Now I open his contacts and search for Leon Broussard. When I find him, my finger hovers over the call icon.
It’s a holiday. No doubt Broussard is taking time off. Still, it won’t hurt to leave a message.
To my surprise, however, Broussard picks up on the third ring.
“I didn’t expect you to be working today,” I blurt. Then, “Sorry. What I meant to say is happy New Year, sir.”
“Same to you.” His tone is curt. “Whoever you are.”
“Oh.” I flush. “Right. This is Maggie Carter.” And then, like a penitent to a confessor, I launch into the story of finding Cash bleeding and unconscious, stumbling over my words in my rush to get them out. I finish with, “And Dr. Beckett said when Cash came to, he accused his father of being the one to attack him. But Rick’s in jail, isn’t he?”
“He made bail last night,” Broussard says.
I blink. Then I blink some more. The cogs in my brain are grinding without the oil of sleep. Finally, I manage, “What?”
“Richard Armstrong got out on bail last night. Are you telling me the first thing he did was attack his son?”
“I—” For some reason, the words strangle in my throat. “I don’t know. The doctor told me people who’ve suffered the kind of injury Cash has can get confused. Maybe he thinks it was his dad since anytime he was hurt before, it was Rick’s fault.”
“You said Cash is being transferred to the VA hospital on Canal Street?”
I nod and then realize he can’t see me. Stupid rusty brain cogs. “Yes.”
“I’ll meet you there in an hour.”
He signs off without so much as a by-your-leave, and I pull the phone away from my face, staring down at it blankly. I try to corral my thoughts, but they’re like the wild boars of the bayou. Whenever I get close to one, it squeals and runs off.
Then a little red circle with a one in the middle appears above Cash’s envelope icon.
He has a new email.
Okay, so here’s the deal. I know I shouldn’t press that icon and read his mail. For one thing, it’s private. For another thing, it might be illegal. And finally, I figure I’ve crossed enough lines already by confiscating his phone and changing the security settings.
But—there’s always a but, isn’t there?—what if it’s important? What if it’s something to do with his house or his VA insurance, or I don’t know…what if it’s something important?
Cash doesn’t have anyone but me and Luc. And with Luc in jail, that leaves me to see to his affairs while he’s incapacitated, right? Right?
Before I can think too long about my actions, I open the email. The minute I see who the sender is, my heart starts racing. As I read, the words fill up my chest until I’m unable to breathe.
From: Dr. Sean Stevens, Neurology, Johns Hopkins
To: Cassius Armstrong
Subject: In regard to my email from yesterday
Dear Sergeant Armstrong,
I wanted to write and express my deepest sympathy for your diagnosis and apologize that the news I sent yesterday wasn’t more promising. I’ve always been a great believer in the power of science, and new breakthroughs are happening as we speak. Even an old pragmatist like myself knows there’s always reason to hope.
Thank you for allowing me to review your case. I’m terribly sorry I couldn’t be of more help.
Kind regards,
Dr. Sean Stevens, MS, MRCS, ABNS
I stare at the email until the words have burned out my retinas and branded themselves into my brain. What is that noise? That low, pitiful sound?
Oh. Yeah. It’s me.
If someone had plunged a knife into my chest, it wouldn’t hurt nearly as much as the futility and finality the doctor’s words. All the hope I’ve been keeping locked up tight in the storehouse of my heart turns combustible and explodes outward. Hot tears gather in my eyes and blur the phone’s screen.
It’s done. It’s over. Cash is doomed to a life of unspeakable pain. And it’ll be anyone’s guess if that does him in before the booze.
I let my head fall back, strangling the sobs in the back of my throat and—
Wait.
The email referenced a previous message. What did that say? Maybe there’s some explanation in there. Some clue why there’s nothing to be done.
Figuring I’ve already committed the cardinal sin of snooping through his private correspondence once, I don’t hesitate to click on his email account again and go searching through his previous messages. When I don’t find what I’m looking for, I open his trash can and then junk email folder, but…nothing.
Dang it!
He deleted it. Probably, I realize with no small measure of remorse, because it was so disheartening he never wanted to read it again.
I did that myself once. His Dear Jane letter went into the fire pit in Aunt Bea’s backyard, along with my prom dress. Sometimes getting rid of the thing that hurts you, destroying it entirely, is the only way you know how to deal.
Slumping dejectedly, I stare out the window again. The world outside looks gray and bleak. It matches the interior of my heart.
And then a new thought occurs, and I straighten.
He received the neurosurgeon’s email yesterday, presumably before Aunt Bea’s New Year’s Eve party. Was that why he was acting out? Why he took Scarlet home? To try to turn me off him for good because that email said there was no hope?
Chapter Sixty-nine
______________________________________
Cash
Ever notice how, in life, it either feels like nothing at all is happening, or it’s all happening at once?
As I stare at the acoustic tiles of the ceiling above my hospital bed, it’s almost impossible to sort through the cascade of events that have occurred over the past twenty-four hours, or make sense of any of them and what they’ll mean for the future. Then again, maybe it’s the headache that’s keeping me from putting it in perspective.
