by J. R. Ward
It wasn't anything like Manhattan had. Or L.A. But it was enough to annoy the locals.
Him, too, as it were. God, it was amazing how quickly the standards of Charlemont had seeped back into him. Here, if you were stuck at rush hour for ten minutes, it was a tiresome insult to your dinner plans. Up in New York City? You had to pack an overnight bag and a sandwich if you wanted to try to use the Long Island Expressway to go five miles at four twenty in the afternoon.
Craziness.
As he entered what he hoped was his last building, he stopped by the visitor desk and waited for the pleasant-looking older woman to glance up at him.
No-go. She was absorbed in her People magazine crossword puzzle.
"Ma'am?" he said. "I'm looking for the ICU?"
Without bothering to shift her eyes away from the little squares she was filling in, she muttered, "Down to the right, take the first set of elevators up four floors. There you go."
"Thank you."
Lane followed the directions, and as soon as he came to the elevators, he knew where he was by the atrium down below. The problem had been where he'd started from. As long as he parked in the garage off Sanford Street, he could find his way to Miss Aurora's room no problem.
When the elevator's doors opened, he caught a ride up with a man in a wheelchair, a woman in a hospital johnny who smelled as though she had been out for a smoke, and a couple who were holding hands and looking very nervous. The smoker and the couple got off before he did. He didn't know where the wheelchair guy was headed.
As Lane stepped out onto the unit, his stomach contracted like a fist. Following protocol, he checked in with the nursing station, and it was a relief to be nodded at and sent down the hall.
This meant his momma was still alive.
Like Chantal's emergency bay, the ICU rooms had glass walls and interior drapes that could be pulled for privacy. Unlike in the ER, there were dry-erase boards next to the entrances of the rooms, with the patient's name and the shift nurse and attending who were responsible.
Lane stopped when he got to the one that said Aurora Toms.
Actually, it read rora Toms because of a smudge.
He picked up the black pen that was on top of the board, uncapped it, and added the Au. When that just looked messy, he wiped out the whole thing with his fingertips and carefully re-did it so it was proper.
Miss Aurora Toms
Her surname was because she'd been one of Tom's twelve kids.
When Lane opened the glass door, a seal broke and a little hiss of air was released. Inside, there was a lot of beeping and very bright lights and so much medical equipment, it was as if she were in an operating room.
His momma seemed so tiny in the bed, her body shrinking as the tumors in her grew bigger and stronger--and his first thought, as he went over to her, was that she would hate the way her hair looked. Her short weave was messy, the bob's ends all this way and that, and he did what he could to straighten it.
His next thought was that she was never coming home.
She was going to die here, in this bed.
How could she not?
She looked so ill: Her eyes were closed, but he could tell they had sunk back into her skull, and her cheeks were so hollow, it was as if the bones were going to break through the flesh. There were countless wires going under the top of the johnny she had on--and a port, too, pumping who knew what into some kind of vein or another. There were more tubes going into her arm. And still others, under the sheets.
You never realized how much the human body did on its own until you had to try and re-create its functions via external means.
He glanced around for a chair and found one all the way over in the corner, a non-priority afterthought for a patient whose continued existence was so iffy, visitors were not what people were worried about.
Bringing the thing around, he sat down and took her hand.
"Hello, Momma," he said as he rubbed his thumb back and forth.
He couldn't decide whether she felt warm or cool, and for some reason, the fact that his mind wouldn't vote one way or the other made him so frustrated, he wanted to scream.
"Momma, what can I do for you? Do you need me to..."
Lane thought about that Mercedes he'd gotten her just this past winter. She had been riding around in an old POS without four-wheel drive--the same car that she had had for, like, a decade, which she had stubbornly refused to replace--and an ice storm had struck, one that had been so bad, it had made the news all the way up north. As soon as he'd seen the reports, he'd called the local dealership, chosen an E350 4MATIC in U of C red, and had the sedan delivered.
