BRIAN (The Callahans Book 1) (90 page)

              “What a second,” said Rose. “What symptoms would that be?”

              “Patients have described it as a bright burst of light, often confusing it for the return of their sight.”

              Carter approached the bars with heavy steps. The Bellevue jail smelled of bleach and mildew, and the windows, lined with bars and high on the back wall of each cell, offered virtually no natural light. Fluorescents buzzed overhead, which only added to his growing agitation.

              Within the cell, Layla was seated in an exhausted hunch with her back to him. The bed she sat on was sunken in and its pillow lay on the concrete floor.

              “Hey,” he said, keeping his booming tone low so as not to garnish the guard’s attention who was standing post near the jail’s entrance, which separated it from the front desk where a wealth of police officers were in and out, getting calls and drinking coffee.

              “Yeah?” she said, glancing over her shoulder before looking away, gaze falling to the pillow on the floor. “If you’re not here about my bail or to let me know when Harold’s coming or to give me a shred of good news then I’d rather be alone.”

              “Come to the bars, Layla, I shouldn’t have to shout.”

              “Why? So you can lecture me some more for being reckless.” She whipped her head around and glared at him. “Every day I feel more and more like I’m the only one here who’s prepared to really fight, and I don’t like the looks I’m getting for it.”

              “Oh don’t give me the poor-me routine. I’m not buying it. You went off the deep end and I’m doing everything I can.”

              “If you’d have come with me, I wouldn’t have gotten caught.”

              “If I’d gone with you, I’d be in the next cell and you know it,” he countered. “So stop with all this martyr bullshit and get over here.”

              Reluctant to give him an inch, she made slow work of rising to her feet, and when she turned Carter got the sense that she’d rather stare him down like a disgruntled teenager than let go of her pride to have a productive conversation. But gradually, she stalked to the bars and wrapped her thin hands around them.

              “You have my attention.”

              “Good,” he said, drawing in a deep breath and trying to prepare for how to tell his girlfriend she’d been officially fired. There was no way to prepare for such a conversation. “Harold isn’t coming.”

              She snorted a laugh. “Too busy?”

              “Worse,” he said. He took a moment to touch her hands, but she pulled away and planted her fists on her hips. She wasn’t pissed anymore. Her eyes were widening. She looked scared. “Rose said you’re out of One World.”

              “What?”

              Carter couldn’t stand watching her lips quiver as she held back tears and paced backwards to get distance from him. He wished he could hold her. And even more so, he wished she hadn’t snuck off on her own and thrown a grenade at Starlight when he’d begged her not to. She’d told him she wouldn’t. She told him she was going to shower at the motel then drive into Seattle to meet him at the Escala, where he’d waited with Rose. He wished he felt like he still knew the woman whose gaze he was meeting in this very moment.

              “I’m sorry,” he said.

              “So what am I supposed to do?” she asked, throwing her hands up at the predicament she was facing.

              “We’ll have to get you an attorney.”

              “With what money?”

              “You have a right to a public defender.”

              “I’ll go to prison with a public defender. Those people are incompetent, you know that.”

              “Why the hell didn’t you listen to me?” he demanded, raising his voice then quickly glancing at the guard. Steadying his tone, he said, “We need to ask for a public defender, get them on the effort to pressure the court to set bail, get you out of here for the time being.”

              “How could she push me out? She needs more people, not less. She’s blind, for Christ’s sake. She can’t work on this. She can’t shut down the pipeline. And she’s off screwing the enemy. It’s us who should force her out, take back One World, do things our way.”

              “Our way? You mean your way? You mean we all go to prison.”

              “Carter, I warned you. If you came here to lecture me, I don’t want to hear it. You can go.”

              “I didn’t come here to lecture you. I came to help you get your head on straight. And I came to make a plan.”

              “What plan?” she asked in a futile tone.

              “We’ll get you out of here,” he began, growing intense to get her on board. “I have some information on Taylor that could ruin him.”

              “What information?”

              “Prior drug use. A mental health record of psychosis.”

              “You know that pipeline is the work of his father,” she said, dismissing his findings.

              “Like father, like son,” he suggested, and Layla’s eyes lit up.

              “Like son, like father.”

              “This could be very bad for them. A mentally ill CEO and a father so delusional he falsified chemical tests before submitting them to the government for clearance to move forward with Starlight.”

              “You have that?” she asked, excitedly rushing to the bars. “You found proof they falsified documents?”

              “You may be looking down your nose at the leader of One World, but the fact that Rose is now living with Taylor gave us a whole new in. You wouldn’t believe what I found in his office.”

              Layla took a moment to process their leverage then said, “What does this mean for me, though? If I’m out of One World, then I’m out.”

              “But you’re still an activist, and so am I.”

              “You want to steal this from Rose?”

              “Like you said,” he went on, speaking low, “she’s blind and out of the game. We can take this, Layla. We can take the information, the proof, use it against the Montgomerys, shut down Starlight ourselves, get the glory we deserve, our names in the headlines.”

              Layla slid her hands over Carter’s where he was holding the bars, as she said, “I’m in.”

