Shakespeare smirked.
“Can Mr. Shakespeare go home and get some rest?” Prichard said.
“Yes he can.” Peek pointed at Shakespeare but pretended to talk to Prichard. “But I want him back here at the crack of dawn to finish what we started.”
Shakespeare stood and crossed to the door. “Thank you, boys.” His whole body was sore. The pain in his arm was deep and annoying. He was hot. Needed to find a water fountain and maybe something to snack on for the drive home.
“You should be proud, Mr. Shakespeare.” Peek got serious on him. “What you did here tonight was … well, valiant, to say the least. I would only hope I would have done the same.”
Shakespeare slowed at the door.
Suddenly the pungent smell of gunfire and the sharp sting of smoke in his eyes from earlier that night came flooding back. He tried to focus on the carpet, but it was blurry and seemed ten feet away.
He placed a hand on the doorway to steady himself.
His head whirled.
From the corner of his eye, he noticed Prichard and Peek moving toward him.
“Are you all right? … Mr. Shakespeare?”
Prichard’s words were the last thing he remembered before hitting the floor.
52
Nothing else mattered to Jack now except seeing his baby boy. Everett Lester had pulled the strings to get Jack back into the progressive-care unit, and Nurse Ratched walked in front of him now, leading the way.
The hallway was quiet and dimly lit. Nurse Ratched’s white Nikes didn’t make a sound.
Jack’s heart ticked like a fast clock. He adjusted the light-blue germ mask she’d stuffed in his hand.
He was anxious about the unknown—the baby’s true condition.
Let him be fine, Lord, please. Let him be fine.
He had to block out the bad stuff—Shapiro’s disappearance, the nurse’s inexcusable bedside manner.
She turned several corners, passed two rooms, and entered another with light-green walls. Just inside the doorway, she folded her arms around a clipboard and spoke without making eye contact. “Let’s do about five minutes. And please don’t disturb him. Can you find your way back?”
“Yes. Thank you.” Jack walked past a clipboard hanging on the door that read: Baby Crittendon (male). The nurse disappeared, probably going back to make goo-goo eyes at Everett Lester.
The tiny bed, only two feet by three feet, was raised waist high and looked as if it was suspended in midair. It was flanked by colorful computer screens stacked three high on the right and some kind of monitors stacked ten high on the left. A small white box resembling a microwave, with lights and numbers, hung at the head of the bed, and directly overhead was a large, rectangular-shaped light with a red lens.
There were many wires and tubes. Some led directly to the baby, who lay sleeping, half-covered by light-green sheets and a blanket.
“Hey, my man,” Jack whispered.
The baby was sound asleep on his back, facing right. Jack gently touched his warm head and thin reddish-brown hair. White plastic patches the size of quarters were attached to the infant’s chest in several places, with wires leading to various monitors. His little right arm, which was up by his mouth, had a white splint on it, with several caps attached to his fingers.
“Oh, you little trouper,” Jack said. “You’ve been through so much, haven’t you?”
He leaned in close. The baby’s eyelashes were long, like his mom’s. His nose and mouth were tiny. He seemed very much at peace.
Jack lifted the sheet and blanket. There were several more monitor patches and wires adjoined to the baby’s legs and sides. His body was small compared to the girls’ when they were newborns; of course, neither of them had been born a month early. Jack gently rested a hand on the little guy’s tummy.
“Excuse me?”
Startled, Jack turned to see a short African American nurse standing there.
“Sir, we don’t allow visitors back here. Are you Mr. Crittendon?”
“Yes, yes, I am. I hadn’t gotten to see him yet.”
She came right over. “I’m sorry about that, but we can’t have you back here. It’s just not safe for any of the little ones we’re caring for.” She waved him toward the door and began walking toward it herself. “Let’s head back up front together, and you can tell me how you got back here.”
Perhaps this was the supervisor Nurse Ratched had paged.
“Dr. Shapiro assured us they would bring the baby to our room, but that was a long time ago.” Jack stopped short of the door and squared up with her. “We haven’t gotten any answers.”
“I’m afraid Dr. Shapiro has left for the night. It must’ve been some sort of emergency. I apologize.”
“He was supposed to give us an update on the tests. My wife was going to feed the baby. Shapiro left us hanging.”
“May I ask, did you just wander back here on your own?”
“No, not exactly. A nurse let me come back. I don’t want to get her in trouble. Look, we still don’t know what’s wrong with our baby. No one’s told us anything. We’ve gotten no answers. Can you help us?”
“If you’ll just follow me, sir, I’ll do my best.” She continued to force him out of the room without actually touching him. “Please, come along now.”
Jack took one last glimpse at the baby and followed her out the door and back to the nurses’ station, where Nurse Ratched was around the front of the desk, speaking animatedly with Everett and Karen. Cole was curled up on a couch near the elevators, asleep.
“Is this the nurse who let you go back?” His guide gestured toward Nurse Ratched.
Jack nodded.
“Nancy. Can I speak with you a moment?” She led Nurse Ratched back around the corner, out of sight.
Jack described the baby to Everett and Karen, and the African American nurse was back within two minutes.
