by Sharon Sala
Seven
Tory poured and measured the milk, sugar and cocoa without thought. When had the first nightmare come?
After I came home from the last trip.
How long after? Two days? Three? When had… then she paused, the spoon dangling from her fingers.
After I developed the film. That’s when they started. After I developed the film!
The milk began to bubble at the edge of the pan, but she was still lost in thought.
Why then? Was it the carnival atmosphere? No. I’d been messing with them for six weeks. It couldn’t have been the carnivals.
The milk continued to heat, now bubbling rapidly throughout.
Was it something Brett said? Was it something he did?
She remembered him coming home with his hand skinned and bruised from a fight at some bar.
Did that trigger some fear in me?
The milk started to scorch, but Tory wasn’t aware. She’d just remembered something else.
The man from the photo. The one with the tattoo.
“Tory! The milk is burning!”
Tory blinked, then looked down. “Oh no,” she muttered, and yanked the pan off the stove, but it was too late to save it from ruin.
Cynthia laughed. “That’s okay by me. I’d rather have a good cold pop any day.”
“Help yourself,” Tory said, and began cleaning up her mess while Cynthia rummaged in the refrigerator. And even as she worked, Tory couldn’t turn loose of the possibility that her guess had been right.
Could it be? Could that man’s face have triggered my dreams? And if it did, then why?
But tonight was not the time to follow up on the idea, and truth be told, neither was tomorrow. Until Brett came home and Cynthia left—until her deadline was met and her world was back to normal—she had no time to dwell on herself. Afterward, maybe. But until then, Brett came first. With a sigh of defeat, she ran the pan full of cold water and turned.
“Cynthia, I’m going back to bed now, okay?”
Cynthia stepped back from the refrigerator with a can of pop in her hand, then set it on the counter and gave Tory a hug.
“Are you going to be all right?”
Tory nodded. “It was just a dream. It’s over.”
Cynthia smiled and then brushed a loose strand of hair from Tory’s forehead. “You’re a very brave girl, aren’t you?”
Tory was embarrassed and tried to pass off the compliment by making fun of herself. “How so? By screaming into the night about dreams that can’t hurt me? That doesn’t sound very brave to me.”
Cynthia shook her head. “You took on a killer with no thought for yourself, tackling him barehanded at Brett’s bedside.”
“I could no more have stood by and let that man hurt Brett than I could have hurt Brett myself. Of course I tried to stop him. So would you, if you’d been there.”
“Still, don’t belittle your own accomplishments, my dear. What I’m getting at is, I think you suffer your wounds silently. That is a very brave thing to do.”
Tory tried to smile, to laugh off what Brett’s mother had said, but when she tried, she choked up instead.
Cynthia could see that Tory was having a difficult time accepting the praise, but she felt it had needed to be said.
“Run along to bed now,” she said gently. “And sleep well. I’ll be nearby if you need me, okay?”
Tory nodded and slipped away, thankful to be out from under the woman’s scrutiny but inexplicably touched, as well.
***
A couple of Brett’s old precinct buddies had just left, and the room was once again quiet. With the intensive care nurse no longer needed at his side, and the guards still sitting outside his door, his visitors were few and far between. And it was his own fault that Tory was absent. He’d been the one who’d sent her home so she could meet her deadline. He snorted beneath his breath and then winced as he stretched his arm to turn on the TV. Being noble had its drawbacks. He missed her like hell.
When the door swung open, he looked up in anticipation. Even the arrival of a lab tech was a welcome respite.
“Hey, Dracula. Did you come for more blood?”
The lab tech laughed and wiggled his eyebrows in a mock leer. “You can always tell when a patient is about ready to go home. They start getting a smart mouth.”
Brett grinned. “So sue me.”
The lab tech tied a thin strip of rubber around Brett’s arm and then pulled it tight. “I’d rather draw blood.”
Brett stretched out his arm. “Why am I not surprised?”
The lab tech smiled. “After everything that’s happened to you, I don’t think a vial of blood is much to bitch about.”
A wry grin tilted the corner of Brett’s mouth. “That’s one way of looking at it, all right.”
“Does that kind of thing happen often in your line of work?” he asked.
Brett frowned. “You mean, getting shot at? No, not really. At least, not since I quit the force.”
The tech nodded. “Then you must feel twice blessed,” he said. “Having two attempts made on your life in two days is pushing your luck, if you ask me.”
Brett’s frown deepened. “Two?”
“Yeah, you know. The guy who snuck into your room with that syringe full of poison. The way I heard it, if it hadn’t been for your wife, you’d be pushing up daisies.”
The blood drained from Brett’s face, but the lab tech was too busy talking to notice. Wife? The only woman who came close to fitting that description was Tory. He had little or no memory of the first few days after surgery. Just what the hell had been happening?
“Well, adios until next time,” the tech said, then took his tray and left.
Brett reached for the phone.
***
Tory hadn’t been gone more than five minutes when the telephone rang. Cynthia reached for a towel, drying her hands as she reached for the phone.
“Hello?”
“Mom, it’s me.”