Oh, how she'd bitched about it to him. Had maintained the thing was too expensive and flashy. Had insisted she was going to return it.
Except then she'd taken the car that Sunday to Charlemont Baptist and proudly parked it in the lot, telling people her boy had gotten it for her so she'd be safe.
Miss Aurora had never thanked him for the gift, at least not verbally--and that was her way. The special love she had always had for him had been in her eyes, though. And so, too, in her secret delight.
"Is there anything left undone?" he whispered as he stared into that face he knew so well. "Can you talk to me? Tell me what you need me to do before you go?"
On some level, he knew he should probably be focusing on all kinds of positive things, like how she was surely going to come out of this, and return to Easterly, and go back to ordering him and everyone else around. But he had of late become a fan of reality over optimism, and in his heart, he was well aware that this was the end--
As his phone started to ring, he reached into his inner chest pocket and silenced it.
"I just want to do right by you. Make sure everything is as you wish."
Miss Aurora had never taken a husband or had children of her own, but there were so many family members of hers in town, her brothers and sisters all married with kids for the most part--and then there was her extended network of cousins, friends, and the whole congregation at Charlemont Baptist. He wanted to be certain they all had a chance to say a proper good-bye--
"Lane?"
Jerking up, he wrenched around. "Tanesha. Hey. Hi."
He got to his feet and embraced the woman in the white coat and the stethoscope. Tanesha Nyce, daughter of Charlemont Baptist's Reverend Nyce, was in her late twenties and just completing her residency--and she had been an incredible source of comfort ever since Miss Aurora had been admitted.
As they pulled back, Tanesha smiled. "I'm glad you're here. She's listening to everything you say, you know."
Clearing his throat, he tried to look casual as he went over and sat on the chair again. The truth was, he felt wobbly on his pins and didn't want to fall over.
Because he couldn't not ask. And Tanesha wasn't going to speak anything but the truth.
It was not that Miss Aurora's doctors had withheld anything from him, it was just...it was time to find out how long they had--and somehow, hearing that no-doubt grim news from Tanesha seemed more palatable.
"So how are we doing?" he said.
Dimly, he was aware that he was rubbing his thighs, and he deliberately stopped his incessant palms.
"Well, let's see." Tanesha went across and smiled down at Miss Aurora. "How are we today, ma'am? It's Reverend Nyce's daughter, Tanesha. I'm just stopping by to say hello as I get off shift."
Her tone was light and casual, but her eyes behind her glasses were the absolute opposite as they scanned all the screens around the bed. And as she studied the numbers and patterns and graphs, Lane focused on her. Was she the reason Maxwell had finally come back to town?
Or had Max returned to help Edward kill their father?
Tanesha and Maxwell had always lit up a room whenever they were together, but the pastor's daughter and the Bradford family's rebel had never taken their attraction any further than sparks--at least as far as Lane knew.
Then again, as Reverend Nyce's daughter, wou
ld you really want to bring that home?
"How is she?" Lane repeated.
Tanesha patted Miss Aurora's hand. "I'll be back first thing tomorrow. You take care, Miss Toms, and get yourself some rest."
When Tanesha nodded at the door, Lane got up and followed her out--and noted that the doctor waited until things were fully shut before she spoke.
In a hushed voice, Tanesha said, "I'm sure her physicians have been updating you."
"I don't remember much of what they've said, to be honest. I'm sorry--it's just been...a blur. Plus I trust you more."
Tanesha stared at him as if assessing how much he could take. "May I be blunt?"
"Yes, and I'll thank you for it."
"You might want to hold the gratitude until I'm finished." Tanesha made a circle around on her right side, just under her ribs. "As you probably know, the tumor in the pancreas is quite large, highly abnormal, and has not responded to her current treatment. The metastasis in the liver is the same, and they have found further tumors in the superior mesenteric vessels. But even more problematic is this sickle-cell crisis. The chemotherapy kicked it off, and it hit her so hard and so fast--and is continuing to cause problems with her spleen and other major organs. There's just a lot of bad things going on for her right now, and as her healthcare proxy, I think you're going to have some decisions to make in the next day or so."
