Safe Harbor (20 page)

Hospital personnel were uneasy, watching the scene with a caution born of the rising tension in the waiting room. The air was charged with it. Sitting beside Hannah's bed, Jonas refused to relinquish his place. If they were going to come in—and they were; nothing, not even security, would stop them—he was going to witness the healing. He had to believe Hannah would live. He had to walk out of the room believing she was going to live or he wasn't going to survive the night.

The hairs on his arms stood up as the women filed into the room, one at a time. The nurse protested, but no one paid attention and Hannah's mother imperiously waved her to silence. The Drake women surrounded the bed; Libby and one of the aunts Jonas recognized as Nanci rested their palms on Hannah while the others linked hands.

The effect was a dazzling light show, although the room wasn't bursting with light—Hannah's body was. It slid over her, around her, through her. Light played over her skin and pressed inward through her pores—or maybe it burst from inside her out. Jonas couldn't tell which came first. A dance of colors sparkled around her and Hannah's skin went from pasty white to luminous.

Jonas retained possession of her fingers and became aware of heat slowly driving out the clammy cold of her skin. Warmth pulsed through her in waves. He felt the stirring of her in his mind. A soft inquiry. Alarm. Hannah surfacing. Her long lashes fluttered and his heart nearly stopped. The chanting never wavered, but continued low and melodious.

He glanced at the heart monitor. The weak, erratic beat had strengthened to something much steadier and relief made him collapse back into his seat. He waited, but she didn't open her eyes.

"Enough, Libby," Tyson said. "You can come back tomorrow, but that's enough today. I mean it."

Libby's hands remained on Hannah, but the chanters stopped, their colors fading as they withdrew support. Mrs. Drake put her arm around Libby and physically pulled her away from her sister. "Tyson's right, Libby, we can't take any chances. She's better—stronger. That's all we can do today."

"She's going to live, Jonas," Sarah assured him when he would have protested.

Jonas wanted to snarl at Tyson, throw something at the machines as Libby was helped from the room. Her color was gone and she stumbled, obviously weak. The older Drakes helped Nanci as well, although she didn't look as quite as bad as Libby. Hannah didn't move. Other than that one flutter of her lashes, she hadn't improved.

Elle touched his hand. Kate kissed him. Abbey brushed her fingers over Hannah's and his joined hands. Joley stood beside the bed weeping.

"How could this happen, Jonas?"

"I don't know, honey. I honestly don't know."

"But you'll find out. You'll make certain whoever is responsible will never get near her again, right?"

"Prakenskii took the knife away from him, and in the struggle, her attacker was killed."

Joley lifted her tear-streaked face to look at the Russian.

His face was gray, tired, carved with deep lines. "Thank you again. Did you know him? Recognize him? When you touched him, did you get a sense of why he would attack my sister?"

"I felt his fear. That only. It poured off of him."

Jonas frowned. "He fought you. I was watching the broadcast. He fought you and kept trying to go for her."

Joley made a small sound of distress—of protest.

"I'm sorry, honey," Jonas said. "This isn't something you need to hear. I'll talk with Prakenskii later. You're both exhausted. I'm going to stay with Hannah. Why don't you regroup?"

"I'll see you to your hotel," Ilya said, making it a statement. "Do you have your security people with you?"

She nodded. "You can't wade through the reporters."

"We'll get you out," he said firmly. "Come, Joley. You need to rest."

Jonas kissed and hugged her before turning her over with a small bit of reluctance to Ilya Prakenskii. The man had undoubtedly saved Hannah's life, yet Jonas feared his motives. He was the bodyguard of one of the most powerful Russian mobsters and was feared from Europe to the United States.

"Her signs look better," the nurse said when they were alone, distracting him from his speculative thoughts. It was quiet and there were no flashing colors or feel of power. After the impressive display he felt let down.

He glanced at the nurse in her blue scrubs and name tag, her hair pulled back. She looked neat and efficient. He hoped she was competent, too.

"What exactly did they do? There's a definite change in her. It doesn't make sense, but she looks as if she could breathe on her own."

Jonas remained silent as the nurse consulted with the doctor, and over the next few hours, Hannah was allowed to breathe more and more on her own. It was a huge relief when they finally took her off the ventilator, the first sign that she might live.

Jonas brought Hannah's fingertips to his lips and bent forward until his head lay on the mattress beside her body. He had never been able to stand hospitals, not after his mother had been taken from her room, never to return. The sounds and smells were the same. The machines seemed alive when he closed his eyes and listened, as he had so many years ago. Praying. Praying for a miracle, just as he was doing now.

He had no feel for the passage of time. Sometimes he whispered to her, other times he slept. The nurse hovered close, watching over Hannah. He kept his head down and allowed himself to doze, drifting off until he was somewhere between sleeping and awake, somewhere his mother stared at him with pain-filled eyes and a man stabbed Hannah viciously with a knife while he stood behind a wall, pounding with his fists, trying to beat it down and get to them.

Jonas jerked awake, as a different nurse entered the room. He looked around for Hannah's regular nurse. He liked and trusted her.

