A Man of Honor Page 27

  Dusty waved. “I told you we’d get it cleaned up, and we will.”

  “Yeah. Well. What about next time? And the time after that? Those lousy goons spend as much time smokin’ dope on your porch as they do on their own. Maybe we’ll all get lucky, and they’ll burn the eyesore down. Pile of ashes would be an improvement, you ask me.”

  “Nobody asked you, old man,” Nestor muttered. He’d volunteered to stuff trash into a big, black bag while Trevor and Montel grabbed scrub brushes and rags to erase the strange, black scrawl that zigzagged across the house. “That dude’s gonna pop an artery, he keeps bellowin’ that way.”

  “He’s meaner than a grizzly,” Montel said. “Can’t do or say nothin’ to please him, so don’t even try. Just keep your back to him,” he added, grinning. “He’s like a rabid dog . . . you make eye contact, he might bite you!”

  Grace had packed them one cooler full of sandwiches, chips, and sliced apples. In a second, she’d iced down a dozen water bottles. Dusty carried both around to the back porch, and after a short lunch break at the leaf-strewn plastic table, he and the boys got busy inside the house.

  “Looks like a snow sky,” Dusty observed.

  Moments later, Trevor spun a slow circle, taking in the mess in the living room. “Looks like it snowed in here.”

  Droppings told them birds and squirrels had seen the missing window as an open invitation to set up house. Here, shredded magazines were scattered on the floor; there, frayed electrical—evidence of serious gnawing—hung limp from table lamps. Dusty unplugged the fire hazards, then kicked his way through white tufts that had once been inside the sofa cushions.

  “Well,” Montel called from the kitchen, “now I know why some dude said not to cry over spilt milk.” Trevor and Nestor’s expressions told Dusty they had no desire to go in there and find out what he was talking about, either.

  An hour later, Dusty leaned the broom against the living room wall. “Well, that’s the worst of it. I think we can head back now.”

  “Yeah, but like ol’ man Miller said . . . how long ’til next time?”

  Good point, Montel, he thought. For all he knew, Gonzo and his soldiers were out there, lurking in the shadows and waiting for them to leave, so they could re-do what Dusty and the boys had just undone.

  It was full dark when they made a last check of the window and door locks, grumbling the whole time about it being an exercise in futility. Then they stepped outside, stretching and yawning, muttering about paint fumes and people who had no respect for others, and when the city would replace those broken bulbs in the streetlights.

  Dusty unlocked the van’s back doors and chucked the cleaning materials inside while the boys laughed and tussled in the frost-covered grass. They’d put in a long, hard day—and did it without a word of complaint—so he figured they’d earned the right to blow off some steam. Leaning his backside against the van’s grill, an all too familiar something’s wrong sensation crept up his spine. He’d felt it during night maneuvers in Iraq, on stakeouts in Hell’s Kitchen. But this time, he knew, the enemy wasn’t the Taliban or some street punk, trying to sell a couple grams of crack to a spoiled rich kid from the suburbs. It was Gonzo, come to make good on his promise: get out, or give in.

  “Okay, guys, let’s make tracks. It’s getting late, and you all need showers before you hit the hay.”

  The playful pushing and shoving continued as they got up, dusting dried grass and brown leaves from their jeans, just as a sleek, white low-rider coasted slowly up the street . . . no headlamps, no radio. Marine and cop training kicked in the instant he saw the flash of metal rising slowly in the open passenger window.

  “Get down!” he bellowed, diving toward the boys like a deranged Olympian on his way into the pool. He was mid-air, arms outstretched, when the unmistakable blue-white discharge of a handgun flashed in the car’s interior. Three, four, maybe half a dozen times.

  He landed hard, so hard that air whooshed from his lungs as he sandwiched the kids between himself and the winter-brown lawn. He rolled off, gasping for breath, struggling to get up onto his knees, so he could check them out, make sure he hadn’t hurt them. He hurled himself through the air like a human cannonball that way.

