Lefebvre gathered the unconscious young man in his arms, keeping pressure on the bloodstained towel at the boy’s throat, holding him close to warm him, speaking to him in a low voice, a desperate litany of “Stay with me, keep fighting, come on!”
Rosario found a sleeping bag among some camping gear near the companionway and brought it over. She covered the boy with it, helping Lefebvre bundle him within it, but when she touched the boy’s skin, Lefebvre heard her sharp intake of breath.
“Lefebvre,” she said gently, placing a hand on his shoulder.
He shrugged it off. “Stay with me!” he repeated to the boy, bending closer to him, as if shielding him from her lack of faith.
“Lefebvre,” she tried again, but when he would not relent, moved closer, holding on to a boy he knew she believed to be dead, silently adding her own warmth to his.
4
Thursday, June 7, 10:30 P.M.
Las Piernas General Hospital
The boy was awake, and watching him.
Two days earlier, the first time Seth had awakened, it was as if from a nightmare. He had looked wildly about the room, his face contorted in terror and pain; he batted his swathed hands in the air as if warding off blows. One of the doctors and his mother had tried to calm him, but their efforts seemed to further upset him.
Lefebvre had said one word: “Easy.” Seth turned toward the sound of his voice, ceased struggling, and quickly went back to sleep.
The doctor, after subjecting Lefebvre to a long and considering look, gave orders that the detective should be allowed to stay by the boy as long as he liked, any time he liked — provided Mrs. Randolph had no objections? Lefebvre thought she hid the smallest trace of resentment before answering, “No, of course not. Detective Lefebvre saved my son’s life.”
Now Lefebvre sat at the side of Seth Randolph’s hospital bed, hoping for another miracle — that the boy would be able to identify his attacker. Seth had lived. That, he told himself, was miracle enough. The boy’s vocal cords had been damaged, but a slightly deeper cut would have severed a major artery and killed him. A laceration on one shoulder had required stitches. His hands were covered in bandages, but the doctors thought he would eventually recover most of the use of his fingers. He had lost a lot of blood; this would undoubtedly cause him to suffer weakness and fatigue. Those, of course, were only the physical injuries.
He was the son, Lefebvre had learned, of Trent Randolph — the first of the victims they had found on the
Lefebvre surprised his boss and most of his coworkers by taking a less active investigative role than expected, insisting on staying at Seth’s side. Elena Rosario came by every day. She thought she understood why he kept watch over the boy. Lefebvre knew she didn’t, but never corrected her notion that he had formed some sort of bond with Seth during the rescue. It was, after all, not entirely untrue. It simply wasn’t the whole truth. Yesterday she had come by a little later than he expected, and he found himself checking his watch and looking at the door every few moments until her arrival.
Seth’s mother, Tory Randolph, also came by every day. Today she had stayed until about half an hour ago. While Lefebvre knew she would have wanted to be here for this occasion — the first time since his surgery that Seth had awakened for more than a brief moment — he was not sorry she had left. Once she learned that she couldn’t hint Lefebvre out of the room, they fell into a pattern of strained civility and long silences.
She was, he thought dispassionately, a beautiful woman. Her hair was auburn, and its thick, loose curls perfectly framed her pale, heart-shaped face. Her brows were dark, thin lines above long-lashed blue eyes. She wore stylish clothes that flattered her shapely figure. Yet her manner gave him an almost instant dislike of her — her lack of quiet irked him, and all his instincts told him that her need for attention was insatiable.
He thought he should probably feel more sympathy for her, but he was not convinced that she was good for Seth. Although Seth did not seem to be aware of his surroundings during the last few days, he was restless when she was near, as if responding to her anxiousness.
Lefebvre thought there was a fine line between her concern for the boy and her own fear of suffering another loss. He did not blame her for clinging to Seth — the funerals of her ex-husband, Trent Randolph, and daughter, Amanda, had been held just today — he simply believed that her strained emotions were having an adverse effect on her son.
Lefebvre alone had the opposite effect on Seth. Perhaps, Lefebvre thought, Seth remembered his voice from those seemingly endless moments on the boat while he held him, or in the ambulance, or after the surgery. Lefebvre was not a talker, but he talked to Seth. He did not tell him stories or talk of himself, but in the hours when they were alone in the room, Lefebvre spoke to him, his voice soft and low, urging Seth to live.
Until now, the moments of waking had always been the same — brief and panic-filled until Lefebvre spoke to him. Once, when Lefebvre had been away from the boy’s bedside for a few hours, he had come back to find Seth’s arms restrained. He released them and called Rosario. He gave her what he had never given anyone else — the key to his condo — and asked what he seldom asked of anyone else — a favor. Would she please pack a few things for him in an overnight case? She had responded immediately, and without asking questions.
And he had not left Seth’s room since. A friend from the newspaper had brought him a couple of “outside meals,” but Irene Kelly knew him well enough not to pester him for the story. The guard at the door had apparently reported these visits, though, because after the first one, his boss, Lieutenant Willis, complained about the time Lefebvre was spending at the hospital.
“You’ve been trying to get me to take time off, right?” Lefebvre asked.
“Yes, why don’t you take that little plane of yours and get out of town for a while — maybe fly somewhere like Vegas — you know, someplace where you can relax for a few days?”
Lefebvre could think of nothing he would find less relaxing than a trip to Las Vegas. “So you’re saying I can have the time off?”
“Of course.”
“Fine, I’m on vacation then.”