              Rose was seated in a chair and trying not to shift around, even though she felt uncomfortable lying back at a forty-five-degree angle with a metal plate pressed against her face. The plate was cold as ice, yet the light Dr. Fitzpatrick used to see through her left eye then the right caused the white starbursts to flare as they had that morning.

              “Right now, Rose, I’m taking images of the optic nerves,” he explained, and then she heard a series of faint clicks. “You may feel a little woozy, but that’s perfectly normal.”

              To say she might feel a little woozy was the understatement of the century. Prior to helping her into the chair, which she imagined looked just like one a dentist would use, Dr. Fitzpatrick’s nurse shot a numbing agent into each eye, and the second it hit her bloodstream she felt downright drunk.

              “Okay, Rose, you’re going to feel some pressure,” he said. A moment later, she felt the prick of his surgical needle easing through her right eye.

              Taylor held her right arm, whispering, “Try to hold still.”

              She could hear the grimace in his tone, and it was beyond her how he could stand to watch such a grisly test procedure.

              “I’m pulling out now,” said the doctor. “Angling into the other eye now.”

              “And why are you using needles?” asked Taylor.

              “I took an initial set of pictures, but for the second set I need to inject dye into the veins to see where life meets death. It’ll show me the length of nerve endings that we’re working with here.”

              “And when will you do the one test that’s definitive?” he asked.

              “It’s part of these pictures,” he said. “You’re doing good, Rose. Pulling out now.”

              Rose heard him set the needle in a metal tray beside her and then a series of photos clicking off.

              As Dr. Fitzpatrick angled the camera around her to take images from every side, he mentioned, “I know an excellent plastic surgeon on five. Have you met Dr. Ashbury?”

              “Ashbury,” Taylor repeated to himself. “No, I don’t think so.”

              “She’s the best in Seattle. It’s up to you, Rose, but I would think Dr. Ashbury would have ideas about how to restore the texture of your skin around the eyes and over the bridge of your nose and brow.”

              Holding very still since the camera was still firing, she said, “I’m not sure I’ll care what I look like if I can’t see myself.”

              “Well,” he said, “it’s just a thought, an option. And the burns didn’t warp the bone. I’d say you’re a good candidate for full restoration.”

              “Yeah, tell me the same about my eyes and I’ll be happy,” she said, trying not to sound sarcastic.

              “All right, we’re all done here,” he said, dabbing at the corners of her eyes. “I’ll have a nurse come in to dress your bandages, then you can wait in the anteroom while I go over these images.”

              “How long will that be?” asked Taylor.

              “Not long. Ten minutes. I just need my technician to upload them into my computer and a few minutes to myself to review them.”

              “A few minutes and I’ll know if I’ll ever see again,” said Rose, drifting into the bizarreness of it all.

              “See you in a bit,” he said, and she heard him pad across the room and close the door.

              “I don’t know how I’m going to handle this,” she said.

              “Hey, we’ll just stay positive.”

              “But you heard him about the light bursts. You heard him—”

              “Nothing’s impossible. Every patient is different.”

              “I really think I should’ve said something.”

              “No,” he interrupted. “Tests matter, not the prior experiences of other patients.”

              “Symptoms are symptoms, Taylor.”

              “I don’t want you to lose hope.”

              “I don’t want to hope for something that isn’t going to happen.”

              Just as Taylor was about to object, or perhaps motivate her further, a nurse stepped in, announcing herself and wasting no time in dressing Rose’s bandages.

              “How long will I have to wear these?” she asked the nurse as she finished up.

              “Until the skin has fully healed,” she explained. “They’re really to prevent infection.”

              Rose angled her head towards Taylor.

              “The skin hasn’t healed?”

              “Burns are complicated,” said the nurse. “But after another day or so you shouldn’t need to wear gauze around your eyes.”

              In the waiting area, Taylor poured two coffees and cringed at the lack of cream, which Rose caught, sensing him stiffen beside her.

              “Powdered cream,” he muttered.

              “Better than nothing,” she said.

              “Is it? I’m having mine black.”

              “Just give me a bit to sweeten it and I’ll be fine.”

              He did then took her to a set of chairs to the left of a potted plant.

              Taylor had been right, no powdered cream would’ve been better, but Rose sipped her coffee, anyway, glad to be marginally distracted from the anxiety that was coursing through her bones.

              “He’s taking a long time,” she said quietly.

              “It hasn’t been ten minutes.”

              She would have to take his word on it. She wouldn’t know either way. How did blind people keep time? Would she have to learn braille? How the hell would she get around by herself? Before she could launch into a fresh wave of worry, she stopped herself, drinking a gulp of coffee and swallowing hard.

              Dr. Fitzpatrick popped the anteroom door open and touched eyes with Taylor, who said, “Let’s go. He’ll see us now.”

              It took a moment to get settled in the chairs across from Dr. Fitzpatrick’s desk, and Rose didn’t like how quiet he was being.

              “Let me start by saying there are many things we can do.”

              Her heart leapt in her throat.

              “But in terms of connecting donor eyes to the optic nerve...”

              “Oh God,” said Rose.

              “I’m afraid that won’t be an option.”

