Still no answer.
His best option, he knew, was to make a dash for his car and count on darkness and confusion to give him the break he needed. He’d been smart to position the car where it was. All he had to do now was get to it.
He licked his lips, tasting the tang of salt and wondering if it was sweat or tears. The palm of the hand holding the gun ached with a bone-deep throb. By his count, he’d shot four times. That meant he had only two shots left. He wasn’t about to jump up and, in a blaze of glory, make a brave dash to the car, running zigzags to avoid the return fire he was sure would come his way.
“I mean it, buddy!” Tom shouted, cupping one hand to his mouth like a megaphone. “We can both walk out of here intact. It’s your choice.”
The only reply was the sound of a gun going off and an instantaneous dull thunk sound as a bullet hit the car door inches from his head. Tom dropped to the ground and then, not really thinking it through, leaped to his feet and started to run.
Wind whistled shrilly in his ears, and his heart was thudding so loudly it blocked out every other sound except for a distant, muffled thump … thump … thump.
And then something smacked him on the right shoulder, throwing him off balance as if the mystery man had reached out of the darkness, grabbed him by the arm, and viciously tugged him around.
For a few more steps, there was no pain, but then his skin felt as though the biggest damned hornet in the world had stung his right arm. His hand went numb, and by the time he slammed into the side of his car, he had forgotten that he was still holding onto his gun.
He remembered he’d left the car keys in the ignition. That was good. His only thought now was to get into the car and drive the hell away. The wound couldn’t be all that bad. Before he had a chance to run around to the other side of the car, placing the bulk of it between him and the shooter, there was a loud pop, and searing pain ripped into his left leg just above the knee. Tom’s first thought was that he’d banged his leg against the bumper, but with the next step, when he put his full weight onto his leg, his knee folded on him, and he went down.
He hit the ground hard enough to knock the wind out of him. He thought crazily how he hadn’t heard the gun go off, and that was supposed to mean it was the shot that killed him, but then another shot exploded in the night. A split-second later, a bullet whizzed through the air. It sounded like an enraged hornet, buzzing overhead as it clipped leaves from the trees behind him.
The side of Tom’s face was pressed into the dirt. Sweat and tears streaked his skin. Blood was leaking out of him, soaking into the dirt. He was breathing so heavily his lungs felt like they were ripping into shreds.
Had he been shot in the chest, too, and he simply didn’t realize it yet?
Am I dying?
He prayed that the shooter would see he was down and come forward to finish him off quickly … before any more pain set in. He was more afraid of suffering than dying.
Christ, I fucked up, he thought as his eyelids fluttered. With every breath he took, the night hissed as it rose and fell around him like a surging tide. His vision was getting hazier by the second, but he could see, far across the dirt road, a dark figure moving toward him in a slow, watery blur.
It grew steadily larger until it took up more than half of his sight.
Tom was lying on his right hand, and now he dimly realized that something hard and cold was pressing into his side. When his hand twitched, he finally realized he was still clinging to his gun.
From my cold, dead hand, he thought.
He rolled over and dragged his arm forward. Raising the gun, he wasn’t conscious of aiming it at the black figure that swelled in front of him. It was so big, how could he miss? He narrowed his eyes in pain the instant before he pulled the trigger.
The gunshot was deafening. The night lit up with a blaze of light that looked like the gates of Heaven — or the fires of Hell — opening to receive him.
Somehow, the dark shape miraculously vanished. Gone. Like an illusion.
Tom stared at the indistinct line of trees on the horizon. They rose up against the night sky like a doily edge. Above them was a glittering array of stars that looked like flecks of powdered crystal.
Tom heaved a sigh that blended into a moan as he dropped his head to the ground again. The hard-packed dirt felt much softer now. It was as if he were lying on an air cushion that was floating on the ocean, bobbing gently on the swells … up and down … up and down. His strength was swiftly ebbing away … seeping from him as the rapid, thunderous pulse in his head got steadily louder.
And louder until …
There was another sound … a sound that blended into his awareness so gradually he had no idea when it had started or where it was coming from or even when he had first noticed it. It rose and fell … rose and fell in a wild, warbling wail, and then flashing blue and red lights that, at first, Tom thought were strokes of lightning, filled the night.
But the lights were too regular to be lightning, and as they grew steadily brighter with each passing second, the warbling sound came closer and closer until it split the night like a silver wedge.
Tom heard what sounded like a fleet of vehicles pulling to a stop close by. Engines roared. Sirens wailed. The harsh glare of headlights focused on him, pinning him to the dirt.
The sirens gradually cut off, fading with a whoop, and then car doors opened and slammed shut and rapid footsteps approached. A swirling mass of dark figures converged on Tom, surrounding him like demons, come to drag him to Hell. He was so far gone he allowed them to manhandle him as several people leaned over him and checked his wounds. The cacophony of voices was like a whirlwind all around him. It was all but impossible to make out what anyone was saying, but by concentrating, he made some sense of them.
