Darkness & Shadows (14 page)

Oh, God no.

A box cutter, coming right for his neck.

“
Please, no! Don’t cut me!
” Patrick gasped. “I’m a bleeder.
Please!
”

The attacker heaved Patrick up and threw him through the open driver’s door, slamming him facedown into the upholstery with a knee in the small of Patrick’s back.

“You can have whatever you want!” Patrick pleaded into the seat cushion, his words muffled. “Just don’t cut me!”

The attacker drove his knee down harder. Pain shot through the center of Patrick’s back, an instantaneous moan escaping his lips as he heard his cartilage cracking. Next, he felt the box cutter’s cold steel handle pressed against his neck while the assailant rummaged through Patrick’s back pocket.

“
Five fucking dollars?
” the thug screamed, his voice angry and strained. He grabbed Patrick by his hair, pulled his head back as far as it would go, drawing the blade against the front of his neck.

Patrick could do nothing but pant in terror.

The voice said, “You better have more shit stashed away somewhere, motherfucker, ’cause I’m about to carve a smiley face clear across your neck. I mean it! Give me the fuckin’ money!”

“Okay!” Patrick said, the word coming out thick and husky through tortured breaths. “Okay. Just take the blade off my neck.
Please!
”

“The money, NOW, asshole!
”
his attacker screamed, louder, angrier.

“Under the seat!” Patrick said. “I’ve got another wallet under the seat. There’s more money there, okay? Take it! Take whatever you want!”

There was no wallet.

“Get it for me! But if you try something stupid, you’re a dead man. Got it?”

Patrick gave a quick, submissive nod. The hold on him loosened fractionally. Very carefully, Patrick reached under the seat. He wrapped his fingers around the screwdriver there.

One shot to save your life. Make it count.

He tightened his grip and with all the force he had left, twisted around fast and nailed the point of the screwdriver right into the guy’s eye.

The thug let out an agonizing wail, throwing his hands up over his face, blood trickling between them. Patrick shoved him, and the attacker stumbled, falling onto his back. Knowing he only had moments to spare, Patrick turned and ran toward the car where he scrambled to find his cell phone.

Seconds later, he felt fingers digging into both sides of his neck. Then he was down on the pavement himself, looking up into the face of his assailant, a hideous wreck with ratty, frizzed-out hair and pockmarked skin. One eye dripped blood; the other blazed with a wild maniacal look that scared the daylight out of Patrick.

The attacker put the box cutter blade just inches from Patrick’s neck and through gritted teeth said, “
Now you die, motherfucker!
”

One small cut was all it would take. Patrick felt his body go limp and boneless. He squeezed his eyes shut.

And heard a
thunk.

He opened his eyes just in time to see the attacker fall off to one side and a dark silhouette looming above him: the woman with the scar. She stood over the assailant holding a tire iron above her head with both hands, ready to strike again.

“Quick!” she shouted to Patrick, keeping her eyes keenly drawn on the thug. “Call someone!”

Patrick scrambled toward the car and found his phone. After dialing 9-1-1, he heard behind him the sound of metal clanking on the ground, and scuffling. He wheeled around… and couldn’t believe his eyes. The guy had her down on the ground, the tire iron out of reach as they struggled.

Patrick dropped his phone, lunged for the tire iron, and whacked it across the back of the man’s head. The guy went down on top of the woman. She didn’t move.

Then Patrick saw the blood, lots of it, streaming across the pavement. Her blood.

Oh, no… Oh, God… NO!

A squad car peeled into the parking lot, and as soon as the officer got out, Patrick shouted to him, “Quick! Call an ambulance! She’s hurt! She’s hurt badly!
Please!
”

Within minutes, the lot was a messy sea of flashing blue and red lights and a gathering crowd of curious onlookers. For Patrick, it all played out in a blur. Paramedics checked his injuries. A patrol officer took his statement, then left Patrick alone on the ground, leaning against his car tire, too shaken up to stand or to even process what was happening.

He looked up to see another officer coming his way.

“How’re you doing there, partner? Feeling okay?” the cop asked, kneeling and placing a hand on Patrick’s shoulder. He was tall and slender, his salt-and-pepper hair cut military style. Nametag read,
SERGEANT JIM WELLBORN
.

Patrick offered him a barren stare, nodding, although he’d already nearly forgotten the question.

“You don’t look so good,” Wellborn said. “I know you refused treatment when the paramedics asked, but with your risk for—”

“He just roughed me up but didn’t hurt me. I’ll be fine,” Patrick said abruptly. “What about the woman?”

“Took her to University Medical.”

“Is she…?”

The cop gave him a sober expression. “Don’t know, but from what the paramedics said, it looks like the perp slammed her head pretty hard into the pavement a few times.”

Patrick slumped. “Will she make it?”

“Sir, I’m not a doctor.”

Patrick swallowed. “Okay, do you have her name?”

“Sir, we don’t usually—”

“
Please!
” Patrick said, his volume rising, fighting for control over it. “She saved my life! I need her name before it’s too late!”

The officer considered Patrick for a moment, then looked both ways as if to be sure nobody was watching or listening. He drew a notebook from his pocket, flipped it open. “Her name is Tristan Reynolds, but you didn’t get that from me.”

About twenty seconds later, Patrick was speeding down the road toward University Medical Center.

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He broke through the ER entrance like a fugitive train, skidding to a halt in the busy waiting room. A woman dashed past him with an unconscious boy in her arms, tears streaming down her face, screaming in Spanish for someone to help her. In a corner chair, a man groaned loudly, his arms slung firmly around his abdomen, trying to soothe away his pain.

