As Melanie slowly raised the head of Martin's bed so that he was sitting up, more than laying down, he grimaced. Not at the shooting sensations along his side, but at what rested on the table the nurse had swung over his lap.He'd slept for a few hours after Danny came by, and awoke to a brief visit from his Uncle Roger and his cousins. He'd always been close to the Tolands, and was glad to see them. Their steady presence always set him at ease.
A little later, Melanie had arrived to take his vital signs, an invasion of his personal space that had become annoying. As she'd worked, he'd catalogued his body's condition, pleasantly surprised to realize that over the course of the day, the pain had receded a bit, and he felt more alert than he had in a while.
Now, as he stared at the little table suspended over him, he wondered why he was being punished, instead of rewarded, for his small signs of progress.
"Oh, c'mon, it's not that bad," the nurse encouraged, nudging the plastic mug toward him.
Martin peered into it, his mouth and nose wrinkling in disgust. "Says the person who doesn't have to eat it. There's nothing in there but broth."
"Try to focus on the positive. This is your first real food -- "
"This isn't food."
Melanie smiled good-naturedly. "You keep this down, and tomorrow we'll see about getting you something with a few noodles in it."
Martin sighed and stared despondently at the mug. He'd rather have a big, steaming bowl of chili. Well ... maybe not. In the first place, he didn't have much of an appetite. And in the second place, even if he did, he doubted his stomach could handle anything remotely spicy. Dr. Gould had warned that he'd have problems with his digestive tract for a while. Difficulty digesting certain foods, pain when he ate. Not welcome news for a man who loved to eat and appreciated a wide variety of fast foods.
"C'mon, Martin," the nurse coaxed. "You need to start building up your strength. The sooner you're able to keep stuff like this down, the sooner we can get you off that IV."
The mention of getting unhooked from at least one of the tubes invading his body was enough to make him lift the mug to his lips. He sipped tentatively. It tasted like hot water laced with just a touch of chicken flavoring. He made a face, feeling like a little kid being forced to eat his least-favorite vegetable.
"So how much longer am I in the ICU?" he asked, trying to distract himself from the bland torture.
"Actually, we're going to move you to a regular room tomorrow."
"Really? That'd be great." He shifted uncomfortably as his semi-upright position started taking its toll on his wounded side.
Melanie noticed his discomfort and peeked into the mug. "A little more, and we can lay you back down again."
"I'm fine," Martin quickly insisted, not wanting the nurse to mess with the bed. He didn't feel spectacular, but he was almost sitting up straight, and eating -- OK, drinking -- dinner, and it was the most normal he'd felt in days. He continued sipping the broth, trying to ignore the increased burning in his chest and stomach. When it refused to recede, he took a last drink and pushed the button on his PCA pump.
"All done," he announced, handing the mug to Melanie. He'd finished nearly half of it, and now felt full and sleepy. How could eating require so much energy?
The nurse checked the mug's contents and smiled, then patted his arm. "You did good. Why don't you get some sleep?" She leaned over and pressed some buttons on his bed, reclining him to a more comfortable position.
He drifted for a bit, not exactly sleeping, but close enough that the sound of a chair scraping against the floor startled him. He opened his eyes to see Sam sitting next to the bed, a small smile playing across her lips.
"Sorry if I woke you," she apologized.
"You didn't." Martin assured her, clearing his throat and enjoying the view. Although she wasn't his anymore, he couldn't help but appreciate her beauty. He could still remember the feel of her long blonde hair as he ran his hands through it, her full lips crushed against his when they kissed, the soft, warm weight of her body against him when they made love.
A flicker of pain danced across his chest, but it had nothing to do with his gunshot wounds. He'd truly wanted their relationship to grow and thrive, but when it became achingly clear that she couldn't -- or wouldn't -- take things to the next level, he'd broken up with her. It had hurt both of them, but it would've hurt more if they'd stayed together.
Sam's voice interrupted his reverie. "Didn't I tell you once not to get shot?" Her expression was half stern, half teasing.
He chuckled, doing his best to ignore the resulting sharp pinpricks, and recalled their conversation not long after she'd been shot in the leg. "Yeah, you did. Guess I didn't duck fast enough."
The blonde agent smirked and then sobered, her whole manner softening. "Martin, I ... When I didn't know if you were going to make it, I realized there were some things that I needed to tell you." She stopped and lowered her head to stare at the floor.
