by Josie Brown
Yes, but only if she were threatening my family.
Instead, she gave me the greatest gift of all: her son, Evan.
I guess this is what Xia calls noble. But I’ll be damned if I take Xia’s word about Lee’s opinion of me.
I’ll give her the ultimate test, even if it is a lie. “You’re right. My allegiance is to Lee, above anything else. That being said, I’ll release you when you’re in his custody, along with the evidence that you killed Catherine.” I hold up the syringe.
Her eyes widen.
“And, by the way, I also have the intel that Catherine intended for me—so yes, you failed in your mission.”
“You silly fool! If you think your president—”
Suddenly, we hit an air pocket deep enough that the plane drops a good ten feet. It’s enough to shut anyone up, even a panicking hitwoman with nothing to lose.
Damn it, somewhere midair, I lose my grip on Xia. Maybe it’s a good thing, because instinct tells me to put my hands up over my head to protect it.
However, Xia’s instinct is to jerk the lasso off her neck with one hand while she shields her head from the ceiling with the other.
We both hit the floor on our knees, smacking it hard.
Before I can scramble onto my feet, she rolls far from my grasp and leaps up. In two seconds, she’s by the bathroom vanity, where she grabs her toiletry bag—
Where she’d hidden a gun.
The next thing I know, she’s got a Ruger SR22 pressed against my temple.
“Don’t be stupid,” I warn her. “If you shoot a gun in here, we’ll lose cabin pressure, and we’ll all die.”
“My death sentence is assured either way. I don’t mind taking you with me.” She taps my temple with it. “Besides, at this close range, I won’t miss.”
“Neither will I.” Jack is standing in the doorway. He has his Sig aimed at Xia.
“Ooooh, the boy toy plays rough,” she coos. With her free hand, she jerks me closer so that I’m her human shield. “Go ahead, take your shot.”
Don’t mind if I do.
Ego is your enemy. Case in point: Xia’s propensity to flirt, even when the object of her affection has a gun pointed in her direction, has given me the precious few seconds I need in order to flick off the needle cap on the syringe I hold in my pocket.
When I stab her hard in the jugular, she’s still smiling at Jack through pursed lips.
But her simper is replaced by gasps as the Digitalis races through her. Still, she has enough energy to pull the trigger—
I hit her with an elbow to the gut before ducking out of the line of fire.
Jack is not so lucky.
The bullet pierces him in the head. Stunned, his hand goes to the wound: the right side of his head, just over his ear.
He reels backward into the galley as Xia hits the floor face down.
As I run to him, my scream fills the cabin.
I cradle his head in my lap and press my hand over the wound, ignoring the blood seeping through my fingers. Jack’s eyes are fluttering and he’s trying to speak, but no words come out. Still, his lips form the words I love you and I’m sorry.
Even if he could say them, I wouldn’t be able to hear him, and not just because George is shouting over the intercom, “May Day! May Day! Request immediate emergency landing and an ambulance—” but because I am wailing so loudly and I can’t hear anything over the beating of my heart.
Chapter 17
Frost
The condensation and freezing of moisture in the air is known as frost. Tender plants will suffer extensive damage or die when exposed to it.
The same can happen to a relationship, seasoned or tender, if one of the partners can’t forgive the other for an indiscretion.
Ask yourself: if he comes clean, can you forgive, let alone forget?
If not, put up a good front—at least until the frost has thawed.
(No, silly—not the one in your marriage! The one outside your window. When it does, it’ll be easier to bury his body.)
Jack is unconscious, but the fact that he is still bleeding is a good thing. At least that is what I tell myself, especially when I consider the alternative.
All of this blood flowing out of him means his heart hasn’t stopped. But when you hold the life of a loved one in your hands, seconds seem like hours, and minutes seem like days. Will we get him to the hospital in time?
The massive storm moving over the Midwest detoured our plane’s flight path to the north and east. Apparently, God did us a favor, because at the moment the bullet entered Jack, we were only eight minutes away from Baltimore-Washington International Airport.
