by Karen Leabo
“Over here, Mom,” her son’s voice answered from the side yard.
Lana stepped off the porch. She saw Rob and a neighbor boy tossing the football, and took comfort in the normal little-boyness of it. “Dinner in about twenty minutes. Noah? Would you like to have spaghetti and meatballs with us?”
“No, thanks, Mrs. Gaston. My mom wants me home.”
“Okay. Maybe this weekend.” She turned her gaze back on her son. “Not too long, Robbie. It’s getting dark.”
Rob snorted and glanced sideways at his buddy. “My mom thinks bogeymen come out of the bushes when the sun goes down. In Destiny.”
“Hey,” Noah said, “we did have a murder.”
“Exactly,” Lana said with a nod. She decided she liked Rob’s friend Noah. “Ten more minutes, okay? Then you can come in and set the table.”
“Okay, Mom,” Rob answered distractedly. He and Noah were already tossing the ball again.
Lana sighed as she stepped back inside. Sometimes she felt like she was losing her son. He was growing, getting more independent, testing his boundaries. She knew that was natural. But she missed the little boy who would crawl into her lap for kisses and beg to be tucked in.
Five minutes later, as she was tasting the spaghetti sauce, a horrific noise reverberated all over the house. It started with a shrieking, like a wreck between two wooden ships, then turned into something that sounded like an avalanche pouring onto the roof.
Lana dropped her wooden spoon, splattering red sauce all over the white linoleum floor. She ran out the kitchen door into the backyard and swiveled around. Nothing on the roof. She didn’t immediately see—
Oh, no, she thought as panic rose in her throat. The garage. Her feet felt like lead as she dragged them around the side of the house. The sight that greeted her was every mother’s nightmare. The garage roof was now in pieces on the ground. And Rob’s sneakers at the end of two denim-clad legs, frighteningly still, were all that was visible beneath the rubble.
Lana, granted a strength and quickness she didn’t know she had, leapt to the site of the disaster and began clawing at the hunks of wood, loose shingles, and tar paper that covered her son. Like a crazed burrowing animal, she sent heavy pieces of debris flying through the air as if they were wads of paper until she’d uncovered her son’s too-pale face. His eyes were closed, and he was bleeding from a scrape on his forehead.
“Rob? Rob!” Recalling some long-ago first-aid class, she fell to her knees and reached for the pulse point at his neck. But she was shaking so badly, she wouldn’t have known a pulse from an earthquake.
“Lana!” a voice behind her said. “Is he okay?” It was Sandra Sutcliffe, Noah’s mother. Noah stood beside her, white-faced. “I heard the crash and looked out the window—”
“I don’t know. Dear God, he’s not moving.” But he was breathing. She could see the reassuring rise and fall of his chest.
“I’ll call 911,” Sandra said.
Other neighbors trickled over. Bill Watts from next door offered Lana a clean handkerchief to blot the blood on Rob’s forehead. There was so much blood. She fought the urge to pull Rob into her arms and hold him, knowing it was dangerous to move him.
She’d never in her life been so grateful to hear sirens. Someone pulled her from Rob’s side. Men and women in white coats descended on her child in a swarm, and she started to feel woozy. Just when everything started spinning and she thought she was going nosefirst into the turf, a strong pair of hands grasped her shoulders.
“Lana—you okay?”
“Sloan?” She sank onto the grass with his help.
“I came as soon as I heard. The call went out over the radio. I recognized the address.”
She didn’t know precisely why, but she was unutterably glad he was there. Because of his position, he could cut through police and hospital baloney and find things out for her. She suddenly felt that someone was on her side.
“What happened?” Sloan asked gently, kneeling on one knee beside her, his hand still on her shoulder.
“I don’t know. The roof …” She gestured absently. Rob’s football lay a few feet from where the paramedics were working. “Maybe I should have let you come over and fix it after all.”
“Don’t second-guess yourself now,” Sloan said sensibly, rubbing her shoulder. “It won’t help.” The warmth of his presence penetrated and surrounded her like a halo.