All of his pain and exhaustion receded to the background as he waited for her to continue. They'd barely had a civil conversation since he broke up with her, and in light of his near-death experience, he supposed they both had some pretty serious things to say.
Sam looked up at him through her lashes, then raised her head. "I never meant to hurt you. When we started seeing each other ... I didn't really think it would get serious. And then it started, well, getting serious, and I panicked. I wasn't ready for it ... wasn't ready for you. Sometimes I think I never should have invited you into that cab." She smiled wryly. "But I know ... that if I could do it over, I'd still ask you to come home with me."
"And I'd still say yes," Martin said, lips curving up as he recalled that night. He wouldn't wish away their time together, despite how things had turned out.
The blonde's smile faded as she reached out and covered his hand with her own. "I just wish ... When I realized that I couldn't give you what you needed, I should have walked away."
He shook his head. "You're not the only one to blame here. I wanted us to work so bad that I waited longer than I should have to call it quits." He rubbed a thumb up and down the outside of her hand. "I want you to know that I don't regret being with you, and I don't regret ending it. But I do regret *how* I ended it. I was pretty hard on you, and I never should have done it at the office. I'm sorry, Sam."
Sam's eyes glittered with unshed tears, and she sniffled and squeezed his hand. "Thanks. And for what it's worth, I'm sorry, too."
They sat quietly for a moment before the blonde agent spoke again. "So what happens next?"
Martin sighed as the pain returned and weariness blanketed him. He'd be glad when he could get through an entire conversation without feeling wrung out. "I'd like to try to be friends again. I seem to recall we were pretty good at that."
"We were, weren't we?" Sam agreed, and brushed the back of a hand over his forehead.
He leaned slightly into the warm, gentle touch. She still stirred something within him, but he knew better than to get wrapped up in it. Just because he had feelings for her didn't mean that they should get back together. After all, she and Jack clearly had some lingering ties, but he couldn't picture them reuniting.
"You look tired," she said, rising to her feet. "I should get going."
"Thanks for coming, Sam."
"Sure. I'll be back again soon." She eased her purse onto her shoulders, her eyes twinkling. "I'll give you some pointers on how to survive bad hospital food and heartless physical therapists."
They chuckled and then she left, Martin watching her go with a thoughtful expression on his face. They wouldn't regain their friendship overnight. It would be an awkward process. Still, they'd taken a crucial step forward, and a damned good one at that.
Chapter 12
"How have you been sleeping, Danny?"He'd arrived at Dr. Harris' office Monday morning in an irritable mood. He'd spent Sunday night tossing and turning, hounded by brutally vivid nightmares. One after another after another, each starting with Dornvald opening fire and ending with Martin mortally wounded. Sometimes, he died before Danny got back to the car, from chest and stomach injuries or from a bullet that struck him between the eyes, spraying brain matter on the headrest behind him. Other times, he died in Danny's arms on the street, or in the ambulance, or at the ER, strange gurgling sounds in his throat and blood bubbling out of his mouth as he sucked in one last, tortured breath.
Three hours of sleep. Three freakin' hours of sleep, and now Danny had to sit here and answer Dr. Harris' questions. Had to, because if he didn't, she'd write that down in her little report, and he wouldn't get back to work anytime soon.
So how had he been sleeping ... that was the question, right?
"I've been sleeping okay, mostly." He sighed, rubbing gritty eyes and wishing he'd used Visine earlier.
"Still having nightmares?"
"Some," he hesitantly admitted. He really didn't want to talk about them today, not with his nerves so frayed.
Dr. Harris leaned back in her chair, pen in hand, and studied him. "Why don't you tell me about them?"
Damn. She wanted details, and as much as he hated to provide them, he would. If he came clean with her, she could provide some nice, professional advice about how to feel better. And maybe, just maybe, she'd tell Jack that he was fit to return to work.
"They're all pretty much the same," Danny said, massaging the knotted muscles in the back of his neck. "I see the shooting over and over again. Sometimes Martin makes it, and sometimes he doesn't."
"How do the dreams make you feel?"
Striving for the same kind of professional detachment he often used while reviewing a crime scene, he rattled off the emotions that had flooded over him during his nightmares. "Scared. Angry. Powerless."
"And when you think about the actual event, not the nightmares, but the shooting itself, how do you feel?"
"The same way."
"Are any one of those emotions you described stronger than the others?"