When we land, several cop cars and a fire truck are there to meet us, as is the ambulance that will whisk us the eleven miles to Johns Hopkins Hospital, where Ryan has arranged for Jack’s emergency surgery to take place. The fireman and EMTs are real, but the cops are Acme cleaners--that is to say operatives adept at making ugly little problems like dead bodies and crime scenes go away without a trace.
In other words, no one will ever know what really happened to Xia.
The lifesaving ballet of the three emergency med techs fills me with awe. Noting that Jack is unconscious, one of the EMTs—his name tag says Jared— assesses the head wound: “Small entry wound above his right ear. No gray matter visible.” He then applies the necessary pressure to staunch Jack’s bleeding, while another medic—Jason—strips Jack of his clothes with trauma shears. The third medic, Kendra, assesses his head and body for other injuries, then makes sure nothing obstructs his airway. before Jason and Jared lay him on a backboard and strap him down.
While Kendra gets behind the wheel, Jared and Jason heave him onto the gurney, which is then rolled down the airport’s freestanding security ramp before he’s loaded into the ambulance. I jump in back too. Before they can say anything, I pull out my Acme ID, showing I have the highest level of clearance. Jason raps Kendra’s back window, and we’re off.
Jared taps an artery in Jack’s arm in order to insert a saline IV. Jason puts him on oxygen, then hooks him up to a heart monitor. I can hear Kendra calling the hospital’s trauma team in order to alert it that a GSW trauma is en route.
The first eight minutes of the ride go quickly. Jared is on constant vigil: checking Jack’s blood pressure, his pulse, and talking to him, to see if Jack will come to. At the same time, Jason has me filling in the blanks: about Jack’s age, health issues, allergies, medical status, and how he ended up in the path of a bullet while in midair.
As you can imagine, his eyes widen when I say, “I’d tell you, but because your security clearance isn't high enough, I'd have to kill you."
That would be a much-needed moment of comic relief if the next thing out of Jared’s mouth wasn’t, “Patient crashing!”
The next thing I know, Jared is placing a bag-valve mask over Jack’s mouth and nose to force oxygen into his lungs. He then positions himself over Jack and begins chest compressions, counting them off.
When this still doesn’t get him breathing, Jason goes in with the hardware. I turn my head when he attaches the electrodes of the defibrillator and hold my breath as he shouts out, “Clear!” And I hear the telltale sound of the electric shock from the defibrillator jumping Jack’s heart.
Finally, he yells, “Pulse!”
Jared and Jason slap high-fives.
Suddenly, the ambulance makes a turn so wide that the fluid bags are flung sideways on their poles. In anticipation of a quick stop, the EMTs brace themselves. Not me. I’m tossed forward and onto the floor. I look up to see Jack’s fluid bags spinning on their hooks.
“Women drivers,” Jason mutters. “Gotta love ‘em.”
How serene Jack looks, despite the chaos around him.
No, Jack, it is not your time to rest in peace.
Jack’s saviors fling open the back doors and shove his gurney into the waiting arms of his receiving party—four ER personnel, male and female, nurses and doctors—who s
wirl around him like desperate dervishes, whose liturgy is made up of their patient’s life support stats.
I run after them as they wheel him through the ER into a hallway leading to the surgery suites. I have to hold it together when Jason and Jared bar me from entering the OR, if only to ask, because I need someone to tell me something—anything, even if it’s not something I want to hear: “Will he survive?”
Their eyes meet over my head. “Miracles happen every day,” Jason finally mutters, dubiously.
That’s my cue to pray.
I guess this is one of those times where the least and most you can do are one and the same.
It’s a four-hour surgery. I’ve been told, “Make yourself comfortable in the waiting room.”
Talk about a poor choice of words. There is nothing comfortable about fear and anxiety and the interminable delay of knowledge. So, when I’m not praying, I’m pacing. And when I’m not pacing, I’m blaming myself for—
For what?
