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It was a local anesthetic Radison administered. But Carson had had a restless night—first, fighting the ET tube they'd reinserted to help him breathe, then thrashing around from the discomfort of the abdominal and chest tubes. So they'd given him something to relax. As a result, he found himself fading in and out during the twenty or thirty minutes that the minor surgery was taking place.
The problem was that every time he slept, he relived the shooting.
Same scenario. He, standing at the window, wondering whether or not he had a kid, waiting for Dylan to come back so they could finish work and talk about whatever was bugging his friend. Something was definitely bugging him. He'd been on edge the whole afternoon.
He never heard a sound, not even a footstep. Nothing before the pop. Then, the pain, the colors, and that sweet smell. Oh, and the carpet cleaner. He'd smelled that, too. Almost as sickening and powerful an odor as the blood. The voices of the paramedics. Losing sensation in his limbs. The cobwebs in his brain. And the pop... over and over. The smell... it wouldn't leave his nostrils. Damn, he wished he could wipe it away. But it wasn't going anywhere. And the more he slept, the more it plagued him.
Vaguely, he heard a ping, and he frowned, wondering if that was a sound he'd forgotten. Like something solid hitting tin. It rattled around. He turned his head, trying to clear away the haze.
"That was the bullet, Mr. Brooks." Dr. Radison's voice was calm. "Just relax. I'm stitching you up."
"Smell... blood..." He was rasping again, his throat irritated by the ET tube they'd, thankfully, removed this morning.
"Sorry, not this time. Not enough to bother even your nose. The incision's too narrow to cause much bleeding. This time we got lucky. The bullet cooperated by being close to the skin. Whatever you smell, it's not blood."
"Heard the pop... felt the sting... smelled... smelled..."
"You're just reliving the shooting. It's over now. You're on the mend." Radison paused, addressing someone else in the room. "Detective Whitman's outside the door. Call her in. I initialed the base of the bullet for ID purposes. She can bag it and take it with her." With that, he turned back to Carson. "Okay now," he said, continuing in his original soothing voice. "Another few minutes and I'll be finished here."
"What... time?"
"It's ten-thirty. I know you want to speak with Mr. Newport and Ms. Radcliffe. I called them both, told them you were off the respirator and would be up for visitors around noon. Until then, I want you to rest."
"... Too much rest already." Carson blinked, cracking open his eyes in time to see a nurse leaning into the hall and gesturing to someone outside ICU. An instant later, Detective Whitman stepped into the room.
"Hey, Detective..." he called out, his voice slurred and gravelly. "Get your asses in gear... on my case, will you?" He swallowed, a comer of his mouth lifting ever so slightly. "... I'd hate to spread the word... that some amateur... outsmarted New York's finest...."
Whitman shot him a look. "I appreciate the kick in the pants, Mr. Brooks. So will my partner. My precinct, too, for that matter. Shame alone will get us moving."
"Yeah, well, it should.... And move in the right direction... and to the right people."
Her expression didn't change. But Carson knew she'd gotten the message. "How about leaving the crime-solving to us, Mr. Brooks. You just worry about getting well. Cooperate with poor Dr. Radison. Let him do his job. And let us do ours. That's what professionals are for."
"Sometimes." Carson wasn't nodding off without getting the last word. "Other times they need help...."
"This isn't one of those times."
"Glad to hear it... Now, let's see some proof...." A challenging spark lit his eyes before they slid shut. "Find the bastard."
11:15 A.M.
Sabrina stepped out of the elevator and headed for ICU.
She knew she was early. Dr. Radison had said noon. But she'd been awake since six, her emotional overdrive having won out over her exhaustion. And, after two hours of paperwork, a long hot shower, and two essential phone calls—one business, one personal—she'd virtually run out of things to do to keep her mind occupied.
The first call had been to Melissa to tell her that she'd be in New York a few days longer than expected, and that she'd check in later today.
The second call had been to her mother. Gloria sounded as tired as Sabrina did, and almost as strung out. She told Sabrina that she was flying to New York later today, both to be there for her daughter and for the more practical purpose of meeting with the detectives to answer their questions. That was the easy part. The hard part was that, on her way to the airport, she was stopping by to see her parents. They had to be told, and now, before the media got hold of the story.
Sabrina had felt like Cruella De Vil. She couldn't help it. No matter how valid her feelings were or how righteous her intentions, and no matter how much her mother swore otherwise, Sabrina felt so damned responsible for the pain and anguish she was about to cause. She loved her grandparents. She didn't want them upset or strained. And she sure as hell didn't want her mother to take the brunt of it when these old wounds were opened up—especially since the old wounds now came with new, uncertain consequences.
Her head about to explode, Sabrina had left the hotel, hopped into a cab, and made her way to the hospital.
She went straight for the coffee machine—buying a cup of the fully leaded variety this time—then veered toward the nurses' station. She'd check on Carson's condition, after which she'd wait in the lounge for Dr. Radison to call her in.
"Ms. Radcliffe?"
Sabrina turned to see Susan Lane seated alone in the lounge. She was perched at the edge of a sofa, two empty Styrofoam cups on the end table beside her, one full cup in her hand. She looked wrung out, so peaked and tired that Sabrina's heart went out to her.
