Saving Mr. Perfect

by Tamara Morgan

  He’s dead, he’s shot, he’s gone.

  All Grant wanted was for me to be safe and happy, but instead of giving him that, I forced him to let me interfere. I put that bullet in his back—as neatly as if I’d pulled the trigger myself. I’m the worst wife a person could ask for.

  “Okay, Blue.” Simon’s crisp voice is like a slap to my cheek. “How do you want to play this?”

  “Play what?”

  The look he gives me conveys his opinion on my intellect. “You broke into the Federal Bureau of Investigations because you felt like looking at a case file, but you’re going to take a nurse’s word for it that you can’t go any farther than a hospital waiting room?” He blows out a puff of air. “I repeat, how do you want to play this?”

  Even with my heart struggling to beat in its constricted knot, a smile lifts the edge of my mouth. Of course. When have I ever let an authority figure stop me from doing exactly what I want?

  I hadn’t been aware of casing the room when we walked in, but it appears my instincts took on the task for me, because I have the hospital security figured out almost instantly. “Okay, did you notice that the nurse had to use her badge to get past those double doors over there?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s where we need to go.”

  “Thank you. I figured that much. Did you have an actual plan for getting through them?”

  No, but I’ve always been good at thinking on my feet. And since the alternative is to sit here in the agony of the unknown with Simon for company, I don’t hesitate to do just that.

  “This man has a gun!” I cry, pointing an accusing finger at Simon. “He brought a gun into the hospital!”

  It takes a second for the people around me to respond and a second longer for Simon to realize what I’ve done. Despite an initial indignant outburst, he proves himself a good sport and lifts his jacket to flash his holster—as well as the fully legal firearm carried within it. A few panicked screams confirm my accusation, and much to the hospital’s credit, a security guard appears out of nowhere to take him down.

  Simon commands the guard’s full attention as he shows his credentials, pausing only to make sure I successfully lift the man’s badge before I go. My pickpocket skills are a little rusty, but I manage to unclip it and push through the dispersing crowd before anyone is the wiser. A quick swipe of the card and a slip through the door later, and I’m on my way.

  It’s not as triumphant a success as I hope, and the buoyancy of sneaking past armed officials doesn’t last longer than the first nurses’ station. There’s something about hospital professionals, with their hushed tones and the knowing glances, that turns me into a blubbering child.

  “Excuse me, can I help you?” The nurse who catches me sidling down one of the hallways speaks in the requisite hushed tone, which doesn’t do much to bolster my confidence. “Are you looking for someone?”

  Since it’s not likely I’m going to find Grant in this maze of clinical fluorescence on my own, I aim for a friendly smile. I miss.

  “An FBI agent was brought in for a gunshot wound,” I say through quivering lips. “Do you know where I can find him?”

  The nurse looks carefully for someone to share a knowing glance with, and I can tell I’m about to be escorted back to the waiting room. I take her hand and squeeze it. “Please. I know you’re just doing your job, and there are a lot of people here who need you, but the man—Grant, Grant Emerson—he’s my husband. No one will tell me anything, and I need to know…”

  My voice cracks, and I don’t finish. I need to know if he’s dead. I need to know if I’ve killed him.

  Human kindness isn’t something I’m so accustomed to that I can always recognize it at a glance, but I see something close to absolution in the sympathetic flash of her eyes.

  “Sure thing, hon,” she says and squeezes my hand back. She doesn’t let go, either, leading me around to the side of the desk so she can punch a few keys on the computer and look him up.

  “Okay, it says here he’s out of surgery, so that’s a good sign. Gunshot wound to the right flank, clean entry and exit, no organ perforations. Those are also good signs. Oh dear, let’s see…”

  I don’t breathe, waiting for the bad news to hit.

  “Ah! There he is. They took him down to recovery a few minutes ago. You should be able to see him shortly.”

  I blink, dazed. “That’s it?”

