Double Cross (12 page)
So, I’m not too embarrassed to say that I enjoyed it when Kacey sobbed over me. In fact, I cried, too, which is no big scoop, because I’ve always cried at the drop of a hat. Heck, I cry when I read the lost dog notices on the bulletin board at the vet’s. Tough girl, easy crier: that’s me. It used to drive me crazy, embarrass me. After all, it’s not exactly the type of image that sells security services. But I’ve come to peace with it.
In this instance, though, I had every reason to bawl. If someone finally cared enough to cry over me, the least I could do was join her. I remember seeing a movie once where three men were dying of thirst in the desert. When they stumbled onto an oasis, they cried like babies as they waded in the water, splashing their blistered tongues and sun-baked faces. Same principle I suppose.
And I was glad that Katie Parst was there in the hospital room with us. She was just the right age to do some desperately needed mothering—for Kacey and for me. Before Katie left for the night, she asked me if I wanted her to call my mother. I thought about it for a second and told her no.
Katie gave my good hand one last squeeze and promised to come by in the morning to see how I was doing. As I watched her walk out the door, I wondered if she had a daughter and what it would be like to have Katie for a mother. I imagined that it must be good, really good.
Within a half hour, Michael Harrison appeared at the door. When I looked up, his brown eyes brightened.
“Are we going to have to get your license revoked to keep you out of trouble? Did it occur to you to call me? I heard about it on my car radio.”
I held up my splinted finger. “Doctor’s orders. No dialing.”
“Last time I checked, you had two hands.”
I shrugged.
He walked up to the bed, lowered the metal rail, and sat on the edge of the mattress with his hip against my leg. “You got shot in the finger?”
“No, the shot was here.” I pointed to my side. “Grazed me. The finger was just my general klutziness.” I flexed my knee and jabbed it into his hip. “By the way, make yourself at home. You’re practically sitting on me.”
He patted my foot. “I knew you wouldn’t mind.”
“She saved Katie Parst’s life,” Kacey said. “She acts like that’s nothing.”
Kacey had a way of making me feel good about myself. I wanted her to keep talking, but Michael picked up my good hand. “What about this one? Is it busted, too?” He gave me a little hand massage, his thick fingers working with surprising gentleness. It wasn’t bad.
When he placed my hand back on the bed, he folded his arms across his chest. “So give me the inventory. A busted finger and a nick in the side. Anything else?”
“Not just busted—open fracture.”
“Ooh, baby, that hurts.” He grimaced.
“And what do you mean
nick in the side?
It was a bullet! That’s hot metal that kills people, remember? If it’s such a small thing, why don’t you try it sometime?”
nick in the side?
It was a bullet! That’s hot metal that kills people, remember? If it’s such a small thing, why don’t you try it sometime?”
“No thanks. Already have.”
“You’ve been shot?”
“Twice. Once in the old hood in Chicago when I was growing up.” He pulled one foot up to the mattress and lifted his pant leg, exposing a calf muscle the size of a grapefruit. There was a cream-colored, nickel- sized scar that stood out like a bleached spot against his dark skin. “That one was meant just for me. Went right into the muscle. Some gangbangers didn’t like the way I looked at them. The other time was a bullet fragment—ricochet during a drug bust. One of our own guys.” He took off his sport coat and rolled up the sleeve of his blue, button-down collar shirt. “You have to look real close to see this one. It was just a nick, like yours.” He stuck his forearm under my nose.
I made a show of squinting. “Oh, I think I see it. It’s hiding under that hair.”
“You’re a riot.”
I felt that I had an advantage and I pressed it. “Were they using pellet guns?”
“What did they give you, laughing gas? Don’t let me interrupt you. You seem to be having a great time being around yourself.”
I stifled a laugh—didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing he’d said something clever.
He rolled his sleeve back down. “Besides, it’s not that tiny. One thing I can tell you for sure is that little sucker burned like crazy. I’ll bet yours does, too. I’m proud of you.”
