The Fifth Avenue Series Boxed Set (33 page)

He felt a twinge of guilt.
 
There was no question that somehow Diana saved his life.
 
He should feel grateful for what she’s done for him, and he was, though not in the way she wanted him to be.
 
Eric still loved Celina.

Diana was smiling down at him, her hand still squeezing his.
 
She was a strong woman—he knew that—and although he never fully liked her, he did respect her.
 
She was a good lawyer.
 
She appeared to be a good person.
 
But when he fully ended it with her, he wondered how good she would be then.

Diana stood.
 
“There’s something I want to show you,” she said, turning on a light.

Eric winced.
 
He saw the flowers only after his eyes adjusted.
 
The room was literally filled with bouquets of flowers.
 
Diana plucked a rose from its vase and Eric looked questioningly at her.

“A lot of people care about you,” she said.
 
“These have been arriving for the past four days.
 
But there’s no more room for them.
 
I hope you don’t mind, but I told the nurse to start sending whatever else comes to those patients who haven’t received flowers.”

“Who sent…?” His voice was a rasp, his lips barely able to move.
 
“Did you collect the cards?”

“Of course,” Diana said.
 
“They’re all in that drawer.
 
But most are from Louis Ryan. He’s been here half a dozen times and he’s concerned about you.”

She stepped over to the bed and looked down at him.
 
“Considering the way George feels about him, I had no idea that you and Louis Ryan were such good friends.”

Neither had Eric.

*
  
*
  
*

Diana had just left for Redman International when the doctor stepped into the room.

He was middle-aged with a deep tan, deeper brown eyes and hair that had gone prematurely white.
 
His name was Dr. Robert Hutchins and he checked Eric’s chart closely.
 
“You have a broken leg, two cracked ribs, and a multitude of cuts and bruises. Otherwise, you’re in perfect health.”

Eric attempted to sit up, but failed.
 
He tried to clear his throat and was surprised to find that even that was difficult.
 
Earlier, they had given him a cup of hot tea with honey, a generous shot of Demerol and now it was easier for him to speak.

“When can I get out of here?”

“That depends on you.”

“Start packing my bags.”

“Maybe I should rephrase that,” Hutchins said.
 
“You’ll leave here when your body allows you to.
 
The men who attacked you knew what they were doing.
 
Your leg was broken in three places.
 
I think they wanted to make sure you wouldn’t walk again.”

It was a moment before Eric could speak.
 
“Will I?”

The doctor hesitated.
 
“You’ll walk,” he said.
 
“But it will be awhile before you can do so without a limp.
 
You were struck in the leg with a baseball bat and your femur splintered, causing nerve and muscle damage.
 
As you know, we had to operate.
 
You now have a steel pin in your leg.”
 
He drew back the sheet and pinched Eric’s big toe.
 
He watched Eric’s face and waited for a reaction.
 
There was none.

He pinched harder, this time digging in with his fingernails.
 
Nothing.

“I want you to try wiggling your toes for me, Eric.”

Eric lifted his head slightly and looked down at his leg.
 
It was elevated and in a cast.
 
His toes were a shade darker than the bruises had been on Leana’s face.

The sight startled him.

“I know,” Hutchins said.
 
“But some discoloration is normal.
 
They’ll look better in a week.
 
Now, try wiggling them.”

When Eric couldn’t, he eased his head back onto the pillow.
 
With tightly shut eyes, he said, “I’m going to fucking kill her.”

“Excuse me?”

“Nothing,” he said, and tried again to wiggle his toes.
 
He couldn’t.
 
No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t move them.

“Okay, Eric,” the doctor said.
 
“Come on. Try moving them for me.’’

“I have been.”

Hutchins glanced at him.
 
There was a look of fear on Eric’s face—only slightly masked by a look of rage.

Wordlessly, Hutchins replaced the sheet.
 
“How much of that night do you remember?”

Everything
.
 
“Nothing.”

“Any idea who could have done this to you?”

I know exactly who did it
.
 
“None,” he said.

“When you woke earlier, we had to call the police.
 
They’re waiting outside.
 
They want to question you, but if you feel that you’re too weak to do it, just tell me and they’ll be gone for now.”

“I’ll talk to them eventually,” Eric said.
 