“Okay, I’m sorry about that, folks. My name is Trevinia Alexander. I’m the supervisor on duty for the night. I am very sorry for all the trouble you’ve had.”
The other nurse didn’t return.
“I have your baby’s file here.” Trevinia went through one page after another. “I’m familiar with this. I went over it with Dr. Shapiro earlier this evening.” She continued to scan, reading here and there. Then she let the chart drop to her side and addressed Jack.
“We think your baby suffered some sort of hemorrhage to the brain.”
No … don’t say that. Please …
“But it’s too early to make a diagnosis,” she continued, the volume of her voice fading. “We have several more tests to do.”
When Pam fell …
“The good news is, he’s in the best of hands here,” Trevinia said. “He’s eating. His vitals are steady. He’s sleeping a lot, which is normal, but when he’s awake, he’s somewhat lethargic.”
There’s that word again.
Jack’s mind reeled.
His forehead was covered in sweat.
He felt Everett’s hand squeeze the top of his shoulder, but he couldn’t move—or speak. His mind had seared to white.
Karen took in a deep breath and set her shoulders back with both hands in the prayer position in front of her mouth. Her eyes were filling with tears.
It was as if Jack had slipped out of his body.
Hovering there.
Not accepting it.
No!
Rebelling against it—all of it. The unemployment, the attack, the troubles with Pam, the debt, and now this: this terrible trouble that lay ahead for them, for their baby, for the boy whom they had yet to give a name.
53
It was the middle of the night, and the puddle-filled parking lot at the Gazette was overflowing with cars. Derrick was forced to create a space for his FJ Cruiser at the end of an aisle. He an
d Daniel hustled in through the steady rain to find the hallways packed with staff; all hands were on deck.
When he entered the newsroom, it was bright, loud, and buzzing with electricity. He stood there stunned for a moment, taking it all in. Almost instantly, several reporters and editors converged on him, knowing he’d just returned from the outskirts of town where the Ohio senator had escaped from his captors.
It wasn’t until that moment that the enormity of the terrorist attack and the Sterling abduction hit Derrick as reality. Until then, it had all been like a dream—the screams and terror and gunfire at the smoke-filled arena; racing around the dark hilly roads of central Ohio; squabbling with the cop in the wet field in Seneca Falls.
A hand squeezed his shoulder from behind. “How fast can you have the first piece?” It was Buck Stevens, who never worked at night. The others smothered Derrick with congratulations and questions.
“Everybody quiet!” Buck motioned for the colleagues to give Derrick room. “He can tell us all about it over a drink later, but right now he needs to write. Okay? So back off and let the guy do his job. Where’s Daniel?”
Derrick was still in a daze, staring out at the bustling newsroom. “I think he stopped at the john.”
“Okay, how fast can you have the first story?” Buck repeated. “We want the very latest in the a.m. edition.”
Derrick eyeballed him. “With a cup of coffee, I can crank it out in forty-five—maybe thirty.”
“What do you take in it?” Buck was on his way.
“Black. Hold up, Buck. One more thing.”
Buck stopped and craned his neck at Derrick, who took advantage of the moment.
“Remember my buddy, Jack?”
Buck shook his head, waved a hand, and kept going. “It’s a no-brainer. Sterling’s a shoo-in,” he called. “We’ll get your buddy on board, don’t you worry.”
Derrick gave a thumbs-up and headed for his desk, thinking that was the best news he’d heard all day.
Everett, Karen, and Cole watched Jack walk the long hallway and round the corner that would lead him back to his wife’s room. Everett felt bad for him because he was going to have to tell Pam that the doctor had left for the night and that the baby had likely suffered some sort of brain hemorrhage.
Everett and Karen were going to wait a few minutes for a text from Jack, to see whether Pam was up for a visit.
“Dad, can we go back to the hotel?” Cole’s shoulders drooped, and he wandered like a zombie. “I’m so tired. I just want to crash.”
All three of them were looking pale and worn out.
“I know you’re tired, buddy. Just hang in there a little bit longer. Mr. Jack and his wife are going through a rough time, so if we can do a little something to encourage them, we want to do that.”
Cole dropped his head back and closed his eyes.
“Come here, baby.” Karen sat down and patted the leather bench. “Sit here with me for a minute. You can go back to sleep if you want.”
Cole took her up on it and within seconds was sprawled out with his head resting in her lap.
“Man, this floor’s deserted,” Everett said.
“The emergency room was packed,” Karen said softly.
“The fourth floor was crazy too.” Everett scanned the area. “I’m gonna wander around for a minute.”
“Wander around?” Karen squinted. Then her face went cold, and she glared at him. “Everett Lester. Don’t you dare get us in trouble.”
She knows me too well.
“Don’t worry. I’ll be right back.”
Seeing no one at the nurses’ station, he snatched a germ mask from behind the counter and slipped around the corner. Karen protested in a desperate whisper, but Everett kept going toward a short hallway of rooms, slipping the mask over his nose and mouth, searching for the name Crittendon on each door.
He entered the quiet room and approached the baby, who was asleep on his back, with many wires attached.
