The Homecoming (18 page)

Which meant that, if Danny was worse off than he appeared to be, and actually did die of that head wound, some citizen of Shelter Bay could get away with, at the very least, manslaughter.

When another thought hit home like a mallet to the back of her head—that her father had also died at the hand of an unknown shooter—Kara’s blood turned cold.

“Is Mr. Sullivan going to die?” Trey asked as Sax drove across the bridge leading to the twisting coast road.

“Your grandmother’s a super doctor,” he said. “I’m sure she’ll have him back on his feet in no time.”

“I hope so. He’s nice. He gave me this. For free.” He dug into the pocket of his baggy shorts and pulled out a small wooden dolphin.

“That was real nice of him, all right.”

“His uncle carves them.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“Did a bad guy try to kill Mr. Sullivan?”

“I suspect it was probably an accident.”

“A bad guy tried to kill my mom.”

“You mean your dad.” It had been a long, exciting day. Made sense the kid would be confused.

“No.
That
bad guy
did
kill my dad. It was another bad guy who hurt my mom.”

“Really.” He wasn’t going to pump Kara’s son. That would be wrong on so many levels. But, damn, he was curious.

“That’s why she moved us here. Because she was afraid I’d end up an orphan.”

Talk about your conversational minefields. Sax suddenly found himself almost regretting the offer to take Kara’s son off her hands for the night.

“Did she tell you that?” It didn’t seem like the Kara he’d always known. Then again, he sure as hell wasn’t the person he’d been back in high school, either.

“Nah. I overheard her talking to Grandma one night. The bad guy who hurt her got sent away to jail for a long, long time. But she told Grandma that there are always more where he came from. So we came here, where things are quieter and more peaceful.”

And couldn’t he hear Kara saying those words? “They’re usually quiet, that’s for sure. Except for fireworks.”

“And shootings.”

“Accidental shootings.”

“Maybe.” The small face illuminated by the dashboard lights frowned. “But sometimes bad things happen when you don’t expect them. Like hurricanes and earthquakes. And floods and tsunamis.”

“Now, those last two I know somethin’ about,” Sax said. “The dance hall I’m going to be rebuilding was hit by a couple storms that spun off a typhoon. Which is the West Coast version of a hurricane.”

“I know about typhoons because I watched a show about them on the Discovery Channel. They have a lot of shows about natural disasters.”

“You thinkin’ about becoming a scientist when you grow up?”

“Not really. At least, I don’t think so. I just want to be prepared, for whenever something bad happens.”

Talk about your emotional IEDs. No way was he about to touch that one. But Sax did decide that he was also going to ask Kara if she knew her son was focused on such bad stuff. He didn’t know much about kids—hell, he didn’t know anything about them—but given her son’s background, he wondered if Trey Conway could be having a bit of PTSD himself.

“There you go, dude, wading into stuff that’s none of your business.” Jake the Snake popped up from the backseat. Sax shot him a look in the rearview mirror.

“It
is
his business,” Cowboy argued, “since he’s hot for the kid’s mama.”

“You are such a freaking liar, Douchett,” Randy said. “But it wouldn’t matter. Because like it or not, you can’t stop playing the hero.”

If he’d been such a damn hero, the guys sprawled in the back of the Camaro wouldn’t be dead. They’d be ragging him in real life.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Randy said.

They’d always been able to read one another’s minds, which was why they’d made such a good team. But, damn, they’d gotten a lot better at it since they’d gotten killed by the Taliban in those Afghan mountains.

Apparently death gave you superpowers. Not that Sax wanted to find out for himself anytime soon.

Don’t you ladies have anything else to do up there? Like polish your halos? Or maybe play the sound track from
Apocalypse Now
on your harps?

“I wasn’t issued any harp,” Jake said. “How about you guys?”

“Not me,” Cowboy said.

“Me, neither,” Randy responded. “But I sure as hell wouldn’t turn down a Fender Stratocaster.”

“I saw Merle Haggard playing at a roadhouse in Abilene,” Cowboy said. “He had a Martin acoustic. Which is what I’d want, because it pretty much sets the gold standard when you’re talking country music.”