  “That’s it.” She releases my hand, shaking hers to get the blood flowing back to it. “And if he’s half as strong as you are, I wouldn’t be surprised to find him up and walking by tomorrow. Come on. I’ll take you.”

  If someone asked me to retrace my steps through the maze of that hospital at a later date, I doubt I could do it. The journey only takes five minutes, but my relief and anxiety swirl together in such an overwhelming mass of emotion, I see nothing but a blur of eternal gray and white.

  “Here we are,” the nurse says kindly as we approach a door marked Recovery. “They don’t usually let spouses in there, but I assume you’ll find a way in no matter what.”

  I’m confused until she gently lifts the security guard’s badge from my hand. In my rush to find out what happened, I forgot I still had it clutched in my fingers.

  I don’t have a chance to thank her, because my husband—my poor, bandaged, hooked-up-to-a-monitor husband—chooses that moment to blink blearily up at the doorway.

  “Penelope?” he asks. His voice is slurred and his eyes—those sharp, dark eyes that see everything—are impossible to read, as always.

  I’ve never seen him so vulnerable, and it almost shatters me. Grant is the strong one, the good one, the dependable one. It’s the foundation on which our entire relationship rests, the truth that drives me crazy and anchors me at the same time. He can’t break, because I need him to keep me whole.

  “He shot me,” Grant mutters. “The bastard actually shot me.”

  “I know,” I say and rush to his side. “I heard.”

  And then I promptly burst into tears.

  27

  THE REVENGE

  It’s not long before I find myself wishing Christopher Leon had better aim.

  “I swear to everything you love and cherish, Grant, if you don’t stop trying to get out of this bed, I’m going to tie you to it,” I warn.

  “And I’ll help her with the knots, so you know they’ll hold,” Simon adds.

  Grant looks at Simon and back at me, his eyes returned to their normal eagle state thanks to his refusal to take narcotics in any dosage. Lucky to be alive, the surgeon said. Less than an inch from hitting his spine, he vowed. And Grant won’t even take a stupid Vicodin to relieve the pain.

  “I don’t believe you,” he says as he struggles to sit up.

  With a sigh of exasperation, I leap onto his bed—as gently as a human being can leap—and pin his legs to the mattress using the entirety of my body weight. The action is enough to give him a moment’s pause, but a moment is all we get. Simon lunges to move the lunch tray out of Grant’s reach so he can’t use it as a weapon, something he tried with some success this morning. Simon gets to it, but barely, and the plastic cup of gelatin ends up on the once-spotless sleeve of his steely gray suit.

  Had Simon asked my opinion, I could have told him how to dress for a day at Grant’s bedside. Suits and nice slacks won’t do the trick. What he needs is chain mail.

  “Dammit, Emerson, look what you did! This is my favorite suit.”

  “Yeah, well. This was my favorite back. Look what happens when you grow too attached to something.”

  I press harder on Grant’s thighs. From the way he winces, the added pressure isn’t doing anything for the gaping hole where metal tore through flesh, but I don’t care. If he wants me to treat him like someone who was shot, then he needs to start acting like one.

  “Even if you co
uld get on your feet and start walking,” I begin, “which, for the record, you can’t, there’s nothing for you to do about Christopher. Simon and I are handling it.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.” Grant grunts and makes a renewed effort to get out of bed. I asked the hospital for restraints like they use on death row prisoners, but they refused to indulge me. I think it’s mostly because they’re as eager to see him leave as he is. Grant is not what they call an ideal patient. “As long as Leon is alive and I’m stuck in this bed where I can’t guard you, it’s too dangerous to have you walking around. You should be in protective custody.”

  Right. As if me sitting in a room with a pack of armed FBI agents is going to help any of us.

  “What are they saying about Leon’s release?”

  Simon and I exchange a careful look. We haven’t told Grant yet, but Christopher was released on suspension late yesterday afternoon. The review board found no evidence of intent—they’re saying it was an accidental misfire—which means he’s a free man.

  For now.

