“You got him?” Daniel asked.
“He’s dead,” Lucas said. “I’m looking at him,” he explained, and told him that Jennifer and the baby had been injured, but the injuries didn’t appear serious.
“How bad are you?”
“My leg’s burned. I’m full of splinters. My house is fucked up,” Lucas said.
“So take the day off,” Daniel said. His voice was flat, not funny.
“Pretty fuckin’ funny,” Lucas said coldly.
“What do you want me to say? You’re so fucked up I don’t know why you’re talking to me on the telephone.”
“I needed to tell somebody,” Lucas said. He looked out of the kitchen to the open front door. After Jennifer had called 911, she’d stalked past him, out the door and into the yard to wait. When he’d called after her, she’d refused to look at him.
“Get your ass to the hospital,” Daniel said. “I’ll see you there in ten minutes.”
Jennifer had a sliver taken from her arm. The anchor from TV3 called her at the hospital and Jennifer told him to go fuck himself.
The baby had a half-dozen splinters in her back. The does said that by the time she was old enough to be told about the fight, the scars would be virtually invisible.
Lucas spent the night, the next day and part of the following day at Ramsey Medical Center, first receiving treatment for the burns on his leg and the plaster particles in his right eye. He wouldn’t need skin grafts, but it was a near thing. The plaster was washed out: the eye would heal. When the docs had finished with the eye, a physician’s assistant went to work on the splinters. They weren’t in deep, but there were dozens of them, from his thigh across his butt and up his back and his left arm.
He got out early the second afternoon, still wearing a massive gauze bandage that covered his eye, and went to look at his house. The insurance man, he decided, would jump out of his window twice when he saw it.
Late that night, after a number of calls to clear the way, he drove to Hennepin Medical Center and took a back elevator to the surgical floor. At ten minutes past midnight, he got out of the elevator and walked down a tiled corridor to a nursing station, where he found his friend.
“Lucas,” she said, “I told her you were coming. She’s still awake.”
“Is she alone?”
“Do you mean, ‘Has her husband gone?’ Yeah, he’s gone,” the nurse said, grinning wryly.
A younger nurse, barely out of her teens, leaned on the station counter and said, “The guy is really something else. He reads to her, gets videos for her, gets snacks. He’s here all the time. I’ve never seen anybody so . . .” She groped for the word. “ . . . faithful.”
“Just like my cocker spaniel,” said the older nurse.
Lily was propped up in bed, watching the Letterman show.
“Hey,” she said. She touched the remote and Letterman winked out. Her face was pale, but she talked easily. “You got him. And he got you. You look like shit.”
“Thanks,” Lucas said. He kissed her on the lips and eased himself into the bedside chair. “I got him more.”
“Mmm,” she said. “The legend of Lucas Davenport grows another couple of inches.”
“So how do you feel?” Lucas asked.
“Not too bad, as long as I don’t laugh or sneeze,” Lily said. She looked tired, but not sick. “My ribs are messed up. They had me walking around today. It hurt a lot.”
“How much longer will you be here?”
Lily hesitated, then said, “I get out tomorrow. They’re going to brace me up. I’m taking Andretti’s plane to New York tomorrow afternoon.”
Lucas frowned and sat back in the chair. “That’s pretty quick.”
“Yes.” There was another silence, then Lily said, “I can’t help it.”
Lucas looked down at her. “I think we have some unfinished business. Somehow.” He shrugged. There was another space of silence.
“I don’t know,” she said finally.
“David?” Lucas asked. “Do you love him?”
“I must,” she said.
A while later she said, “Will you get back with Jennifer?”
Lucas shook his head. “I don’t know. She’s . . . kind of freaked out after what happened in the house. I’ll see her tomorrow. Maybe.”
“Don’t come see me off,” Lily said. “I don’t know if I could handle things, if you and David were there at the same time.”
“Okay,” Lucas said.
“And could you . . .”
“What?”
“Could you leave?” she said, in a tiny, distant voice that squeaked toward despair. “If you stay any longer I’ll cry, and crying hurts . . . .”
Lucas stood awkwardly, shuffled his feet, then leaned over and kissed her again. She caught his shirt in her hand, pulling him, and the kiss went on, fiercer, with heat, until suddenly she let go and instead of pulling him, pushed against his chest.
“Get the fuck out of here, Davenport,” she said. “We can’t start this again, God damn it, get the fuck out of here.”
“Lily . . .”
“Lucas, please . . .”
He nodded and took a breath, let it go. “See you.” He couldn’t think of anything else to say. He backed out of the hospital room, looking into her eyes until the swinging door flapped shut.
At the nurses’ desk, he asked his friend what time Lily would check out. Ten o’clock, he was told, with an ambulance scheduled to drive to the St. Paul municipal airport, where she would be loaded into a private jet.
Lucas drove out to the airport the next morning in his Ford four-by-four, and sat and watched as Lily was lifted from the ambulance and wheeled in a chair through the gate to the waiting jet. David bent over her, still wearing the blue seersucker suit, his hair rumpled in the wind. He looked like an academic. David.
They had to carry Lily up the steps to the jet. As they picked her up, Lucas felt her eyes on him, but she never raised a hand. She looked at him for three seconds, five, and then was gone.
The jet left and Lucas rolled out of the airport toward the Robert Street bridge.
He talked to Jennifer that afternoon. She wanted to set up a visitation schedule, she said, so Lucas could see Sarah. Lucas said he wanted to talk. She asked if Lily was gone and Lucas said yes. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to talk, Jennifer said, but she would meet him. Not today, not tomorrow. Sometime soon. Next week, next month. She couldn’t forget about those last minutes at the house, when Shadow Love was dying, the baby was hurt, and Lucas wouldn’t let her call . . . . She was trying to forget, but she couldn’t . . . .
That was Thursday. He went to the games group that night, and played. Elle asked him about the shotgun. It was gone, he said. He hadn’t felt its touch since the shootout. He felt fine, he said, but he thought he might be lying.
Everything should have been fine, but it didn’t feel quite right. He felt as though he were in the last hours of a prolonged journey on speed, in the mental territory where everything has more contrast than it does in real life, where buildings overhang in a threatening way, where cars move too fast, where people talk too loud, where sideways looks in bars can mean trouble. That lasted through the weekend, and began to fade early in the next week.
A little more than three weeks after the shootout, on a Saturday afternoon, Lucas sat in an easy chair and watched an Iowa-Notre Dame football game. Notre Dame was losing and no amount of prayer would help. It was a relief when the phone rang. He picked it up and heard the hiss of the long-distance satellite relay.
“Lucas?” Lily, her voice soft and husky.
“Lily? Where are you?”
“I’m at home. I’m looking out the window.”
“What? Out the window?” He flashed on the first time he’d seen her in the hallway at the police station: her dark eyes, her hair slightly askew, strands of it falling across her graceful neck . . . .
“David and the boys are down in the street, loading the van. They’re leaving for Fort Lauderdale, on a father-son big-game fishing trip. First time for the boys . . .”
“Lily . . .”
“Lucas, Jesus, I’m starting to cry . . . .”
“Lily . . .”
“They’ll be gone for a week, Lucas—my husband and the boys,” she groaned. “Ah, fuck, Davenport, this is so fuckin’ miserable . . . .”
“What? What?”
“Can you come to New York?” Her voice had gone rough, sensual, dark. “Can you come in tomorrow?”