Danny scrubbed a hand over his face, considering the question.
He'd despised the fear, the pounding of his heart as Dornvald opened fire, the dryness in his mouth as he'd yelled at Martin to back up.
Later, he'd embraced his blinding hatred for Dornvald, letting it fuel his body and mind as he and Jack hunted down the man who'd nearly killed his partner.
The powerlessness ... it had nearly choked him with its intensity. An intensity that was uncomfortably familiar, now that he focused on it. His breathing quickened as he realized he'd experienced the same unwelcome emotion two decades ago, as an 11-year-old boy unable to stop a car accident that killed his parents.
Why hadn't he made the connection before now?
He'd been sitting in the back seat of their Chevrolet, listening to his dad scream at his mom. When he'd asked his father to stop, the older man had turned around to yell at him. The car had swerved, and before he could shout a warning, it plowed into a median.
He'd been powerless to stop the crash, and had been of no help afterward, either. His broken ribs, arm and leg had rendered him immobile as his parents lay unconscious and bloody in the front seat. The paramedics had pronounced his mother dead at the scene. His father had passed away a few days later.
For years afterward, he'd wondered "what if"? What if he hadn't said anything to his dad?
And now, he was playing the same "what if" game. What if he hadn't told Martin to back up?
But there was no guarantee that he could have changed either outcome. His father had taken his eyes off the road before turning around to yell at him. Even if he'd kept his mouth shut, the older man still might have hit the median.
And if Martin hadn't thrown the car into reverse, they'd probably both be dead. They couldn't have properly defended themselves against an automatic weapon from such a point-blank distance. The only other option was to swerve the car hard left, but that would have left him exposed. And once Dornvald killed him, he would have gone after Adisa Teno and Martin.
No matter what he'd done in those precious few seconds, his partner would, almost certainly, still have been seriously hurt or killed.
Oh, God.
It wasn't the thought that he could have done something differently that haunted him. It was the thought that nothing he could have done would have made a difference.
Powerless.
Helpless.
Useless.
"Danny?" Dr. Harris gently prompted.
He shook his head and blew out a breath, trying to collect himself, to ground himself in the present. "I couldn't stop it," he murmured, eyes distant. "Either time."
The psychiatrist's eyebrows furrowed in puzzlement. "Either time? What other time are you talking about?"
Too little sleep and too many crushing memories had lowered his defenses, and before he knew it, he was rambling about the car accident that had killed his parents, and how he'd felt as helpless then, as he had during the shooting.
"Danny," Dr. Harris said, eyes full of compassion. "We can't erase what happened, but together, we can figure out how to deal with your feelings so you can move forward."
That's what he wanted to do, no doubt about it. But how long would it take? And what about Martin?
"Do you think ... do you think Martin's going to deal with all of this okay?" he asked softly, longing for some reassurance that their ordeal wouldn't permanently scar his partner.
The psychiatrist watched him for a long moment, searching his eyes, before speaking. "You feel guilty about what happened to him, don't you?"
He nodded.
"Have you talked to Martin about it?"
"A little. He told me not to blame myself."
"But you're having trouble with that."
Sarcasm tinged Danny's voice. "Kinda hard not to feel guilty when he's laying in a hospital bed in excruciating pain."
Dr. Harris clasped her hands together and rested them on her desk. "Martin needs some time to get back on his feet, and it's going to take awhile for both of you to deal with the shooting's emotional ramifications. Try to have some patience."
He chuckled. "Patience isn't exactly my strong suit, doc. Martin's, either."
The brunette smiled. "Look, I think we've done enough today. I'd like to see you again -- " she paused as she consulted her palm pilot. " -- at 8 o'clock Monday morning. From here on out, I think weekly sessions are a good idea."
She scribbled the time and date on an appointment card and handed it to Danny, who slipped it into his pocket.
"So uh ... what about work?" he asked, unable to prevent nervousness from seeping into his voice. "I think it'd help if I could get back into my normal routine."
"You want to keep busy, right?"
He nodded.
"Do you remember what I told you last week? My first priority is your well-being, not clearing you for work. You're not ready yet. You're exhibiting a few signs of post-traumatic stress disorder, and I want to keep a close eye on you."
Danny blanched. Post-traumatic stress disorder? He hadn't considered that. He knew enough about it, though, to make his pulse quicken.
