The Tin Man

by Nina Mason

  Now feeling somewhat heartened, he tucked the paper back under his arm and headed inside. The sooner he was done here, the quicker he could get over to the hospital to see his daughter. Last he’d checked with the ICU, she was still in a coma and he wanted to be there the second she opened her eyes.

  * * * *

  Buchanan closed his eyes and listened to the symphony of instruments playing around him: the whoosh of the ventilator, the chirp of the heart monitor, the whir of the IV pump. On the bed in front of him lay Thea, still unconscious. Across his lap lay a dozen long-stemmed red roses wrapped in cellophane and a heart-shaped tin of chocolates, which he intended to give to her as soon as she woke up. He also intended to ask her something he’d never asked any woman before. But then, no woman had ever awakened his heart the way Thea had.

  He didn’t know what he was going to do about The Voice. He only knew he was tired. Burnt-out from working eighty-hour weeks. Bored with his all-work-and-no-play life. In the years since he left Scotland, work had taken over, completely overshadowing everything else. Even if he could muster the energy to start again, he wasn’t sure he wanted to. Maybe, subconsciously, he’d become a workaholic on purpose, so he wouldn’t have to face his issues—the guilt about abandoning his mum, the resentment toward his drunken father, the grief over losing Kenny, the experience in Baghdad, the terrible loneliness he tried hard to deny. Maybe it was time he got around to unpacking some of his baggage.

  He could still devote a part of himself to work, but a smaller part. America needed alterative voices to counter the manipulations of the corporate media, but maybe he didn’t have to try to be the Lone Ranger anymore. Maybe he could take on a partner who shared his passion and his courage—somebody who could also share the load.

  Somebody like Thea.

  Reaching across the bed, he set his hand on top of hers, remembering the things she’d told him on the drive through Pennsylvania: I find something really compelling about the idea of working for a blog, about telling it like it is and calling bullshit bullshit, about reporting the news as it happens without fear of reprisal. I didn’t get into journalism to play it safe.

  She had spoken those words only a few days ago, and yet it seemed a lifetime had passed since then. Her hand felt soft and fragile under his own, and also right somehow. His mum hadn’t been wrong.He did feel differently. But was Thea “the one”? Did such a person actually exist? It was too soon for him to be sure. For all the fire in his belly when it came to his work, he’d always been a coward when it came to his heart. What scared him so much? Hurt? Disappointment? Disillusionment? Was he terrified of ending up like his parents? He honestly didn’t know. All he knew right now was that he was ready to take the next step with her, which was progress. And that had to be enough for now. He needed to accept that change this big wasn’t going to happen overnight, needed to give himself time to find his way and to broaden his comfort zone. And he needed her to allow him the space to ease into a relationship.

  “Any change?”

  The man’s voice, from the doorway, startled him. He withdrew his hand and turned. It was Jack Hamilton, leaning against the jamb, arms folded across his chest. He was dressed conservatively in a black suit, gold tie, and wingtips. When he smiled, Buchanan could see the resemblance to Thea—in the eyes and mouth, as well as the cheekbones and chin.

  “She’s still out,” he told him, “but holding her own.”

  Thea’s father, looking downcast, took a few steps into the room.

  “Do the doctors have any guesses as to when she might come around?”

  Buchanan shook his head. “One of the nurses told me she can probably hear everything, even though she can’t respond.”

  Hamilton’s mouth cocked into a half-grin. “Then I guess we’d better watch what we say.”

  Buchanan could feel his mouth pulling at the corners, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to smile. “I guess we should.”

  Hamilton was standing beside him now, looking down at his daughter, saying nothing. Buchanan got the feeling he was struggling within himself and either didn’t know what to say or knew what he wanted to say, but wasn’t sure quite how to put it. Finally, the attorney turned to him.

  “What are you going to do now?”

  The journalist shrugged a shoulder. “That will depend a great deal upon your daughter.”

  * * * *

  The sound of medical instruments and the harsh smell of disinfectants let Thea know she was in a hospital long before she opened her eyes. For some time, she had been drifting in and out of awareness, vaguely cognizant of comings and goings—nurses, doctors, and visitors speaking in hushed tones. Was one of them Buchanan? She thought she recognized his deep, sexy burr, but maybe it was just wishful thinking.

  The light peeking through the mini-blinds on the window told her it was daylight. But what day? And what time? How long had she been out? Scenes flashed in her mind. A dilapidated old barn…a ceiling painted with gruesome images…a dark place that smelled of sulfur…floating above her body. More images popped. A cruel man in a tuxedo…tapping Buchanan’s hand…stabbing someone with her eyes closed…getting her ass kicked by a perfume doused Bulgarian.

  Looking around her groggily, she saw the side rails on the adjustable bed, the half-empty IV bag hanging on its pole, the tape that secured the plastic tube, the needle stuck in the back of her hand. She also saw the roses. Deep red. Wrapped in cellophane. Who had left them there? When she saw the tin heart, she welled up.

  She looked toward the door, hoping to see a passing nurse she could ask to fill her in, jolting when she saw him standing there in faded jeans and a blue sweater. He smiled when their eyes met, but seemed ill at ease.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked, coming into the room.