“… doesn’t look life-threatening …”
“… lost a lot of blood …”
“… knee is blown to shit …”
Then someone — Tom had no idea who — mentioned the name “Lincoln.”
Lost in pain and confusion, and unable to resist as his body was dragged like a slab of beef onto a stretcher, his first crazy thought was that for some reason someone was talking about Abraham Lincoln and making a connection between him shooting Gillette and Lincoln’s assassination.
But then he remembered … Jerry Lincoln, the new DEA agent who had asked him to inform on local drug dealers. As he drifted down into darkness, he heard more voices, sounding further and further away as they carried him toward what he thought — what he hoped — was an ambulance.
“ … told him this was a bad idea …”
“ … not to do it without better backup …”
“ … helluva shot …”
“ … took half his fucking head off …”
“Hello, Dad? … Are you there? … Is anyone home?”
Julia was trying without much success to hold back a flood of tears as she sat by her father’s bedside in the ICU and looked at the all but empty husk of the man lying beneath the thin, white sheet and blanket. The monitors and medical equipment that surrounded him clicked and beeped steadily. In a setting like this, it was all but impossible to accept that it really was her father lying there.
He looked so diminished … impossibly small.
How could this be the big, strong man who had bounced her on his knee and given her piggyback rides when she was a baby … the man who had taught her how to drive a stick shift … the father who had taken her to Red Sox games and went to all her soccer games … the proud father who had been the first to applaud at her high school and college graduations and who had given her away at her wedding?
How could this be the man who had been so rock-solid all through her life... the one person she knew she could count on for anything …the man who had fought so hard after his heart attack and open heart surgery … the husband who had broken down and cried and the father she had comforted when his wife — her mother — died?
And now, he
re they were.
She was sitting at his bedside the same way he had kept vigil at his wife’s bedside through all those horrible, horrible months.
She wondered if, as her father watched his cancer-ridden wife die by inches, he had ever entertained some of the same thoughts she was having now. She wished she dared to ask him, but she was afraid of what he might say.
Had he wished … had he prayed as she did now that Death would come swiftly and mercifully to end his suffering?
Did he have similarly conflicted thoughts, wondering and impatiently waiting to begin living a new life without the crushing responsibilities of being an around-the-clock caregiver?
Her circumstances were completely different from his, of course. Her father had chosen to live in The Cove, and even though he — like anyone else who hadn’t been born here — had never been and would never be fully accepted by the locals, he had chosen to stay here. He had liked it here. Acceptance hadn’t mattered to him like it did to her. He’d had his wife … for a while.
“And all I want to do is get the hell out,” Julia whispered as she stared down at her father’s pale, expressionless face. She slid her hand across the sheets and clasped his hand in hers. It felt boneless … as light as a bird. She was sickened by how cool and lifeless it felt.
She twisted with guilt.
Now that she was face to face with her father’s mortality and, by extension, her own, all she could think about was her own liberation, how frightening it was, now that it was apparently so imminent. The only thing holding her back was Ben.
She had never admitted it to anyone, Ben most of all, but as little or as much as she knew what love was, she was positive she loved Ben. She hoped he loved her. And as much as she wanted to make a new life with him, she wanted more than anything to do it someplace other than The Cove. With whatever money she would inherit from her father, she and Ben would be free to go anywhere he wanted and start over.
Anywhere but here.
But she couldn’t deny how tightly Ben was tied to this town. No matter what he said about wanting to get out, a big part of him belonged to The Cove. The ocean and the town were in his marrow. He was as much a part of this town as she wasn’t. Even if they got married and stayed, she would never be accepted as a Cove-ah. And worse than all of that, his erratic behavior … his drinking binges and rapid mood swings were all indications of PTSD. She’d researched it a bit on the Internet and learned that people who had it tended to be in denial about it, and that recovery was long and slow, and there was never a guarantee.
Did she love him enough to trade taking care of her father to become a caregiver for Ben?
Staring blankly at her father, she thought about how she never would have met Ben and fallen in love with him if she hadn’t moved to town to help him out after his first heart attack.
And now, here he was … dying.
The prognosis was worse than bad. If her father ever regained consciousness — and that was increasingly unlikely — the doctors at the hospital would have to perform batteries of tests to determine the full extent of the damage. At this point, it was obvious the damage was severe and extensive. Her father would be lucky if ever spoke or moved again.
“What do you want me to do, Dad?” she asked, leaning forward and bringing her mouth close to his ear. The heat of her breath rebounded from his face. Tears gathered in her eyes as she squeezed his hand more tightly. The bones beneath the skin felt as fragile as glass tubes.
She got no response … of any kind. As far as she could tell, nothing even changed on any of the monitors. Everything kept on beeping and clicking with monotonous, infuriating regularity.
She sniffed and wiped her eyes with her free hand, all the while staring at her father. Her mind filled with exhortations about fighting back hard because she loved him and needed him in her life … about how he had to hang in there because life — in spite of all of its pain and suffering — is always worth clinging to. But she was afraid if she opened her mouth now, she would scream at him that he had to accept that his time had come.