Her face broke into smiles. “Brett, darling, it’s so good to hear your voice. How are you feeling today? Tory’s on her way to the hospital now, and I’d planned to come over this afternoon. If you need anything, just let me know, okay?”
He shifted the phone to his other ear. “Yes, I need something,” he muttered. “I need to know about someone making a second attempt on my life. I want to know what the hell Tory had to do with it, and why no one saw fit to tell me a damned thing about it!”
Cynthia sighed. When Brett got angry, there was never any reasoning with him.
“You’ll just have to take that up with your doctors and Victoria,” she said. “They decided you were on a need-to-know program of healing, and that you didn’t need to know about something that you slept through anyway.”
“Jesus Christ! What kind of cockamamy reasoning is—”
“Brett Hooker! Do not take the Lord’s name in vain!”
He sighed. “I’m sorry.”
“You nearly died, young man!”
His sigh deepened. Too late, he remembered he was yelling at the wrong woman.
“Yes, ma’am. So I’ve been told.”
“The fact that you are still alive is entirely Victoria’s doing.”
He blanched. “Look, I just—”
“No, you look! She’ll be there shortly. Whatever you have to say, you can take up with her. But if I hear that you’ve yelled at her, I’ll deal with you personally later, do you hear me?”
Brett sighed. He might be thirty-six years old, but right now, he felt about six.
“Yes, ma’am. I hear you loud and clear.”
Cynthia smiled. “That’s good. Now… I love you, dear. Rest easy and have a wonderful day.”
When she disconnected, Brett felt as if he’d just been given a reprieve. That was his mom. Tear a strip off of one side of a man’s body while kissing the other for good luck. Meanwhile, Tory was on her way here, and his mom had been right about one thing. The last person he needed t
o be blaming was Tory. If the truth was anything close to the story he’d been told, he should be kissing the ground she walked on instead.
He picked up the phone again, this time calling someone he knew would tell him the unvarnished truth. When the receptionist answered, he was ready and waiting.
“This is Hooker,” he said. “Is Mr. Lacey in?”
***
Traffic had been terrible. By the time Tory got to the hospital and parked, she was tired and tense, and the day was only a few hours old. The parking attendant called her by name, and as she walked through the lobby toward the elevators, a janitor grinned and waved, while another hospital employee called a hello.
As she paused at the elevators, waiting for a car to arrive, a volunteer came around the corner with a cart full of magazines and flowers. Tory shifted her purse to her other shoulder and stepped out of the way. But when the volunteer recognized her, she didn’t seem inclined to hurry on.
“Hey there,” she said, grinning widely at Tory. “If it isn’t the Terminator.”
Tory managed a smile. It wasn’t the first time she’d been teased about taking on a hit man single-handedly.
“Good morning,” she said, and wished to goodness that the elevator would hurry. She wasn’t in any mood for chitchat, but obviously the other woman was.
“It’s good to see how well your husband is recovering,” she said.
Tory didn’t bother to correct her about her relationship with Brett. She’d tried before. It was easier just to let the reference slide.
“Yes, ma’am. It’s an answer to a prayer.” And then she leaned closer to Tory, as if sharing a confidence with an old friend. “I was just up there a few minutes ago. He must be feeling real good this morning.”
“Why so?”
The woman grinned. “You know how men are. The better they feel, the louder they yell.”
Tory’s face blanched. “Brett was yelling?”
“I could hear him all the way out in the hall.” And then she realized she’d probably said more than she should. “But, of course, I couldn’t hear what he was saying. I was just passing by, you know.”
The elevator finally arrived, saving a thankful Tory from having to make any more polite conversation. But all the way up to the fourth floor, she kept wondering why Brett had been mad.
***
Brett’s pulse accelerated when he heard Tory greeting the guards outside his door. He took a deep breath and made himself relax. Calm. Stay calm. Take it easy. Don’t overreact.
And then she opened the door and came inside. The smile on her face was as welcome as sunshine after a week of cold rain. He’d been lonesome for her. Missing her laughter. Missing the sound of her voice and the touch of her hand. And the first thing he did was complain.
“When did you plan on telling me?” he growled.
Tory’s smile slipped sideways. Uh-oh.
“Telling you what?”
“Victoria, don’t play games. I’m not in the mood.”
She panicked. He knows. And then her own ire rose as she shifted her stance.
“And I wasn’t in the mood to watch you be murdered.”
He blanched. Put like that, there was little he could say that wouldn’t make him sound like a heel. He took a deep breath, then held out his hand.
“Come here.” When she didn’t budge, he added. “Please.”
She dropped her purse on the chair by the door, and moments later she was in his arms.
“My God, baby, you could have been killed.”
“You were worth the risk.”
He closed his eyes and held her closer, letting himself absorb her by feel, rather than sight.
“If anything had happened to you because of me…”
She pushed herself out of his arms, making him face her, making him accept the truth.
“If I hadn’t done what I had, there wouldn’t be any you.”
He sighed. “As stingy as it sounds, all I can say is thank you.”
She smiled. “You’re welcome.”
He pulled her to him, urging her closer until she was sitting on the edge of his bed.