  Dusty’s head lolled left, and he nearly lost it when he saw bright red on Montel’s shirt, on Nestor’s jeans, and on Trevor’s white high-tops. Frantic, furious, afraid, he reached out, intent on pawing through their clothes in search of the bullets’ entry points. He’d only seen one pistol, but there must have been more than one, all firing at the same time, because . . . because there was so much blood.

  He willed himself to relax. Can’t help them if you’re a jumpy mess. . . . Gaze fixed on the black sky above, he frowned. Must be some kind of atmospheric phenomenon, like the green flash at sunset, because he’d never seen bigger, brighter, or more colorful stars.

  Montel’s worried face hovered above him, blocking his view. “Nestor . . . Trevor. . . . Get them towels outta the van,” he whispered through clenched teeth. “It’s bad. Real bad.”

  Trevor’s voice wavered. “But the towels are filthy.”

  Take it easy, Trevor. Remember what I told you: things are never as bad as they seem at first glance.

  “They can fix an infection in the ER,” Montel all but growled, “but he’ll never make it to the hospital, bleeding this much.”

  Must have been Nestor they were talking about, because his was the only voice Dusty hadn’t heard.

  Then an angry shout from somewhere to the left. “What’s going on over there? You’d better skedaddle, you useless punks.”

  Miller. The man really needs to get himself a wife. Or a job. Something to focus on besides what goes on beyond his front door.

  “Hear that?” Miller said. “The cops will be here any minute to cart the bunch of you off to the hoosegow!”

  As if on cue, Dusty heard sirens getting louder, closer. It reminded him of the steamy morning last May, when he joined the search party at Gunpowder State Park. The strobes of police cars and ambulances had sliced through the dark sky that day, too. He remembered getting sick to his stomach after finding the poor kid, mangled and bloody and left in the weeds like yesterday’s garbage. Remembered Grace, sinking to her knees at the sight. The thunderstorm that had followed him around the Beltway. Yellow police tape. Agents and cops, interviewing bystanders. That guy and his dog. . . . What was wrong with him, that he couldn’t remember if they’d caught the killer?

  “What happened here?” asked a voice he didn’t recognize.

  “Drive-by,” said another.

  And a third said, “Got a couple handfuls of brass from the middle of the street.”

  “Automatic?”

  “Semi; .44 casings.”

  “A miracle you kids weren’t hit.”

  “We woulda been. . . .”

  Montel, and he’s crying. . . .

  “. . . ’cept Dusty jumped . . . and knocked us down. Took the hit instead of us.”

  “We tried CPR, pressure on the wounds, but there were too many. We didn’t know which ones to—”

  Dusty tried to lift his head, reassure the boys that he was okay. That they’d be home any minute . . . and don’t think for a minute that just ’cause it’s late, you can skip those showers. . . .

  But he couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. And he was cold. So very cold. . . .

  “Any of you boys have a license?”

  A cop?

  “Nosir.”

  Nestor. . . .

  Car doors slamming. Footsteps . . . a parade of them, from the sound of things. Rustling paper. The distinctive snap of surgical gloves, popping into place. Hands, inspecting every inch of him. Then a blanket to warm him, finally.

  “Bateman, over here!” he heard. Then, “Take these kids home, will ya?”

  And Montel’s firm refusal: “We won’t leave him. Take us to the hospital, instead. If you get us his cell phone—he keeps it in his shirt pocket—we’ll call his wife,
have her meet us over there.”

  No one spoke for a second.

  “Get into that bus, Bateman; see if one of the EMTs found this guy’s cell.”

  No, Montel. It’s not in the shirt. The lawn. Dusty remembered seeing it from the corner of his eye, when he looked toward the sound of Miller’s voice. It’s somewhere in the grass. . . .

  “Nothin’ in his pockets, Sarge.”

  Could’ve told you that. . . .

  Next, a sound like none other: The legs of a gurney being lowered, then slid into the ambulance. It didn’t dawn on him until now that he was the patient.

  Inside the ambo, the lights were bright. He could tell that much, even with his eyes closed. So why couldn’t he see?

  Someone grabbed his hand, squeezed hard. “Don’t die, Dusty. Please don’t die.”

