by Sharon Sala
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” the guard said. “But we can’t be too careful. Hooker’s a good man. I don’t want to be the one responsible for getting him killed, understand?”
She blanched. Having the truth put to her in such a matter-of-fact manner put a whole new light on the situation. She dabbed at her eyes and then blew her nose again, suddenly ashamed that she’d lost control.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me. I’m not normally hysterical.”
“No, ma’am, I’m sure you’re not,” the guard said.
Ryan winked at the guard and then pointed to her suitcases. “Keep an eye on her stuff for a minute, will you, Ed?”
“My pleasure,” the guard said, and shoved them against the wall near his chair.
“Are you okay now?” Ryan asked.
She sniffed and nodded. “I will be, as soon as I can see Brett.” She eyed the food he was carrying. “And get some of that for myself.”
“This is for Tory. If I’d known you were here, I would have brought more.”
Her mouth firmed, not much, but enough for Ryan to know that his mother had just put up a guard of her own.
“Ease up, Mom. She’s different, I’ll give you that. But she hasn’t moved from Brett’s side. Whatever you think of her, just know that she loves your son as much as you do… and she’s about at the end of her rope.”
Cynthia Hooker reserved the right to form her own opinions, but as they entered Brett’s room, her anger faded. A nurse was nearby, obviously keeping a constant check on her son’s welfare.
That’s a good sign.
And then she looked at Brett and everything he was hooked up to, and exhaled a shaky breath.
Dear Lord, what have they done to my son?
Her gaze then moved to the woman asleep at his side, and every concern she’d ever had about Victoria Lancaster ceased to be. Even though Brett was unconscious and Tory was asleep, their connection to each other was obvious.
She’d fallen asleep with her forehead resting against his bed and her hand on his leg, and while it was an unconscious movement on Brett’s part, her hair was entwined through his fingers, as if he were holding on to her in the only way he could.
“Oh my,” Cynthia whispered. “Oh, Ryan. Oh my.”
“Told you,” he said softly. And when his mother started forward, he added, “Hey, Mom.”
She paused. “What?”
“She hasn’t cried.”
Cynthia nodded with understanding. “She’s afraid to cry.”
“But why?”
“Bad luck.”
Ryan frowned. “Bad luck? That doesn’t make sense.”
“Yes it does,” Cynthia said. “Crying is a part of grieving. If she lets herself cry, then she will be letting Brett down by not believing he’ll pull through.”
Ryan shook his head. “And where does that bit of wisdom come from?”
Her chin trembled, but she met his gaze in her straightforward way. “Because that’s the way I felt, right up to the moment I lost your father. After that, it was okay to let go of the pain.”
Ryan looked away, unwilling to let her know how deeply he’d been touched by her words.
Then, before they could move, the monotonous beep of one machine momentarily broke rhythm and Tory’s head came up from the bed as if she’d been slapped. She jumped to her feet, her gaze flying from Brett to the nurse at the end of the room. But when the nurse didn’t react, and the machine regained a regular rhythm, she breathed a quiet sigh of relief.
“Thank you, God,” Tory whispered.
“Amen,” Cynthia Hooker echoed.
Tory spun around, only then aware that they were no longer alone. A flicker of panic came and went as she reminded herself that these people were Brett’s family. They weren’t the enemy. Smoothing her hand over her hair and then down the front of her crumpled T-shirt, she stepped around the chair and went to greet them.
“Mrs. Hooker, I’m Victoria.”
Cynthia ignored her outstretched hand and hugged her instead. “I do not shake hands with family,” she said softly, patting Tory gently on the back. “How’s he doing, dear?”
Family? It wasn’t what she’d expected to hear. They belonged to Brett, not to her. Uncomfortable with the familiarity, she stepped out of Cynthia’s arms.
“The doctors say he’s holding his own.” Her voice was shaking, and she tried to smile. “You know how hardheaded Brett is. He’s going to get well just to spite everyone who says he won’t.”