"Decisions?" As she nodded, he looked through the glass door at his momma. "What kind of decisions? Like to try a different chemotherapy or...?"
"As in, when it's time to withdraw life support."
"Jesus." He rubbed his head. "I mean, I thought you all were trying to bring her out of this."
"Her doctors are. And I've followed her case every step of the way." A kind hand was placed on his forearm. "But if you want me to be truly honest, I think it's time to gather the family, Lane. And be efficient about it."
"I'm not ready. I can't...I'm not ready for this."
"I'm so sorry. I truly am. She is a very special person, who is loved by so many. My heart is breaking."
"Mine, too." He cleared his throat. "I'm not ready to lose her."
Back to the house, he thought. He needed to head back, get Miss Aurora's old-fashioned, handwritten address book, and start calling people.
This was the last thing he could do for his momma while she was alive and he'd be damned if he was going to let her down.
As Lane stepped out of the building the ICU was in, he was so distracted that he forgot he had left the Phantom all the way across the complex in the emergency department's parking lot. It wasn't until he had hunt-and-pecked for a good ten minutes in the Sanford Street surface lot that he realized, Shit.
Heading down the sidewalk in the heat, he tried to remember on what side he'd left the Rolls--
A shrill honk spun him around--and he jumped back onto the curb just as a Volvo screeched to a halt.
Oh, right, he thought. Green meant go for oncoming traffic.
Something he might have noted if he'd been paying attention at all.
When the coast was clear, he tried it again with the whole off-the-curb-and-cross thing, and resolved to focus better. Yeah...nope. All he could think of was Lizzie, and he ducked his hand into his jacket for his cell phone. When he got the thing out, he frowned at the missed call and voicemail notification on the screen. It was from a number he didn't recognize, one with an out-of-state area code.
After he tried Lizzie and she didn't pick up, he left her a message that he was coming home. And then he hit back whoever it had been....
"Hello?"
The voice that answered was female, and accented with all kinds of South, and Lane realized he should have just listened to the damn message first. Then again, at least that particular space-shot move didn't leave him almost eating the grille of a Swedish tank.
"I believe you called my number and left a message?" He didn't give his name. If this was a wrong number, there was no reason to ID himself. "About a half hour ago?"
"Oh, thank you, Mr. Baldwine. Thank you for callin' me back. And I don't want to bother you none, but you did tell me t' call you if I needed help."
"I'm sorry, who is this?"
"Shelby Landis. At the Red and Black, if you remember?"
Lane stopped again, his hand tightening on his phone. "Yes, I remember you. But of course. Is everything okay out there?"
There was a pause. "I really need to talk to you. Somewhere private. It's about Edward."
"Okay," he said slowly. "I'm happy to come see you, but can you give me an idea what this is about?"
"I gotta show you something. Now."
"All right, I'll come to you. Are you at the farm?"
"Yessir. I'll be mucking stalls at Barn B for the next hour."
"I'm downtown and it's going to take me some time. Don't leave until I get there."
"I live over the barn. I ain't goin' nowhere."
Lane set off at a jog, even though the late-afternoon sun was scorching and the humidity was just short of a rain forest. By the time he got to the Phantom, he had sweated out his shirt--even though he'd removed his jacket a hundred yards into his run--and he cranked the AC as soon as he turned on the ignition.
The ride out to the Red & Black took almost forty-five minutes thanks to a gas tanker having jackknifed on the Patterson Parkway and then three tractors on the rural roads clogging things up. Finally, he was able to take a right between the two stone columns and start up the hill toward the matching red and black barns.
On either side of the winding drive, five-rail fences that were painted brown intersected rolling fields, the grass of which was, according to popular belief, tinted blue thanks to the limestone content in the soil. Beautiful thoroughbreds in browns and blacks lifted elegant heads in inquiry as he passed them by, a couple of the horses taking such an interest in him that they galloped along with the Rolls-Royce, manes flowing, tails pricked high.
