Live To Tell Part 35

"Neither am I."

"He has unbelievable power, Danielle."

"Who?"

"You tell me."

Lightfoot stared at the nurse. The nurse stared back at him. Slowly but surely, Danielle set down her cleaning supplies.

"You want to help someone, Andrew, pick a room, any room. The kids need you. I don't."

"It's bad and it's going to get worse."

"Then go work a little voodoo. In your own words, life is about choice, and I don't choose you."

Lightfoot thinned his lips. His eyes flashed darkly. Slowly but surely, he turned and stalked down the hall. Upon reaching Lucy's room, he glanced over his shoulder one last time at Danielle. Then he disappeared inside.

D.D. released a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.

"I take it you don't care for woo-woo," D.D. said.

"No, I don't." The nurse gathered her cleaning supplies. "Unfortunately, Andrew's not wrong about everything." She started scrubbing a b.l.o.o.d.y wall. "Man, this place is f.u.c.ked up."

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE.

DANIELLE.

"Did you come back just for me?" the sergeant asked a few minutes later. We'd finished cleaning and were now combining smaller tables to form a larger rectangle for the upcoming staff meeting. The other detective, the George Clooney look-alike, had taken over scrubbing the blood out of the carpet. Kept him busy, but also within earshot. D.D. continued, "Because I'd love to speak with you."

"I'm here for the debriefing," I said stiffly, fitting in the final table. "Karen said I could attend."

"Gonna mention the anniversary, Danielle? You remember that twenty-five years ago your father gunned down your family?"

The sergeant was goading me. I understood that, and still had to work not to rise to the bait. I noticed some blood droplets on the far window, picked up the Windex, and got busy again.

For the past twenty-five years, I thought I'd done okay. I'd gotten myself through college. I'd landed a job that I loved, and three hundred and sixty days out of the year, I was pretty solid. I didn't replay the events of one night over and over again. I didn't dredge up old photos of my family. I didn't recall the stink of whiskey on my father's breath and I didn't fixate on the weight of a nine-millimeter gun in a child's hands.

I worked with my kids. And I made it a point not to look back.

Until one G.o.dd.a.m.n week a year.

I felt inundated with my family these days. Scalded by memories I'd made it a point not to remember. And suddenly flush with new information. My mom had been leaving my dad? She'd found a "good guy"? Maybe my father had slaughtered everyone over her affair, instead of my rebellion?

I didn't know, and for the first time, I was desperate to speak with someone about my past. I'd tried Sheriff Wayne, wanting to ask exactly what time he'd arrived at the house that night. Could it really have been two and half hours between my conversation with my mom and my father opening fire?

A police receptionist had informed me that Sheriff Wayne had pa.s.sed away two years ago. Died in his sleep. I couldn't believe it. Sheriff Wayne was supposed to live forever. He owed it to me.

Now there was only Aunt Helen and myself who remembered my mother's smile, my sister's giggle, my brother's goofy grin. It wasn't enough. I needed more people. I needed more information.

"Tell us about Lightfoot," D.D. prodded, behind me. "Is it just me, or is he way into you?"

I stopped wiping windows, turning around enough to meet the detective's eye. "Andrew and I are not, and never were, an item. We had one date, which he spent grilling me about my father. Call me old-fas.h.i.+oned, but I don't consider discussions of my homicidal parental unit to be a turn-on. That was the beginning and end of our personal relations.h.i.+p right there."

"He's solely interested in your father?"

"From what I can tell, I represent some kind of celestial challenge. If Andrew can get me to forgive my father, to open my heart to the light, then, hey, he can convert anyone. Score one for the good guys."

"But you don't want to forgive your father."

"Nope. I'm comfortable hating him. No need for group hugs on the mumbo-jumbo superhighway."

D.D. arched a brow. "Is that what Lightfoot wants to do? Arrange a 'meeting' on the spiritual interplanes?"

"That's the drift. If you want the details, better ask him, not me. I'm not buying what he's selling."

"Did Greg have any better luck?"

That detective's transition was so smooth, I almost spoke first and thought later. At the last second, I caught myself. "Greg and I are friends."

"Friends with privileges?"

"Hardly."

"Friends who go to bars? Friends who bare their souls?"

"Friends who share an occasional pizza. This job wears you out. Not a lot left over for post-work rendezvous."

"You left with Greg today," the detective replied evenly. "Looked pretty comfortable doing it, too."

The statement caught me off guard. But of course the cops were interviewing everyone in the hospital, and it wasn't like Greg and I crept away in the still of the night. Any number of people could've seen us leaving together and reported it.

"Greg walked me out," I conceded. "He's thoughtful that way."

"And drove you home?"

"He drove me to his place."

"That's sounding personal again."

"We talked. He knows this time of year is rough for me."

"I wouldn't mind crying on his shoulder," the sergeant commented.

I couldn't help myself: "He's a little young for you, don't you think?"

"Meee-oww," the sergeant drawled, clearly amused by my cattiness. "Word on the street is that Greg's been chasing you for years. He finally get to cross the finish line, Danielle?"

I wouldn't even dignify that with a response. Mostly because I didn't want to think of my morning with Greg. I had been rejecting him for years. Only to finally go to his place, and have him reject me.

"Look," I said impatiently, "I don't have relations.h.i.+ps. I work with kids, and I leave the personal c.r.a.p alone. End of story."

"I don't think so."

"What do you mean?"

D.D. tilted her head, regarding me curiously. "Two families connected to this unit have been murdered, almost exactly twenty-five years after your family was shot to death. And last night, the child you were working most closely with was hanged. You still don't think that has anything to do with you?"

