Up in Smoke (36 page)

The gray suit continued to read. “He is still in surgery at this time, where the surgeon is repairing the damage to his chest. Medical personnel will be with you shortly to answer all your questions. Thank you.” He left with questions hurled at his fleeing back.

Hadley Cane came in. The room went still with everyone focused on her face trying to decipher her news from her appearance. All Sean could read was that Hadley was pale and her eyes were slightly red and puffy as though she'd been crying, but she had herself under control now. As Garrett's press secretary, she'd faced this bunch, or one like it, many times, but never under these circumstances and she was nervous, but she pulled in a breath and held her chin up.
Atta girl,
Sean thought.

“Governor Garrett is still alive, still in surgery. I'm not a physician, but I'm told everything is going well. The woman who tried to kill him, as you all know, shot herself and was pronounced dead on arrival at this hospital. At this time we know nothing about her, who she is, or why she shot the Governor.”

“When will you know anything?”

“I can't answer that question. And before anybody asks anything else, there's nothing more I can tell you about her.”

“How much longer will he be in surgery?”

“Nobody seems able to answer that question with anything but an estimate. I'm told it'll be maybe another two hours.”

“Is he expected to live?”

“The governor is young, in good health and good physical condition. His chances of surviving are very good.”

“How long was he without oxygen?” Ty asked.

“Due to the immediate response of the highway patrol, the quick arrival of the paramedics and the expert medical skill of the emergency room staff, a relatively short time.”

“What about brain damage?”

“Since the time he wasn't breathing was so brief, there is every possibility that the governor's mental functioning is every bit as good as always.”

Sean could see that she was holding herself tight, straining to be professional in the onslaught of emotions trying to take over.

“If he survives, will he continue to run?”

She pressed her lips together, probably to prevent a sharp reply. “That's a question that hasn't yet been addressed. Priority here is to save his life. Whether he'll continue is up to the governor. That's it for now. There'll be another update on his condition in an hour. Thank you.”

Questions were tossed at her as she walked out.

40

By the time he was free, it was so late, Demarco thought the kid would be sleeping the sleep of the just and sedated. He was tired enough, he ought to just go home and crash instead of hitting the hospital, but hell, he'd told her he'd be back. He always kept a promise, anyway he'd never rest easy until he'd seen her. A few minutes wouldn't hurt, make sure the guard was doing his job, see she was all right, maybe sit with her a bit. He wouldn't wake her.

The guard sent Demarco a look when he came in and Demarco had the uneasy feeling the jerk hadn't stayed at his post. Her room was dark except for the glow of the computer screen which gave off enough light to see her sleeping form.

“Hey, kid,” he said softly in case she was pretending.

She didn't move. Her pillow was on the floor, the sheets were twisted. He picked up the pillow, dropped it on the foot of the bed and sat down, just to be with her a few minutes. She must have been exhausted, poor kid, she didn't even stir. Stretching his legs out, he put his head against the chair back and closed his eyes. This time of night the hospital was quiet, no daytime hustle and bustle; a nurse walked down the corridor to check on a patient, then spoke to another nurse in soft tones.

Almost immediately, he realized the lack of movement and sound from the bed. No rustling of sheets, no noises of breathing. Nothing but stillness. He touched her hand. Cool. He placed fingertips against her wrist, then just under her jaw, couldn't find a pulse. He yelled at the guard, “Get a doctor in here! Now!”

He started CPR. The room exploded with activity. The crash cart came careening through the door. Nurses and physicians crowded in. One tried to take over the CPR. Demarco shoved her away and kept pushing on the kid's chest. Finally, the nurse convinced him to step back. A physician said, “Clear,” and applied paddles to the kid's thin chest. Her body jumped and flopped like a rag doll.

The team worked for minutes, then the physician looked at the clock and said angrily, “Death at twenty-three hundred hours.”

“No! Keep working on her!”

A nurse put a hand on Demarco's arm. “I'm sorry. She's gone. There's nothing more we can do.”

