Backfire
Page 8
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Surgical ICU
Friday afternoon
Savich didn’t want to count all the lines that tethered Ramsey Hunt to life. There were IV lines in his neck, and an oxygen mask on his face. Savich recognized a kind of suction device connected to the end of the tube coming from Ramsey’s chest, a Pleurovac, they called it. Ramsey lay on his back, still and pale, his immense life force badly faded. At least it wasn’t extinguished. A light sheet was pulled to his chest, not quite covering his wide white surgical bandages. He was breathing lightly and steadily, a relief, but his eyelids looked bruised, perhaps from when he’d fallen. Savich hated it.
The SFPD guard outside the cubicle had given them the stink eye before Lieutenant Trolley introduced them to Officer Jay Mancusso of the SFPD. Since only two visitors could go into the small cubicle at a time, Savich went in first to stand beside Molly. She didn’t look away from Ramsey, merely took Savich’s hand in hers and squeezed hard. “Thank you for coming so quickly. The Valium Cheney suggested the doctor give me—it’s magic stuff. It’s helped unparalyze my brain. I’m sorry I lost it when I called you.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Savich said. “Ramsey’s breathing is solid and easy, Molly; that’s a good sign.”
Ramsey had told him once that Molly’s hair was as vibrant a red as a sunset off the Cliffs of Moher in Ireland, and Ramsey was right. You’d think Ramsey was describing Sherlock’s hair, but it wasn’t the same color at all.
She turned into him, and he closed his arms around her. She felt fragile. It was odd, he thought, but Molly’s hair didn’t feel the same as Sherlock’s hair, and didn’t smell like her hair, either—it was jasmine he was smelling, jasmine mixed with lemon, not the faint rose scent of Sherlock’s. “He’ll make it, Molly,” he said against her hair. “He’ll make it. He’s strong and determined, and he wants to stay here with us.”
She pulled back in his arms and smiled up at him. “I think he will, too. But I’m so scared, Dillon. What if—”
“No what-ifs. Has he been awake at all?”
“In and out, mumbling words I can’t understand for the most part, then saying Emma’s name over and over. I think he’s remembering back to the time he found her unconscious in the forest near his cabin.”
“Has Cheney come in yet?”
“Yes, we spoke briefly. I told him what I could, which wasn’t much of anything at all, and he said he’d see me later today after Ramsey was awake and the doctors were satisfied he was going to be okay. I think he wanted to give me more time to consider who and why, but I can’t think of a single person who would want to kill him. Cheney told me about the Cahills and how Ramsey had postponed the trial and how that federal prosecutor was missing. Ramsey hadn’t said a word to me, but in all honesty, there wasn’t time.” She walked away from him, then turned, her hands fisted at her sides. “No, there was time, but damn him, he’s always trying to protect me. He knew something hinky was going on, and he kept it to himself. I will have to seriously consider hurting him for that.”
She picked up Ramsey’s limp hand. “He’s so strong,” she said, more to herself than to him, “so tough, always a rock, you know?” A beautiful man, she’d always thought, with his dark hair and brilliant dark eyes, and his laugh, his seductive laugh. “Can you believe we’ve been married for five years? Goodness, Emma’s eleven and the boys are three. The boys are scared, Dillon, they don’t understand.” Her voice hitched, then smoothed out again. “Emma’s taking care of them. She’s more their second mother than their older sister. The babysitter, Mrs. Hicks, is with them, too.” She raised wet eyes to Savich’s face. “They won’t let the boys come see him, Dillon, and that only makes them more scared.”
Ramsey moaned deep in his throat.
She leaned over him, lightly kissed his cheek. “Ramsey? You have a visitor. Come, wake up now.”
His eyes opened slowly, blind and empty of knowledge, but they cleared slowly and focused. Savich leaned close. “I’d rather we were fishing in Lake Tahoe and I was catching that four-pound trout and you weren’t.”
An attempt at a smile, but he didn’t quite make it. “I don’t remember it just like that.”
“Okay, I’ll give you the trout since you were the one who fried the sucker. It’s nice to have you here with us, either way.”
