Sacrifice
Page 38

Handcuffs. A cop. He was being guarded.
What happened?
“Hey!” he called again. His voice sounded thin and reedy, and his entire rib cage really wanted him to lie back down.
The door swung open again. “Calm down. They’ll be up in a while.”
“Who?” Michael paused for breath. It took him a minute. “Why am I chained to this bed?”
The officer snorted and began to pull the door closed again. “Because we don’t usually let bombing suspects wander free. Go figure.”
“Hey. Hey!” Michael yanked at the chain restraining him to the bed rail. It felt as if his chest were being pulled apart from the inside. His muscles finally rebelled, and he collapsed back into the bed.
Bombing suspect.
Did that mean he’d been arrested? If he healed, would he be taken to jail? He couldn’t catch his breath at all. His shirt felt too tight, like someone had grabbed hold and started twisting the fabric at the center of his back.
Then he realized he wasn’t wearing a shirt. His chest was wrapped in bandages.
The door opened, and Michael gritted his teeth, ready to let loose on the policeman. But no, this was a nurse with a tiny cart. The officer followed her in and stood at the foot of the bed.
He looked like he was hoping he’d get a chance to draw his weapon.
The nurse—whose name tag read ELISSA—pulled a blood pressure cuff off the cart. She wore no makeup and her skin was barely lined, but there were traces of grey in her blond hair. Her movements were sure and confident. “Good morning,” she said, as if she treated patients in handcuffs every day.
“We’ve been waiting for you to wake up.” She pushed a few buttons on the monitor at the top of the cart, then reached for Michael’s restrained arm. “May I get your blood pressure?”
“I didn’t set any bombs,” he said darkly, his eyes on the cop.
“I didn’t say you did,” the nurse said equably. She pulled the nylon cuff around his bicep and fastened the Velcro, then pushed a button on the machine to make it inflate.
Then she frowned and leaned closer. She pulled the sheet down, exposing the bandages around his chest. “We’ll need to redo your dressing.”
“He’s fine,” said the police officer.
“You can do your job and I can do mine,” she said. “I need to check the stitches.”
“Stitches?” said Michael.
She pulled a pair of latex gloves out of a little box on the cart. “Do you remember what happened?”
“I remember the restaurant. People were hurt.” He glanced between her and the policeman. He remembered Tyler and the steel beam. He remembered exchanging texts with Hannah. He remembered finding people alive—and dead.
The blood pressure machine beeped and the cuff deflated. The nurse ripped the Velcro free. “You took four bullets.”
Michael stared at her. His brain didn’t want to process this information, and all he could say was, “I did what?”
“You were lucky. Only one needed to be removed.” She gestured. “Your shoulder. The others glanced off your rib cage.”
Only one needed to be removed. But he’d been shot four times?
She peeled at the edge of the bandaging. “I was going to yell at you for pulling your stitches loose, but these look great. You kids always heal fast.”
His voice was tired. “I’m not a kid.”
She chuckled. “One day, you’ll wish someone was calling you a kid.”
Michael hoped he’d live long enough for that to be true.
Then he realized what she’d said about healing. “How long have I been here?”
Her eyes flicked up to his. “Almost twenty-four hours.”
A day! He glanced at the dim light peeking through the window blinds. It must be evening. The machine behind him kicked up its rhythm again. Michael swallowed. “My brothers. Do you know if my brothers are okay?”
“They’re fine.” A male voice spoke from the doorway, but Michael couldn’t see past the nurse or the police officer. Then Hannah’s father stepped into his line of sight. He carried a cup of coffee, and he looked about as worn and weary as Michael felt.
Then again, he was walking around unhindered, not chained to a bed with a bullet wound in his shoulder.
Marshal Faulkner clapped the police officer on the shoulder. “Thanks, Tony. You can take a break.” He glanced at the nurse, then pulled a plastic chair away from the wall to sit down beside the bed.
Michael didn’t want to look at him. He gritted his teeth as Elissa changed the gauze.
“Feel up to answering a few questions?” the fire marshal finally said.
“I want to see my brothers.”
“Prisoners don’t get visitors,” he said.
Michael turned his head to glare. He tried to force as much fury into his voice as possible—because that was infinitely better than breaking down sobbing. “I shouldn’t be a prisoner. I didn’t do anything.” His breath caught and he winced.
“Take it easy,” said the nurse. She glanced at the fire marshal and gave him a stern look. “Not too much questioning. He just woke up.”
Michael expected him to say something to put her in her place, but the marshal just nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
Then she was gone, wheeling the little cart beside her.
Michael stared at the ceiling. His throat felt tight. Maybe it was the fire marshal sitting here waiting to question him, or maybe it was the fact that Jack Faulkner was Hannah’s father, but there was something extra-humiliating about being chained to a hospital bed, waiting for his fate.