              “I knew I shouldn’t have been tested today. I knew it. I told you,” she said angrily.

              “Now, Rose, remember I told you it wouldn’t matter at what point in time we tested that nerve,” the doctor interjected, though she couldn’t bring herself to swallow that reality. “But there are things we can do. It’s very early in the process. With time and rehabilitation, you could very well see shapes and light. You could have a degree of sight.”

              Taylor cut in with, “Aren’t there any progressive surgeries, even if controversial, that have endeavored to connect new eyes to stunted optic nerves?”

              Dr. Fitzpatrick sighed. “You’re referring to the Holder case from last year,” he said knowingly. “There are.”

              “Then why don’t we try that?” Rose demanded, furious he hadn’t mentioned it.

              “I’m not in a position to propose such a surgery—”

              “Why?” she interrupted.

              “Because,” he said, taking in a breath to be sure he had the floor, “the hospital only gives donor eyes to patients with a high likelihood of success. We don’t give livers to alcoholics. We don’t give hearts to the morbidly obese. It’s hospital policy.”

              “But if I could find a donor myself,” Taylor began asking, “then you could do the procedure?”

              “Theoretically, yes,” he said. “But—”

              “No buts,” said Taylor. “I’ll look into it.”

              “Very well. In the meantime, I’ll review the rest of the images to gain insight as to the specific therapy and exercises we can get you started on, Rose. Remember, you still have options.”

              “Yeah, thanks,” she said under her breath.

              Taylor helped her out of the chair then thanked the doctor and guided her out to the anteroom, where he threw their coffee cups away.

              “How do you feel?” he asked her, as he pulled the door open for her to pass through into the hallway.

              “Furious. Exhausted. Depressed.”

              Making their way to the elevator, he said, “I’ll have Fitzpatrick send those images to me and get a few other opinions on the surgery. We’ll get a sense of the odds. We’ll keep trying.”

              “And how will you get donated eyes?” she asked as they rode the elevator to the lobby.

              “I’ll find a way. You’d be surprised what money can buy.”

              “Taylor—”

              “I’m not talking about the black market. I’m talking about finding two people who are a match and paying them each for one eye. People can live with partial sight, especially when they don’t have to work for the rest of their lives because I’ve given them a million dollars.”

              Outside, the air felt warm and smelled sweet as they climbed into the back of the limousine.

              “You’d spend millions to restore my sight—one person’s sight—but you won’t spend millions to save an entire town from cancer?”

              Taylor kissed her cheek, laughing.

              “You never give up, do you?”

              “Never.”

              “I’m researching new materials and chemicals. The pipeline is still on hold, and my father can’t do a thing about it until he recovers.”

              “Is he still in the hospital?”

              “No, he’s home, but has round-the-clock care. At his age, a concussion can be of some concern, so there are a few nurses watching him. He’ll be out of the woods in a few days, but that’s all the time I need to draw up a new plan for the build.”

              As they drove back to the Escala, Rose leaned her head against the seat and curled into Taylor’s shoulder, drifting off into sleep.

              When they reached his building and the limousine pulled to the curb, he gently woke her, saying, “We’re here.”

              Helping her into the building, Taylor kept his arm around her lower back until they reached the elevator.

              “God, I’m tired,” she said.             

              “Any pain?”

              “I’ve had a slight headache, but no real pain.”

              “You’re a trooper.”

              “I slept fine last night. Why am I so tired?” she asked, yawning, as the elevator ascended to the fiftieth floor.

              “Your adrenaline was probably firing in anticipation of hearing your prognosis. It’s understandable. You can take a nap, and I’ll look into a few things.”

              “About the pipeline,” she said insistently. “Not my health.”

              “I can do both.”

              “It won’t be the longest nap, so you need to get your priorities straight.”

              He laughed as they reached his suite door and he keyed in.

              Instinctively, Rose sensed where the furniture was and avoided it as she made her slow way through the living room and into the bedroom. Her hands were stretched out in front of her face as a precaution, but she didn’t hit anything on her route to the bedroom, all the while sensing Taylor a few paces behind.

              He had been sensitive to her need to be self-sufficient in the suite, which she appreciated. When they were out, he’d taken charge, guiding her so she wouldn’t bump into anything or trip, but whenever they were home she could explore and practice unfettered. And this was starting to feel like home, wasn’t it? She’d only been here a few days, and yet felt intimate with the layout, the smell, and the shape and feel of each room.

              Whether it was because of stress or worry or a vague sense that she would stumble through the rest of her life physically inept, when Rose reached the bedroom she wasn’t tired, but felt in need of a massive distraction, one in which Taylor would play a central role.

              Sensing him enter the room behind her, she pulled her shirt up and over her head and let it fall to the floor as she turned. She stripped her bra off next and caught the sweet sound of him faintly groaning a long exhale.

              “Take off your shirt,” she whispered, as he advanced on her quickly.

              He slowed, taking a moment to peel the layer off before wrestling his belt open.

              The cool AC stung her bare breasts, and she felt her nipples grow hard as she undid her jeans and pulled them down, stepping out of them once she’d kicked off her shoes.