Cynthia saw more than reserve in this young woman’s eyes. She saw fear. Genuine fear, and the oddest thing was, she didn’t think it had a thing to do with Brett’s survival.
Ryan thrust the coffee and sweet roll toward her. “Here,” he said gruffly.
Tory was touched by his thoughtfulness, but the thought of swallowing food made her sick. “I’m not hungry, but—”
“I didn’t ask you if you were hungry. Just drink the damned coffee and eat the damned roll, okay?”
Cynthia watched the silent war of wills between the pair, then relaxed when Tory quietly accepted what Ryan had brought.
“Thank you,” Tory said.
Ryan nodded. “You’re welcome.”
And the waiting began again.
***
Almost twenty-four hours after he’d come out of surgery, Brett Hooker woke up, more than a little surprised to find himself still alive. He had vague memories of blood, of Harold Tribbey’s face, and of being afraid he would never see Tory again. And now he drifted within a cocoon of painkillers, listening to the voices of those he loved best.
Ryan was here! He shouldn’t have been surprised. Ever since their father had died, Ryan had considered himself the official head of the family. He heard his mother’s voice, always a little breathless when filled with concern. Content with the half-light of consciousness, he kept listening, aware that there was one more person in his life who mattered. One more voice he had yet to hear. Victoria.
He lay without moving, without opening his eyes, still too weak to fight the lethargy claiming him. Drifting in and out of sleep, he kept thinking he would hear her voice, but he didn’t. Somewhere within him, a knot of disappointment began to form. He drew a deep breath and then groaned from the pain.
At that moment there was a touch on his arm and sweet breath on his face, and the knot in his belly disappeared. He should have known. She’d been here all the while, keeping a silent vigil by his side. He heard his name on her lips, heard the urgency in her voice, and he opened his eyes.
Tory had been on her feet within seconds of hearing Brett groan. The nurse moved quickly to the bed and began an examination of his pulse and blood pressure. But Tory was already hearing an increased pulse rate from the machine to which he was hooked, and she’d seen his eyelids fluttering. It was enough for her to know he was on his way back. She called his name and then unconsciously held her breath.
“Brett… sweetheart… it’s me, Tory.”
He blinked and then reached for her arm. When her fingers closed around his hand, he relaxed even more.
“I got shot.”
Ryan was suddenly at her side, as was his mother, but Tory’s gaze never wavered from Brett’s face.
“We know. It’s okay, just rest.”
But he couldn’t rest. Not yet. There was something he needed to remember. And then it came. The old man. He’d found the old man.
“Tribbey… did they get Tribbey?”
“Yes, the police have him in protective custody. Mr. Lacey called this morning. Said to tell you when you woke up that you did a good job.”
Brett inhaled carefully, easing the breath around the pain in his chest.
“I never heard the shot. Do they know who?”
“No,” Tory said.
“Was anyone else shot?”
“No.”
Brett sighed, trying to think. None of this was making much sense. It wasn’t unlikely that several of the concert-goers c
ould have been carrying, or that a fight could erupt between rival gangs, but it was unusual for a gun to be drawn without purpose. His thoughts were fuzzy, like the taste in his mouth, and he tried to focus on one thing at a time.
“Water… Can I have a drink of water?”
Tory looked at the nurse.
“Only ice chips,” the nurse said.
Glad to have something positive to do, Tory slipped a small chip between Brett’s lips. He was stunned at the effort it took just to swallow.
“Good… that’s good,” he whispered.
Tory leaned closer, speaking softly. “Brett, your mother is here.”
Brett managed a smile. “Hi, Mom. Glad you’re here.”
Cynthia leaned over and kissed his son’s forehead. “So am I, dear, so am I.”
The nurse interrupted as Brett’s doctor came into the room.
“He’s had enough for a while. And the doctor needs to examine the patient. Would you please step out of the room?”
Brett’s voice was weak, but they heard it just the same.
“Wait,” he called.
They paused and turned. He reached for Tory. She grasped his hand and leaned down until their cheeks were nearly touching, and his words were for her ears only.