The woman glanced at him and then averted her eyes, maybe, he thought, because he looked so damned distraught. He wanted Hannah to show dramatic signs of responding to the healing by the Drakes. Shouldn't she have sat up and demanded dinner or something? Ripped off the bandages and smiled at him? Instead she lay sleeping as if in a coma, her heart and lungs still being monitored.

He tried to breathe away the tightness in his chest, sending the nurse a false smile. "I thought Katherine was Hannah's night nurse." Was Katherine the right name? The nurse had introduced herself but he couldn't remember. He was so out of it—so upset.

"Katherine asked me to give her meds to her." The nurse didn't look at him as she walked around the bed, a syringe in her hand.

Jonas's radar suddenly went ballistic. He stood up, stretching in a deceptively lazy manner, sharp eyes drifting over the nurse, taking in the fact that her hands were unsteady. Her voice was a flat monotone, and at no time did she look directly at him. Doubt trickled down his spine—doubt and alarm.

"That's nice that you all help each other out. Katherine was supposed to be right back. Hannah isn't supposed to be left alone like this. What's the holdup?" He put censure into his voice. The name hadn't been Katherine. Kelley maybe, but definitely not Katherine. It had been on her badge. A "K" name.

The nurse didn't pause. Didn't look at him. "She had to use the bathroom, she'll be right back." She fussed with Hannah's line, giving him a quick, nervous smile as he began to walk around the bed toward her.

"What's that?" He indicated the syringe in her hand as he slowly stalked her.

"A painkiller," the woman answered. Her hands trembled as she fumbled with the line. The room was cool, but she was sweating.

"Wait a minute," Jonas rushed her, instincts guiding rather than his brain. "Stop what you're doing." He leapt the distance between them, inserting his body between the nurse and Hannah's W. He grabbed her arm, missed, and as she turned, he caught her hair.

He heard her sob, a hiss of breath and a low cry of terror as she whipped around, kicking at him to get him off her. Before he could stop her, she shoved the needle into her own vein, squeezing the plunger, her eyes holding terror as she went to the floor. Jonas knelt beside her, but it was too late. Her breath came in ragged gasps, her eyes went opaque and then there was a horrifying silence.

JONAS slammed his hand against the wall right next to the detective's head. "Don't give me that bullshit, save it for a civilian. Who the hell are these people—what do you have on them so far?"

Detective Stewart sighed and gave in. "The attacker was a man named Albert Werner. He's an electrician, has a wife and kid. The cameras picked up a couple of shots of him outside during the fashion show. He was talking to the Reverend RJ at one point." Stewart handed Jonas a grainy photograph of a tall, well-built man talking to the Reverend with people obviously shouting protests in the background.

"What did the Reverend have to say?"

"Only that he was a troubled soul and seemed agitated. The Reverend invited him to be saved, or something to that effect, but the man refused. The Reverend's opinion seems to be that Ms. Drake reaped what she sowed."

Jonas swore, his teeth coming together with a vicious snap. "Did you find any connection between that fake Gospel spouter and Werner?"

"We're working on it. The perp did make a sizable donation to the animal rights group about a week ago." The detective handed Jonas another out-of-focus picture. Albert Werner stood with the animal rights group shouting at the reporters.

"What about the nurse who tried to kill her? Is she involved with either group?"

"She wasn't a nurse. She's a vet tech and her name is Annabelle Werner. She's the perp's wife."

"His wife? His wife came to the hospital and tried to finish the job? That doesn't make any sense. I don't remember their names from any of the threatening letters written to Hannah," Jonas said. "Did you find anything, a threat against her, a reason they'd hate her so much to do something like this?"

"Not yet. We went through the nutcase file and they aren't there."

"What about their kid? Did she have aspirations of becoming a model?"

"She's in a hospital for eating disorders, which might be a motive. Totally emaciated. She's twelve. She has pictures of movie stars in her room, but not of Ms. Drake, but still, that could be the connection. Kid starves herself wanting to be a model just like Hannah Drake. Everyone knows the face and name. She's an easy target to blame."

"
Both
parents decide to kill Hannah? This is in retaliation for the kid?" It didn't wash. "Albert Werner couldn't have expected to get away with it. The cameras were on him. He had to know that. It was too public unless he wanted to make a statement. He attacked her like he wanted to destroy her, destroy her beauty—and then her life. The first blows weren't killing blows. They were all about disfigurement."

Just saying the words aloud brought up the stark images his mind just couldn't forget. His gut twisted. The knife slashing viciously, brutally, over and over, ripping Hannah to pieces. Bile rose. Sweat broke out. "The doctor said the first few strokes were deliberate and precise, but shallow, cutting across her face, neck, breasts, waist and stomach before he began stabbing deep enough to kill her." He fought back waves of nausea, trying to keep his voice, trying not to let it be personal, to think of the victim as Hannah—his Hannah. "I'd like to consult with a friend of mine, a psychiatrist, show him what you have on the attackers and ask his opinion, because it just doesn't add up for me."