As the paramedics moved Rob onto a gurney, Lana’s heart was in her throat. “My baby,” she murmured. “He’s so still.”
“I’ll find out what’s going on,” Sloan offered.
“Yes, please. I want to ride in the ambulance with him.” She was so glad Sloan was there. She wouldn’t know whom to talk to, what to ask. It was okay, just this once, to let someone else make the decisions, and she couldn’t imagine anyone better for the job than Officer Sloan Bennett.
Someone shoved a consent form in her face. She signed it blindly. Sloan reappeared. “He’s conscious and his vital signs are good. They’re taking him to Methodist. You can ride in the ambulance, but hurry.” He offered her a hand up.
She took it. “Did they say if he’ll be okay?” she asked, her voice trembling uncharacteristically as he pulled her onto shaky legs. She kept hold of his hand, gripping it like a lifeline.
“No one said for sure,” Sloan answered. “But in my experience, cuts to the head always look worse than they are because they bleed so much. At the least, he’ll have a concussion.”
“And at the worst?”
He led her toward the ambulance. The paramedics were holding the door open for her. “Don’t go borrowing trouble. We’ll find out soon enough.”
“Oh, wait. My stove is on, my door is unlocked—”
“I asked your neighbor to go in, turn everything off, and lock up. She brought your purse and keys.” He handed them to her.
“Ah. That was very … thorough of you. Thanks.” I think. She gave his hand a quick squeeze and climbed up into the ambulance. She knew Sloan was being efficiently helpful and nothing more. Without his intervention she’d still be floundering around. She should be very grateful—and she was. Really. Besides, she had something much more important to worry about than why Sloan Bennett unsettled her so.
She focused on Rob, who was being attended by two bustling paramedics. Lana wanted to touch him, hold him, but she knew she’d just get in the way. She saw his eyes flutter and heard a muffled sob, which reassured her a bit.
Methodist Medical Center was less than ten minutes away, but with the siren blaring, the ambulance made it in five. Sloan’s squad car was right behind. He pulled up to the emergency room doors. The moment she emerged from the ambulance he was there, walking beside her, not touching but there to support her if she got too wobbly. She was glad for his continued presence, even if it annoyed her that she needed it.
Inside, the emergency room was like ERs everywhere—feverish babies, people with the flu, cuts and bruises competing for time and space in the treatment rooms. An admitting nurse behind a desk knew Sloan on sight. She dropped the papers she’d been working on and smiled up at him. “Whatcha got, Bennett?”
He smiled back, irritating Lana. How could anyone smile in this place?
“A sagging roof fell on a little boy,” he said, his face serious again. “This is his mother, Lana Walsh.”
“Gaston,” Lana corrected him. “Lana Gaston.”
Sloan touched his brow with one forefinger. “Gaston, right. I knew her in high school,” he explained to the nurse.
The nurse raised her eyebrows but said nothing. “Okay, Mrs. Gaston, I’ll need some information from you.…”
Lana answered the questions mechanically, her eyes darting around, hoping to see some sign of a doctor or nurse who would tell her something instead of the other way around.
“Do you have your insurance card?” the nurse asked. Her eyes were darting around too, but Lana had a feeling she was looking for a certain policeman rather than a docto
r. She’d noted a definite predatory gleam in those eyes.
Lana handed over the card. The nurse studied it critically. “It’s expired. By a couple of months.”
“Oh, shoot. The insurance is current. I’m sure I just forgot to put the new card in my wallet.” Although, come to think of it, she couldn’t recall receiving a card recently.
The nurse shrugged and made a photocopy of the card. “We’ll have to verify it.”
“Of course,” Lana said through clenched teeth. What were they going to do, throw her baby out in the street if he wasn’t insured? But she knew he was insured. Bart kept Rob on his company-paid policy.
Oh—Bart. She should call him. She found a pay phone, called his home number, got the answering machine. “Bart, it’s Lana. I’m in the Methodist Hospital emergency room with Rob. He’s had an accident. I’m hoping it’s not serious, but I’ll call you back as soon as I know something.”