“She’s a hero,” Kacey said.
I could feel my neck getting warm, so I changed the subject. “Anybody bring a deck of cards?”
As if on cue, a chiseled, suntanned giant in a gray Adidas T-shirt knocked on the open door of the room. All three of our heads turned. I don’t know about Kacey and Michael, but my eyes must have become wider than the wheel covers on my Camaro. The visitor flashed a smile, and his perfect white teeth practically lit the room. Though I had never met him, I immediately knew who he was, as would every other person living in North Texas.
Rob Morrow had been quarterback for the Dallas Cowboys for three years and was one of the hottest sports celebrities in the country. He obviously had the wrong room.
“Is this where the hero is staying?” he said. He once again bathed us in the light of that smile.
It’s important to note that I’m no fawning sports groupie. In fact, I’m generally unimpressed by celebrity, but I will unequivocally state that this was the most gorgeous man I’d ever seen. I was glad I was lying down, because I have no doubt that my legs would have failed me if I’d been standing. Kacey took a half-step backward, and she may as well have grabbed her heart. He’d only been in the room for thirty seconds, and Kacey and I were both in grave danger of humiliating ourselves based on nothing more than our facial expressions.
Michael, on the other hand, took a step toward my bed, positioning himself partially between Morrow and me. He placed his hand on the bed rail. We were all so flabbergasted that no one responded to Morrow’s question. We just sat there looking at him.
With the confidence of a man accustomed to being adored, he pulled a bouquet of yellow roses in a small crystal vase from behind his back. “Taylor Pasbury?”
Kacey couldn’t speak; she merely pointed at me.
“These are for you. Should I put them on the nightstand?” He took two giant steps and was across the room.
“You’re Rob Morrow,” I said. Pathetic, of course, but it was all I had at the moment.
“That’s me. I want to explain why I’m here and then I’ll get out of your hair. I don’t mean to be rude by dropping by like this, but I’ve wanted to do this for a long time.”
I reached up and touched my hair. “You mean you’ve wanted to bring me flowers in the hospital for a long time?”
He laughed. “No, I’ve wanted to meet you.” He had to squeeze past Michael, who didn’t budge, to get to the nightstand to my right. He put the vase on the stand, then held out his hand to Michael and smiled. “I’m Rob Morrow. Nice to meet you.” He sounded natural and friendly, as if he really was happy to meet him.
Michael shook his hand. “Michael Harrison.” He finally stepped sideways, allowing Morrow to supplant him next to the bed. Michael looked around for a moment as if he didn’t know what to do with himself. Then he walked over and stood in the corner, out of the way.
“Michael’s a family friend.” As soon as the comment left my mouth, I felt how awkwardly unnecessary, even demeaning, it sounded. But Morrow flashed that smile again, and I figured I could worry about Michael later.
I pushed the button to move the bed up to a full sitting position while I tried to catch my reflection in the metal bedpan that rested next to the vase on the nightstand. I touched my hair again, trying to flatten out some waves that I imagined were sticking straight out from the side of my head.
“I’ve admired you for a while, and then I saw the news reports today on TV. I already thought you were something, based on the whole Simon Mason thing. Now, I’m convinced that you must be the bravest woman on earth. I just decided to jump in my car and come over here to tell you how much I respect you.”
I wanted to fan myself.
Morrow turned toward Kacey. “You’re Simon Mason’s daughter. I remember you from TV, too.”
Kacey just sat there and blushed.
“I’m sorry about your father.” Morrow sounded sincere. “Some of the guys on the team went to his church.”
Kacey finally mustered the strength to speak. “Thank you.”
Over in the corner, Michael cleared his throat. “Well, I guess I’ll be going now.”
Morrow held up a hand. “Don’t even think about going because of me. I’m butting in here, and I’m leaving right now.” He turned back toward me. “I was hoping that maybe we could get together for dinner sometime.”
It had to be a dream. I tried to act nonchalant, as if I got date offers from NFL superstars all the time. “Sure, I’d like that.”