At the top of the rise, the asphalt turned to pea-stone gravel and he slowed, not wanting to kick up rocks. There were a number of barns and outbuildings, as well as the caretaker's cottage, and everything had a gracious air of well-tended age to it, a reminder that Kentucky horse racing was a fierce, but old-fashioned and gentlemanly, pursuit.
Or at least it had been in Lane's grandfather's time. And the Bradford family was known for valuing and upholding the traditions of the past.
Lane parked in front of the middle of the three barns, and as he got out, he smelled freshly cut grass and wet paint. Sure enough, as he approached the open bay, he caught sight of a mower churning in the pasture closest to him and there was a caution tape around the jams he walked through, a fresh coat of red glistening on the trim.
Inside, the air was cool and he had to blink as his eyes adjusted. Several of the mares, whose heads were outside of their stalls, whinnied at his arrival, and that got the attention of the others until a chorus line of peaked ears and nodding muzzles and stamping hooves announced his presence.
"Shelby?" he called out, as he walked down the broad aisle.
He knew better than to try to pet anyone without a proper introduction--and the wisdom of this became evident as he came up to an enormous black horse who was the only one in the collection of maybe thirty with the upper portion of his door closed. And what do you know, the bastard flashed his teeth through the bars, and not in a hi-how-ya way.
More in like a hi-how-'bout-I-eat-your-head fashion.
And what do you know, the fact that the great beast had his forehead bandaged seemed appropriate. Made you kind of wonder what the other horse looked like after that bar fight.
"I thank you for comin'."
Lane turned around and thought, Ah, right. The little blond stable hand with the fresh face and the old eyes, who had stood off in the corner of the cottage as Edward had made his confession to the police. She had seemed remote then. Now, her eyes were direct--
The horse with the bad attitude kicked his stall so hard, Lane ju
mped and had to check that he hadn't been caught by a hoof that had come through the door.
"Neb, don'tcha be rude." The woman, who couldn't have been more than five feet tall in her barn boots, shot a glare big as a cannonball at the stallion. "Come away from him, Mr. Baldwine. He's cranky."
"Cranky? He's like Hannibal Lecter with hooves."
"Do ya mind comin' up to the apartment?"
"Not at all. Long as he doesn't come up the stairs with us."
Lane followed her into a tack room and then ascended in her wake a set of steps to the second floor--where the temperature was three hundred degrees hotter.
"I'm over here." The woman opened a door and stood to the side. "This is where I stay."
As he went in, he noted that she didn't call the place her home. Then again, it was little more than a storage room with a galley kitchen, the open space cooled by a window unit that hummed in the key of B flat. The sofa and chair didn't match and the two area rugs had nothing in common with each other--or those ragtag pieces of furniture. But it was neat and it was clean, and this woman with her blue jeans and her T-shirt had the same kind of quiet, hard-won dignity that Gary McAdams did.
"So what about my brother?" Lane asked.
"Can I get you some sweet tea?"
As Lane nodded, he was embarrassed that he hadn't allowed her to make the offer to him before he got down to business. After all, Southern hospitality wasn't owned by the rich.
"Yes, please. It's hot out."
The glasses were mismatched, too, one blue and opaque, the other a frosted orange with writing on it. But the tea was this side of heaven, as cool as the ice cubes that floated in it, as sweet as a breeze on the back of a hot neck.
"This is wonderful," he said as he waited to see if she would sit down. When she did, he followed suit in the chair across from her. "I'ma need a refill."
"I went to see your brother at the jail last night."
Thank God she was finally talking. "You did--how? Wait, Ramsey?"
"Yessir. Your brother..."
He waited for her to continue. And waited.
What, Lane wanted to scream. My brother...what!
"I don't think he killed your pappy, sir."
Through a sudden roar in his skull, Lane struggled to keep his voice calm. "What makes you say that?"