"I'm not saying you have PTSD. Most people involved in a traumatic event have a few symptoms right afterward, but don't go on to develop a full-blown case. I think that if you take it easy for a few days, make an honest effort during our sessions and then ease back into your work routine, you can avoid any chronic problems. All right?"
"Yeah, sure," Danny said weakly, not entirely reassured.
"I want you to take a few more days off. Really try to take care of your health. The better you feel physically, the better you'll feel emotionally. Eat right, exercise, get some sleep." Dr. Harris paused. "If you need something to help you sleep -- "
"No." The last thing an alcoholic needed was to get hooked on sleeping pills. "I uh, I don't want to take anything."
"Okay, but if you change your mind, let me know. Sleep is important."
"I'll do everything you said, doc, I swear. Can you ... can you tell me what you're going to recommend to Jack?" The psychiatrist frowned slightly. "You do understand that even though I'm going to make a recommendation, the final decision still lies with Jack?"
"Yeah."
"I'm recommending desk duty starting a week from today. It's too soon to say when you'll be ready for fieldwork. It depends on how our next couple of sessions go."
Danny nodded, disappointed. He'd hoped to go back this week, to bury himself in files or interviews or whatever the hell his boss wanted to throw at him. To focus on something, anything, other than his inability to protect those closest to him.
Chapter 13
"What color's your Jell-O?" Martin asked, cradling the phone's receiver between his head and shoulder as he peered into a small plastic container and poked the jiggling mass with a spoon."Green. Yours?"
"Red."
He'd called Viv a few minutes ago, and it turned out they were both having lunch. Or what passed for lunch. He'd been served chicken noodle soup, minus the chicken and with limp vegetables, as well as raspberry Jell-O.
"Wanna trade?" he asked. Lime had always been his favorite.
Viv chuckled.
Sighing, he set the Jell-O back on the tray, focusing on the soup instead. While fairly bland, it was better than the anemic broth he'd been given last night. Even so, he doubted he could eat much, his appetite far weaker than usual.
"So how are you feeling, Martin?"
"Better. They moved me to a regular room this morning." He'd been glad for the change. The nurses checked his vital signs less often than their ICU counterparts, and most importantly, they'd mercifully removed the catheter. While the bedpan they'd cheerfully presented him with made him scowl, it was a definite improvement. "They plan to spring me on Friday."
"That's great!"
"What about you? When are you getting out?"
"Thursday." Viv paused. "Hang on a sec."
He sipped at his soup and then downed a few large spoonfuls to finish it off.
"Martin? My doctor is here. Just wants to go over a few things. I'll talk to you soon."
"Okay. Take care, Viv."
"You, too."
After hanging up, Martin picked at the Jell-O and surveyed his cramped room. It had barely enough space to accommodate his bed, an end table and two chairs. The attached bathroom looked tiny, although he had yet to set foot in it.
The décor left much to be desired, consisting of a few badly painted nature scenes hung on powder-blue walls.
Not the Ritz-Carlton, certainly, but it represented an upgrade in his condition, and that was what really mattered. He definitely felt better than he had the past few days. The pain had finally receded to what he deemed an acceptable level. His wounds throbbed constantly, but weren't unbearable unless he moved around too much or took deep breaths. The nurses made him do that every few hours, saying his lungs needed the exercise.
The continued weakness, while not as draining as it had been, was frustrating. Dr. Gould had said he wouldn't regain his full strength for a few months. He'd require physical therapy, to rebuild the muscle tone he lost during his hospital stay and would continue losing once he went home, since he'd be unable to move around much for a while.
The coming weeks would be grueling. The pain, restricted activity and bland diet would get old fast. Still, the prospect of being home soon, with his own things, brought a smile to his lips.
A smile that died as he nestled into the pillow and let his mind wander to a subject he hadn't explored much these last few days. The shooting. He hadn't thought a lot about it, all of his energy focused on his physical, not emotional, recovery. But now, in the quiet room, with no nurses constantly checking his vital signs or visitors trying to take his mind off of things, Martin got lost in the memories. The darkness, the van, the gunfire, the car crash ... the pain.
Everything had happened so damned fast. When the shooting started, he'd immediately reacted, plowing the car into Dornvald's accomplice in a desperate attempt to improve their odds, and then throwing the car into reverse, trying to escape the line of fire.
It hadn't worked very well.