“Country music is an oxymoron.” Randy shook his head. “Only a shitkicker would want to spend eternity listening to somebody-done-somebody-wrong songs about dogs, liquor, and pickup trucks.”

“A helluva lotta folks like dogs, liquor, and pickup trucks, son,” Cowboy countered.

Or maybe it was
him
who’d gone crazy.

And wasn’t that a fun thought?

Two hours after discovering Danny Sullivan lying beside his uncle’s booth, Kara arrived at OHSU on the sprawling Marquam Hill campus.

She’d already learned on her drive from Shelter Bay that Danny had been transferred from trauma to surgery, so after flashing her badge at the guard, she found her way to the surgical floor, where she was informed by the nurse behind the counter that her mother, who’d once been on staff here, was still in surgery.

“He’ll be okay,” she assured John, who appeared determined to pace a path in the waiting room’s checkerboard floor. “Mom’s the best.”

“You don’t have to tell me that. But, damn, shouldn’t we have heard something by now?”

“Maybe no news is good news?” Obviously encouragement wasn’t her strength. Even she cringed at the trite platitude.

He shot her a look, but she was thankful he didn’t bother to respond and continued pacing.

“I don’t suppose he remembered anything on the flight in?”

“No. But I’ve gotta admit that I didn’t really pressure him. The EMT and your mother wanted him to stay calm.”

“As he should. We’ll have plenty of time to see if anything pertinent comes back later. I’m going to get some coffee. Would you like some?” Like the already wired-to-the-hilt guy needed any caffeine, but she felt she should ask.

“Yeah, though I’d prefer something a hell of a lot stronger, I’ll take a cup,” he said. “Black.” He dug into his pocket for change.

Kara put a hand on his arm. “I’ve got it covered.”

She was on her way back with the coffee when a team from the ER came rushing by with a loaded gurney. From what she overheard them tell the surgical unit RN, the patient had been stabbed during a domestic dispute.

Which had Kara flashing back to when she’d looked out the sidelight of the front door and seen those two officers—one she recognized as the department chaplain—standing on her front step.

Wanting to put on the most positive face possible for John, she shook off the memory and was reassuring him yet again that all would be well when her mother, dressed in green scrubs, appeared in the doorway. She looked, as always, far cooler and more composed than either John or Kara.

“Your nephew is one hardheaded young man,” she informed John.

“And here I thought he was always pretty easygoing.”

“I meant physically. Amazing, the bullet didn’t penetrate his skull, but shattered upon impact. It split into three separate pieces, with the fragments running beneath his skin. One exited through his right cheek, which explains some of the bleeding; another lodged behind his left ear.

“We were able to remove the one behind the ear, as well as the third piece lodged in the dura mater, which is the covering next to the skull.” She held out a plastic bag toward Kara. “I thought you’d want them. For evidence.”

“Thanks.”

Finding it odd to be working on a case with her mother, Kara took the bag, noticing that it had already been labeled with Danny’s name and the date. Then, for good measure, maintaining the chain of evidence, her mother had signed it.

“So he’s okay?” John asked.

“He should be fine. But we’ll want to keep him overnight up in neuro for observation. Why don’t you sit down and let me draw you a picture, to explain things a little better?” she suggested.

Although Kara could practically feel the wound-up energy still radiating from John’s every pore, he threw his body into the chair as instructed and folded his arms.

“The brain, as you know, is primarily protected by the skull, which acts as the first barrier of protection against assault.” With a ballpoint pen, she sketched a cutaway picture of a head on a notepad. “As a barrier, it works very well, but it’s also hard.”

She smiled—with her lips and her eyes. More, Kara couldn’t help noticing, like a woman than a doctor.

“As I said, in Daniel’s case, harder than most. The thing is, because the skull’s so hard, the brain needs cushioning. Otherwise, even the slightest impact to the head could cause the brain to bang against the inside of the skull, resulting in serious damage.”

“Like shaken baby syndrome,” Kara said. She’d caught a case of that tragedy her first month riding patrol.