Everett gently rested the fingers of his right hand on the baby’s head, noting how soft his straight reddish hair was. He and Karen hadn’t been able to have babies. They had been in the process of trying to adopt an infant when Cole came up for adoption at age nine—and changed their lives.
“Father in heaven, you’re a miracle worker,” he whispered. “You healed the lame and blind. You raised the dead. Now you’re right here. As I touch this precious boy, please, open the floodgates of heaven. Unleash your healing power. In the name of Jesus Christ—”
“Amen … Now you need to get straight out of here.”
He turned.
Trevinia Alexander stood with her hands clasped in front of her, eyebrows raised.
“Thank you.” Everett crossed to the door and tiptoed out.
“Thank you … We need all the help we can get around here.”
54
Shakespeare phased in and out during the bumpy ambulance ride. At one point he took inventory of his condition. His arm was still killing him, but the rest of his body seemed okay. Except for his throat. It was terribly parched, which he determined was the result of the icy oxygen mask strapped too tightly to his face.
Normally he would fight such a thing and insist he didn’t need any help.
But not this time. He was just too tired. Too zapped of all energy to put up any kind of fight.
So he rested.
In fact, he slept …
But now he was awake again, wide-awake with an IV stuck in his wrist, sitting half upright in a cold hospital bed with sheets that felt like plastic.
The guy behind the curtain on the other side of the hospital room was coughing his lungs out. It was driving Shakespeare crazy. Why on earth didn’t they give him something?
“You need to drink some water or something,” Shakespeare called toward the white curtain that went from ceiling to floor, hanging from a metal track.
The man only coughed louder, to the point of retching.
Suddenly a pale little doctor in a white coat appeared with a clipboard under one arm, rubbing his hands with antiseptic he’d pumped from a device on the wall. “Good evening, Mr. Shakespeare. I’m Dr. Theodore Brogden. How are you feeling?”
“Fine. A little tired. But pretty good.”
“Sit up for me and take deep breaths.” Brogden probed Shakespeare’s big chest with cold fingers, placing his stethoscope in various places. He had a large nose and smelled strongly of cologne. “Is that the deepest you can breathe?”
“No.” Shakespeare concentrated and took in some really deep breaths. “What’s the problem, Ted?”
The doctor paused. “Do you remember blacking out?”
“I got light-headed. I think I was just hungry or dehydrated or something.”
“That’s possible. You needed nourishment. When’s the last time you ate?”
Shakespeare thought about it. “Lunch. I was gonna have dinner on my break, but … well, we never got around to breaks.”
“Yes, your wife told me you were working at the arena this evening.”
“You talked to Sheena?”
“Yes. She’s on her way.”
“Oh shoot, that’s not necessary. What on earth is she going to do with the kids? Darn it, Ted. I should call her and tell her not to come.” He started to go for his phone, but the doctor told him to wait; he wasn’t finished.
The man on the other side of the curtain was coughing to death.
“Did you have any chest discomfort or upper body pain before you passed out?” Brogden asked, scratching the curly black hair that sprang from the sides of his head.
Shakespeare thought about it. “No.”
“Stomach pain? Shortness of breath?”
“No.”
“Anxiety. Nervousness?”
Shakespeare chuckled. “Anxiety �
�� a little, I’d say.”
“Do you drink an excessive amount of alcohol?”
“No.”
“Are you on any medications?”
“No. Well, just fish oil for cholesterol.”
There was a knock at the door, and Sheena entered, wearing sweats, a black baseball cap, and a sympathetic frown.
“Who’s watching the kids?” Shakespeare said, then realized that wasn’t a very kind greeting when she’d come to be with him. “Sorry. Hi, honey.”
“Mandy,” she said. “What’s going on? How are you?”
Mandy was their twentysomething neighbor who still lived at home, didn’t work, and mooched off her parents. All she did as far as Shakespeare could see was tweet, text, and talk on her phone.
“I’m fine. You didn’t have to come,” Shakespeare said.
The doctor introduced himself. “His blood sugar plummeted,” he said. “It’s possible he may have some form of hypoglycemia.”
“Seriously?” Sheena said.
The doctor pursed his lips. “Too early to tell. We’ve got his blood sugar climbing back up to normal. I’m going to keep him for the night, however.”
“Oh sheesh,” Shakespeare protested. “You’re gonna have to give that guy something for his cough, or neither of us is gonna get any sleep.”
Sheena glared at him.
“If everything looks good in the morning, we’ll send you home,” said Dr. Brogden. “But I want you to see your personal physician first thing in the morning to get to the bottom of this. It is nothing to flirt with.”
“We’ll get him in tomorrow,” Sheena said. “Thank you very much, Doctor.”
The physician marked something on his chart and started to leave.
“Can I walk around, Ted?” Shakespeare asked. “I mean, this sugar you’re feeding me is getting me hyped up. I’ve got to move.”
Sheena shook her head.
The doctor faced him. “That’s fine. Just be careful with the IV. That’ll probably come out within another hour or two. Your nurse will be checking it.”
“Great. Thanks,” Shakespeare said. “And Doc, please, give that guy some cough syrup or something on your way out, will you?”
Sky Zone: A Novel (The Crittendon Files) Page 23