Hot rage started in the emptiness of his chest and burned so fast up to his throat that he choked on it. “Everybody out!”

“Sir—”

“Out! Don't touch anything! This is a crime scene!”

*   *   *

“Any idea what she meant by sand?” Susan had lost track of how much coffee she'd consumed in the last four hours, but gamely took a sip from the latest refill. There was enough passion tearing in her office to use up all the breathing space.

Demarco's jaw was so tight she wondered if he'd be able to wrench his teeth apart to answer. He stood rigid in the doorway, stiff, straight, shoulders back, ready to charge. Parkhurst, almost as mad, paced back and forth in front of him. Since her office was small, he only got six steps before he had to turn and go the other direction.

“No,” Demarco snapped.

“Mean anything to you?” she asked Parkhurst.

“Beaches, sandboxes, sands of time, hourglasses, footprints on, sandman—” Beard stubble rasped as he ran his hand down his jaw. “Give me a minute, maybe I can come up with more.”

These two volcanoes of barely contained fury were giving her a headache. Maybe she should send them to the parking lot and let them use up all that testosterone in hand-to-hand combat. The adrenaline pumped in her system by the girl's murder and its pursuant investigations had long since dissipated, leaving her with a caffeine jag that fought with fatigue. All the hours they'd put in had gotten them zilch, much to everyone's frustration.

The unknown suspect had called the nurses' station claiming to be Parkhurst and asked the nurse who answered to have the guard call the department from a landline and talk with the chief. Not wanting to leave his post, the guard had asked to use the phone at the nurses' station. The nurse had said she was sorry, but she couldn't let him. He had to track down a phone and the closest one he could find was the pay phone in the lobby. Apparently, the suspect had stolen a lab coat and stethoscope from the doctor's lounge, walked boldly into the girl's room and held a pillow to her face. They'd know for sure in the morning when Dr. Fisher did the autopsy.

Susan felt sorry for the guard. Clark was his name and he hadn't been with them long. Demarco and Parkhurst had both had a go at him. When they were done the poor kid was left with about as much starch as a dish rag.

“Sand,” she said, and looked at Demarco. “You think the girl meant something about her attacker?”

“I don't know. I jumped to the conclusion she'd been thinking about the attack. It bothered her she couldn't remember. She tried to pull memory back from the blankness. Then you called.”

Another chip to add to the pile on his shoulder. If she hadn't called, the girl wouldn't have been killed. Susan wondered why he'd gotten so fond of this girl. “Was there any sand in the house?”

“No, ma'am.”

“Sandbox in the back yard? Craft-type thing made with colored sand?”

“No.”

“Cat?”

“No.”

“Was she asleep when you came in, still caught in a dream when she spoke?”

“Maybe. She was asleep when I walked in, woke up when I sat down.” Demarco's fists were straight down at his side in a white-knuckle clench. “One of them killed her. Held a pillow over the face of a fourteen-year-old girl who was so weak she could barely pick up a plastic cup.”

“Them?”

Demarco kept his gaze fixed on a distant spot just over her right shoulder. “Garrett,” he snapped. “Or the politicos with him.”

“And you think this because—?”

“She said so!” Demarco was teetering on insubordination and Parkhurst was close to blowing up at him.

Susan nodded. “And when you called her on that, she backed down. She thought her attacker had been in the room, but couldn't say why she thought so. Is that correct?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

Parkhurst stopped pacing, put his hands on his hips and glared at Demarco. Demarco stiffened an already stiff spine. Susan sighed. “Who was in her room?”

“Garrett,” Demarco said, “His wife. Campaign manager named Todd Haviland, guy named Leon Massy, another guy named Bernie Quaid, woman named Hadley Cane, woman named Nora Tallace.”

“And some media people.” She looked at Parkhurst. “Find out who they were.”

“Right,” he said.

“And—”

“Yeah. Go through the house again, looking for sand.” He started for the door, Demarco stepped aside. A short nod from Parkhurst had Demarco falling in behind.

