Fated (38 page)

Alex was crying now, ugly deep sobs that made him stutter. “H-h-he’s around the back. We’ll b-bury him l-later.”

“He was… good man.” Hart fought the pain in his throat. “Didn’t deserve to die like that.”

“I know, I know. I’m so s—”

Hart didn’t want to hear it anymore. “Conrad’s plan?”

“He wants Julian to heal you and then see if you die or not. To see if the mark appears. He… his wife….”

Understanding flooded Hart. “There wasn’t… a mark on her neck, was there?” Alex shook his head. Maybe the healing hadn’t burned her out, and the accident had been exactly that: an accident. A moment of lapsed concentration, or something like it. “So he is looking for the meaning… of the mark.” It made sense, for as much as any of this could make sense. “So why fake….” Hart couldn’t get out anything else for the time being. He needed all the oxygen to stop himself from passing out, but Alex knew what he’d meant to ask.

“I think he started to see it as a symbol for his own philosophy. Proof that they were damned, or something. From what I’ve learned, I believe the mark appearing means the healing has failed. At first that’s what Conrad believed too, until his wife’s accident. Then he started to hunt people down and fake the mark to show that they’d been touched by the Predator. Tainted.” Alex gripped Hart’s arm, and he winced, but Alex didn’t seem to notice. “I had nothing to do with that. He tried to make me, but I couldn’t. I haven’t hurt anyone. I just did research. I don’t want to go to jail. I don’t—I made your car explode too soon. That counts for something, doesn’t it? You have to believe me.”

“I do,” Hart whispered, but he knew Alex wasn’t stupid. “But you aided… a murderer, Alex. You shot Toby. I don’t—”

“The doctor was an accident! I didn’t mean to! And I’ll help you catch him,” Alex said, eyes bright. “I’ll help you catch him if it’s the last thing I do.”

“Don’t—”
do anything stupid
, Hart meant to say, but the cabin door opened, and in stepped Julian, Conrad at his back.

Maybe the pain had begun to work its way into Hart’s mind, but he thought Julian looked different. Less bright. Shorter maybe. Skinnier. Then Hart remembered not seeing him at all when he stepped into this cabin for the first time to talk to Mauro, until Julian chose to be seen. Chose to be seen… the thought snagged, but before Hart’s sluggish brain could latch onto it, Conrad stood in front of him.

“Do it.”

Julian stared at Conrad, then slowly turned to face Hart. “Do what?” he asked innocently, a small smile playing around his mouth. His skin looked paler, his hair less red and more mousy brown. Even his mouth looked colorless.

“Heal him.”

For a fraction of a second, Julian’s eyes flashed with surprise, but it was gone so fast Hart could’ve imagined it. “It doesn’t work like that.”

Hart would’ve liked to have been standing for this, but he knew he should be grateful for consciousness with the way he hurt everywhere. As if he’d read Hart’s mind, Julian crouched before him, knees wide, hands resting loosely between them.

“So we meet again,” he said, eyes twinkling, and they appeared greener now, his mouth fuller, white teeth twinkling, but it all dulled again as soon as Conrad came closer.

“Pleasure’s all mine, I’m sure,” Hart said. “For the record I don’t want you touching me. No offense.”

Julian smiled. “None taken.”

“Hurry the fuck up.” Conrad nudged Julian in the back, and he straightened, taking one step away from Hart. His gaze rested on Alex for a moment, but the kid couldn’t hold it and looked away. Something calculated slipped over Julian’s features.

“I can’t heal him,” he said.

“Why not?” Conrad snapped. Hart felt the blissful tug of unconsciousness, and he didn’t really want to fight it, though he knew he should.

“Even if I could force it upon someone unwilling,” Julian’s eyes flicked to Alex and away again, “Lieutenant Hart is not dying.”

A relief to hear it, even if it didn’t feel that way.