  “I feel super,” she lied. “Couldn’t be better.” In truth, her lungs felt like they’d been filled with molten lead and her head felt like a gong that had just been struck. “How long have I been out?”

  “A couple of days,” he said with a shrug.

  “What happened? After I blacked out?”

  He took a minute as if gathering his thoughts. “Well, let’s see…Milo Osbourne and Azi Zahhak are dead, so they won’t be taking over the world. And Sterling—or whatever his real name might be—is in custody, but denying everything. There was a shootout at the airport between the FBI and the Bulgarians. Mr. Kidd was killed and Mr. Wint—Ivan, actually—just came out of a coma.” He paused, paling a little as he added, “He also confirmed that your grandfather’s dead. I’m sorry, Thea. Truly.”

  She had suspected as much, but still felt the hard double jab of truth and grief.

  “Oh, and your father’s been by a few times to look in on you.”

  Thea blinked up at him, struggling to fathom what she’d just heard. “My father? How does he…?”

  “Well,” he said, grinning sheepishly, “as it turns out, he was Lapdog. Why did you never mention that he worked for the DOJ?”

  “I didn’t know,” she said, reeling with astonishment.

  Little by little, he filled her in on all the details—including the fact that Riley Witherspoon, the curator, had been working as a mole for Sterling. He, too, had offered to testify in exchange for immunity.

  They sat in silence as she wrestled with her pain, feeling like a broken bottle beside an empty roadway. As tears gathered in her eyes, he squeezed her hand. She met his gaze, reading in it a storm of emotion.

  “And what about you?” she asked, sniffing back her tears. “What are you going to do now?”

  He took his time coming up with the answer. Finally, when she felt she couldn’t bear another second of silence, he said, “I want to start up the Voice again—though not right away. And not the way it was before with me working to the exclusion of everything else.”

  She felt a blip of hope until she realized he could operate the news site from anywhere. She could stand it no longer. She had to ask.

  “Alex,” she
began, her heart heavy, “are you thinking of going back to Scotland?”

  “Aye, but….”

  His voice trailed off and she waited on tenterhooks for him to go on, tormented by the angst in his eyes. “But what?” she prodded at last, swallowing the pain that threatened to bury her.

  He leaned closer and softly stroked her cheek. “Will you come with me?”

  Elation bloomed inside her heart, but then wilted a moment later when she considered the reality of moving to Scotland. As romantic as it sounded, they hardly knew each other. What if it didn’t work out? What if they wound up hating each other? She loved him, sure, but she also knew from painful experience that love did not, in fact, conquer all. More often, it led to frustration, disappointment, and heartache.

  Blinking up at him, heart in throat, she said, “Moving to Scotland is a pretty big step, don’t you think?”

  “Whoa there, Thea,” he said, face going pale. “I’m only asking you to come for a couple of weeks. I’m thinking of going home for Christmas, to see my mum. And I thought I might like to have you along. Provided, of course, you’re feeling up to traveling.”

  Hot blood rushed to her face. She felt like a complete idiot. And he looked like a hapless fawn in the path of a speeding Hummer, which only added to her mortification.

  “And just how long are you planning to go for?”

  “Until right after Hogmanay.”

  She scowled at him in confusion. “Hogmanay? When—and what—is that?”

  “Our New Year’s celebration,” he began to explain. “It’s a fairly big deal with fireworks, parties, and something we call ‘first footing’—the custom of someone carrying gifts across the threshold on the first stroke of the new year. It’s said to bring luck to the house—and tall, dark men like me are the preferred first footers. So my services are always in high demand when I happen to be in town.” He paused before adding, his voice tight with emotion, “And, well, maybe having me as first-footer will bring a wee bit of luck to my parents in the coming year. And even if it doesn’t, at least my mum will be happy to see me…especially if I’ve brought a lassie along. It’s a first, believe me.” He paused again, then, “So, what do you say? Do you think you might be up for spending the holidays in Scotland with me?”

  A lump of emotion formed in her throat. Should she tell him she didn’t celebrate Christmas? Would it make any difference? Would it ruin everything?

  “Alex…erm, there’s something I think you should know about me.” He waited with worried eyes as she gathered her courage. “I’m not Christian.”

  “No?” he asked, looking confused.

  “I’m a Muslim.”

  “Och, well,” he said with a shrug. “If you are, you are. So what?” Dread’s stranglehold eased, but tightened again when he dropped his gaze to his fidgeting hands. “Look, Thea, I’m not good at this sort of thing, having never been in a real relationship.” With a tense laugh, he added, “You see there, I can say the word.” His expression grew more serious. “All I know is that I’m in love with you. As for the rest…well, we’re just going to have to play it by ear.” He looked up, meeting her breathless gaze. “Do you think you can live with that?”

  Joy inflated her heart like a balloon. “Yes, Alex. I can live with that.”

  He bent over the bed, moving in for a kiss, but stopped before his mouth met hers. “There’s one more thing,” he began. She must have looked as anxious as she felt because he quickly added, “It’s nothing bad. It’s just that, well, I’ve decided to give up smoking.”

  “And what brought this on? Your recent brush with death?”

  “You could say that.” He chuckled nervously and wiped his sweaty palms on the thighs of his jeans. “You see, well, as I was on my way to pay you a visit, I took a wrong turn and ended up in the cancer ward.”