  Not to worry, Montel. There was too much to do. He had to keep being a good dad to Ethan, a good husband to Grace.

  “Stand back, kids.”

  A door slammed, and the bus lurched forward. Dizziness washed over him, and he felt disoriented. He blamed his position—head to the driver’s seat—and the motion of the speeding vehicle. Who knew the siren would sound as loud inside the ambo as it did outside?

  “My name’s Amanda,” said a soft voice near his ear. “I’ll be right here with you, all the way to Hopkins.”

  Dusty was thirsty, so thirsty, and did what he could to let the EMT know it.

  “Sorry, pal. Gotta get a doctor’s okay to give you anything by mouth.”

  How many times had he said the same thing, after finding a lost hiker? He tried to nod, so the guy would know that he understood, but he failed at that, too.

  “10-45C!” the woman shouted. “Vitamin D, stat!”

  He understood the code: Condition, critical; step on it. Seeing that low-rider had terrified him, but right now, he was more scared than he’d ever been. He’d taken a direct hit in the Persian Gulf, but it hadn’t been anything like this.

  How long since he spotted the car? Five minutes? Ten? No more than that, by his estimate. So unless they’d used high-velocity ammo, or nicked a major artery, he should be okay.

  Not should, he told himself, will. He had to make it, get home to Grace and Ethan. And the boys. Jesse had really turned a corner here lately; would he backslide if . . . ?

  He couldn’t let himself think that way. Dusty pictured Grace’s loving face and his son’s big trusting eyes, and he heard Montel’s last words: “please don’t die. . . .”

  And though he tried not to, Dusty slipped into unconsciousness.

  40

  I know it’s scary,” his lead surgeon said.

  Scary didn’t begin to describe what Grace felt.

  “Nine bullet wounds perforated his spleen, pancreas, and colon,” Dr. Applegate said, “and the drain removed most of the blood from his abdominal cavity.” Shaking his head, he added, “He lost more than three liters of blood at the scene, and while his body is working hard to replace it, he’s weak.”

  Matt and Austin had donated blood. So had Gavin and Montel, Nestor and Trevor. Much as she appreciated their contributions, it was frustrating, knowing that thanks to an Rh factor flowing in her veins, she couldn’t add to the life-saving supply of O+.

  To add to her fears, she’d been in the wrong place at the right time as the ER staff hustled Dusty off to the OR. “And so begins the golden hour,” one nurse said to another. If Grace could have found her voice, she might have asked what that meant. Minutes later, in the elevator on the way to the chapel, she vowed not to let another opportunity to slip by, and put the question to an orderly, transporting an elderly patient to Radiology. “I was a medic over in Afghanistan,” he told her. “For us, the golden hour referred to blocks of time lost . . . at the scene, transporting the patient to the field hospital, in surgery and recovery . . . and the hours after, while we watched for infection.”

  Four operations and six days later, Dusty survived the golden hour. Still listed in critical condition, he lay still and pale, attached to monitors and a ventilator, unable to do much more than blink while feeding tubes provided nutrients and kept him hydrated.

  Grace split her time at the hospital between the chapel and Dusty’s room, and divided her time in ICU holding his hand and chattering nonstop about the weather, what the boys were up to, or the latest cute thing Ethan had said. At Gavin’s advice, she’d brought the boy to see Dusty twice, and she’d kept the visits short. Today would mark his third trip to the hospital, and Grace dreaded watching him stare, lower lip trembling, at his father’s unmoving face.

  Last time, she’d distracted him by describing the purpose of each tube and wire, and defining the meaning of each glowing, green symbol on the monitor. Each number and jagged line showed proof that Dusty was working hard to come back to them, healthy and whole.

  For a boy who’d just lost his mother three short months before, Ethan was doing better than could be expected. According to Gavin, the fact that the child wasn’t afraid to ask questions and make comments was proof that he trusted Grace to deliver the truth.

  It hadn’t been easy, doling out information in dribs and drabs—and in language Ethan could understand—but Grace managed, thanks to the boy’s stout spirit and her own multiple visits to the chapel. Maybe this would be the day that hearing his little boy’s voice would rouse Dusty to consciousness. And if it didn’t?

