From the panel of lights above the doors, Toni sees there are twelve floors and that the elevator’s descending.
“Thank you.”
On the way to the hospital, Mick’s cellphone buzzes. He answers it, cupping it against his ear with his shoulder as he drives toward a sky that promises more rain. The inclemency of the weather doesn’t faze him. He has other things on his mind as he listens to the person on the other end of the call. He thanks them and puts his phone away.
The rain falls harder, causing a thundering drum on the roof of the Jeep. Mick’s view is reduced to a blur. He turns the wipers to full power. If there were any oncoming traffic, his face would be distorted to them by the rainwater on the windshield. They wouldn’t be able to see that he’s crying.
I used to feel a lot of things before Sam died. Up until I met Emma, I mainly felt grief, rage, and guilt, devouring each other like tail-eating serpents. Emma’s presence in my life shattered the numbness I felt. Those feelings are still there, but now they’re overlaid by a rich, quiet glow.
When he pulls into the parking lot of St. Joseph’s, he rolls down his window and punches a button. A ticket pops out, and he tucks it in the visor.
Like the aching tug of an ocean current, Mick’s feelings for Emma run deep. Looking in the rearview mirror, he brings his hands up and rubs his face. Please, God, don’t let her die.
The lights are dim on the fourth floor of the hospital. The nurse’s desk is a visible glow at the end of the corridor.
Toni has a grim twist to her mouth. She can feel the hospital’s central heating breathing as quietly as the patients in the calm of the night shift.
As she approaches room 401, she sees a man—his back to her—sitting in the guest chair. It’s pulled up close to the hospital bed. The man is bent over Alex Berndt, a.k.a. Jason Hughes. She can’t hear the whispered words, but it sounds like a prayer. Well, I’ll be damned. It’s Father Patrick MacCullough, Niall’s brother. I bet he’s on chaplain duty.
Toni leans in further trying to hear what’s being said, but the hushed words are muffled. Is it just the priest who’s talking, or is Jason responding?
Aware of the security cameras, Toni casually walks down the corridor and leans against the wall in an alcove, ostensibly to check her phone. From here, she watches Alex’s door. When she sees Father MacCullough leave, she heads back down the hall and enters room 401, shutting the door behind her.
The ICU waiting room is warm and comfortable with pale ochre walls, woven yarn hangings, and sage corduroy chairs. The buzz humming through the hospital almost drowns out the beeps and hisses of the machines. A low murmur comes from other people in the waiting room awaiting news of their loved ones.
Mick observes that the more life-threatening the prognosis, the quieter the doctors and nurses become, their calmness balancing the hysteria around them.
Nearing the breaking point himself, Mick links his fingers behind his head, stretches his back, and continues pacing. His mind wanders back to the day he picked up this month’s group of writers at the airport. The moment I saw Emma rolling toward me in her wheelchair, she kept rolling, right into my heart.
There’s a low hum of activity in the hallway—a doctor being paged by the oncology department, the wheels of a gurney bouncing off the wall, a cry silenced.
“We’ve got to stop meeting like this.”
Mick whirls around to see Dr. Zimmerman.
“What are you doing in the intensive care unit, Mr. McPherson?”
“I’m waiting for news about Emma Benton. Do you know how she is?”
Tilting her head to the side, Dr. Zimmerman says, “Just the other day you were here for one of your guests, Cynthia Winters. Is Ms. Benton another guest, or is she a family member? You know I can’t give out infor—”
Mick doesn’t hesitate. “She’s my fiancée. We’re engaged.”
Dr. Zimmeerman thrusts her hands into the deep square pockets of her white lab coat and stands still. She raises an eyebrow and gives the slightest of smiles. “She’s not my patient, but I’ll see what I can find out.”
Toni adjusts the drip rate on the IV bag hanging above the patient’s head. Until now you’ve been known as Jason Hughes. But the cops, the FBI, and everyone else is going to find out—if they haven’t already—that you’re really Alexander Berndt. And I’ll be damned if you take me down with you.
Turning to Alex, she says, “I increased the med flow, so the pain will lessen soon.”
As she sits in the still-warm chair, she leans over him. When she notices the cannula threaded under his nose, force-feeding him oxygen, she removes it.
“It’s your own damn fault that you’re in this position. You’ve been sloppy, Alex, and now I’m forced to clean up the mess. I don’t have a choice.”
Alex slits an eye open. His hand moves toward the call button.
Toni shakes her head. “Uh, uh, uh. I’m sorry, but we can’t have any interruptions. Now let’s see.” She pauses for a moment. “When we were in the cave you said, ‘I told her.’ Did you mean Emma Benton?”
Alex nods his head yes.
“What did you tell her?
He tries to speak but can’t. It’s increasingly hard for him to breathe.
“Did you tell her that I’m a dirty cop?
Alex gives another affirmative nod. And though he can’t speak, he makes a poor excuse of a smile.
“Does anyone else know?”
He gives her another weak smile and whispers, “Yes.”
“Who else did you tell?”
He still can’t talk.
Toni threads the cannula back under his nostrils and waits.
It’s barely audible, but she hears, “I told the priest.”
Toni opens her jacket and extracts two syringes. She lays one on the bedside table.
“Now let’s see just how good of a teacher you were