Adisa Teno had been killed, he'd been shot and Danny had been hurt, although not badly. The outcome bothered him, but he felt confident he'd made the right decisions after Dornvald opened fire. He wondered, however, if he could have done something different before the van pulled in front of them. What if he'd taken another route?
Most likely, Dornvald would have found them no matter which direction they'd driven.
"Damned if you do, damned if you don't," Martin murmured, glancing up as his door opened.
Victor Fitzgerald stepped in, holding his son's backpack. Martin had asked him to swing by his apartment and collect his mail.
"Son," his dad greeted, smiling. "You're looking better."
"I'm feeling better."
The older man took a seat and then unzipped the backpack, removing a couple of envelopes and two magazines. "The rest of it was junk mail."
The injured man groaned. "Please tell me you threw it out."
His dad nodded and handed over two bills and the latest issues of "National Review" and "The Weekly Standard."
"Thanks for bringing these," Martin said as he glanced at the cable TV and phone bills, which weren't due for another two weeks. They could wait until he got home. He handed everything back to his father, who slipped the mail into the backpack.
"I also brought these." The older man produced a pair of monogrammed navy blue slippers. "They were by your bed. I thought you might like something from home."
Sam had purchased the slippers from Lands' End last winter, as a Christmas gift. A few weeks prior to that, Martin had pointed them out while they flipped through one of her catalogues. He'd never mentioned the slippers again, but she'd remembered how much he'd liked them. When he'd opened up the gift, her thoughtfulness had surprised and touched him.
He felt those same emotions now. His father, Deputy Director Victor Fitzgerald, a notorious hard-ass, had brought his slippers to the hospital to help make him more comfortable.
"Thanks, Dad," he said as the other man placed the slippers on the floor. "I should get some use out of them soon. They're supposed to let me out of bed on Wednesday, and I'll probably get to walk around on Thursday."
His father nodded, but seemed distracted. "Your mother and I have been talking about your release from the hospital. We think it would be best if you stayed at our hotel. We rented a large suite, so there's plenty of room."
Martin's mouth dropped open slightly, and he cringed inwardly. He didn't want his parents hovering over him after he left the hospital. There'd been enough hovering already. He knew they meant well, but still ...
"I appreciate that," he said gently, "but I'd rather recuperate at my apartment. I just think I'd feel better if I was in familiar surroundings."
His father frowned. "Well ... perhaps we should come and stay with you, then. You're going to need help, Martin. You won't be recovered enough to be alone."
It was true. Dr. Gould had said he'd need someone with him constantly for the first week. "Dad, thanks, but my apartment's pretty small. I don't think it'd fit all three of us. Besides, I've already contacted a nursing agency."
The eldest Fitzgerald nodded, averting his gaze, but not before Martin spied disappointment and hurt in his eyes.
"Dad?"
The other man looked at him. "Mmm hmm?"
"I really do appreciate the offer." Martin shifted in the bed, grimacing as the pain briefly increased. When his words didn't seem to comfort his father, he continued. "Hey, I uh ... I wanted to thank you for what you did with Dornvald. I heard you worked pretty hard to take him down."
The older man raised his eyebrows and then frowned. "Some people might say I worked a little too hard. I made some bad choices. Did some things I wouldn't have, if I'd been more objective." His eyes softened as he held his son's gaze. "But to paraphrase Agent Malone, you're my son."
Martin's lips parted as the words hit him full force. His father had apparently crossed some lines to get the man who'd shot him, and done it based on pure emotion. There had been so many hard feelings, for so many years, between him and his dad. But in that moment, he felt closer to the man than he had in a long while.
"Son," his father started, and then cleared his throat, struggling to maintain his composure. "I haven't been the best father. But after everything that's happened ... if you're willing ... I'd like a second chance. I know I can't make up for the time we've lost, but I'd like to make the most of the time we have now."
Martin's throat tightened and he swallowed. They had a lot of issues to work through, and they might never be as close as most fathers and sons, but it was worth a try.
"I'd like that, Dad."
Chapter 14
After his emotional session with Dr. Harris, Danny drove back to his apartment. He ached for sleep. Twice he caught himself nodding off in the car, and heaved a sigh of relief once he arrived at his destination. A few more minutes and he probably would have run over a curb or plowed into the vehicle in front of him.When he reached his apartment, it took several seconds to guide his key into the lock. He could barely focus, and his hands trembled from exhaustion. Once inside, he yanked off his boots. Yawning so hard his jaw cracked, he staggered into the bedroom and retrieved a pillow, then re-entered the living room and stretched out on the couch, stuffing the pillow under his head and punching it lightly to fluff it up. He reached up and snagged a thin cotton blanket off the top of the sofa and threw it over himself.
