Angels Weep

by C. J. Lyons

  Guilt. That’s what Morgan saw. Sorrow. Regret. And relief.

  “You think it was your fault.” The words emerged slowly but clearly. Morgan had been rehearsing them all day, whenever people left her alone for more than a minute, which wasn’t often. All these people wanting things from her; it was exhausting. Not Jenna. Jenna only wanted one thing from Morgan and it was easily given. “It wasn’t.”

  Jenna grimaced. “I wish I could believe you. You might not remember, but I made you go. I made you give yourself up to save Andre. I made you surrender. I’m sorry. I had to save Andre.”

  “So did I.” Morgan concentrated on arranging her muscles into a smile. Expressing emotions was tricky, she was learning—or relearning. “I went because I wanted. Do I ever do anything I don’t?”

  Jenna’s smile was effortless. It made her look beautiful, and Morgan wondered if she’d ever had the chance to see an honest smile from Jenna before now. “No. You’re the most stubborn person I have ever met—and that includes me, so it’s saying a lot. But still…”

  Jenna nodded to the bed, to the sheets pulled back to allow access to Morgan’s feeding tube, the damn PEG, revealing a few of the scars covering Morgan’s belly. Apparently a tree branch had impaled her, and she’d lost some of her intestines—not too much, the nurses had said, but enough to leave an infection behind. It had taken three surgeries before all the dead tissue was removed and her other bits and pieces repaired and put back together. The scars would never fade. A zigzag labyrinth of heaped up skin, a constant memory.

  “I’m sorry.” Jenna finished her thought.

  Morgan knew what to say, had rehearsed it as well, but her reply flew free, escaping her as her gaze caught on the empty bed at the far corner of the room. She counted—had to do it twice, for some reason she couldn’t remember what came after two—her fingers tapping against the bedrail.

  “Gone.” Her voice grew shrill, her agitation overwhelming her control. She reached for Jenna’s hand, miscalculated, and hit her arm instead. “Gone. What.” Breathe, focus, find your words. “What happened?”

  Jenna followed her gaze. Took Morgan’s hand in hers and held it gently. “To the little girl who was in that bed? She died. I’m sorry. It happened before I got here, while you were sleeping.”

  Morgan’s entire body shook. Anger burned through her like a fever. No. Not the right word. Not anger. Rage. Fury—that was better.

  Finally she remembered the thing she knew and must not forget. But it was too late. Her stupid, scrambled mind had remembered too late.

  “Killed,” she said, her voice level and clear. “She was killed.”

  Chapter Six

  Jenna Galloway stared down at the too-skinny, too-scarred girl shuddering in her arms. This wasn’t her Morgan. She would never have dreamed it possible, but she desperately missed her old Morgan. Old Morgan was a pure sociopath. The one person Jenna could be certain was more selfish, less empathetic, more cunning, conniving, lying, thieving, deceiving… Fill in any terrible adjective, and Jenna could rest easy, knowing Morgan was worse than Jenna could ever be.

  It was one contest Jenna was happy to lose.

  Deep down, she’d rather liked and admired the old Morgan. That Morgan did what she wanted, when she wanted, where she wanted. She took care of herself without question or fear or worry. Having her around, working with Jenna and Andre, made Jenna feel…morally superior, yes, which was rare enough, but also…protected.

  There was one person in her life she could always count on to do what needed to be done, no matter how ugly or bloody—as long as it was also in Morgan’s best interests. Since Morgan adored Andre, tolerated Jenna, and enjoyed working at their security firm, it also made Morgan the one person Jenna never had to worry about.

  That Morgan was not this girl clinging to Jenna, weak and helpless. A few months ago, Jenna might have felt smug, seeing Morgan transformed into a powerless victim. But not now. Now the realization made Jenna sad. As if a burden had been shifted from Morgan onto her.

  Now she would need to be the strong one, ready to do the dirty work, to protect Andre from harsh realities… Jenna was now the protector. The thought frightened her, and she hugged Morgan hard, wishing there were a way she could magically heal this broken wreck of a girl and bring back old Morgan.

  Because Morgan had become more than the thorn in Jenna’s side, constantly agitating and irritating… She’d become Jenna’s friend.