Nope. Scratch that.
This isn’t a headache. I know a headache. I’ve lived with a headache for months. This is a red-hot ball of agony that makes me squeeze my eyes shut and clench my jaw around the need to scream.
The doctors, the sadistic bastards, refuse to give me narcotics. Something about clouding my mental acuity and making it difficult to do reliable neurological examinations. Never mind that with pain this bad, my mental acuity has gone straight down the shit shoot.
At some point—time is wonky for me, so it could’ve been two minutes ago or two hours ago—a nurse came in and offered me a couple of acetaminophen pills.
“You’re joking, right?” I asked the young man in the mint-green scrubs. But all he did was smile and hand me a glass of water.
Took the damn pills, but I was right. They are a joke. And I would love nothing better than to know where my flask is. Because—oh happy day!—on top of the head wound and the headache, I’m sweating like a whore in church, and my hands won’t stop shaking.
It’s been almost eighteen hours since I spent any quality time with my dear friend Gentleman Jack. My body is doing a damn fine job of letting me know it doesn’t approve of the situation.
“We’ll have your father picked up and put behind bars.” Broussard’s voice cuts into my misery.
After being transferred from Tulane Medical Center to the VA hospital, I gave my statement to two cops while battling the urge to jump out the window to escape the pain. Once they left, I listened in stunned silence while Maggie recounted the tale of Sullivan’s death at Luc’s hands, her realization that she hadn’t killed Dean—I’m still fuzzy about why she ever thought she had—her night spent at the police station, Luc’s continued incarceration, and her finding me unconscious and bloody on the floor of my living room. And now Broussard is here to hear my take on what transpired to put me in this hospital bed.
I do my best to pay attention to what he’s saying, but it’s too hard with the devil himself doing a steel-toed tap dance in my head. Plus, that
damned ear buzz is back. Only now, instead of sounding like a hungry mosquito, it’s more like I’ve stuck my head inside a wood chipper.
Think I get the gist of what Broussard is saying, however. Something along the lines of revoking my sperm donor’s bail and keeping him locked up nice and tight until his trial.
Sounds about right to me.
“You want to press charges?” Broussard asks.
I open my eyes to find he’s moved from the foot of the bed to stand next to my shoulder. “Will it matter?” I ask, every word a misery. “I mean, considering all the other stuff you’re already looking to get him indicted for?”
Broussard shrugs. “Depends. You got any proof you weren’t the one to start the fight? Security footage or something? In situations like these, with no witnesses and with both of you bruised and bloody, it comes down to a case of he said/he said, and those are damned difficult to litigate.”
“Then forget it.” I close my eyes again. The overhead light is killing me. “Focus on what you know you can make stick.”
“Right. Okay, then.”
Bursts of color swirl and congeal behind my eyelids. I concentrate on naming their shades, anything to take my mind off the pain and—
“Cash?” Maggie’s voice pulls my eyelids open. I blink when I find Broussard long gone.
Must’ve dozed off—or blacked out—for a bit. Hard to tell one from the other right now.
It hurts to turn my head, but I do it so I can get a good look at her. As far as I can recall, she hasn’t left my side since they wheeled me into this room. And after what she saw me doing with Scarlet last night, her unflagging loyalty is a particular punch to the gut.
Of all the things I wish I could forget, that sorry scene after the New Year’s Eve party ranks number one. When I think back to the look on her face, it’s like I have a glowing hunk of coal lodged under my heart. It burns so bad I can barely breathe.
And yet, here she is. My beautiful, steadfast, steel magnolia of a woman.
That’s the thing, though, right? She’s not mine. And by all rights, she never should have been.
My vision isn’t so screwed up I can’t see the heavy bags under her eyes or the rat’s nest that is her hair. When she puts a hand on my arm, I know she’s been nervously picking at a hangnail on her thumb. It’s formed a tiny scab.
“Is there anything I can get you?” She’s careful to keep her voice barely above a whisper. “Another blanket? Some water?”
“Go home and get some sleep, Maggie. You look like hell warmed over.”
I can’t tell if she laughs or sobs. “You’re one to talk.”
Lifting a hand, I touch the bandage wrapped around my head. But when I see I’m trembling like…well, like a drunk who’s been too long between drinks, I fist my fingers and let my arm fall back to the hospital bed.
“I’m serious,” I tell her. “Go get some sleep so you can visit Luc first thing tomorrow. He needs you more than I do.”
Because he’s in jail.
Because he killed George Sullivan.
George Sullivan is dead.
I have to force my mind to focus on the thoughts. Otherwise, they don’t seem real. They seem like a dream.
Or a nightmare.
“You need me too, Cash.” She wraps her arms around my neck, and it’s then that I realize a hug is exactly what I’ve been missing.
For one glorious second, I forget my pain and concentrate on the feel of her pressed against me. She’s warm and soft, and if my mind were up to snuff, I know I’d be inundated with a hundred beautiful memories of the times she let me hold her. Let me touch her. Let me teach her.
When she pulls away, I feel steadier and shakier at the same time. Then a flicker of…something passes over her face.