“Tell me what happened? Are you all right? Did he hurt you when—”
She stood up and did a quick turn. “I’m fine, see? No bruises, no scars.” And then she grinned. “But you oughta see the other guy.”
Brett’s eyebrows rose. “What happened?”
“They had to sew him up before they could arrest him.”
Brett began to grin. This was a side of Tory he hadn’t known existed.
“You’re feeling kind of frisky about the whole thing, aren’t you?”
She put her hands on her hips, trying for a Wonder Woman pose. “Around here, they call me the Terminator now.”
His grin widened. “Are you kidding me?”
She didn’t smile back. “No, I’m not. After I’m gone, you just ask the first person who comes into this room. You’ll see.”
“But how?”
“Let’s just say, if we’d been playing football, there would have been penalty flags all over the field.”
Brett laughed. “How so?”
“I tackled him below the belt and from behind.” Then she frowned. “Maybe I’ve got football penalties mixed up with boxing rules.” She shrugged. “Oh well, you know me. I never was much good at sports.”
Brett was still laughing when the door to his room opened. Tory turned just as another volunteer came in with a large vase of flowers. His room was already full of plants and bouquets from friends and family, but she never tired of the surprise of the arrivals. The woman smiled and waved as she left.
“Ooh, how pretty,” Tory cried. “You have some more flowers. I wonder who these are from.”
Brett grabbed her hand before she could get the card. “Come here,” he begged. “I’m still waiting for my kiss.”
She leaned forward, willingly going where he begged her to be. Their lips met, and the kiss began, lingering far longer than the welcome he’d intended.
“Umm,” Brett groaned, when they finally parted. “That just makes me wish we were home alone.”
She sighed. “We’d better think of something else to do besides that.” Then she turned to the flowers. “Want me to hand you the card?”
“I know who they’re from.”
She smiled. “Don’t tell me you’re getting psychic on me now? How can you know who sent you flowers?”
“They’re not for me,” he said softly. “They’re for you.”
Startled, she looked deep in his eyes, to the love waiting there, and felt a lump forming in the back of her throat. She reached for the card, holding her breath as she slipped it out of the envelope.
“Thank you for loving me, Brett.”
The lump was too big now for words to pass. She looked at him once. The guilt that was always within her was growing, choking off whatever brilliant remark she might have made. Loving Brett Hooker was easy. It was staying with him that was hard. Her voice was trembling, her heart so full of love for this man that it hurt to breathe. But, as always, he was waiting. Waiting for her.
“You’re welcome, you know.” She sighed. “You make it easy.”
And then she was in his arms, her cheek near his chest, cherishing the steady beat of his heart beneath her ear.
***
Cynthia tacked up the loose end of the sign she’d just had made at a local copy shop and then stepped back to view her work.
Welcome Home Brett!
“There now. What do you think?”
Tory turned to look and then smiled at Brett’s mother. “I think he’ll get the message.”
Cynthia grinned, pleased with herself and her work. “Is there anything else I can help you with? Do we have enough soft drinks? Should I get another loaf of bread?”
Tory shook her head. “No, I think everything’s under control.” Except me.
But Tory didn’t voice her fears aloud. A woman as centered as Cynthia Hooker wo
uldn’t understand.
Tory had counted on being the one to bring Brett home from the hospital, but Ryan had come back this morning, insisting that he be the one, and she’d quietly complied.
She’d also planned on bringing Brett home to peace and quiet, not a party. But Cynthia hadn’t agreed. Added to that, Brett’s sister, Celia, her husband and their new baby would also be here.
She kept thinking, if only she could be somewhere else when they got here, but she couldn’t bear to miss seeing Brett walk in the door. A few weeks ago she’d feared that might never happen. After being reassured he would pull through, she’d lived for the day when he would come back to the apartment… and to her.
And the resentment she felt toward his family added guilt to the problems she was already facing. She didn’t begrudge Brett his family, but she didn’t want to be in the middle of it. With all of them here together, she felt an underlying pressure to belong, and she didn’t belong—not even to herself. In the midst of her troubled thoughts, the doorbell rang. Before Tory could react, Cynthia headed for the door.
“It’s too early for Brett. That must be Tom and Celia and the baby,” she said.
Tory’s stomach lurched. More family.
Cynthia had been right. Her daughter’s family entered the apartment in a whirlwind of diaper bags and laughter, and as Tory waited for an introduction, she had a sensation of walls closing in on her, minute by minute. She heard Cynthia saying her name and made herself smile. There was nowhere to turn and nowhere to run.
***
Brett rode with ease, comfortable with Ryan’s driving and the fact that he was finally going home. The day was almost balmy, unusual for this time of year. As they drove through the residential neighborhood leading to his apartment complex, he saw the world in which he’d been living and began to realize how much of life he’d been taking for granted. Everything was the same as it had been for the last seven years, but he was seeing it anew.
The flowers and shrubs bordering the walks and houses were vivid splashes of color against dark, green lawns. He saw children laughing and playing in the city pool they’d just passed, an old man walking his dog. His gaze centered on a young boy riding his bike, and he took a slow, deep breath, savoring the gift of life.
Ryan gave Brett a nervous glance. “You okay?”