by Nora Roberts
“Maybe you could tell her that.” Deborah passed the second cup to Althea. “Maybe that’s what she needs to hear.”
It wasn’t easy to approach Cilla. They hadn’t spoken since they had come to the waiting room. In some strange way, Althea realized, they were rivals. They both loved the same man. In different ways, perhaps, and certainly on different levels, but the emotions were deep on both sides. It occurred to her that if there had been no emotion on Cilla’s part, there would have been no resentment on hers. If she had remained an assignment, and only an assignment, Althea would never have felt the need to cast blame.
It seemed Boyd had not been the only one to lose his objectivity.
She stopped beside Cilla, stared at the same view of the dark studded with city lights. “Coffee?”
“Thanks.” Cilla accepted the cup but didn’t drink. “They’re taking a long time.”
“It shouldn’t be much longer.”
Cilla drew in a breath and her courage. “You saw the wound. Do you think he’ll make it?”
I don’t know. She almost said it. They both knew she’d thought it. “I’m counting on it.”
“You told me once he was a good man. You were right. For a long time I was afraid to see that, but you were right.” She turned to face Althea directly. “I don’t expect you to believe me, but I would have done anything to keep him from being hurt.”
“I do believe you. And you did what you could.” Before Cilla could turn away again, Althea put a hand on her arm. “Opening your mike may have saved his life. I want you to think about that. With a wound as serious as Boyd’s, every second counted. With the broadcast, you gave us a fix on the situation, so there was an ambulance on the scene almost as quickly as we were. If Boyd makes it, it’s partially due to your presence of mind. I want you to think about that.”
“Billy only went after him because of me. I have to think about that, as well.”
“You’re trying to logic out an irrational situation. It won’t work.” The sympathy vanished from her voice. “If you want to start passing out blame, how about John McGillis? It was his fantasy that lit the fuse. How about the system that allowed someone like Billy Lomus to bounce from foster home to foster home so that he never knew what it was like to feel loved or wanted by anyone but a young, troubled boy? You could blame Mark for not checking Billy’s references closely enough. Or Boyd and me for not making the connection quicker. There’s plenty of blame to pass around, Cilla. We’re all just going to have to live with our share.”
“It doesn’t really matter, does it? No matter who’s at fault, it’s still Boyd’s life on the line.”
“Detective Grayson?”
Althea snapped to attention. The doctor who entered was still in surgical greens damped down the front with sweat. She tried to judge his eyes first. They were a clear and quiet gray and told her nothing.
“I’m Grayson.”
His brow lifted slightly. It wasn’t often you met a police detective who looked as though she belonged on the cover of Vogue. “Dr. Winthrop, chief of surgery.”
“You operated on Boyd, Boyd Fletcher?”
“That’s right. He’s your partner?”
“Yes.” Without conscious thought on either side, Althea and Cilla clasped hands. “Can you tell us how he is?”
“I can tell you he’s a lucky man,” Winthrop said. “If the knife had gone a few inches either way, he wouldn’t have had a chance. As it is, he’s still critical, but the prognosis is good.”
“He’s alive.” Cilla finally managed to force the words out.
“Yes.” Winthrop turned to her. “I’m sorry, are you a relative?”
“No, I … No.”
“Miss O’Roarke is the first person Boyd will want to see when he wakes up.” Althea gave Cilla’s hand a quick squeeze. “His family’s been notified, but they were in Europe and won’t be here for several hours yet.”
“I see. He’ll be done in Recovery shortly. Then we’ll transfer him to ICU. O’Roarke,” he said suddenly. “Of course. My son’s a big fan.” He lifted her bandaged hand gently. “I’ve already heard the story. If you were my patient, you’d be sedated and in bed.”
“I’m fine.”
Frowning, he studied her pupils. “To put it in unprofessional terms, not by a long shot.” His gaze skimmed down the long scratch on her throat. “You’ve had a bad shock, Miss O’Roarke. Is there someone who can drive you home?”
“I’m not going home until I see Boyd.”
“Five minutes, once he’s settled in ICU. Only five. I can guarantee he won’t be awake for at least eight hours.”
“Thank you.” If he thought she would settle for five minutes, he was very much mistaken.
“Someone will come by to let you know when you can go down.” He walked out rubbing the small of his back and thinking about a hot meal.
