Carolina Rain (8 page)

“Yeah, I figured that.”

“So?”

The CSI shrugged. “They thought the reattachment would work
,
but there were too many damaged nerves and, after a few days, they took it off. I guess, in a way, I was lucky. The hand
got terribly messed up and couldn’t be saved
. T
he reattachment process helped to speed up the healing. So
,
as of last week, the stub looked good enough to put on the temporary prosthetic.”

“Show me.”

“Really? I figured Sophie would be the first to ask.”

“Oh
, she
will
,” he breathed.

The look of doubt and near embarrassment on Alex’s face as he removed the black glove didn’t surprise Manny
. H
is empathy for Alex shot up another level.

The flesh-colored attachment looked like a hand, almost, and Alex wiggled a finger with his other hand.

“Not like the old one, but also not like the special robotic model that I’ve got coming in a few weeks. Dean was right. It might be the coolest thing ever besides the real thing.”
Alex’s
ton
e was genuine. "It’ll work.”

“What about the mental
part
? How are you doing with that?”

Sliding the chair closer, Alex put his right hand on Manny’s shoulder. “Listen, like I said before, it was a small price to pay to keep you and Chloe on this planet together. I’d do it again, and again. So just know I’m okay with it and I don’t want to hear you doing some guilt trip over it, clear?”

“Clear
. And
Alex . . .
thanks.”

His friend stood up
and moved to the door. “You’re welcome. Now get some rest. You can figure out how to make this up to me when you’re walking around like you should be.”

Then Alex was gone.

“Good man, Alex Downs,” he said out loud.

The brightening daylight emanating from the large, blinded window drew his attention
.
He
suddenly felt as grateful as
he could remember
. No one had to tell him that his chances of surviving
the
surgery had been at best fifty-fifty, at least in human estimations
. However,
that wasn’t all
there was
to consider, was it? Destiny, fate, God’s will? Pick one, but they all boiled down to one thing; Manny was apparently still part of
an
earthly plan.

The Plan. What did that mean exactly? He wasn’t sure but
,
for the second time in a minute,
he
felt
deep
gratitude. He was alive
and
Garity wasn’t. The man who’d stabbed him had been reduced to crab and seagull fricassee on a sandy beach in North Carolina, and they hadn’t even discovered why the man had done what he did. And why was
Garity
dead? Remorse? An accident? A bad date? A heart attack? Manny instinctively knew it wasn’t any of those situations
.
So, what then?

Reaching down, he ran his finger
gently
along the three-inch incision
covered with a light bandage
smack dab in the middle of his chest. He winced, but did it again. The pain somehow brought him more back to the moment
;
this moment, his moment, and his life.

Death was not a new concept in his line of work, especially for cops who worked the kind of crimes he and his unit
did
.
Death
was a dark companion that brought with it a sense of balance. Life, truly living, could never be appreciated without death. He supposed most cops knew that deep down and accepted it for what it was: an ultimate truth that overshadowed every doubt and drained the streams of denial. He also knew that most cops longed to be free of that damned companion. But that was like planting flowers and expecting tomatoes.

The sunlight’s jagged fingers stretched for the bed and he felt their warmth touch his exposed ankle. He reached up with his right hand and, with more effort than he thought he would need, ran his hand through his blond hair. It had grown long.

This life-and-death line of thinking always brought him back to why he did what he did. There
were
over six and a half billion people on the planet and they all had the right to live their lives until nature took them, but there were so many who thought differently. Kings, armies, politics, and even religion seemed to justify the death of many to further each pseudo-noble cause. He was sure the men and women who made decisions that cost millions of lives each year would eventually have to answer for
those decisions
. And
part of him wanted to be there when the explaining began.

But those weren't situations over which he had control. His calling had to do with protecting folks, mostly from each other. He couldn’t recall how many
times
failing to do that had brought him to tears accompanied by a fist against the wall. He had endured sleepless nights, dangerous situations, and the loss of
one of
life’s
most wonderful gift
s
;
his late wife
,
Louise. Her face flashed across his mind and, despite her instructions, he suddenly missed her more than he had in months. He and Jen had moved on—in part, thanks to Chloe and her truly incredible heart—but Louise would always have a part of him that no one else could. Manny shook off the comparison game. Living in the past and dwelling on it was a true recipe for madness. He knew that one firsthand.

As the door opened and the
Recovery
nurse entered—an older woman with a strong, handsome face—one more image skittered across his mind: Doctor Fredrick Argyle and his scattered brains on the deck of that boat in Ireland. Argyle had left this world directly because of Manny. For a
second
, he could feel the gun jump in his hand as he’d pulled the trigger. He closed his eyes.

In that moment, had he been any different in taking a man’s life than anyone else? Was his purpose, his reason, any more noble than some maniacal politician in some third-world military
coup? At his age, Manny thought epiphanies were probably out of the question
,
but this
time his answer came fast and sure.