He yawned again and turned on the TV, picking a world music channel. Maybe some background noise would keep the bad dreams away. Closing his eyes, he breathed in and out deeply and willed himself to sleep.
Three hours later, the good news was that there had been no nightmares.
The bad news was that there had been no nightmares because there'd been no sleep. He'd simply been too tired to sleep. A perfectly annoying, ridiculous situation, but one he'd experienced before.
Growling, Danny tossed the blanket aside, stormed into the bathroom and took a long, steaming shower. Afterward, he pulled on a fresh set of clothing and grabbed his wallet and keys. Since he wasn't going to get any sleep, he might as well visit Martin.
He arrived at the hospital just shy of 3 p.m. The ICU nurses informed him that his partner had been transferred to a regular room, 306, and he smiled wearily as he took the elevator down one floor. Fitzgerald was making progress. At least something was going right today.
The third-floor nurses' station said the injured agent was awake and up for visitors, so Danny located room 306 and eased the door open. He stopped abruptly at the scene before him.
Martin lay in bed, clenching his jaw and wincing, a fine sheen of sweat across his forehead. His hospital gown had been moved up to reveal the left side of his torso, and a nurse bent over him, carefully cleaning the still-raw wounds. Neither person noticed Danny, who stood frozen, mouth open as he held his breath without realizing it. He watched the other man bite his lower lip and heard the nurse murmur that she was almost finished, to hang in there for a few more seconds.
And then the scene before him dissolved into nighttime, as he kneeled on the street and leaned over Martin, pressing hard against the critically injured agent's wounds, desperately trying to staunch the crimson flow --
"Danny?"
Fitzgerald's pain-soaked voice jerked him back to the present, and he sucked in a deep breath, eyes wide, palms clammy. His partner and the nurse were staring at him, concerned.
He couldn't speak. Could barely breathe.
He turned around and staggered out of the room, toward the elevator. He jabbed the down button repeatedly until the doors slid open, and almost fell inside. Nobody else was there, thank God, and he wrapped his arms around his midsection, breathing hard, nostrils flaring.
As the elevator made its descent, Danny backed into the wall and leaned into it, closing his eyes.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry."
**
"Damnit," Martin hissed as he watched Danny's hasty exit.
Patricia, the petite, redheaded nurse, flinched. "I'm sorry. I know this hurts."
He tore his gaze away from the door as the nurse finished replacing the bandages. "Not that," he said distractedly, gesturing to his wounds, then looking again toward where his pale, haggard friend had disappeared.
"He looked pretty upset," Patricia sympathized as she eased the hospital gown back over his torso. "Want me to see if he's still out there?"
He took a few shallow breaths as the fiery agony that always accompanied bandage changes settled into a deep throbbing. "Yeah, thanks."
A few minutes later, the nurse returned, apologetic. "I couldn't find him. One of the other nurses said he took the elevator down."
Martin sighed and settled deeper against his pillow, breath hitching as the ever-present pain sharpened for a moment.
Patricia motioned toward his PCA pump. "Don't be afraid to use that. I'll check on you later."
After she left, he considered his options. Should he wait to call Danny? Give him some time to corral his emotions? Or should he track him down right away?
Of all the times for the other man to show up, it had to be during a bandage change. Not when he was sleeping or eating or talking to his latest visitor, but right in the middle of the absolute worst part of his day.
"Damnit," Martin muttered. Screw waiting. He needed to talk to Taylor now. He reached for the phone resting on the table to his right. As he stretched a little too far, razors slashed his side and he hissed, then groaned, pulling his hand back and lightly resting it over his wounded chest. He concentrated on slowing his rapid breathing, waiting for the pain to subside. When it didn't, he pushed the button on the PCA pump.
He decided to let the drug do its magic before he called his partner. Hearing his voice right now, shaky and full of pain, would do little to dispel the guilt that had been so achingly clear on Danny's face as the man had fled the room.