“I need to call the captain.” It infuriated Althea that she was close to tears. “I’d appreciate it if you’d come back for me after you’ve seen him. I’d like a moment with him myself.”
“Yes, of course. Thea.” Letting her emotions rule, Cilla wrapped her arms around Althea. The tears didn’t seem to matter. Nor did pride. They clung together and held on to hope. They didn’t speak. They didn’t have to. When they separated, Althea walked away to call her captain. Cilla turned blindly to the window.
“He’s going to be okay,” Deborah murmured beside her.
“I know.” She closed her eyes. She did know. The dull edge of fear was gone. “I just need to see him, Deb. I need to see him for myself.”
“Have you told him you love him?”
She shook her head.
“Now might be a good time.”
“I was afraid I wouldn’t get the chance, and now … I don’t know.”
“Only a fool would turn her back on something so special.”
“Or a coward.” Cilla pressed her fingers to her lips. “Tonight, all night, I’ve been half out of my mind thinking he might die. Line of duty.” She turned to face her sister. “In the line of duty, Deborah. If I let myself go, if I don’t turn my back, how many other times might I stand here wondering if he’ll live or die?”
“Cilla—”
“Or open the door one day and have his captain standing there, waiting to tell me that he was already gone, the way Mom’s captain came to the door that day.”
“You can’t live your life waiting for the worst, Cilla. You have to live it hoping for the best.”
“I’m not sure I can.” Weary, she dragged her hands through her hair. “I’m not sure of anything right now except that he’s alive.”
“Miss O’Roarke?” Both Cilla and Deborah turned toward the nurse. “Dr. Winthrop said to bring you to ICU.”
“Thank you.”
Her heart hammered in her ears as she followed the nurse toward the corridor. Her mouth was dry, and her palms were damp. She tried to ignore the machines and monitors as they passed through the double doors into Intensive Care. She wanted to concentrate on Boyd.
He was still so white. His face was as colorless as the sheet that covered him. The machines blipped and hummed. A good sound, she tried to tell herself. It meant he was alive. Only resting.
Tentatively she reached out to brush at his hair. It was so warm and soft. As was his skin when she traced the back of her knuckles over his cheek.
“It’s all over now,” she said quietly. “All you have to do is rest and get better.” Desperate for the contact, she took his limp hand in hers, then pressed it to her lips. “I’m going to stay as close as they’ll let me. I promise.” It wasn’t enough, not nearly enough. She brushed her lips over his hair, his cheek, his mouth. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”
She kept her word. Despite Deborah’s arguments, she spent the rest of the night on the couch in the waiting room. Every hour they allowed her five minutes with him. Every hour she woke and took what she was given.
He didn’t stir.
; Dawn broke, shedding pale, rosy light through the window. The shifts changed. Cilla sipped coffee and watched the night staff leave for home. New sounds began. The clatter of the rolling tray as breakfast was served. Bright morning voices replaced the hushed tones of night. Checking her watch, she set the coffee aside and walked out to sit on a bench near the doors of ICU. It was almost time for her hourly visit.
While she waited to be cleared, a group of three hurried down the hall. The man was tall, with a shock of gray hair and a lean, almost cadaverous face. Beside him was a trim woman, her blond hair ruffled, her suit wrinkled. They were clutching hands. Walking with them was another woman. The daughter, Cilla thought with dazed weariness. She had her father’s build and her mother’s face.
There was panic in her eyes. Even through the fatigue Cilla saw it and recognized it. Beautiful eyes. Dark green, just like … Boyd’s.
“Boyd Fletcher,” the younger woman said to the nurse. “We’re his family. They told us we could see him.”
The nurse checked her list. “I’ll take you. Only two at a time, please.”
“You go.” Boyd’s sister turned to her parents. “I’ll wait right here.”
Cilla wanted to speak, but as the woman sat on the opposite end of the bench she could only sit, clutching her hands together.
What could she say to them? To any of them? Even as she searched for words, Boyd’s sister leaned back against the wall and shut her eyes.
Ten minutes later, the Fletchers came out again. There were lines of strain around the woman’s eyes, but they were dry. Her hand was still gripping her husband’s.
“Natalie.” She touched her daughter’s shoulder. “He’s awake. Groggy, but awake. He recognized us.” She beamed a smile at her husband. “He wanted to know what the hell we were doing here when we were supposed to be in Paris.” Her eyes filled then, and she groped impatiently for a handkerchief. “The doctor’s looking at him now, but you can see him in a few minutes.”