“It … it’s all right to let go now, Dad,” she said in a forced whisper into the cup of his ear. Strands of white hair like wire protruded from the inside of his ear. “You’ve lived a good, long life. You’ve been a loving, caring husband and father. You worked hard your whole life, and you provided well for you family. You done good.”
Wracked by a wave of guilt and grief, Julia let go of his hand and leaned back in her chair. Her throat filled with a sour taste that almost made her gag as she cried.
“Please, Dad … Please … Let go. It’s all right to let go.”
She wanted to say more. She wanted to tell him that as painful as it was for him to lose his life and for her to lose him, it would be much worse if he clung to it too hard now. If he let go, he would be freed from a life that honestly might not be worth living … and it would most certainly deliver her from weeks or months or years of taking care of him while she put the remainder of her life on hold.
It was a selfish thought, she knew, but it was there nonetheless.
Filled with misery, she let her gaze shift around the hospital room, but her eyes kept coming back to rest on the array of plugs in the wall outlets and the surge protector that rested on the floor next to the bed.
She shivered when a terrible thought occurred to her.
The doctors hadn’t discussed with her whether or not she wanted to take him off life support. She assumed it wasn’t time yet. They had to observe and test his reactions — or lack thereof — before they made a final determination.
But what if she did it?
What if she pulled the plug?
“No! … God Almighty! … Stop it!”
She covered her face with both hands and sobbed, ashamed and horrified that she would ever think such thoughts.
“You all right there?”
The voice, speaking suddenly behind her, startled her, and she jumped and looked around to see a nurse, standing in the doorway.
“I’m sorry … I didn’t hear you come in,” Julia said, flustered and concerned that the woman might have heard her speaking and divined what she had been considering.
The nurse — the nametag above the pocket on her floral hospital smock read JOYCE BARNES — moved closer to the bed. She was young — probably in her late twenties or early thirties. Her face and lips were thin and pale, but her smile was genuine. Julia thought the woman could use a little makeup. She looked as though she didn’t get to see much sunlight, maybe because of working such long hours.
“Do you think … Can they hear us?” Julia asked, indicating her father with a solemn nod of her head.
Joyce shrugged.
“I dunno,” she said. “Different people have different ideas, but I’m pretty sure they can.”
“Really?”
Joyce nodded.
“But when I talk to him … when I say things that I know would get a reaction from him, there’s … nothing. His breathing doesn’t change, and none of the monitors flicker or anything.”
Joyce came over to the side of the bed opposite Julia and, folding her arms across her ample chest, looked down at Frank Capozza. Her face was lit with a beatific smile. Julia thought if her father opened his eyes right now, he might think she was an angel come to take him to Heaven.
And that wouldn’t be such a bad thing, would it?
“Whether or not they can hear us,” Joyce said, “I think it’s nice to say positive things so they maybe can hear our voices and know someone who loves ’em is right here with ’em. I think it helps get them through.”
A blade of guilt slid between Julia’s ribs when she thought that here she was thinking — and telling — her father that it was time for him to leave … time for him to die.
Why can’t I think only positive, loving thoughts? she wondered, but she knew the answer — Because she was only human.
Joyce did what she had to do, recording the vitals and making sure
her patient was comfortable. Then she turned to leave. Before she went out the door, though, she looked back at Julia with concern and compassion in her eyes.
“You’ve been here quite a while,” she said. “If you need a break or something … I’m sure nothing’s gonna happen if you take a little time for yourself.”
“I’m all right,” Julia said without even considering the suggestion. She felt duty-bound to stay right where she was … maybe not until the dire end, if that was coming sooner rather than later, but certainly until she got some more answers and a better understanding of what might happen.
“Can I get you some coffee or tea, then … maybe some water?”
“Water would be nice,” Julia replied, realizing how dry her throat was, probably from the air-conditioning.
Joyce nodded and left the room, closing the door quietly behind her. Once again, Julia was left alone with her thoughts and her fears. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes so tightly they squeezed out thin trickles of tears as she leaned close to him and whispered, “Let go or stay, Dad. It’s okay … I love you no matter what.”
“This is complete and total bullshit,” Ben said. “There’s no goddamned reason why we have to do this.”
“Yeah there is,” Pete said. “Pops puked all over the living room and passed out on the sofa, and if we don’t do this, The Crowbar will have his ass in a fuckin’ sling. ’Sides, it was your idea, as I recall.”
In the wheelhouse, Pete was busily preparing to start up the Abby-Rose. He all but ignored Ben, who was sure Pete could hear him even above all of his slamming and banging around. His brother’s silence only served to make him all the angrier. He was tempted to haul off and punch him if only to get his attention.
Pete busied himself fiddling with the boat’s electronics, but all he was getting was a wash of static. The GPS screen was still dead.
“Fuckin’ piece of shit,” Pete kept muttering to himself as he twisted more dials but got no better results. Finally, he shut the system off and said, “We’ll have to wing it … Do it old school.”
The Cove Page 32