  The mere thought sent a wave of dizziness and nausea coursing through her. Your own stupid fault, Grace told herself. The only sleep she’d gotten in days had come in fits and starts, sitting mostly upright in the uncomfortable chair beside Dusty’s bed. She hadn’t eaten anything, either, save stale chips from the vending machine and the occasional dry sandwich, she’d wolfed down in the cafeteria. Cup after cup of bitter coffee kept her awake and upright . . . and wreaked havoc with her stomach. When switching to Coke didn’t temper the queasiness, Grace decided to make an appointment with her GP, this morning, when she went home to shower and change into fresh clothes.

  The plan was to take Ethan out for lunch before taking him up to see Dusty, and afterward, she’d take the patient advocate up on her offer to introduce the boy to kids his own age whose parents were also Hopkins’ patients. She was hopeful the action would give Dusty’s boys a break. From the oldest to the youngest—and even Jesse—had lavished Ethan with “big brother” affection. But hard as they tried, not a one of them could turn back the clock and become eight years old again.

  She’d just left Dusty’s room and was on her way back to the chapel for a moment of quiet prayer when her cell phone rang.

  “Hey Grace, how’s that ornery cousin of mine?”

  If only she could tell Gavin that he’d come out of the coma. That his vital signs were stronger. That he no longer needed the breathing machine. “Holding his own, I suppose,” she said, trying not to sound as down in the dumps as she felt.

  “How long, do you think, before the docs let me come see him?”

  “You’re the closest thing to a brother he has in Maryland, so I don’t see why it should be a problem if you stopped by today.”

  “Speaking of brothers, I got a call from Flynn last evening. He’s driving down today, bringing Anita. Connor and Blake are coming, too.”

  “The poor things,” Grace said. “They were just here a few days ago. It has to be hard on them, driving all that distance here and back, when they can’t really even visit with him. . . .”

  “They’re managing.”

  I wish I was. She remembered how hurt Dusty had been when, after finding out they’d gotten married without saying a word to anyone in New York, his cousin Flynn had cold-shouldered his phone calls. “Everybody up there says they can’t wait to meet you,” he’d told her after his trip north to see his mom.

  “How’s Anita, by the way?”

  “From what I hear, she’s better now than she was in her forties. She’s already training for the Boston Marathon next April.” He harrumphed. “Hope I�
�m half that industrious when I’m sixty-five.”

  “That’s wonderful.” And Dusty would agree . . . if only she could share the good news with him. Grace shrugged it off and told Gavin about her plan to put Ethan together with other kids like himself, and Gavin supported the idea. “It means a lot, hearing you say that,” she admitted. “I’m just a lowly teacher. What do I know about a little boy’s psychological health and well-being?”

  “You don’t give yourself enough credit, Grace. Never have. I know firsthand what it’s like, working with high school kids. Especially ones in poverty-stricken neighborhoods.”

  There was some truth to that. But what did it matter now? Her principal had been more than accommodating when she’d handed him her resignation letter. Between caring for Randi and helping Ethan adjust to life without her, Grace hadn’t given her career more than a passing thought, except for the evening hours she’d spent, homeschooling the boys and Kylie, who’d become a fixture at Angel Acres, thanks to her decision to help Jesse with his at-home physical therapy. And now, with Dusty at death’s door, teaching was the last thing on her mind. But it wasn’t fair to dump her fears and apprehensions in Garvin’s lap, so she took a deep breath and started over. “So what time do you think you’ll be here?”

  “This evening, after school. I have a meeting with a couple of seniors, and then I’ll be right over.”

  By that time, Ethan would be sound asleep in his own bed. “Sounds good. I’m looking forward to seeing you.”

  “What are your dinner plans?”

  “I’ll probably grab something quick in the cafeteria after I drive Ethan home. I haven’t had much of an appetite lately.”

  “Still? Good gravy, Grace, how long has this been going on?”

  Pretty much since they brought Dusty to Hopkins, she thought. “Oh, just a few days. I’m sure it’s just nerves. And that nasty potion they call coffee down in the cafeteria.”