Natalie slipped an arm around her mother’s waist, then her father’s. “So what were we worried about?”
“I still want to know exactly what happened.” Boyd’s father shot a grim look at the double doors. “Boyd’s captain has some explaining to do.”
“We’ll get the whole story,” his wife said soothingly. “Let’s just take a few minutes to be grateful it wasn’t worse.” She dropped the handkerchief back in her purse. “When he was coming around, he asked for someone named Cilla. That’s not his partner’s name. I don’t believe we know a Cilla.”
Though her legs had turned to jelly, Cilla rose. “I’m Cilla.” Three pairs of eyes fixed on her. “I’m sorry,” she managed. “Boyd was … he was hurt because … he was protecting me. I’m sorry,” she said again.
“Excuse me.” The nurse stood by the double doors again. “Detective Fletcher insists on seeing you, Miss O’Roarke. He’s becoming agitated.”
“I’ll go with you.” Taking charge, Natalie steered Cilla through the doors.
Boyd’s eyes were closed again, but he wasn’t asleep. He was concentrating on reviving the strength he’d lost in arguing with the doctor. But he knew the moment she entered the room, even before she laid a tentative hand on his. He opened his eyes and looked at her.
“Hi, Slick.” She made herself smile. “How’s it going?”
“You’re okay.” He hadn’t been sure. The last clear memory was of Billy holding the knife and Cilla struggling.
“I’m fine.” Deliberately she put her bandaged hand behind her back. Natalie noted the gesture with a frown. “You’re the one hooked up to machines.” Though her voice was brisk, the hand that brushed over his cheek was infinitely tender. “I’ve seen you looking better, Fletcher.”
He linked his fingers with hers. “I’ve felt better.”
“You saved my life.” She struggled to keep it light, keep it easy. “I guess I owe you.”
“Damn right.” He wanted to touch her, but his arms felt like lead. “When are you going to pay up?”
“We’ll talk about it. Your sister’s here.” She glanced across the bed at Natalie.
Natalie leaned down and pressed a kiss to his brow. “You jerk.”
“It’s nice to see you, too.”
“You just couldn’t be a pushy, uncomplicated business shark, could you?”
“No.” He smiled and nearly floated off again. “But you make a great one. Try to keep them from worrying.”
She sighed a little as she thought of their parents. “You don’t ask for much.”
“I’m doing okay. Just keep telling them that. You met Cilla.”
Natalie’s gaze skimmed up, measuring. “Yes, we met. Just now.”
“Make her get the hell out of here.” Natalie saw the shocked hurt in Cilla’s eyes, saw her fingers tighten convulsively on the bedguard.
“She doesn’t have to make me go.” With her last scrap of pride, she lifted her chin. “If you don’t want me around, I’ll—”
“Don’t be stupid,” Boyd said in that mild, slightly irritated voice that made her want to weep. He looked back at his sister. “She’s dead on her feet. Last night was rough. She’s too stubborn to admit it, but she needs to go home and get some sleep.”
“Ungrateful slob,” Cilla managed. “Do you think you can order me around even when you’re flat on your back?”
“Yeah. Give me a kiss.”
“If I didn’t feel sorry for you, I’d make you beg.” She leaned close to touch her lips to his. At the moment of contact she realized with a new panic that she was going to break down. “Since you want me to clear out, I will. I’ve got a show to prep for.”
“Hey, O’Roarke.”
She got enough of a grip on control to look over her shoulder. “Yes?”
“Come back soon.”
“Well, well …” Natalie murmured as Cilla hurried away.
“Well, well …” her brother echoed. He simply could not keep his eyes open another moment. “She’s terrific, isn’t she?”
“I suppose she must be.”
“As soon as I can stay awake for more than an hour at a time, I’m going to marry her.”
“I see. Maybe you should wait until you can actually stand up for an hour at a time.”
“I’ll think about it. Nat.” He found her hand again. “It is good to see you.”
“You bet,” she said as he fell asleep.
Cilla was almost running when she hit the double doors. She didn’t pause, not even when Boyd’s parents both rose from the bench. As her breath hitched and her eyes filled, she hurried down the hall and stumbled into the ladies’ room.