*   *   *

Jack tried to open his eyes. They seemed glued shut. His throat hurt. He couldn't swallow. He couldn't breathe. Panicky struggle. Suspended in darkness, the only sound a rhythmic
hiss thunk.
He struggled to move. Paralyzed. Panic faded as he slipped deeper into the darkness.

41

Jack floated in the darkness, sometimes sensing paler pockets around the edges and above, working toward them like an underwater swimmer aiming for the surface, then sinking down to drift and dream and watch images form, melt and swirl away like multicolored fog. A young man exuberant at the not guilty verdict. A middle-aged woman angry. A gun.

Without a struggle, his eyes opened. He was lying on a narrow bed in a dim room, arms stretched out and strapped down, muted light to his right. Something in his throat. Tried to swallow, felt like he couldn't breathe.

A stocky man with dark curls, wearing green scrubs loomed over him. “About time you decided to come back.”

Jack tried to speak.

“Hold on, I'll get the tube out, then you can talk.” He removed tape from Jack's face. “Cough.”

Jack coughed and choked as the tube slid from his throat, which was sore and swollen. When he tried to shift slightly, searing pain clawed at his chest.

“Adam Sheffield.” The stocky man tugged at the bandages over Jack's chest.

“Doctor?” Jack whispered hoarsely.

“Yeah. Fixed a bloody great hole in your chest. It's looking real good.”

A syrupy gratitude came over him. Weak as a new-born infant, if he tried to express thanks, he'd probably snivel. “What happened?”

“You don't remember?”

“Not much. Lots of screaming. People milling around. Sirens.” Jack stirred through the slush in his mind. “Lights. I remember lights.”

Dr. Sheffield leaned against the bed and crossed his arms. “You're one lucky man, governor. The bullet missed your heart by that much.” He held thumb and forefinger an inch apart. “Went at an angle up and came out the back, missing your spinal cord by about that much too. Tore up a lung pretty good, but that will mend.”

Sheer relief flooded over him, of such magnitude that Jack was swamped, left flat and gasping for air. “I can walk?”

“Not right now, you can't, but give it a few days.”

Jack took in a breath and relished the pain that came with it, because it said he was alive. A second time, he should have died and he survived. He was humbled and grateful. He would live as he wanted, he would walk, he would not end up like Wakely in a wheelchair.

*   *   *

Friday morning there was a soft tap on the open door and Todd came in. “Happy Halloween, Governor.” He nudged the chair closer, sat down, curved his spine and stretched out his legs. “Thanks for saving my life.”

“… what?”

“You're a hero, you pushed me out of the way of the speeding bullet. 'Course it would have been better if you'd gotten yourself out of the way, too, but at least you're not a dead hero.” Todd slid a chair nearer the bed.

“Cut … hero crap … who shot me?”

Todd took off his glasses, held them out and peered through the lenses, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and polished them. “She killed herself.”

“Who?” Jack's throat was sore, it hurt to talk.

Todd checked the lenses, then put the glasses back on. “Mary Shoals. Daughter brought a suit against her husband, claimed he beat her up. You defended the husband.”

“Alice Vosse,” Jack said, remembering. “Got … bastard off.” Guilt lay pressed on his chest heavy enough to make breathing difficult. “Should have … let rot … in prison.”

“You were doing your job. Defending your client to the best of your ability.”

“… he killed her,” Jack said.

“You are not responsible for her death, or for her mother's either. You aren't God, Jack. You're just a good lawyer. What you need to decide is what you want to do now.”

“Sleep.”

“Good. When you get that out of the way, we'll get back to work. This is good for votes. Hundreds of people out there are praying for your recovery. If the primary was today, you'd win by a landslide.”

“Molly?”

“She's on her way. You came back to the land of the living just after she left to go back and take a shower.” Todd stood and put a hand on Jack's shoulder. “I'm glad you survived, buddy. After this, nobody will blame you if you decide to drop out.”

“Sleep … let you know.”

“What are you doing in here! Out!” The nurse crossed her arms and glared.

“I'll get the troops together.”