Chapter Sixty-eight

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Maggie

Airports see more kisses than wedding chapels, and hospitals hear more prayers than churches.

I read that somewhere once, and as I sit in an uncomfortable plastic chair in a private hospital room, waiting for Cash to return from yet another set of scans, I know it’s true. It’s been hours since we arrived here. I haven’t stopped praying since.

I’ve even appealed to Saint Roch a few times. It can’t hurt, right? And seeing as how he and Cash are on speaking terms, maybe it might actually help.

The lone window in the room frames clouds the color of an old metal bucket. A hard breeze rattles the fronds of a palmetto tree outside, but I hear the soft sound only in my head. In reality, the chaos of the hospital accosts my ears.

At the nurses’ station, three efficient-looking women in various shades of pastel scrubs talk animatedly about something I can’t make out. A patient in a hospital gown and rubber-soled socks shuffles by, the squeak-buzz-squeak of the wheels on his rolling IV stand sounds like a dentist’s drill, making me wince. And then there’s the constant beep and shush of machines doing God only knows what to God only knows who.

I poke my head into the hall when I hear a familiar voice. I explained to the doctors here at Tulane Medical Center that Cash was under the care of Dr. Beckett at the VA. Now the man himself is here. He’s walking beside the physician who’s been taking care of Cash. I can catch only snatches of their conversation.

“…Sergeant Armstrong’s transfer is…”

“…I’ll speak to Miss Carter myself…”

“…always a shame in someone so young…”

The Tulane doctor peels off to chat with a nurse, but Dr. Beckett continues my way. When he sees me turkey-peeking around the corner, he smiles and adjusts his wire-rimmed glasses.

I meet him in the hall, twisting my fingers anxiously. “I didn’t know if having them call you was the right thing to do, but I thought—”

“It was exactly the right thing to do,” he assures me, placing a comforting hand on my arm. “Let’s talk.” He gently turns me back into the stark white room with its gadgets on the walls and its narrow door leading to a bathroom the size of a shoebox. “Have a seat,” he indicates the chair I vacated.

“Have you seen Cash?” I ask. “He hasn’t regained consciousness in all these hours, and the doctors won’t tell me anything because I’m not his next of kin. A nurse tried to shoo me away earlier, but I gave her a look that said I’d force-feed her the rotting testicles of a dead donkey before I’d step one foot out of this room, and she wisely let me stay.”

Beckett smiles. “I’ve just come from him. He’s awake and talking and—”

“Oh, thank God!” I cover my face with my hands and promptly burst into tears.

I like to think of myself as a tough nut. Someone who’s learned how to roll with the punches. But I’m going on thirty-six hours of no sleep. I’ve been held at gunpoint, watched a man die rather violently, been questioned by the police for what seemed like an eternity, and found someone I love unconscious and bleeding.

It’s all caught up with me.

Beckett doesn’t say anything for a few minutes, graciously allowing me time to get it all out. When I’m reduced to sniffles, he hands me a tissue and quietly continues, “Sergeant Armstrong has a moderate to severe concussion. That, along with the amount of alcohol and painkillers in his system, is what caused his extended LOC.”

At my watery look of confusion, he shakes his head and says, “Sorry. That means loss of consciousness.”

“But he’s okay now?” My heart is hammering so hard I’m afraid it might break through the cage of my ribs and fall onto the floor. I guess the good news is, if it does, I’m in a hospital. They can put it back where it belongs, right?

“Well, like I said, he’s suffering from a concussion. And that on top of his…uh…condition isn’t ideal. But, yes, he’s okay. He seems to have his faculties about him. I’m having him transferred to the VA, where I can keep an eye on him over the next couple of days.”

“Good.” I nod. “Okay.” I’m flooded with so much relief I almost forget to ask the question that’s been plaguing me since I found Cash bloodied and unconscious. “Did he say who did this to him?”

“He claims it was his father.”

“No.” I jerk my chin side to side. “Richard Armstrong is in jail.”

“It’s not unusual for a person who’s suffered a blow to the head to get things confused,” Beckett says with a frown. “Once Sergeant Armstrong is settled in at the VA he can give his statement to the police. We’ll have to leave it to them to find out what actually happened. In the meantime, why don’t you go on home and get some rest?”

You look like a can of smashed buttholes.

He doesn’t say this last part. But I hear it hanging in the air between us.

“I’m going with you and Cash to the VA,” I tell him, bringing back my rotting-donkey-balls expression.

His smile is kind when he nods. “Okay. I need to finish filling out some paperwork here and then we’ll be on our way.”

He presses a reassuring hand against my shoulder on his way from the room, and then I’m left alone to stare out the window again. The weatherman was right. A soft drizzle is falling against the single pane of glass, sliding in haphazard rivulets that join and diverge.

Cash’s father? Is it possible?

I know one person who would know.