Natalie found her there ten minutes later, curled up in a corner, sobbing wretchedly. Saying nothing, Natalie pulled out a handful of paper towels. She dampened a few, then walked over to crouch in front of Cilla.
“Here you go.”
“I hate to do this,” Cilla said between sobbing breaths.
“Me too.” Natalie wiped her own eyes, and then, without a thought to her seven-hundred-dollar suit, sat on the floor. “The doctor said they’d probably move him to a regular room by tomorrow. They’re hoping to downgrade his condition from critical to serious by this afternoon.”
“That’s good.” Cilla covered her face with the cool, wet towel. “Don’t tell him I cried.”
“All right.”
There was silence between them as each worked on control.
“I guess you’d like to know everything that happened,” Cilla said at length.
“Yes, but it can wait. I think Boyd had a point when he told you to go home and get some sleep.”
With very little effort she could have stretched out on the cool tile floor and winked out like a light. “Maybe.”
“I’ll give you a lift.”
“No, thanks. I’ll call a cab.”
“I’ll give you a lift,” Natalie repeated, and rose.
Lowering the towel, Cilla studied her. “You’re a lot like him, aren’t you?�
��
“So they say.” Natalie offered a hand to help Cilla to her feet. “Boyd told me you’re getting married.”
“So he says.”
For the first time in hours, Natalie laughed. “We really will have to talk.”
***
She all but lived in the hospital for the next week. Boyd was rarely alone. Though it might have frustrated him from time to time that he barely had a moment for a private word with her, Cilla was grateful.
His room was always filled with friends, with family, with associates. As the days passed and his condition improved, she cut her visits shorter and kept them farther apart.
They both needed the distance. That was how she rationalized it. They both needed time for clear thinking. If she was to put the past—both the distant past and the near past—behind her, she needed to do it on her own.
It was Thea who filled her in on Billy Lomus. In his troubled childhood, the only bright spot had been John McGillis. As fate would have it, they had fed on each other’s weaknesses. John’s first suicide attempt had occurred two months after Billy left for Vietnam. He’d been barely ten years old.
When Billy had returned, bitter and wounded, John had run away to join him. Though the authorities had separated them, they had always managed to find each other again. John’s death had driven Billy over the fine line of reason he had walked.
“Delayed stress syndrome,” Althea said as they stood together in the hospital parking lot. “Paranoid psychosis. Obsessive love. It doesn’t really matter what label you put on it.”
“Over these past couple of weeks, I’ve asked myself dozens of times if there was anything I could have done differently with John McGillis.” She took in a deep breath of the early spring air. “And there wasn’t. I can’t tell you what a relief it is to finally be sure of that.”
“Then you can put it behind you.”
“Yes. It’s not something I can forget, but I can put it behind me. Before I do, I’d like to thank you for everything you did, and tried to do.”
“It was my job,” Althea said simply. “We weren’t friends then. I think maybe we nearly are now.”
Cilla laughed. “Nearly.”
“So, as someone who’s nearly your friend, there’s something I’d like to say.”
“Okay.”
“I’ve been watching you and Boyd since the beginning. Observation’s also part of the job.” Her eyes, clear and brown and direct, met Cilla’s. “I still haven’t decided if I think you’re good for Boyd. It’s not really my call, but I like to form an opinion.”
Cilla looked out beyond the parking lot to a patch of green. The daffodils were blooming there, beautifully. “Thea, you’re not telling me anything I don’t already know.”
“My point is, Boyd thinks you’re good for him. That’s enough for me. I guess the only thing you’ve got to decide now is if he’s good for you.”
“He thinks he is,” she murmured.
“I’ve noticed.” In an abrupt change of mood, Althea looked toward the hospital. “I heard he was getting out in a couple of days.”
“That’s the rumor.”
“You’ve already been up, I take it.”
“For a few minutes. His sister’s there, and a couple of cops. They brought in a flower arrangement shaped like a horseshoe. The card read ‘Tough break, Lucky.’ They tried to tell him they’d confiscated it from some gangster’s funeral.”
“Wouldn’t surprise me. Funny thing about cops. They usually have a sense of humor, just like real people.” She gave Cilla an easy smile. “I’m going to go up. Should I tell him I ran into you and you’re coming back later?”
“No. Not this time. Just—just tell him to listen to the radio. I’ll see if I can dig up ‘Dueling Banjos.’”