“What is it?” I frown.
She chews her bottom lip and glances out the window. At some point when I wasn’t looking, day turned into night. But the setting of the sun didn’t stop the rain. It lashes against the glass like it’s trying to beat its way inside. Its fury seems to match the chaos in my head.
When she finally looks down at me, there are shadows in her eyes. “I dropped my cell phone last night on my way home, and it got stomped on and broken.”
I blink uncomprehendingly, going over each word. I can’t have heard her correctly. Given the overwhelming clusterfuck of things we’re dealing with right now, a busted cell phone falls directly into the Who Gives a Shit? category.
“Huh?” It isn’t the most eloquent answer, but…
“So I’ve been using yours.” She twists her hands together before going back to picking at that hangnail.
I grab her hand to keep her from more self-mutilation. “Okay? So?”
“So I saw an email from that neurosurgeon at Johns Hopkins.”
A muscle in my cheek twitches. But other than that, I do a damn good job of hiding my alarm. I deleted that email, didn’t I? Erased it from my phone and the cloud and everywhere else?
With more control than I thought myself capable of, I calmly ask, “May I see my phone?”
She nods briskly and pulls my cell from her back pocket. I thumb on the screen and frown when it doesn’t automatically unlock. Is the bandage around my head interfering with—
“Oh, sorry.” She snatches the device and holds it up to her face. Her expression is one of chagrin when she hands it back to me, unlocked. “I didn’t know how long you were going to be out, and I needed a way to communicate, so I redid your security settings. But I can help you change them back.”
I don’t say anything, simply open my email and read the short missive from Dr. Stevens. I breathe a sigh of relief and offer my phone back to her. “It’s okay. You can keep it until you get a replacement. But…do me a favor, okay?”
She nods with unnecessary force. “Anything.”
“Don’t read any more of my emails.”
Pink floods her cheeks, contrasting prettily with her eyes. “Scout’s honor.” She holds up three fingers.
Since Maggie is a woman of her word, I settle back into the pillows, secure in the knowledge I can trust her.
“What did the other email say?” she asks quietly.
I snort, then immediately regret it when my head threatens to explode. “Didn’t you just promise to stop snooping?”
“Asking isn’t snooping.”
“That’s a matter of semantics.” When I see she’s not going to get going until I answer her, I admit, “It said my condition is inoperable. It said he can’t help me.”
All truth. It said some other stuff, too, but I’m keeping that to myself.
Her eyes are overly bright as she stares down at me.
What does she see? A man much reduced, thanks to constant pain, ill health, and too much booze? A man who takes home half-in-the-bag redheads and shags them up against a wall? Or does she still see the boy she fell in love with?
I get my answer when she asks, “Is that why you were acting that way last night? Why you took Scarlet home? Because you wanted me to give up on you, on us, once and for all? Because you wanted to prove there’s no hope?”
I close my eyes so my expression won’t give me away. When I have myself in hand, I open them again and fix her with a penetrating stare. Or as penetrating as I can make it what with the excruciating pain in my head. “We’ve gone over this, Maggie. My taking Scarlet home had nothing to do with you, because, if you’ll recall, I told you to give up on us long before last night. That email from the sawbones at Johns Hopkins didn’t say a damned thing I didn’t already know.”
And yet there’d been a part of me—at the small, secret heart of me—that had wondered if…maybe…
She slants me a thoughtful look. “Why don’t I believe you?”
“Because you’re the most stubborn woman I’ve ever met. And because you’re so intent on staying stuck in the past that you refuse to see what’s right in front of you in the present.”
My comment is edged in bitterness, and the l
ook on her face becomes as stark as the blood in the dirt that day the suicide bomber set off his explosives.
“Go home, Maggie,” I say again, more tired than I’ve ever been before. “Luc needs you; I don’t. Go home and forget—”
My sentence hangs unfinished. The part I can’t make myself say is soon swallowed up by the silence of the room after she whispers goodbye and turns to leave.
Chapter Seventy
______________________________________
Maggie
If you don’t disturb muddy water, if you just let it be, it will eventually settle and come clear.
That’s how I’m going to handle my crazy, conflicting feelings for Luc and Cash. Stay still. Don’t disturb the water. Hope things come clear.
Of course, the first step in making that happen is letting Luc know that’s the plan.
The prospect fills me with dread. I don’t want to hurt him. But I don’t want to hurt Cash either. And I’m beginning to feel like I can’t have both of those things at the same time.
Unless, of course, Luc agrees with me. He was the one to tell me I should behave in a way that means I never have to say I’m sorry. So he’ll understand, right? Right?
Yesterday afternoon, around the time Cash was being transferred to the VA hospital, Luc was charged and taken to Orleans Parish Prison to await his arraignment. This morning, I tagged along with Abelman for a visit.
Now I’m sitting across from Luc at a bulky plastic table that’s a weird blue color and bolted to the floor in a room full of a dozen other weird blue tables. There are vending machines in the corner, and a guard stands by the door.
Volume Three: In Moonlight and Memories, #3 Page 5