  “It’s okay.” She surprised herself by patting Morgan’s hair, trying to soothe the girl’s frenzy of emotions. Dr. Lazarus had told them emotional instability was a common result of a brain being without oxygen for too long. It could resolve, or it could become permanent. Or worsen. Only time would tell.

  Time will tell. The most commonly used and most despised three words in the entire rehab hospital. Jenna was at the point where she’d rather stab ice picks into her eardrums than hear those three words ever again.

  Finally, Morgan pulled away, sitting back against her pillows. The ward was quiet. A mother slept on a rollaway at the far end of the room. She’d arrived while the nurses were doing their silent work behind closed drapes, taking care of the body of the little girl who’d died. The mother had stopped but didn’t turn to look at the girl’s now empty bed space. Instead, she’d marched directly to her son’s bed, unzipped the protective netting, taken both his hands in hers, and bowed her head in prayer. Jenna had felt like a voyeur, trespassing into a territory she didn’t understand as she watched the mother’s mix of grief and relief.

  All the patients, even those prone to sleepless agitation, were now resting quietly. Jenna kept her voice soft as much for Morgan as for the sake of the others. “The nurses said she slipped away peacefully.” She wiped the tears from Morgan’s face—something in her wildest dreams she never imagined herself ever doing. “She just never woke up from her coma. She had a seizure, and her heart gave out.”

  Morgan’s gaze was riveted to the empty bed, its space already cleared of all the bright toys and stuffed animals and happy get well posters that had surrounded it. Then she jerked, pivoting to face the door so fast that she winced with the pain at the sudden movement.

  “It’s okay.” Jenna patted Morgan’s arm and felt the muscles knot with tension. Morgan curled both her hands into fists. Jenna covered the one closest to her with her own hand and saw what had disturbed Morgan—even after a coma, the girl’s senses functioned on a higher level that was preternatural. The shadow of a man filled the door’s window, and a moment later he entered the ward. “It’s just Dr. Lazarus.”

  The doctor’s white lab coat hung open like a superhero’s cape—except the man beneath it was no Clark Kent. Easily in his seventies, Dr. Lazarus was still at Angels most nights, making Jenna wonder if he had any life outside the hospital. He even lived on the rehab center’s grounds in the former orchard’s farmhouse.

  “Good evening, Jenna.” He turned to beam at Morgan as if she were a star pupil. “How’s my girl today?”

  Morgan tensed even more, her body vibrating like a live wire. “Not your girl.”

  “Morgan, it’s Dr. Lazarus. You remember him. Calm down.”

  “It’s all right, Jenna. When a patient reawakens and makes such rapid progress as Morgan has, there are often setbacks. Times when everything they’re experiencing as new becomes overwhelming and confusing.” He focused on Morgan. “Allow me to introduce myself once again. I’m Dr. Amos Lazarus. Not only am I your physician, but since you’re in state custody, I’ve also been named your guardian while you’re under our care.”

  Even in the dim light, Jenna saw the color drain from Morgan’s already pale face.

  “Custody?” She shook her head vigorously. “No. No custody.”

  “I’m sorry, my dear. But I’m afraid it’s standard procedure for a minor who has no parents or legal guardians. Once you leave here, you’ll go into foster care.”

  Jenna glared at the doctor. She’d warned him that this was
a sensitive area.

  “But that’s a long way down the road, and we’re working on alternatives,” she assured Morgan. She and Andre had little hope of becoming Morgan’s legal guardians, but Nick Callahan was trying to persuade his wife, Lucy, to consider it. After all, what judge wouldn’t want a trained psychologist who specialized in trauma and a decorated FBI agent to take custody of a girl like Morgan?

  Problem was…taking legal custody also meant being legally responsible for anything Morgan did in the future. Given her past actions and current lack of inhibition, a Morgan strong enough to leave the hospital was also a Morgan strong enough to kill or maim someone without considering the consequences. Which meant Nick and Lucy could lose everything if they allowed her into their home. Not to mention the risk to their own daughter.

  Needless to say, even an idealist like Nick wasn’t counting on Lucy agreeing.

