direction: another whimper, and it didn’t sound good—it sounded like pain.
Oh, no. Please, God. Don’t do this to me. Not now.
He moved forward, trying to follow the sound. “Bullet-boy?” he said, voice wavering.
Patrick heard a howl filled with distress coming from the bedroom. He rushed in, dropped to the floor, searched under the bed. Saw nothing. Then a whimper came from the closet.
He stumbled toward it, nearly falling over himself. Jerked the door open.
Bullet scrambled out, tail wagging so hard that it threw his rear end into syncopated countermovement. Patrick dropped to his knees and held the dog’s face in his hands, examining him, making sure he was okay.
Bullet gave him the Tongue Shot.
Yep. He was fine.
“What happened here, buddy?” Patrick said, scratching under the dog’s chin, but really he was asking himself the question.
Bullet gave a dog-curious-head-tilt, then scampered toward the kitchen as if nothing untoward had occurred.
Resiliency, Patrick thought, watching him with relief and wonder. Dogs are the living embodiment of it.
He stood, thankful his boy was fine, but at the same time, knowing things around him certainly weren’t. A dark overcast of uneasiness clouded his mind, and it turned gloomier as he walked from room to room, searching for more signs of trouble.
He moved into the dining room, saw nothing. Moved into the kitchen: everything fine there as well. He leaned against the stove, crossing his arms, trying to think about what to do next, his eyes breezing over the counter and into the living room. Then his gaze swerved back to the counter.
He moved closer, zoomed in. Ran a finger over the surface, lifted it, and examined the crumbs on his finger. Patrick moved toward the pantry, opened the door.
And froze.
He was staring at a bag of cookies, torn wide open, three missing. He hadn’t eaten them. He stepped to the fridge, yanked
the door open, studying the contents. And then he felt his stomach slide into his throat.
A cafeteria sandwich he’d bought at the hospital but never unwrapped now sat with the cellophane torn off, a bite missing. A can of cola stood opened on the shelf below. He lifted the can, heavy with liquid, just a few swigs taken.
What the…?
A chill brought goose bumps to his arms.
Patrick took off toward the living room. The laptop he’d forgotten that morning sat on the couch. Patrick dropped into a seat, pulled the laptop toward him, and instantly the screensaver lit up. He tapped the spacebar, and his desktop appeared. He clicked on “Recent Documents.”
He swallowed hard at the long list of files that had been opened within the hour, all while he was away.
Then he looked at one he didn’t recognize, and his stomach seized. It was entitled, “Hell hath no fury.” He opened it up, and six words stared back at him. Six dark and unnerving words.
The devil is in the details
Something frigid raced up Patrick’s spine, branching out through his shoulders and making them ache with stiffness. This was no mistake—this was real. First his car, then the shadowy movement behind the hospital corridor… and now, someone invading his space, not only rifling through his computer, but putting the one thing that mattered to him most, his best friend, in jeopardy. No trick of the imagination, no product of mental exhaustion. He was looking at startling, irrevocable proof.
No longer was the cottage a place of refuge, a place for reliving happy memories. This place, once good, had turned very bad and very wrong. The retreat was over. He had to get out of here right away.
Patrick gathered up his things, grabbed Bullet, and within minutes they were speeding down the road, away from that place and headed toward home. He kept a nervous eye trained on the rearview mirror, making sure nobody was following them.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Hell in the day, hell at night. Two different worlds with one thing in common: he was chasing ghosts in both.
Darkness & Shadows Page 11