“I love you, Victoria.”
The words brushed against her cheek, baby-soft yet strong enough to change Tory’s world. With her control nearly shattered, she pressed her lips against his temple.
“I love you, too, Brett Hooker. More than you will ever know.”
And then they moved out without argument, each lost in their own thoughts. Ryan wanted to shout with joy, while the knot in Cynthia Hooker’s stomach began to unwind with relief. But Tory’s reaction was taking a different turn.
The moment she stepped into the hall, her legs went weak. For the last twenty-four hours she’d been existing on sheer will alone, and now that the crisis had passed, there was nothing left on which to fall back. She wrapped her arms around herself and began to shake.
“Oh God, oh God,” she muttered, rocking herself where she stood.
Startled, Cynthia saw Tory coming undone, but it was Ryan who caught her before she could fall. Ignoring her resistance, he pulled her into his arms. His voice was gruff, but his touch was gentle as he enfolded her within his embrace.
“It’s okay, kid. Let it all go.”
And she did. In harsh, aching sobs that ripped up her throat. With shudders that racked her body and left her gasping for air.
Ryan held on tight, afraid of what might happen if he let Tory go. A mother’s instinct to comfort moved Cynthia to join them. Between them, they held Tory while she cried.
***
Gus Huffman was worried. Twice now he’d screwed up, and Leeds was an unhappy man. But he kept consoling himself with the fact that he’d never seen a recent picture of Tribbey, so how was he to know that the old bum standing beside Hooker had been Tribbey himself? He damn sure hadn’t looked like the picture they’d shown him. And the fact that Hooker was still alive made it worse. He’d failed miserably, and Leeds was not a forgiving man. If he didn’t find a way to fix what he’d done, he might as well turn the gun on himself.
And because of his desperation, he was about to make a very risky move. Word on the street was that Tribbey was already in protective custody. The way Gus figured it, that was Leeds’ concern. But Hooker was his. And there was no time left for plans. He had to get into Hooker’s hospital room and finish what he’d started.
***
The hallway lights flickered, signaling the end of visiting hours. The guard at Brett’s door was finishing off a cup of coffee when the nurse assigned to his room came out. The bag of fluids dripping through his IV was almost empty, and her patient was resting comfortably.
“Be back in a second,” she said, and hustled up the hall.
Ed nodded, draining the last of his cup and then setting it on the floor by his chair. He leaned back and crossed his legs just as a doctor exited the elevator and headed his way. When he started into Hooker’s room, Ed stood up.
“Evening,” the doctor said. “I’m covering for Mailot tonight.”
Ed frowned. That was Hooker’s doctor, all right, but no one had told him of any changes. “Sorry, sir, but I’ll need to see some identification. You haven’t been in before, and I have orders to—”
But your orders don’t coincide with mine. And Gus Huffman grabbed Ed by the throat, shoving his thumb in the carotid artery and pushing him inside the door. In a matter of seconds, Brett’s safety had been breached. Ed was unconscious before he hit the floor.
Gus smiled to himself, pleased with the outcome of his plan. He’d had no idea that Brett had a round-the-clock nurse, and it was just stupid luck that she was nowhere in sight.
He stood within the silence of the room, listening to the quiet but steady beeping of the monitors attached to Hooker’s body and thinking there was no time like the present. He reached in his pocket and headed for the bed, his fingers curling carefully around the hypodermic syringe in his pocket. One quick dose of this in that IV and Hooker would never wake up.
He reached toward the bag, then frowned. It was almost empty. Any moment that damned alarm would likely sound and some nurse would come hustling in to replace it. Although luck had been with him, time was not on his side. Behind him, the guard on the floor began to moan, and Gus cursed. He should have killed the bastard.
“Okay, Hooker. Sweet dreams.”
And he flipped the cap from the needle and thrust it toward the shunt on the tube.