  “Emancipation.” Jenna spelled out the other scenario for Morgan. “It means showing the court you can live on your own as an adult. Since you already have a job, the biggest hurdles are getting you a clean bill of health and a GED.” Ironic, since old Morgan was a sponge for knowledge and had self-taught herself in the subjects she was most interested in, like cybersecurity, crime scene forensics, human anatomy, criminal justice, and abnormal psychology, to the point she could out-think most grad students.

  “Jenna, please,” Dr. Lazarus said. “We need to be realistic about what the odds of her cognitive recovery truly are. We all need to accept that Morgan’s future may include…limitations. She may always require assistance. I’m afraid emancipation is out of the question. Especially in light of—” He cleared his throat, as if belatedly realizing that Morgan was absorbing every word. “We’ll discuss it further at the case conference tomorrow.”

  Morgan glanced from one to the other, stricken. Jenna squeezed her hand, trying to reassure her, even as she glared at the doctor. Lazarus said he believed in always presenting the facts to families and patients, but Jenna had the feeling he was being more than careless with Morgan’s fragile state—he was being purposefully cruel. Something about the way the corners of his mouth lifted—not in a true smile, but just enough to reveal his teeth. The way his eyes gleamed as he reveled in the fear his words had wrought in Morgan.

  Jenna hadn’t liked the man from the first time they’d met. He’d been so eager to treat Morgan, the girl all over the news, the daughter of a serial killer who’d killed her father to save innocent lives. The girl strong enough to survive an upbringing filled with bloodshed and torture.

  Nick had raved about Lazarus’s successes using his unconventional but effective therapies. Andre had seen a dedicated physician who wanted to restore Morgan.

  Jenna had seen a man eager to break her.

  She glanced at the empty bed space and thought about Morgan’s words. If he was the doctor on call tonight, Lazarus would have been present when the girl died. Her death was the natural progression of the terrible disease that had left a little girl hopelessly damaged, right?

  Lazarus followed Jenna’s glance, the corners of his eyes tightening with a smile that was absent from his lips.

  Morgan squeezed her hand. Jenna turned to face her and saw the urgent need in Morgan’s eyes. No matter how damaged Morgan’s psyche was, she had the most refined instincts of anyone Jenna had ever met—criminal or law enforcement.

  If Morgan thought that little girl had been killed, Jenna believed her.

  Chapter Seven

  Morgan tried to stay awake so she could ask Jenna to find out more about the girl’s death—Honey was her name. At least, that was the only name she’d heard anyone call her. But Lazarus’s melodious voice as he droned on about she-didn’t-care-what sent her to sleep.

  Not that she’d sleep very long. Now that she was off painkillers, her sleep cycles had returned to their usual out-of-sync-with-the-world short spurts. Life with her father had taught Morgan at an early age to avoid anything more than short naps and to never allow herself to fall into a deep sleep, especially not in the early hours of the morning when the rest of the world lay helpless and vulnerable, practically inviting the bogeyman.

  Hell, she and her father were the bogeyman. Nightmare demons who stalked the night.

  Maybe the world could sleep soundly now that he was gone, but not Morgan. She woke an hour and a half later to find Lazarus gone and Jenna sitting cross-legged in the chair, bent over her laptop. Although Morgan didn’t move or make a sound, some survival instinct alerted Jenna to glance up, her gaze seeking out the nearest danger: Morgan.

  “Why do you think that girl was killed?” Jenna asked, surprising Morgan.

  Unfortunately, Morgan didn’t have an answer to that question. More importantly, she didn’t know who might have hurt Honey. She hadn’t seen anything, had only heard the same careful footsteps night after night. Along with something else—a word? a sound?—an idea flitting too fast for her mind to grasp it. “While I was out—”

  “In a coma,” Jenna corrected, always preferring blunt truth—at least when it didn’t apply to her.

  “I heard footsteps. Always the same.” She’d heard something else, another noise, but she didn’t know how to describe the noise to Jenna.

  Jenna looked disappointed. “So? This is a hospital. Nurses are going to be checking vitals, bringing medicine, family members visiting—”

  Morgan shook her head vehemently and Jenna shut up. “No. Always the same footsteps. Always when no one else was here. Always before she had a seizure, got worse.”