Pulling Cash’s phone from my back pocket, I hold it up and watch it automatically unlock. After realizing I’d need to rely on his phone as my only means of communication—and in between orderlies wheeling him from the room for various scans and tests—I used his face to unlock the phone, get into his settings, and reset the face ID so his phone recognizes me. It was then I remembered that I could have simply used the emergency option on his phone this morning instead of struggling with the face ID. Apparently, I’m not very calm or coherent in a crisis. But I suppose all’s well that ends well.

Now I open his contacts and search for Leon Broussard. When I find him, my finger hovers over the call icon.

It’s a holiday. No doubt Broussard is taking time off. Still, it won’t hurt to leave a message.

To my surprise, however, Broussard picks up on the third ring.

“I didn’t expect you to be working today,” I blurt. Then, “Sorry. What I meant to say is happy New Year, sir.”

“Same to you.” His tone is curt. “Whoever you are.”

“Oh.” I flush. “Right. This is Maggie Carter.” And then, like a penitent to a confessor, I launch into the story of finding Cash bleeding and unconscious, stumbling over my words in my rush to get them out. I finish with, “And Dr. Beckett said when Cash came to, he accused his father of being the one to attack him. But Rick’s in jail, isn’t he?”

“He made bail last night,” Broussard says.

I blink. Then I blink some more. The cogs in my brain are grinding without the oil of sleep. Finally, I manage, “What?”

“Richard Armstrong got out on bail last night. Are you telling me the first thing he did was attack his son?”

“I—” For some reason, the words strangle in my throat. “I don’t know. The doctor told me people who’ve suffered the kind of injury Cash has can get confused. Maybe he thinks it was his dad since anytime he was hurt before, it was Rick’s fault.”

“You said Cash is being transferred to the VA hospital on Canal Street?”

I nod and then realize he can’t see me. Stupid rusty brain cogs. “Yes.”

“I’ll meet you there in an hour.”

He signs off without so much as a by-your-leave, and I pull the phone away from my face, staring down at it blankly. I try to corral my thoughts, but they’re like the wild boars of the bayou. Whenever I get close to one, it squeals and runs off.

Then a little red circle with a one in the middle appears above Cash’s envelope icon.

He has a new email.

Okay, so here’s the deal. I know I shouldn’t press that icon and read his mail. For one thing, it’s private. For another thing, it might be illegal. And finally, I figure I’ve crossed enough lines already by confiscating his phone and changing the security settings.

But—there’s always a but, isn’t there?—what if it’s important? What if it’s something to do with his house or his VA insurance, or I don’t know…what if it’s something important?

Cash doesn’t have anyone but me and Luc. And with Luc in jail, that leaves me to see to his affairs while he’s incapacitated, right? Right?

Before I can think too long about my actions, I open the email. The minute I see who the sender is, my heart starts racing. As I read, the words fill up my chest until I’m unable to breathe.

From: Dr. Sean Stevens, Neurology, Johns Hopkins

To: Cassius Armstrong

Subject: In regard to my email from yesterday

Dear Sergeant Armstrong,

I wanted to write and express my deepest sympathy for your diagnosis and apologize that the news I sent yesterday wasn’t more promising. I’ve always been a great believer in the power of science, and new breakthroughs are happening as we speak. Even an old pragmatist like myself knows there’s always reason to hope.

Thank you for allowing me to review your case. I’m terribly sorry I couldn’t be of more help.

Kind regards,

Dr. Sean Stevens, MS, MRCS, ABNS

I stare at the email until the words have burned out my retinas and branded themselves into my brain. What is that noise? That low, pitiful sound?

Oh. Yeah. It’s me.

If someone had plunged a knife into my chest, it wouldn’t hurt nearly as much as the futility and finality the doctor’s words. All the hope I’ve been keeping locked up tight in the storehouse of my heart turns combustible and explodes outward. Hot tears gather in my eyes and blur the phone’s screen.

It’s done. It’s over. Cash is doomed to a life of unspeakable pain. And it’ll be anyone’s guess if that does him in before the booze.

I let my head fall back, strangling the sobs in the back of my throat and—

Wait.

The email referenced a previous message. What did that say? Maybe there’s some explanation in there. Some clue why there’s nothing to be done.

Figuring I’ve already committed the cardinal sin of snooping through his private correspondence once, I don’t hesitate to click on his email account again and go searching through his previous messages. When I don’t find what I’m looking for, I open his trash can and then junk email folder, but…nothing.

Dang it!

He deleted it. Probably, I realize with no small measure of remorse, because it was so disheartening he never wanted to read it again.

I did that myself once. His Dear Jane letter went into the fire pit in Aunt Bea’s backyard, along with my prom dress. Sometimes getting rid of the thing that hurts you, destroying it entirely, is the only way you know how to deal.

Slumping dejectedly, I stare out the window again. The world outside looks gray and bleak. It matches the interior of my heart.

And then a new thought occurs, and I straighten.

He received the neurosurgeon’s email yesterday, presumably before Aunt Bea’s New Year’s Eve party. Was that why he was acting out? Why he took Scarlet home? To try to turn me off him for good because that email said there was no hope?