She watched the plainclothes officer head straight toward the Shepherd; his movements an elongated molasses run. “He’s alright.” The man’s voice was slow and low. A recording played at one-third speed. “Bruiser’s okay.”
She felt the searing pain in the back of her neck.
She saw Mort reaching for her. “Liddy!” His voice like the other man’s: drawn-out and deep.
She felt his arms catch her as they both drifted to the floor. She looked into his face. Saw the pain in his eyes. His blood-soaked clothes. The room went silent. His contorted look of panic seared its way into her consciousness.
Another sharp stab of pain brought the room back to normal speed. Yelling. Stomping. The acrid smell of gun powder.
Mort pulled her into his lap. His warm blood pulsed onto her face.
“Hang on, Liddy.” His whisper was low and soft. “Help’s on the way.”
She shook her head so subtly that only he could see. “This is the only way.” Her whisper was as small as his. “Will you stay with me?”
The pain on Mort’s face crushed her heart. His eyes were riveted to hers. She watched as the sadness in them made room for acceptance.
She gasped for breath and hoped he’d read her thin smile as brave. “Are you hurt bad?”
“Don’t worry about me. You just hang on.” Mort strengthened his hold on her.
“Will you stay?” she whispered.
Mort swallowed hard. “I’ll stay,” he choked. “God speed.”
A man walked up behind them. Lydia wondered if this was Jim, the friend Mort mentioned so many times. A wispy daydream came to torment her. A backyard barbeque. She was serving burgers and corn. Mort was groaning that Lydia and Robbie had just beaten the two older men in croquet. Mort’s grandchildren were calling her Auntie.
Lydia sensed the light drain from the room.
“Get that ambulance now,” the man yelled to the police in the yard. “They’re ninety seconds away, Mort.”
“Step outside, will you, Jimmy?” He kept his eyes on Lydia. “We’re all right here.”
“Mort?” Lydia whispered. “I can’t see you.”
He stroked her hair and rocked her. “I’m right here, little girl. Everything’s going to be okay.” He held her close. “I’ve got you.”
The blindness that enveloped Lydia gave way to a pinpoint of light far in the distance. She focused on the light as it grew, drawing her to its center. Brighter and warmer. Closer and closer.
Lydia closed her eyes, eased into the lullaby Mort was humming, and floated toward the light.
Chapter Forty-Eight
First came the beeping. Steady. Muffled. Then the smell. Antiseptic. Harsh on the in-breath. Next, the sense of a warm cocoon. An awareness to body identified it as a heated blanket. A difficult swallow brought a bitter taste down the throat. An attempt to move. A non-responsive body.
She tried again.
This time the back of her shoulders shifted a quarter-inch to the right and scratched against something rough.
She wrestled weakened muscles and sticky ointment to work her eyes open. She blinked away a greasy blur. The light was too bright. She closed them and tried to speak. Her voice didn’t come.
She tried again.
A whimper rasped free. She opened her eyes a second time. A man sat by her bed, reading a newspaper. She strained to produce another sound, louder this time.
The man lowered his paper. His surprised face seemed familiar.
“Lydia?” The man leaned close. She smelled cinnamon and coffee. “Can you hear me?”
She blinked; tried to focus; tried to place the man. An image of a big dog floated through her consciousness.
“Holy Mother of God” The man whispered before leaning back and yelling. “Mort! Get in here.” He turned back to her. “Lydia, hold tight, okay? Mort’s just out at the nurse’s desk.”
She heard the commotion of three people hurrying in. She focused on the one face she recognized. The man with his arm in a sling.
He looked so tired.
The two strangers converged over her. Feeling and prodding. Pushing and thumping. They called her name again and again. She couldn’t respond.
“For the love of Christ, will you give her a minute?” Mort’s voice danced to her across the room. “She’s been hooked up to your damned machines for nearly three weeks. You’re not going to learn anything more by poking at her now.” She watched him step in front of the stranger who had his fingers on her pulse. He leaned down. His eyes shimmered in the light.
“Welcome back, Liddy Girl. Good to see you again.” His smile soothed her. She croaked two soft sounds.
“Don’t try, Kiddo.” Mort’s voice was warm silk. “They took you off the vent yesterday. You’re going to be sore for a while.”
Mort looked over his shoulder. “Give us a few minutes.” The two strangers exchanged questioning looks. Mort turned to them again. “Please.” They shuffled out, warning Mort not to excite her.
“Can you believe it, Mort?” The man with the paper stood and grabbed his jacket. “You’re here twenty- four/seven and nothing. I step in for ten minutes and sleeping beauty comes back from the dead.” The man smiled at Lydia as he zipped his windbreaker. “I still got a way with the ladies, huh?” He winked at her and slapped his newspaper against Mort’s arm. “Wait til I tell Micki what’s up. Call me.”
Mort waited for the man to leave before he pulled a chair next to her bed. He slid his hand over hers.
“What d’ya say we do one blink for ‘no’ and two blinks for ‘yes’? Sound good?”
She blinked twice. It was easier this time.
“There you go.” Mort’s eyes scanned her face. “I got to ask you a tough one, Liddy.” His voice caught. “Can you see me?”
She blinked twice. No problem at all.
“Oh, Sweet Jesus.” Mort’s smile was wide and strong. “The docs said it could go either way. That part of your brain took a tough hit.” He stroked her hand. “Do you remember what happened?”
She recalled Snelling holding a gun to Mort’s head. Choking him on his own shirt. Shooting him. The police dog charging. The searing pain. The darkness and the bright light.
Lydia blinked twice.
“Let me bring you up to speed.” Mort leaned against the side of her bed. “It’s March 19 ^ th. You’ve been in the hospital nearly three weeks. Came up from ICU yesterday morning. Docs tell me you’re getting stronger by the day, but you’ve got a long rehab ahead of you. You up for that?”
Lydia’s breath grew shallow. She wondered what was at the end of the rehab road. A tear escaped her eye and slid into her ear. She couldn’t lift her hand to wipe it away.
Mort looked over his shoulder before leaning in close. “Liddy, Snelling’s dead. Cameron’s back home singing your praises. She swears it was a stroke of genius for you to make up the story that you killed Bastian. Says she wouldn’t have trusted you any other way.”
He brushed a hand across her forehead and Lydia felt a wisp of hair move. “Robbie’s story’s a hit and The Fixer’s out of business. No one knows where she is.” His voice was firm. “Savannah’s name has never been brought up. Your little Greta can rest in peace.”
Lydia’s mind swirled with half-formed questions and hazy thoughts. What if’s and how’s. She couldn’t block them correctly. Couldn’t speak them if she could.
She watched him lean back and pull a notepad from his shirt pocket. “The joint’s been hopping.” He flipped to