“But later?
 
I want to go back to sleep.
 
I doubt if I’ll be of any help, anyway.”
 
I’ll take care of that bitch myself.

“How are you feeling?”

“How do you think I’m feeling?
 
I’m in fucking pain.”

He watched Hutchins prepare a syringe and inject it into the IV.
 
“Sleep,” he said. “This will help.”
 
He clicked the empty syringe into the biohazard box and touched Eric’s shoulder.
 
“You’re going to be all right,” he said.
 
“But I’m not going to lie to you.
 
The worst is yet to come.
 
It’ll be months before you regain full use of your leg—and you’ll only get that far if you work very hard in rehab.
 
So, I want you to get as much rest as possible.
 
You’re going to need it.”

*
  
*
  
*

He woke at midnight.

The rain had stopped, the sky was clear and moonlight cut into his room from the window opposite his bed.

He looked down the length of his cast to his foot.
 
In the silver light of the moon, the bruises on his toes looked black.
 
He tried moving his toes, couldn’t, and tried harder. They remained still.

Eric closed his eyes and prayed to a God he hadn’t prayed to in years.
 
He made promises no man could ever be expected to keep and opened his eyes.
 
He tried but still couldn’t move his toes.
 
It was as if they were no longer a part of his body.
 
He wondered if he would ever walk again.

It was at that moment he made his decision.
 
He reached for the phone that was on the table next to him, grimaced from a sudden stab of pain in his left shoulder, and punched numbers.
 
A moment passed before a familiar voice answered.

After explaining in detail what had happened, Eric told the man exactly what he wanted from him.
 
There was a silence.

“You’re sure?” the man said.

“I’m sure,” Eric said.

“And you understand once I’ve set things into motion, you can’t change your mind.
 
We go through channels, many of which are anonymous.
 
This is an irreversible decision on your part.
 
You need to understand that.”

“I understand that,” Eric said.
 
“That’s why I called you.”

“Any particular way you want it done?”

“I couldn’t care less how it’s done, Sal—but I do expect her to suffer before she dies.”

“Suffering is additional.”

“Then charge me for it.”

“We’ll be in touch,” the man said.
 
“And don’t worry.
 
We’ll make her life a living hell.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

The phone rang three times before Leana looked at the clock on her bedside table.
 
It was 7:15 A.M. and her apartment was ablaze with early-morning sunlight.

She sat up in bed and wondered who would call at this hour of the morning.
 
She thought of a number of possibilities and realized the only person she really wanted to hear from was Michael Archer.
 
But he rarely phoned.
 
Lately, he almost always chose to stop by instead.

When the phone entered its fifth ring, Leana answered it—and the line went dead.
 
That was twice since last evening someone had called and hung up on her.
 
She wondered if Mario somehow got her number and was calling to see if she was in and safe, but didn’t want to talk.
 
But she cast that idea aside.
 
If Mario wanted to talk to her, he’d talk.

She replaced the receiver, slid under the covers and wondered how he was.
 
She hadn’t seen him since the night Eric was beaten; hadn’t heard from him since the note she received in the restaurant.

Although she was angry with him for lying to her, she missed him, though not enough to call.
 
She would leave that up to Mario.

She looked around her new apartment.

In a matter of days, she and Michael Archer had transformed the loft into a place she now was proud to call home.
 
No longer were the walls a dull, lifeless gray—they now were ivory bright.
 
The furniture the previous tenant left behind was gone—Michael had it hauled away—and the broken windows were replaced with fresh panes of glass.
 
Although there still was much to be done—furniture to buy, curtains to hang, floors to clean and wax—she was looking forward to the work, perhaps because she knew Michael would be there to help her.

She wondered if he planned on stopping by later.
 
Since the night they had dinner, he had come by every morning to help with the painting.
 
They spent their days painting and talking and listening to music on the iPod and Bose dock Michael bought as a housewarming gift.

She learned about his life in Hollywood, how difficult it had been for him to write and publish his first novel, and the details of his parents’ death.

“What’s it like without them?” she asked.

“I miss my mother,” he said.
 
“She died when I was young.
 
But my father?”
 
He shrugged.
 
“Not so much.
 
We didn’t get along.”