***
Tory had taken advantage of the nurse’s exit to make a quick trip into the bathroom. She didn’t need to turn on a light to see what she was doing, and since the nurse was out of the room, she left the door slightly ajar, just in case Brett called out or some machine might sound.
As she was drying her hands, the door to Brett’s room opened suddenly, and she turned, expecting to see his nurse, not two men stumbling through the door. To her horror, the guard suddenly dropped to the floor without a sound, and the man who’d silenced him was heading for Brett.
Trying not to panic, she moved deeper into the shadows of the bathroom to give herself time to think, but when the man reached in his pocket, then started toward Brett’s bed, she reacted without thought.
She stepped out of her shoes and then slipped through the half-open door, moving silently on bare feet until she was less than three feet from the man’s back. Still unsure of what she should do, her decision to wait was taken away when she saw the syringe in the man’s hand. And when he reached for Brett’s IV, a blind rage swept over her. That was her Brett. He was her life. Her love. No one was going to hurt him again.
“Nooo!” she screamed. “Don’t touch him!”
With no thought for her own safety, she made a dive for the backs of his legs, screaming all the way down.
To say Gus was startled would have been putting it mildly. Between the scream in his ears and the impact of dead weight against his knees, he was unable to save himself. He pitched forward. The needle he’d been holding flew out of his hands, and his chin hit the corner of the bedside table. The crack echoed in his ears, and he had a brief moment’s awareness that he’d just bitten his tongue, before everything went black. It was as effective a coldcock as any boxer could have managed.
***
Ryan was in the hallway and only a few feet behind Brett’s nurse when Tory’s scream rent the air. Within seconds of the sound, the whole floor seemed to erupt. People ran out of doorways, nurses came out of rooms, everyone was standing in the hallway, trying to get a fix on the sound.
But Ryan had seen something that everyone else seemed to have missed. The guard was not at his station. He started running.
“Call security,” he shouted, and hit the door to Brett’s room with the flat of his hand.
When Ryan burst into the room he found, to his surprise, that he was the only one standing. Everyone save Brett
was on the floor. The guard was rolling about and gagging, trying to breathe and talk at the same time. And Tory was locked in what appeared to be a deathlike embrace with a doctor who was bleeding from the face.
He hit the light switch, instantly bathing the room in full light, and then ran for Tory. It was all he could do to make her let go.
“Tory! Tory! It’s me, Ryan. What the hell happened?” he asked, as he pulled her to her feet.
She pointed to the man on the floor. “He tried to kill Brett.”
Ryan groaned, thinking that she’d finally flipped. “My God, woman, that man’s a doctor.”
“No, he’s not,” she said. “He knocked Ed out. I watched him from the bathroom. And then he took a needle from his pocket and was about to put it in Brett’s IV.”
Ryan turned and stared at the guard, who was in the act of crawling to his knees. He ran to help him up.
“Are you all right?”
Ed nodded, his voice was little more than a croak, but he backed Tory up all the way. He pointed at the man on the floor.
“I don’t know who he is, but he’s damn sure no doctor.”
At that point security burst into the room, coupled with two doctors and Brett’s nurse. It didn’t take long for Tory to repeat her story, and with Ed’s corroboration and the syringe in question being produced, Gus Huffman was formally arrested.
However, it was thirty minutes before he came to enough to know it. And when he did revive, a real doctor was putting the last of six stitches into his chin.
“What hit me?” he groaned.
An Oklahoma City policeman leaned over him with a grin. “A real mad woman.”
Gus groaned again. “I’m hurt. I need something for the pain.”
“You better get tougher than that,” the cop said. “You’re going down for attempted murder.”
Son of a bitch. Gus shuffled his thoughts to a different level. No sooner had the doctor finished with his stitches than the cop grabbed him by the handcuffs and hauled him off the table.
“Come on, buddy. We’re heading downtown.” He looked at the bandage on Gus’s chin and grinned. “That’s gonna look real pretty in your mug shot.”
Gus began to panic as the cop dragged him through the hospital. Leeds’ reach went farther than people knew. He wouldn’t be safe even behind bars.