Patrick headed straight for the front desk.

“I’m here to see Tristan Reynolds,” he said in a pleading, windless voice.

The nurse behind the counter said, “Your relation to the patient?”

“I’m her… brother.” The lie slipped between his lips so easily, it almost sounded true.

“Your name?”

“Patrick… Patrick Bannister.” There was no way to prove he wasn’t her brother, but they
could
ask for an ID.

She punched some keys, gazing at her screen, then looked up at him and said, “Please have a seat. I’ll need to see if she’s able to have visitors.”

“But I need to see her now!”

“The nurse will be with you shortly,” she said again, this time more curtly. “Now please, have a seat.”

He threw his hands up, then spun in frustration; as he did, he noticed a security guard in the corner watching him with wary eyes.

Patrick did as he’d been told and settled in a chair.

About ten minutes later, a nurse came through the doors that separated the waiting area from the exam rooms. She looked like she’d been through the wringer, her face tired, her uniform smeared with traces of what might have been blood, might have been God-knows-what. “Patrick Bannister?” she said, looking around the lobby.

Patrick leaped from his seat and rushed to meet her. “How’s she doing?”

The nurse’s nametag read
Lauren Spofford
. She gave an exhausted sigh and said, “Your sister has suffered a significant brain injury. A subdural hematoma.”

Patrick shook his head.

“It means that blood is filling the area around her brain. She’s just gone into surgery. They’re working to relieve the pressure before her brain is damaged.”

“But she’ll be okay?”

She shook her head. “We don’t know that yet. I’m sorry. You’ll need to go to the OR waiting room. The doctor will talk to you once your sister’s out of surgery.”

“Please…” Patrick said helplessly.

She studied him with apprehension for a moment, and then glanced behind him. “Does she have any other family?”

Patrick realized he was in dangerous territory. He didn’t know what to say except, “I’ll call everyone who needs to know.”

“You might want to tell them to get here as quickly as possible,” she said.

“But is she going to make it?”

“The OR lobby is on the second floor,” was all she offered.

He was already beating a path to the elevator.

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Patrick checked his watch again. He stared at the waiting room wall. He squirmed in his chair.

Tristan was still in surgery, fighting for life, and quite possibly losing the battle. Minutes felt like hours, and with each that passed, fear escalated and hope faded.

If all that weren’t enough, the events of the day were now catching up with him.

His grueling therapy session.

The attack.

The fear.

The exhaustion.

All of it was buzz sawing its way into his bones, his mind-chatter reaching fever pitch. He told himself to remain calm, but it was like telling a goldfish to take a walk.

So he sat. And he waited.

Finally, the surgeon came out.

“She’s in recovery,” he said, removing his glasses with one hand, massaging his eyes with the other. “But unfortunately, we’re a long way from good news. Right now, her primary threat is potential brain swelling. We’ve done everything we can. We’ll just
have to wait now, see what happens. The next forty-eight hours are going to be crucial.”

“Can I see her?”

The doctor shook his head. “Not yet, I’m afraid, not until she’s at least out of recovery and more stable, and that could be several hours. This might be a good time to go home and get some rest. It’s likely you won’t get to see her until morning.”

“No,” Patrick said, shaking his head with obstinate defiance. “I’m not going anywhere. Not until I can see her.” He marched to his seat and settled in. With arms crossed, gaze fixed forward, he said, “Let me know when I can get in.”

The doctor watched him for a moment, shaking his head, then headed back into the surgery unit.

And Patrick went on waiting.

But the waiting seemed endless, Patrick’s concern for Bullet’s well-being weighing heavily on his mind. In the middle of the night, worry overrode tenacity. He rushed to the cottage so he could feed the boy and let him out, then hurried back to the hospital.

The next morning, he awoke in his seat at the ICU waiting area to a high-pitched squeal and the pong of starchy, overcooked food. He shot his head up just in time to see a meal cart rolling past the waiting room. Even so, it took a moment to remember where he was: still in the World of Hurt.

Hurt that was not only firmly lodged in his mind, but now working its way through his body as well. His neck was stiff, and his back ached something awful. The utilitarian chair wasn’t helping any.

On the emotional side, things seemed less tangible but in some ways worse. He was still trying to process the attack, not to mention the startling truth that he’d almost died at the hands of a crazed lunatic with a blade. Patrick had spent his life running
from sharp objects, and now one had come within inches of doing him in.

The door opened, offering temporary reprieve from his thoughts, but as soon as Patrick saw the look on the nurse’s face, he knew she wasn’t coming to deliver great news.

“Mr. Bannister, my name is Regina. I’m a nurse in the ICU.”

“How is she?”

“I’m afraid your sister’s still in critical condition. We have her on life support.”

Patrick let out a troubled sigh and said, “What about the brain swelling?”

“So far there is none. It’s a good sign.”

He looked at the ICU entrance, then back at her. “I really want to see her. Can’t you please help me?”

“I’m sorry,” she said, and seemed to mean it. “Unfortunately, the doctor hasn’t determined if she’s able to tolerate any sort of activity without a dangerous increase in the pressure inside her head, so we can’t allow visitors until he gives the okay.”

“But I need to…” He stopped himself, hearing the naked helplessness in his voice.

She watched him silently for a moment, and then, “Tell you what. I’ll see if I can get a better idea on her status, maybe move things along a little quicker, okay?”

Patrick nodded. He’d take whatever help he could get. Time was at a premium, and minutes could make the difference between being able to see her and missing his chance.

Regina left. Patrick collapsed into his chair and continued waiting. And thinking.