“Is that so?” Conrad lifted his gun. Hart’s relief might have been short-lived, but before the gunshot deafened them all, Alex was on his feet, throwing himself into Conrad’s path. They struggled for the weapon. When it went off, Alex’s eyes widened in surprise, and then he crumpled to the ground. Hart cried out, a raw sound, something fierce and primal, and he launched himself at Conrad, or he thought he did, but black oblivion claimed him as the front door burst open. He thought he heard Freddie’s voice, but that might’ve been a last wishful thought.

T
HE
RELUCTANT
waking up after passing out was becoming a painful habit. Hart opened his eyes to all the signs of dawn, though what day of the week was dawning he couldn’t say. With a detached fascination that rode the coattails of a
lot
of morphine, he took stock of his surroundings. It was difficult to care at all, but some ingrained self-preservation, either a side effect of his being a cop or something else entirely, made him put the effort into staying awake.

Hospital bed, dull ache in his chest and shoulder, tug of an IV line in his right elbow, wrapped up left wrist, unidentifiable white noise, the buzz of a building full of people. Thoughts followed awareness, and they were much more painful. Toby gone. Alex most likely gone. Julian staring down the barrel of a gun. Please God, at least let Isaac be home safe.

Toby.

Hart squeezed his eyes shut before he could cry, though he felt so parched he doubted he had enough moisture in his body to produce any tears.

But then you came along, and it was all worth it.

Undeserving of those words, he gasped, his heart thudding painfully in his chest. Beside him the monitor gave a warning beep. He had to get himself under control or the nurses would be barging in. Breathing slowly and deliberately, Hart opened his eyes. Toby had been at peace in the end, and Hart would have to make his own peace with that. He had no choice.

Blood had run up his IV line just as it had with Isaac the day they parted, and he unclenched his fist. He wished he could call Isaac, make sure he was all right, or Freddie at least, to find out what had happened, but his phone probably still lay soaking up rainwater on Shadow Mountain. Was Julian all right? Or had the Phoenix healed for the last time?

A cup of water stood on the bedside table, but when he tried to reach for it, sharp pain shot up his left flank. He noticed another bandage around his right hand, and when he flexed it, a dull ache made itself known. Resigned, Hart sank back into the flat cushions and waited for someone to come in and check on him. If Julian had healed him, he’d done an abysmal job of it.

His mouth was so dry his bottom lip split when Hart cracked a small smile. He really could do with a drink. A black cord with a single red button hung from a monkey bar above his head. Thinking it was the call button for a nurse, he pressed it. Beside him a machine began to whir, and slowly he felt warmth trickle through his veins, dulling the pain in his body as well as his heart, and he drifted back to sleep.

When he woke up, he was still alone, but at least he felt a little more human. This time he managed to reach the water cup, and while it tasted stale, he drank it all. The cup fell over and clattered to the ground when he tried to put it back just as his door opened. A doctor in green scrubs—not Toby, it would never be Toby—entered his room.

“Ah, you are awake. Good morning, Lieutenant Hart. My name is Doctor Morris.” He reached over and took Hart’s hand in his. “How are you feeling?”

“Pretty good, all things considered. What day is it? Am I still in Brightly?”

“Brightly General, yes. It’s Tuesday afternoon, about”—Morris stretched his arm to reveal a watch underneath the white coat—“half past noon. Can you look up?”

Hart flinched at the light shining into his eyes but kept them open. “Wasn’t I stabbed?”

“You were. Your left lung collapsed, you have two cracked ribs, a small break in your right hand, a torn-up burn on your left wrist, and a concussion.” The smile Morris offered Hart was mildly sardonic. “Nothing time won’t heal. A lot of time.”

“Right. Do you know where my partner is? Chief Inspector Lesley?”

“There was someone from the police station here earlier, but you were resting. You can call them, if you want. Cell phone use is allowed here.”

“I lost mine.”

Morris looked around the room. “I’ll have someone bring a phone for you, then.” He took Hart’s chart off the end of the bed and began to write.

Hart had an odd déjà vu flashback to the beginning of last week, when he had picked Drake’s chart up. Was it really only a week? It felt like a lifetime.