  “Don’t worry about it,” I say quickly, at the same time as Simon offers, “You know how these things work.”

  How he and I manage to keep Grant in bed after that is nothing short of miraculous.

  “They let him go? How? Why? He shot me on purpose to keep me from seeing that video!”

  “I know he did, and I’m going to do everything I can to make sure it doesn’t happen again.” I use my most soothing voice, but it only makes Grant tense up, which of course means he winces. He’s not supposed to move this much—or, you know, at all. There are a lot of stitches in his body right now, and even though he’ll never admit it, he came awfully close to dying on that operating table. “But I can’t do that if I have to sit on your legs all day.”

  “If you’re sitting on my legs, at least I know where you are. At least I know you’re safe.”

  “I don’t want to hear that stupid word out of your mouth again.”

  “What? Safe?” He says it almost triumphantly. “I’m sorry, my love, but I was right about Leon all along.”

  Forty-eight hours ago, I would have given anything to hear my husband baiting me from his hospital bed. Forty-eight hours ago, his triumphant smile was the only thing in the world I craved.

  Funny how quickly things change.

  “Yes, dear. You were right,” I say, still in that soothing voice. “He’s a big, bad man, and he needs to be stopped. Unfortunately, it looks like his friends in the Bureau don’t agree—which is why I’ve come up with an alternate plan.”

  He doesn’t ask what that plan is, but one of the virtues of strictly enforced bed rest is that he has to listen—whether he likes it or not.

  “The external video feed came back empty, which means it’s my word against Christopher’s that he was at Millie Ralph’s house earlier that day,” I say, ignoring the dark look that crosses Grant’s face.

  I know he’d been counting on that video to close the case, but it had shown nothing but an unending stream of static. According to the official FBI report, the thief used some kind of electronic jammer to keep it from recording anything. According to Simon, Christopher Leon was a sneaking bastard who probably wiped it in the mass confusion following the gunshot. Either way, it was an official dead end.

  “Even if I did make a formal statement that he was in the area, which I haven’t, it wouldn’t be enough to get him arrested,” I add. “I’m not what they consider a reliable witness.”

  “I consider you reliable. That should be enough to get you on the witness stand and under protection.”

  I don’t tell him that Simon already made the offer—or that I refused it. This next part will be a hard enough sell as it is. “Simon and I have talked about it, and we believe that unless we can catch Christopher with his hand in the cookie jar, the authorities are going to continue to turn a blind eye.”

  “I’ll make them see,” he grumbles, but by this point, it’s the pain talking. If he was capable of making them see anything, he’d have done it by now.

  “The way I figure it, the only thing to do is hand him a cookie jar,” I continue. “But it needs to be a big cookie jar—so big, he won’t have any choice but to dig in. Since I know what the next target is—or, at least, what the most logical next target is—I intend to start there.”

  “Start where?” he asks. “What target are you talking about?”

  I firm my position on Grant’s legs in anticipation of what I’m about to say. “I, um, believe he has his sights set on the Conrad Museum.”

  As expected, his whole body jerks in reaction to my confession. I wince, thinking of the newly changed dressing on his flank.

  “I didn’t know!” I cry, hoping he can hear me over the rush of pain that follows his sudden movement. “When I first showed you the blueprints, I didn’t know what they were for. It was only after Mariah suggested it might be the Conrad that I put the pieces together.”

  “Penelope, you little—”

  I hold up my hand to stop him before he says something we’ll both regret. “It was wrong of me to keep it from you, but I had my reasons.” Three reasons, to be exact, each bearing the name of a dear friend of mine. “I can’t tell you everything, but what I can say for sure is that the Black and White Ball—that big charity event I was telling you about—is happening there in two days. And there’s a necklace on display, this ugly piece from the fifties, worth about ten million dollars. It’s the perfect opportunity.”

  “Opportunity for what?” Grant asks. When I don’t respond right away, he practically roars. “Opportunity for what?”