Next she called his pager and left the pay phone’s number. But a woman was standing in line behind her to use the phone, so when and if Bart called back, he’d get a busy signal.
Lana paced back to the seating area, too keyed up to actually claim a chair. What was taking so long? She wondered what had become of Sloan. He’d disappeared during the time she was answering the admitting nurse’s questions. She supposed he had other things to do, but he could have at least told her good-bye.
Finally she heard her name over the loudspeaker. A man wearing a reassuring lab coat was waiting for her at the triage desk. “Mrs. Gaston?”
“Yes? How is he? Can I see him?”
“He’s okay. I’m Jase Desmond, neurology,” he said as he escorted her through a set of swinging double doors. “Your son suffered a stiff blow to the head. Fortunately he’s tough as a walnut. There’s no skull fracture and only a mild concussion. He’s alert and responsive. Other than the head injury, just a few scrapes and bruises. Not even any stitches needed.”
With each word the doctor spoke, Lana’s insides uncoiled. He was okay. Rob was okay. “He’s talking and everything?” Lana asked, just to be sure she understood “responsive.”
“See for yourself.” The doctor opened the door to Treatment Room 5. And there was Rob, sitting up on the gurney with an animated expression on his face, chattering away.
To Sloan Bennett.
Her relief at seeing how “okay” Rob really was warred with her irritation that Sloan had been allowed to see her son before she had. “What are you doing in here?” she blurted out.
He looked surprised for a moment before recovering his composure. “I thought the ‘demolition man’ here could use a little cheering up,” he answered easily.
“Mom, it’s Officer Bennett,” Rob said, “the one who rescued us the other night.”
Lana summoned a smile as she came closer. “Yes, I see that.”
“He said I should be called the Demolition Man because I demolished the garage roof.” He pronounced the new word with relish.
She cast a sideways glance at Sloan, who appeared pleased with himself.
“Demolition Man, huh? Good thing you didn’t demolish your head instead. So, how ya doin’, champ?” she asked, rubbing her son’s arm.
“My head’s killing me,” he confessed, gingerly touching the square of gauze that covered the right side of his forehead. “They took X rays. It’s not broken.”
“Thank goodness for that.”
“We’ll want to keep him overnight for observation,” Dr. Desmond said from behind Lana. She’d almost forgotten about him, and his voice startled her. “We don’t anticipate any problems, but it’s best to be on the safe side.”
“Of course,” Lana agreed.
“You can stay with him if you like.”
“No,” Rob said. “I can stay by myself.”
Rob’s rejection of her company cut Lana’s heart to ribbons, but she put on a brave face. “I wouldn’t mind staying with you. We could read a book together.”
“Nah, that’s baby stuff. I’m not afraid.”
Lana felt pressure building behind her eyes. Her son didn’t need her. “All right.” She looked up at the doctor and forced herself to ask, “It’s okay if he stays alone?”
“Sure. We’ll take good care of him. I’ll go make arrangements.” He withdrew from the treatment room.
“Well, after you get settled,” Lana said, “I’ll go home and get you your pajamas and a toothbrush. And a comb. And—”
“My new Spider-Man comic book,” Rob added. “And Venom.”
Sloan appeared curious. “Venom?”
“Villain from the comic books,” Lana explained, trying her best to act normal. It shouldn’t hurt so much. Rob was just trying to be a big boy.
“Venom has a tongue about a foot long,” Rob added.
“Must be a charming guy,” Sloan said with a wink. But when he looked back at Lana, his eyes held an understanding she’d never expected. He knew she was hurting, no matter how deftly she hid it.
“You don’t have to stay here, you know,” Lana said to him. “Everything’s under control now.”
“How will you get home?”
Oh. She hated being stranded. For two days now she’d been depending on neighbors and coworkers to ferry her back and forth to work while she waited for this Cartwright character Sloan had recommended so highly to repair her car. “I’ll call Sandra, my neighbor.”
“I can take you.”
“Don’t you have work to do? Speeding tickets to hand out or burglars to catch?” She didn’t think she could bear his scrutiny any longer. He saw too much. He knew too much about her. She’d told him so many things when they were teenagers. How much of it did he remember?