For falling in love with a man whose job always puts him in peril? Or for getting out of the line of fire instead of taking the bullet now embedded somewhere in his brain?
I collapse
a chair and bury my head in my hands. But I refuse to cry—at least, not until I know, one way or another.
I close my eyes and my mind to the inevitable: a life without Jack.
When I feel a tap on my shoulder, I practically leap out of my skin.
“Mrs. Stone?” I look up into a man’s face, fatigued and scruffy, above green surgical scrubs. The name tag reads Mario Martinez, MD. “I just wanted to let you know that we’ve done all we can.”
I collapse back into my chair. “So, Jack is…gone.”
My partner. My love.
My life.
“No—”
It takes a minute for the word to winnow into my subconscious.
There is hope.
“—But it’s still touch-and-go,” Doctor Martinez warns me. “When we saw that there was no exit wound, we feared the worst. During the operation, resuscitation was needed, twice. Frankly, it’s rare to operate when a patient has such a severe GCS.” He winces. “Let me put it this way—it helps that he has friends in high places.”
In other words, God. Well, and Ryan.
“The fact that the caliber of the bullet was small—a twenty-two—saved his life. It penetrated both the skin and the scalp, but luckily, not the skull.”
I can’t believe my ears. “That’s good, right? But, all that blood loss—”
“One of the superficial external carotid arteries was nicked.”
He holds up a .22 bullet. It is somewhat flattened, but intact. “It was buried just beneath his scalp. His skull is fractured, but the bullet didn’t penetrate it.”
“Will he…survive?”
“We don’t know yet. He’s still in a coma. Even if he wakes up, the massive concussion he incurred may lead to a lifetime of tremors, or even brain damage. It’s a waiting game.”
“Doctor, may I go to him?”
He nods. “Follow me.”
Jack is my sleeping prince.
I force myself to block out the bandage wrapped around his head, and the fluid tubes and monitors attached to different parts of his lifeless body. Instead, I make myself remember his dry, cutting wit, and his boundless courage, and his deep, resonant voice, especially when he said, “I love you.”
His eyes are closed, which is good, because I’d hate for him to see the tears flowing down my cheeks. I must keep it together. They say that it helps if you talk to coma patients. But since there’s no manual listing other do’s and don’ts, I have to wing it. I don’t know whether or not it’s okay for me to smother him with kisses, but that’s what I do.
He can’t comment back, so my non-stop chatter becomes a confessional. Whether Jack can hear me or not, I tell him how relieved I am that he’s still alive, and that I feel guilty for having ducked without first checking to see if he was out of the line of fire, and that I’m sorry for all the times I should have listened to him but didn’t.
I come clean with all the mistakes I know I’ve made in our relationship, no matter how big or small. More to the point, I promise that in the future I won’t wait until he’s in a coma to tell him when he’s right.
And for that reason alone, he should wake up.
Until death do us part.
I wonder if I’ll ever get to say those words to Jack.
In truth, the phrase does not conjure up fond memories. I shivered when I said it to Carl on our wedding day. The phrase, in French, was how Jack’s wife, Valentina, chose to reach out to him after running off with Carl.
Now that both Carl and Valentina are dead, Jack and I were ready to move our lives forward, together.
Just thinking about it reminds me of Catherine’s ring, deep in my pants pocket. I pull it out and stare down at it. Its large round-cut diamond is raised above the smaller stones, which are encrusted around the antique gold band. From its age, I presume it’s a family heirloom.
For the first time, I notice that the diamond is a bit loose. It doesn’t come off, but can be raised just enough to hold something within its prongs—
Something very thin—
A slim metal disk. It is a microdot.
Catherine’s last words to me were You’ve now got what you need.
This must be what she meant.
She also said, Remember—you promised.
I was too late for her.
I hope this isn’t the case for Jack too.