Ramsey whispered, “Molly?”
Friday afternoon
Savich didn’t want to count all the lines that tethered Ramsey Hunt to life. There were IV lines in his neck, and an oxygen mask on his face. Savich recognized a kind of suction device connected to the end of the tube coming from Ramsey’s chest, a Pleurovac, they called it. Ramsey lay on his back, still and pale, his immense life force badly faded. At least it wasn’t extinguished. A light sheet was pulled to his chest, not quite covering his wide white surgical bandages. He was breathing lightly and steadily, a relief, but his eyelids looked bruised, perhaps from when he’d fallen. Savich hated it.
The SFPD guard outside the cubicle had given them the stink eye before Lieutenant Trolley introduced them to Officer Jay Mancusso of the SFPD. Since only two visitors could go into the small cubicle at a time, Savich went in first to stand beside Molly. She didn’t look away from Ramsey, merely took Savich’s hand in hers and squeezed hard. “Thank you for coming so quickly. The Valium Cheney suggested the doctor give me—it’s magic stuff. It’s helped unparalyze my brain. I’m sorry I lost it when I called you.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Savich said. “Ramsey’s breathing is solid and easy, Molly; that’s a good sign.”
Ramsey had told him once that Molly’s hair was as vibrant a red as a sunset off the Cliffs of Moher in Ireland, and Ramsey was right. You’d think Ramsey was describing Sherlock’s hair, but it wasn’t the same color at all.
She turned into him, and he closed his arms around her. She felt fragile. It was odd, he thought, but Molly’s hair didn’t feel the same as Sherlock’s hair, and didn’t smell like her hair, either—it was jasmine he was smelling, jasmine mixed with lemon, not the faint rose scent of Sherlock’s. “He’ll make it, Molly,” he said against her hair. “He’ll make it. He’s strong and determined, and he wants to stay here with us.”
She pulled back in his arms and smiled up at him. “I think he will, too. But I’m so scared, Dillon. What if—”
“No what-ifs. Has he been awake at all?”
“In and out, mumbling words I can’t understand for the most part, then saying Emma’s name over and over. I think he’s remembering back to the time he found her unconscious in the forest near his cabin.”
“Has Cheney come in yet?”
“Yes, we spoke briefly. I told him what I could, which wasn’t much of anything at all, and he said he’d see me later today after Ramsey was awake and the doctors were satisfied he was going to be okay. I think he wanted to give me more time to consider who and why, but I can’t think of a single person who would want to kill him. Cheney told me about the Cahills and how Ramsey had postponed the trial and how that federal prosecutor was missing. Ramsey hadn’t said a word to me, but in all honesty, there wasn’t time.” She walked away from him, then turned, her hands fisted at her sides. “No, there was time, but damn him, he’s always trying to protect me. He knew something hinky was going on, and he kept it to himself. I will have to seriously consider hurting him for that.”
She picked up Ramsey’s limp hand. “He’s so strong,” she said, more to herself than to him, “so tough, always a rock, you know?” A beautiful man, she’d always thought, with his dark hair and brilliant dark eyes, and his laugh, his seductive laugh. “Can you believe we’ve been married for five years? Goodness, Emma’s eleven and the boys are three. The boys are scared, Dillon, they don’t understand.” Her voice hitched, then smoothed out again. “Emma’s taking care of them. She’s more their second mother than their older sister. The babysitter, Mrs. Hicks, is with them, too.” She raised wet eyes to Savich’s face. “They won’t let the boys come see him, Dillon, and that only makes them more scared.”
Ramsey moaned deep in his throat.
She leaned over him, lightly kissed his cheek. “Ramsey? You have a visitor. Come, wake up now.”
His eyes opened slowly, blind and empty of knowledge, but they cleared slowly and focused. Savich leaned close. “I’d rather we were fishing in Lake Tahoe and I was catching that four-pound trout and you weren’t.”
An attempt at a smile, but he didn’t quite make it. “I don’t remember it just like that.”
“Okay, I’ll give you the trout since you were the one who fried the sucker. It’s nice to have you here with us, either way.”
Ramsey whispered, “Molly?”