“The knife entered your left lung at an angle that missed your heart by less than an inch, so you were extremely lucky, even if it might not feel that way right now. We inserted a chest tube, which will have to stay in place for a few days. If your saturation remains above 90 percent today you may go home tomorrow if you wish, but I’d recommend staying until the tube comes out. You’ll have enough trouble getting around as it is. Short version, you will be just fine, Lieutenant, though you’ll hurt for a little while.”

“What’s the long version?”

Morris flipped the file closed and shoved it back in its holder. He gave Hart a wry smile. “Slow recovery. We’re talking weeks of taking it very easy. You will become tired quickly. You’ll experience shortness of breath from walking the distance between your couch and kitchen. You may be disoriented at times, and you may battle with depression because of all the above. But you are in perfect health otherwise, so you will recover completely
if
,” Morris added, eyes shrewd, “you take your time.”

Hart nodded, feeling a little breathless already. “I see. What about this?” He held up his right hand.

“A very small fracture in the second metacarpal, but that will heal fast. It doesn’t even need a cast unless you can’t give your hand a rest.”

Hart had no idea how that might’ve happened. He tried to take a deep breath, but that didn’t work out so well. It felt like there was an elephant sitting on his chest. “Do you know if anyone else was admitted along with me?” Hart asked, easing the air slowly out of his lungs. “Alex?”

Morris frowned. “I really can’t disclose that information.”

“I’m the detective on this case,” Hart said. “And I nearly died catching the bastard.”

With a small smile, Morris sighed. “Right now you’re my patient, and I’m not 100 percent informed anyway. You’ll have to speak to your colleagues, Lieutenant. I don’t know.”

“Thank you.” Hart shook his hand again. “For everything.”

Morris nodded once. “I’ll see to that phone right away. Take care now.”

An orderly brought in a phone a little later, asked what he’d like for lunch, and delivered the toast and broth with the extra pillow he’d requested.

Instead of calling the captain like he should, Hart fidgeted with the phone, punched in a number, and then hung up before it could connect. God, what was he? Twelve?

“I don’t even need to ask who you’re thinking about. He’s home, by the way, safe and sound.”

Hart startled guiltily and lifted his head to see Freddie standing in the doorway. Her face was lit in a brilliant smile, and while she hesitated briefly, she got over it very quickly, and he found himself with an armful of fragrant woman embracing him carefully.

“Goddammit,” she whispered. “Don’t ever do that again.”

“Part of the job, I’m afraid,” he mumbled, though he’d rather not do any of it over again either.

Freddie leaned back, her hands still on his shoulders. “How are you?”

“I’ll survive. Tell me everything.”

She petted his hair into submission for a moment, and Hart guessed it was to get her own voice under control before she turned briskly and claimed one of the visitor’s chairs.

“Conrad’s dead. He fired around the cabin like a lunatic, almost like he was trying to force our hand. It’s a miracle he didn’t hit you or Alex….” She trailed off, and it took him a moment to catch on.

“Didn’t hit Alex?” he repeated, his chest squeezing tight in disbelief. “He shot him right in front of me. I saw him go down.”

“No,” Freddie slowly said, frowning at him. “We have him in custody. There isn’t a mark on him.”

“That’s not possible.” The heart monitor gave an alarming beep as the rhythm sped up. “What about Julian?”

“What do you mean?” Freddie kept talking, but her voice faded, and Hart realized with a kind of detached curiosity that he was having another panic attack. Julian had healed Alex, but Toby had to die? He laughed—an ugly, wretched sound—and then the hot tears he’d been holding back since he woke up spilled over, and it only made him madder. His side stung as he tried to sit up, and another alarm went off as one of the wires attached to his chest came loose. A dizzying pain radiating from his left side had him gasping for breath, and Freddie sprang to her feet, eyes wide, her voice coming back into focus.

“What are you doing? Hart, stop!” she demanded. “Stop it, you’re bleeding!”