I reach for my phone and call Ryan.
“How is he doing?” Ryan’s voice sounds anxious.
“They have him stabilized, but he’s still in a coma. The bullet was found under his scalp—almost as flat as a pancake.”
Ryan’s attempt at a chuckle is weak. “He’s lucky he’s so hard-headed.”
“I’ll be honest with you—there’s no telling how long he’ll stay this way. When he wakes up—”
“You mean, if he wakes up.” Ryan isn’t expressing despair. As always, he’s preparing for the worst-case scenario.
“No, Ryan! I mean what I say. When he awakens, they don’t know what condition he’ll be in.” I try not to choke on my words. “There could be permanent brain damage. Or he could suffer tremors. In any regard, I’m staying by his side.”
“Of course.” He pauses, then adds, “I’m sure Aunt Phyllis and the children will feel the same way.”
“One more thing, Ryan. Catherine gave Evan her wedding ring. She slipped a microdot under the setting. From what she hinted at, it may have concrete evidence to implicate President Chiffray as a member of the Quorum. And before Liang Xia died, the statements she made seem to add credence. She claimed that Lee sent her to exterminate Catherine for that very reason.”
Ryan is silent for so long that I’m afraid the cell transmission somehow dropped out. Finally, he says, “Arnie is still waiting for the release of Catherine’s body. I’ll send him to Johns Hopkins first, to retrieve the ring.”
I hang up.
I’d love to crawl into bed beside Jack. Instead, I move one of the room’s two guest chairs as close to him as I can, and I inch my hand under his patient gown so that I can place it on his chest, directly over his heart. That way, I can feel it beating, if just barely.
“Yes, I’ll marry you,” I whisper, as if this is the magical phrase that will rouse him from his fateful slumber.
But it doesn’t.
I pace the floor until Arnie shows up to courier the microdot back to Acme.
“You’ll call as soon as you crack it, right?” I ask him.
Arnie nods, but he can’t pull his eyes away from Jack. Who can blame him? The beeping monitors are bad enough. Add to that the bandage covering Jack’s head, his gray pallor and bloodless lips, I’d been struck speechless too.
I don’t have to tell him to pray for our dear friend. I watch as he crosses himself.
Before turning to leave, he
kisses me on my forehead.
I hate seeing the pity in his eyes.
Chapter 18
Heeling In
When you don’t have time to give a plant the right home, you can provide a temporary one for it by setting it into a shallow trench and covering its roots with soil so that it has the protection it needs until it is ready to be permanently planted. Gardeners call this process “heeling in.”
Obviously, this is different from teaching a dog to heel, which, teaches him to move with you, by staying next to your right leg. Usually, this involves weeks of training with a leash and some treats.
Heeling in a human is somewhat more complicated. A leash puts you on the right course. A whip may be needed to show him who’s boss. However, if the human can’t be trained, the shallow trench will once again be put to good use.
Only this time, what you plant there will find a permanent home.
The nurse shakes me gently. “Mrs. Stone—”
I sit up with a start. Oh, my God, did Jack die while I was sleeping?
But no, the monitor’s slow, constant beep hasn’t changed.
It’s been two days since Jack was shot. The nurses are kind about my constant vigil. They’ve learned to move around me, as if I’m just another piece of furniture.
This one notices my hand over Jack’s heart, and shifts her eyes so that I can’t see the sadness within them. She is no stranger to grief. If he doesn’t wake soon from his coma, they’ll try to convince me to let him slip away naturally.
I can’t. Not yet, anyway.
Before she turns back, she forces a smile. “I’m sorry to have startled you. I didn’t mean to wake you because of any change in Mr. Craig’s condition, but because he has a special guest.”
I glance around the room. The fatigue that mists my brain fades instantly when I see whom she means:
Lee Chiffray.
A broad-shouldered man in a black suit stands in front of the transom beside the room’s closed door. He is part of the president’s Secret Service detail.