  Morgan trailed off, exhausted, her syllables muddled together. But Jenna understood. “I heard the nurses talking. They said she died of a seizure they couldn’t control. She was already DNR, so there wasn’t much Dr. Lazarus could do anyway.” Her gaze drifted to the empty bed space. “She was only three. She had meningitis. They said she’d never recover, not without a miracle. So why…”

  “Angel of mercy.” Morgan wasn’t sure where she’d found the words; it felt as if they’d been haunting her since she saw the girl gone.

  “You think someone gave her the seizures so they could play hero? Pretend to save her? Only this time they went too far?” Jenna didn’t sound convinced. “That kind of serial killer is usually a medical professional—there’s another name for it. Hang on.” She tapped her keyboard and looked up. “Munchausen by proxy.”

  They sat in silence, the only sound other than the piped in ocean waves the constant background noise of the whirl of machinery: the bed, the feeding tube pump, the monitors measuring out children’s lives one heart beat at a time.

  “Angel of mercy,” Jenna repeated. “They also like to play God: decide who lives, who dies. Who gets put out of their misery.” Her gaze settled on Morgan. Morgan liked the way Jenna didn’t hover or coddle her; she treated Morgan as if Morgan were still…Morgan. Not some empty husk to be pitied. “You’re sure?”

  Morgan nodded, too exhausted to struggle with words.

  “Okay, then. First thing in the morning, I’ll start running background checks on the staff. Can you tell me more? Time of day? Dates?”

  Maybe treating Morgan like she was still herself wasn’t such a good idea after all. Because Morgan had no clue what today was, much less the date, and she’d only just learned how to read a clock again. She closed her eyes, trying to remember the sounds, the feeling of the ward.

  There was a definite rhythm to life here. Mornings were a bustle of activity: breakfast, bed linens changed, baths, then therapy, meds, music, visits from the therapy animals. Then came lunch, meds, usually the more awake kids—the agitated ones—would start acting out and the nursing aides would work with them, then visiting hours, speech and occupational therapy for those awake enough, and then dinner.

  Nights were quiet time, lights lowered, decreased sensory stimuli—even the music would be turned to softer, quieter instrumental melodies—meds, vitals with shift change, tucked in, lights out.

  Most of the other children only ha
d family members stay overnight on the weekends—they’d all been here months longer than Morgan. Nights. Honey’s seizures had definitely happened at night. Had there been someone here visiting? Maybe a parent not quite asleep who’d seen something? Or maybe done something?

  “After dinner. Before breakfast,” Morgan told Jenna. She winced. “I think.”

  “It’s a start. Did you notice anything else?”

  Morgan had noticed a lot of things—but she wasn’t quite sure which had been real and which had been conjured by a brain trying hard to knit itself back together. She shook her head. “Not sure.”

  Jenna shrugged. They’d started investigations with less to go on. “Maybe I should run the family as well, see if there was an insurance policy or any signs of prior abuse. This article on Munchausen’s says it’s often a mother, and she’ll repeatedly fabricate symptoms in her children to get attention from medical personnel.”

  Didn’t feel right. Even in her coma, Morgan had heard Honey’s family—the way they talked to her, held her in the rocking chair to tell her stories, tried to stay as long as possible before work and other family responsibilities pulled them away. But the fragments of memory were whisper thin, not enough to challenge Jenna’s theory.

  “Why believe?” God, she was tired, her tongue thick, words slurring.

  “Why do I believe you?” Jenna smiled—it was old, familiar Jenna back, the smile as sharp-edged as a serpent’s fangs. “Not sure I do. But I trust your instincts—not even a coma or dying a few times can erase those, not in someone like you. They’re primal, you know? And if there’s the slightest chance someone here is hurting children, you better believe I’m not going to let them get away with it.”

  Weird how Jenna sounded both like a crusader—unusual for a woman who always searched for the What’s in it for me? in every relationship—but also at the same time as if she needed this. A chance to act? Jenna got bored almost as easily as Morgan. No, more than that. Her voice and face together had a strange emotion, one Morgan had never seen in Jenna before. More than guilt or desperation. Naked need.