  I’m hoping Simon will jump in and save me, but his mouth is a firm line not even a crowbar could crack. With the proper amount of trepidation, I take a deep breath and—

  —am saved by a familiar voice in the hallway. “I don’t care when visiting hours are or who you intend to call to stop me. I’m going in there to see my son, and I doubt you want to see what happens to anyone who gets in my way.”

  “Oh, thank God.” I heave a sigh of relief and climb off Grant’s legs. The move may be a trifle premature, however, because he also recognizes that voice. His startled movement to remove himself out the nearest window looks to have ripped at least five stitches.

  “Penelope Blue,” he says, his voice dangerous. “What did you do?”

  I’m not scared of that voice. I’m horrified by the IV still dripping in his arm, and I’m terrified of what might have happened if Christopher had shot slightly to the left, but Grant’s anger means nothing. Not when I’m doing what I know is right.

  “This is your own fault,” I accuse, but I run a hand across his forehead in an attempt to get him to lie back down. It doesn’t work, but I don’t need it to, because his mom chooses that moment to saunter through the door.

  “Oh, Grant,” she says with an exasperated sigh. “I always knew it was a matter of time before you got yourself shot. I just assumed it would be one of the bad guys who did it.”

  “It was a bad guy—” Grant begins, but he doesn’t have a chance to finish. His mom is too busy pulling off his blankets and making tsks of annoyance at what she finds.

  The action isn’t as strange as it seems, especially for anyone who’s met Myrna Emerson before. For starters, she’s an ER nurse, so she has heaps of experience with this sort of thing. She’s seen more than her fair share of gunshot wounds, and her capable efficiency prevents her from turning maudlin at seeing her son fall victim to one. Myrna is also Grant’s mom, and if that sounds obvious, too bad. There’s no other way to describe her. Imagine someone like Grant—stubborn and capable and gentle and proud—and then imagine the kind of woman it would take to raise that man on her own.

  It’s why I called her in for reinforcement. She’ll succeed where I failed, keep him subdued until the healing starts. She’s halfway there already.
>
  Sensing the moment is right for retreat, I back up to where Simon hovers in the doorway, looking relaxed for the first time since we got the news. He and Grant grew up together, so he knows how effective the Myrna method will be. In the two minutes she’s been here, she’s somehow gotten Grant on his back, covered him with blankets, and forced him to take a drink of water. I couldn’t get him to drink even when I threatened to drown him in the cup.

  Despite his mother’s capable ministrations, however, Grant sees me edging toward the door and releases a low growl of discontent—my guard dog issuing a clear warning. Stay where I can see you.

  “Stop that right now.” Myrna snaps the blanket she’s in the middle of folding. “Your poor wife looks like she hasn’t gotten a wink of sleep in two days. Or taken a shower. Or eaten anything that hasn’t come out of a vending machine.”

  All of these things are true, but I had no idea it was so apparent. Tucking a strand of greasy hair behind my ear, I try not to look as chastened as I feel.

  “She’s not going to be any good to you if she’s dead on her feet, which is why I’m sending her home to get some rest and clean up. She can come back later this evening.”

  Confronted with his mother’s good common sense, Grant can’t do anything more than nod. The motion doesn’t come easy, though, and I can see the agony it causes him to let me go. My wifely instincts urge me to lavish him with kisses and promises to give up the whole scheme, shackle myself to his side until he’s ready to confront the enemy on his own. But my criminal instincts are there, too, and they’re not as sentimental.

  This sneaking around and setting traps and coming up with underhanded plans? I’m good at this part. No, scratch that. I’m great at it.

  “Before you go, I’d like to have a word with Simon.” Grant looks at his mom with a belligerent air. “If that’s all right with you?”

  She laughs. “Don’t take your bad mood out on me. I’m not the one who shot you. Speaking of bad moods, do you know if this hospital gets cable? I love you, but I’m not missing my shows because you can’t be bothered to wear a bulletproof vest.”