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"Carson?" Susan's voice dragged him back to consciousness, and he forced open his eyelids, seeing her worried face. "Are you okay?" she demanded. Her hand was cool as it stroked his face.
He realized he was sweating.
The dream. It did it to him every time.
And he realized something else. It was dark. Pitch dark. Not in his room, but outside his window. Son of a bitch. How late was it?
"Carson?" Susan repeated, her increasingly alarmed tone telling him she was freaking out because he wasn't answering. "What is it? Are you all right?"
"I'm fine. Just groggy. What time is it?" he asked hoarsely.
"Ten-thirty."
"Ten-thirty?" The cobwebs vanished, and Carson sat bolt upright. "Why did you let me sleep so long?"
"Honey, you were exhausted." Susan still looked worried, although hearing how coherent he was seemed to bring her some measure of relief. "Here." She poured him a glass of water. "Drink this." She waited while he did. "You were having that nightmare again," she told him quietly. "It was bad this time. You were thrashing around and muttering something about smelling blood. And you asked for Stan."
He frowned, remembering. "Stan—was he here?"
Susan nodded. "He came by to tell you about the meeting. But you were pretty out of it. Dr. Radison suggested that he come back in the morning."
"Dammit. The meeting." Carson pushed back the covers
, tried to get up. "I have to know...."
"Don't." Susan stopped him, blocking his path so he couldn't get out of bed. "The meeting went fine. I can give you a recap. Stan said the staff received the news about Sabrina with great enthusiasm, and that she answered questions like a pro. No sticky moments, except when Claude wanted to know if you'd told Sabrina the formula for C'est Moi, and when a product manager asked if Sabrina had been tested as a potential kidney donor."
Carson pursed his lips. "And?"
"Stan said she handled things perfectly. She deflected Claude's question, telling him he'd have to direct any inquiries regarding decisions you've made to you personally. As for the tissue-typing, she said she was in the process of being tested and would fill the staff in when the results were conclusive and when she knew if your kidneys were going to recover on their own. And she told them to respect your privacy and stay away from the press."
"Good girl." A proud smile curved Carson's lips. "No bullshit. No embellishing. Just straight facts. Then what?"
"Then, Whitman and Barton did their job. Sabrina and Dylan got out of the building without incident, made it to the squad car. and were driven, safe and sound, to Dylan's apartment."
"How does Stan know they got there okay? Did he check in with Dylan?"
Susan sighed, visibly prepping herself for Carson's outburst. "I didn't hear that part from Stan. Detective Whitman called and told me about it herself."
"And you didn't wake me?" Carson barked. He was already reaching for the phone. "What time did Whitman call?"
"Around eight-thirty. She said to let you sleep."
"Yeah, I'll just bet she did. She didn't want me firing questions at her. Well, tough." He punched in a number. "I'm calling her cell phone. She'd better answer or... Yeah, Detective Whitman?"
At the other end of the phone, Jeannie—who was still at her desk, going over the information she and Frank had gleaned from Stan Hager today—munched on another potato chip. "Hi, Mr. Brooks. I was wondering what took you so long."
"I just woke up. Tell me what happened."
"Exactly what you wanted to happen. Your daughter and Mr. Newport were delivered to his apartment, unscathed, uninterrogated, and in one piece."
"Was she all right?"
Jeannie put down the bag of chips. "Physically, she was fine. Other than the fact that she looked white as a sheet. She answered questions for over an hour, following a day that, from what I heard, was a circus."
Carson's lips thinned into a grim line. "You're sure the press didn't get to her?"
"Positive. Although from what I hear, things are hopping at Beacon Hill, and the phones are ringing off the hook at CCTL."