He waved. “I’ll see you, then.” He turned around and was gone.
Kacey and I looked at each other. “Did that really just happen?” we screamed in unison.
“He’s a big dude,” Michael said. “Bigger than he looks on TV.”
I didn’t even look at Michael. “How sweet of him to bring me flowers. And he doesn’t even know me.” I tilted the vase and smelled the roses.
“He didn’t ask how you were doing,” Michael said.
I frowned at him. “He probably thought it was none of his business. There is such a thing as medical privacy.”
Michael took a breath and let it out. “Well, I guess I really do need to be going.”
Kacey was already on the phone with one of her sorority sisters. “You’re not going to believe who just came to Taylor’s hospital room!”
“Be sure to tell her about his smile. What great teeth,” I said.
Michael moved across the room to the door. “I’ll come by and see you tomorrow,” he said.
“Yeah, that would be great.” I gave him a quick wave and turned back to Kacey. “He wants to take me to dinner! You’ve got to be kidding me!”
When I looked back toward the door, Michael was gone.
For the next hour Kacey and I acted like two middle-school girls as we relived Morrow’s visit at least twenty times. Eventually, though, the pain meds caught up with me. Kacey hugged me and told me good night.
I was asleep within a few minutes. Whether it was the medication or the trauma, I don’t know, but I had a stressful dream that night, and it was not about Rob Morrow. I’ve never been a believer that dreams mean anything more serious than the spicy foods that induce them. This one, though, stuck with me.
My dad and I were sitting on logs near a campfire. Nothing special about that—in fact, even in my sleep I thought I knew exactly what was coming. During the past twelve years I’d had hundreds of dreams about that fishing trip in West Texas on my seventeenth birthday, the night Dad died. Most of the dreams were like digital videos of what happened; almost journalistically true to the story. They always begin with the two drifters entering our campsite with shotguns. They tear at my clothing. Dad fights them off while I run for the truck. One of them blasts Dad with the shotgun just before I reach the pistol under the dashboard. With a single shot, I drop the guy holding the shotgun, the little one with the snake eyes. The other one, the big one, whom Dad has hurt badly, tries to crawl away. I stand over him, and then I shoot him. That’s the way it happened, and that’s the way I’ve dreamed it, over and over.
The dream always ends the same way. I’m looking down, directly into the closed dead eyes of the big guy. Then his eyes pop open and he laughs in my face.
When I was younger, the dream was horrifying. It would jerk me straight up in bed. I’ve had it so many times now, though, that even in my sleep I know what’s coming. So I stand over him expecting the eyes to open, as if waiting for the final shock at the end of a low-budget slasher movie.
During my night at the hospital, however, the dream had a twist that once again sat me up in a sweat. Everything was the same: the campfire, the drifters, the shootings. I stood over the big one, watching his eyes, waiting for them to open so I could get out of the dream and get back to sleep. This time, though, when the eyes opened, they weren’t the drifter’s eyes, they were Dad’s eyes, and it was Dad’s face. I leaped back with my hand over my mouth. When I looked again, it was no longer Dad’s face, but Simon’s. His throat was slashed from ear to ear.
I sobbed into the hospital sheets that night, long after I bolted up in bed, and long after I called the nurse to bring something to help me get back to sleep. I sobbed because I loved my dad, and I sobbed because I loved Simon, and I sobbed because I didn’t want to be a killer. And, to tell the truth, I sobbed because my mother hadn’t even bothered to call to see if I was okay.
I knew I was being unfair. She probably didn’t know what had happened, but that didn’t matter to me. Somehow, for once in my life, she should have found a way to be there. But she wasn’t.
And I was alone again.
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
BY THE NEXT AFTERNOON I was home, but my body felt as if I had spent the night in a clothes dryer. I decided that getting shot really wasn’t so bad, because my finger and various bumps and bruises acquired in the thrill ride down to the Starbucks floor hurt far more than my side. The pain from my finger moved up and down my arm in bursts, like electric shocks.
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