“Exactly.” This time the smile, which reminded Kara of the gold stars Trey’s teacher put on his spelling tests, was aimed toward her. “The meninges form a system of protective coverings of the brain. The layer closest to the brain is called the pia mater. The one on top of it is the arachnoid mater.” More sketching. “The one closest to the skull, and where the bullet fragment lodged in Daniel’s brain, is the dura mater.

“Although their primary role is to protect the brain, the meninges also contain blood vessels. Some ruptured as a result of the impact, which is what mostly caused all that blood back at the park and took us so long to repair in surgery. I didn’t want to leave him with any risk for a later rupture.”

“You saved his life.”

Her mother did not argue. “The team saved his life. I certainly didn’t do it alone. He’s in recovery now. And I know he’s anxious to reassure you.”

“That’s Danny.” The older man’s voice sounded choked, as if he were having to push the words past a lump in his throat. “Always thinking of everyone else.”

“He’s a good man,” Faith said. “Go see him so he won’t worry. Then, since I doubt you’ll be leaving—”

“Wild horses couldn’t drive me away.” His jaw jutted out. Stubbornly. Resolutely.

“I doubt any would dare try. However, speaking as a physician, I’m going to prescribe something besides coffee in your stomach.” She gestured toward a woman in cheery daisy-print scrubs who appeared in the doorway. “Nurse McCarthy will show you to recovery. Then, after you’re finished with your visit—and I wouldn’t make it too long, because Daniel’s been through a lot tonight—why don’t you join me in the café on the third floor and we’ll get you something to eat.”

“I guess I could eat something,” he allowed. Then, docile as an oversize lamb, he followed the nurse out of the room.

Kara’s mother watched him leave. Then she turned toward Kara. “How about you? Feel like something to eat before you go back home?”

“You’re staying here.”

It was not a question, but Faith answered it anyway. “I didn’t lie when I told John that Daniel’s prognosis was good. But head injuries can be unpredictable on a good day. I’m sticking around. Just in case we have any surprises.”

Kara would expect no less. “I guess I could eat something,” she said, unconsciously echoing John. “Maybe some soup. Or half a sandwich.” She wasn’t really hungry after all the food at the welcome-home celebration, but coffee, mixed with nerves, had begun doing a number on her own stomach.

She ended up with a shrimp-and-pasta salad, while Faith went with a vegetarian wrap and garden salad with nonfat dressing on the side.

“Do you know what I used to do when you were younger and I’d get overwhelmed with my competing roles as mother, wife, and physician?” Faith asked as she dipped just the tip of a leaf of spinach into the dressing.

“Work harder?” Kara stabbed a piece of tortellini.

“Well, that, too. But I’d pretend that I was Donna Reed. Or Jane Wyatt’s character, Margaret Anderson, the mother from
Father Knows Best.
In the sitcom I’d envision to be my alternative life, I was a stay-at-home mother whose only worry was what to fix for the bridge club luncheon.”

“I didn’t know you played bridge.”

“I don’t. Like golf, which most doctors seem addicted to, I never had the patience for it. But my point was that in my fantasy, I didn’t have to worry about my patients because I didn’t have to work. Your father’s income was more than enough to pay for everything we needed.”

“But you’ve never worked solely for the money,” Kara argued. The truth was that if workaholic Dr. Faith Blanchard ever calculated her hourly wage, she’d probably rank below the guy currently mopping the cafeteria floor.

“Of course I didn’t. This was my mental escape. Also, since there were no stranger dangers or whacked-out kids with guns in school allowed in my 1950s suburban paradise, I never had to worry about where you were, or what you were doing. Because you’d always be safe.”

“I wouldn’t mind that part of it. The not worrying.”

“What mother wouldn’t give anything to be free of that concern?”

“So what would you do all day? In this sitcom of your life?” Kara was fascinated to discover that her logical, no-nonsense mother had fantasized about anything, let alone living a life that Dr. Faith Blanchard undoubtedly, in reality, would have found stultifying.

“Well, to begin with, I’d breeze into the kitchen in a lovely starched housedress wearing a string of perfect pearls. I’d tie on my ruffled pink apron—”