I felt my heart spike, then the blood drain from my face. "But ... My past is over. My family's gone. Who's left to hurt me?"

"Good question," the sergeant mused. "Who's left to hurt you?"

I didn't have an answer for her. This couldn't be about me. I didn't have the gun this time, I wanted to blurt out. I swear, I didn't have the gun.

"I need to review a report," I mumbled, then I bolted from the common area. I couldn't be in front of the police anymore. I didn't want them to see the horror on my face. I didn't want them to misinterpret my regret.

Fifteen minutes later, staff members began to a.s.semble in the common area. It was nearly eleven-thirty, everyone running late. Given earlier events, that was hardly a surprise. The unit still felt wonky. I couldn't remember a time when we'd had so many acute episodes back-to-back. I couldn't remember a time when all of us felt as jittery as the kids.

I remained in Admin, watching from the observation window. The cops had finally disappeared. I could join the MCs at the table, but suddenly I felt self-conscious. The sergeant had put thoughts in my head, like maybe this was all my fault, like maybe I was to blame for Lucy's death.

I was waiting for Greg, I realized. I was waiting for his presence to ground me.

When five more minutes pa.s.sed without him appearing, I went looking for him.

I wandered down the hall, past children sleeping in various nooks and crannies, past doors of darkened rooms and past doors of hundred-watt brilliance. I didn't see Greg, but then I heard his unmistakable baritone coming from the last room on the right.

I peered in. Greg was sitting on the floor, his legs sprawled in front of him, his attention focused away from me, on a small boy with bright blonde hair who was curled into a ball. Greg was stroking the boy's head and talking lightly, trying to encourage the boy to uncoil. The boy wasn't buying it.

The new charge, I guessed. The one who'd stabbed his mother this morning. He was tucked in on himself, trying to block everything out. This couldn't be happening to him. This strange room, this strange place, these strange people talking at him over and over again.

"Mommy," the boy whispered. "I want my mommy."

My heart contracted. First words spoken by so many children over so many years. Even from the kids whose mothers beat the s.h.i.+t out of them.

"I know," Greg replied steadily.

"Take me home."

"Can't do that, buddy."

"You could stay with me. Like we've done before."

I stilled. Like they'd done before? I eased back, out of sight of the open doorway.

"You get to stay here for a bit, buddy. We're going to work with you on calming down, on controlling that temper of yours, until you feel stronger, better about yourself. Don't worry. This is a nice place. We'll take good care of you."

"Mommy," the boy said again.

Greg didn't reply.

"I hurt her," the boy murmured. "Had the knife. Had to use it. Had to, had to."

The boy sounded mournful. Greg continued his silence, letting the quiet do his work for him.

"I am a naughty, naughty boy," the child whispered, so low I could barely hear him. "n.o.body loves a boy as naughty as me."

"You called nine-one-one," Greg told him. "That was smart thinking, Evan. A good thing to do."

"Blood is sticky. Warm. Didn't know she'd bleed like that. I think I ruined the sofa." Suddenly, the boy started to cry. "Greg, do you think Mommy will hate me? Call her, you must call her. Tell her I'm sorry. It was an accident. I didn't know she'd bleed like that. I didn't know!"

The boy's voice picked up dangerously, his agitation spiking. I strode into the room, just as Greg began, "Evan, I want you to take a deep breath-"

"I ruined the sofa!"

"Evan-"

"I want to go home, go home, go home. I'll be a good boy this time. I promise, I'll be a good boy. No more knives. Just let me go home home home home home."

The boy rolled away from Greg, das.h.i.+ng for the doorway. I blocked his way just in time, sticking out my arms. He bounced off me like a rubber ball, cras.h.i.+ng into the neighboring wall. Rather than a second escape attempt, he slammed his head against the Sheetrock, a frustrated scream escaping him: "Ahhhahhhahhhhahhhhahhh ..."

Benadryl? I mouthed to Greg over the noise.

He shook his head. "Paradoxical reaction. Grab Ativan."

I rushed down the hall for the meds as Greg tried again in his firm baritone: "Evan. Listen to me, buddy. Look at me, buddy. Evan ..."

By the time I returned, Evan had blood running down his nose from a cut on his forehead and Greg was holding out his cell phone, trying to capture the boy's attention. "Evan. Evan, look at me. We'll call your mom. We'll call her right now. Okay? Just look at me, Evan. Watch me." Greg punched some numbers into the phone. Evan stopped banging his head long enough to watch, his body shuddering with the effort to stay still. The boy was gone, his blood-rimmed eyes glazed over, his cheeks pale, his hands clenched into rigid fists. Most kids took days to recover from the emotional overload of a psychotic break. Evan, on the other hand, looked ready for round two.

I could feel it again, a wafting chill, like a dark cloud drifting across the sun. I wished I hadn't come here tonight. Something was wrong. Even more wrong than last night, when we found Lucy's body, dangling from the ceiling...

A receptionist had picked up at the other end of Greg's cell phone. "Victoria Oliver," he requested.

Evan started to dance, blue eyes wild, the blood dripping off the end of his nose, staining his blue-striped s.h.i.+rt. "Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, Mommy."

"Take your medicine," Greg told Evan, just as a woman's voice sounded in his phone. "Victoria?"

"h.e.l.lo?"

"Meds, Evan."

Evan whirled on me, nearly toppling me over. I surrendered the paper cup. He popped the Ativan, dancing again as he eyed Greg's phone.