It
had
been the right thing to do. Men
—
people
—
like Argyle had no moral boundaries, contribut
ing
only woe and fear to the world, killing seemingly without worry or care of what fell in their wake. They didn’t protect anyone or anything except whatever sick agenda they deemed relevant. How many more people would have died if he hadn’t ended Argyle
’s life
? And no matter where that instinct came from,
Manny would
never let anyone
hurt
his family, as long as he could help it. On that particular day on that boat in Ireland, at that moment, he
could
help it
. An
d he had sent Argyle to his eternal destiny.

Manny did an emotional inventory and found no guilt. Maybe remorse born from what Argyle could have been. But ridding the world of a man that would steal lives at a whim, especially anyone belonging to the Williams clan, was always the right thing to do.

Manny sighed. He could live with that.

“You ready for this, Mr. Williams?” asked the nurse.

Glancing at her name tag, he smiled. “I think not, Susan, but you’ll motivate me, right?”

“I’ll do my best,” she
said
. Then frowned. “You okay?”

Manny sat up
slowly
, groaned,
and
nodded. “
I’ve b
een thinking too much
.
I’m glad you’re here.”

“We get that a lot up here in the recovery rooms
. T
he thinking, I mean. Don’t go too deep. The hard part’s over. You made it, now you just have to get better. And after looking you over, I don’t think that’ll take too long, at least on the outside.”

“Good advice. Life’s too short to worry about what I can’t control, yes?”

“That’s it.”

Her
shampoo
floated to his nose as she bent underneath him, putting his arm over her shoulder. Nurse Susan helped Manny to his feet. They stood together without moving. His knees were unsteady
,
but he was upright. He took a small slide
-step
toward the door and then another. Then another. Each wobbly scuffle hurt
like hell.
The symbolism wasn’t lost on him. He’d almost checked out and now he was on the way back. It might take some time to run like he used to run
. B
ut with Chloe, Jen, and
his extended family
, he'd get there.

They
moved
through
Manny’s door and stood in the quiet hallway. The waxed floor reflected the fluorescent lights dancing in tiny patterns. He smiled to himself.
The little things.

They took three more steps together.

“How far do you want to go?” asked Susan.

“How far do you want me to go?”

“Thataboy. Right answer.”

As they moved forward another few steps, a short, roly-poly woman in a security guard uniform stepped out from
an
adjoining room. This wouldn’t have been such a shock except she had a revolver in her hand, pointed at Manny, hatred smeared on her face.

“Let me tell you where I’d like you to go. Straight to hell,
Williams
. Straight to hell.”

“What
are
you doing? Put that gun away before you hurt somebody
!
” barked Susan, seemingly unfazed by the fact that the guard was intent on shooting someone—him. Still, Manny was impressed with the nurse’s courage.

The guard said nothing. She simply strolled up to them,
pointed
the gun
at
Manny’s forehead, and pulled the trigger.

The tower standing watch over the Kalamazoo Psychiatric Facility
remained still
against the dying afternoon sunlight like it had every March for the last one hundred and ten years. It had been refurbished
, and
every effort was spent on keeping it as close to the original construction as possible, at least that’s what he’d read. And God knew there was nothing else to do in the damned place, his isle of exile, his own personal Devil’s Island.
Max Tucker’s
room—barred, locked, and yes, white-padded—directly faced the green iron gate that led to the top of the giant brick penis.

Wringing his ebony hands together, he watched each turn and twist of muscle and bone as he fought to control the elemental scream that lurked somewhere just underneath the thin film of sanity he called his own. He hated seeing the tower every
moment
he glanced out his eight-inch window. Yet, on the other hand, the tower was something he could count on, which was rare over the last seventeen months inside this hole. The nerve-racking screams emitting from some of the other patients, mostly in response to a reality that was specific to them; the violent encounters with staff and anyone who disagreed with the choice of treatments; and even entertainment in the social rooms
. . .
they all took a toll.

When he’d been outside, he thought no more of places like this than scratching his balls. But
,
now that he was here,
now
that his life revolv
ed
around the heartbeat of this “healing” hospital, his perspective had changed. There was no healing here, just stupid-ass treatments that consisted mostly of mind-numbing drugs and laughable counseling sessions that accomplished nothing, especially to men like him who were a galaxy away from crazy. Not to mention far
brighter than the doctors who directed this pitiful facility. He’d been a man of science and logic longer than many staff members had been out of
elementary school
and he’d seen things that would send most of them running home to mommy. Did they really think they could trick him into whatever path they thought was best for him? Damn fools.

Standing, he moved closer to the window.
L
ight snow whipped across his view and he shook his head. He’d have to stay patient and continue to answer the therapy questions from Doctor Emma Holton with
proper
emotional responses that reeked of remorse, repentance, and even
sorrow
for doing what he’d done.
E
ven then, it could be years before he was released as cured.