“It’s a slow night,” he said.
She was trapped. She didn’t want him around. Or, more accurately, she wanted him around too much. He made it too darn easy to surrender—a ride here, a phone call there, a comforting touch. What would be next? He could convince her of anything if he put his mind to it. Talk about making a woman feel uneasy!
Still, she couldn’t turn him down without seeming ungrateful. She was formulating a reply in her head, when the treatment room door slammed open, and her ex-husband stood in the doorway looking like a Viking conqueror. A real ticked-off Viking conqueror.
“Just what in the hell is going on here?”
THREE
My God, Sloan thought, awestruck. It was the man himself, Bart Gaston, former high school football star, banker’s son, high-profile attorney. But for all his money and privilege, his glib tongue and good looks, he apparently couldn’t hold on to Lana. Sloan wondered why.
“Bart, for heaven’s sake, lower your voice,” Lana said, her own voice strained. “Rob had an accident, but he’s fine.”
“Fine? He doesn’t look fine to me. He’s in the emergency room. He’s got a bandage around his head. Jeez, Lana, what the hell happened?”
“It was that stupid garage roof. He was playing football. He must have knocked the thing loose somehow—”
“Must’ve?” Bart repeated incredulously. “You mean you don’t know?”
“No, I don’t know exactly.” She raised her chin a fraction. “I found him unconscious. They took him away in an ambulance. I only just now was allowed in to see him.”
“Let me get this straight,” Bart said, holding his thumb and forefinger to his nose as if he had a sinus headache. “You allowed my son to play in a dangerous area without supervision. You knew the roof was falling down, but you couldn’t take the trouble to get it fixed—”
“I couldn’t afford to get it fixed.” Lana shot a guilty look in Sloan’s direction.
“Oh, and I suppose that makes this whole thing my fault, huh? Because I don’t just fork over a check every time you have a little problem? Because you can’t handle your own money?”
Sloan’s gut bunched tighter with every word the bastard spoke. He rose slowly from his chair, his hands clenching, unsure what he wanted to do. But he couldn’t stan
d by and let this jerk browbeat Lana, especially in front of their son.
Lana looked at Sloan again and subtly shook her head. “Can we continue this discussion some other time—in private?” she asked Bart in a voice that sounded like she was struggling for control. She touched Rob’s shoulder in a meaningful gesture.
As for Rob, he didn’t appear particularly upset by his parents’ arguing, just mildly interested, like maybe he’d heard it all before.
Bart at least had the decency to lower his voice, but what he said sent chills up Sloan’s spine. “Oh, we’ll talk all right.” Then he focused his gaze on Rob and plastered on a smile. “Well, tough guy, looks like you got a knock on the noggin. How’d you manage that anyway?” He sat on the edge of the gurney, closing out everyone else from their conversation.
“Playing football. The ball got stuck on the roof. I was hitting the roof with a tree branch, trying to get the ball unstuck, and …” He shrugged. “Poof.”
“Poof, huh? Did it hurt?”
“I dunno, I don’t remember. Hurts now though.”
“Think some chocolate ice cream would make it feel better?”
Rob’s eyes lit up. “Do they have ice cream in the hospital?”
“If they don’t, I’ll pay one of those pretty nurses to run out and get some.”
Sloan thought he might throw up. He’d despised Bart Gaston in high school and he hated him even more now. Sloan knew the type—omnipotent, thought he could throw around a little money and make everything go right for him.
“Dad,” Rob said, suddenly solemn, “will you stay with me?”
Lana’s face went ashen.
“Sure, son,” Bart said carelessly. “I’ll stay till you fall asleep. But I have a big court case tomorrow first thing, so I’ll have to go home sometime. You want Dad to win, right?”
Rob nodded. “You gonna beat their butts?”
“You bet. I’ll get a nice fat settlement and we’ll see about that mountain bike for Christmas.”
“All right!”
Lana stood up and sidled toward the door. “I’ll just, um, go home and get those pajamas and comic books for you, Rob.” Her smile was even more forced than her ex-husband’s.