Chapter 15
It was nearly 6 o'clock before Martin called Danny. The Demerol had knocked him out for a couple of hours, and when he'd peeled his eyes open, Jack had been sitting by the bed. They'd had a pleasant, but brief, visit, interrupted by Rebecca Fitzgerald's arrival. After Jack had left, Martin kept eyeing the wall clock as his mother rattled on about this, that and the other thing, none of it riveting. He didn't want to be rude, but he really, really needed to talk to his partner.When his mother had fluffed his pillow for the fifth time, he engineered an impressive yawn. Maybe if he pretended that he needed a nap, she'd leave.
Thankfully, she did, lightly kissing his cheek and suggesting that he get some rest before dinner arrived. As she let herself out, he feigned sleep, waiting a couple of minutes before opening his eyes and carefully reaching for the phone. He settled it next to his right hip and dialed Danny's cell. No answer. He tried his work number, but got a recorded message.
"Hi, you've reached Special Agent Danny Taylor. I'm out of the office today, so if you need immediate assistance -- "
Martin hung up, feeling a bit foolish. Why had he expected Danny to be at work? Given what the man had been through, Jack had probably insisted Taylor take some time off.
Next, he dialed his partner's home number and, after the third ring, prepared himself for yet another recorded response. Instead, he got a hoarsely voiced "hello" that gave him pause. His friend sounded exhausted.
"Hey, Danny. It's Martin."
"What's up, man?" Taylor asked flatly.
Martin's brow creased at his partner's lifeless tone, so jarring when compared to the man's normally animated nature. "Uhh ... I wanted to see how you're doing. You took off pretty quick earlier."
Silence, followed by a barely discernible sigh. "I'm sorry about that. I just needed to get some air. It's been a long day, and I wasn't really up for seeing ... that."
Martin sighed and winced, hurting from his own wounds, and hurting for his friend's. "Hey, I know we already talked about it, but I'll say it as many times as you need to hear it. It wasn't your fault. You couldn't have done anything different."
"I know."
The other man's quick agreement took him by surprise. He'd figured his partner would argue with him. "Okay. That's ... good. It's uh ... it's good that you're not blaming yourself anymore."
When Taylor didn't respond, he realized that his partner did, in fact, still blame himself. Somehow, he still felt responsible. "Danny -- "
"I told you my parents died when I was little, didn't I?"
"Yeah," Martin agreed, slightly confused at the change in subject.
"We were in a car accident. My dad was yelling at my mom, and I tried to get him to stop, but he took his eyes off the road and ... we crashed. I couldn't do anything to stop it."
Martin briefly squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. His heart ached at what his friend must have gone through. What he was still going through, because the shooting had obviously reawakened painful memories. "I'm sorry, man."
"Thanks. I just ... I just need some time to get my head on straight, you know?"
"Yeah. Yeah, sure."
"Look, I'm pretty beat. I'm going to hit the sack early tonight. I have to meet with Jack first thing in the morning to talk about when I should go back to work. I'll come by after that, okay?"
"Sounds good. And Danny, if you need to talk -- "
"I know, and thanks."
They hung up and Martin stared out the window, not seeing the sunset, but a little boy and the man he'd become, each wracked with guilt and grief.
Chapter 16
Danny arrived fifteen minutes late for his 9 o'clock Tuesday-morning meeting with Jack. He'd had yet another rough night of sleep, battling insomnia until 2 a.m. and nightmares until 5 o'clock. He'd woken up just before 8:30 a.m., despite his alarm blaring for nearly thirty minutes. He'd barely had time for a quick shower and shave before he dashed out the door.He now stood in the elevator at work, watching the floors light up one by one, impatiently bouncing up and down on his heels. His stomach growled, and Terri, the bright-eyed twenty-something administrative assistant on his floor, smiled.
"There's donuts in the break room," she suggested as the elevator finally stopped.
He thanked her and then jogged to Jack's office. The door was closed. Through the windows, he saw his boss sitting at his desk, elbows leaning on some files, fielding a phone call. He knocked lightly, and Jack looked up and motioned for him to come in.
"Uh huh. Uh huh." Malone paused. "That shouldn't be a problem. Thanks."
As Danny took a seat, the older man hung up and critically eyed his agent, frowning deeply.
"You been sleeping?" Jack asked brusquely.
That question was getting really, really old.
"Some," he replied, knowing that the answer was obvious in the dark circles under his bloodshot eyes.
The older man leaned to one side, resting an elbow on the arm of his chair and his chin in his hand. "After talking to Dr. Harris yesterday, I'd planned on approving you for desk duty on Monday. But looking at you now, I'm wondering if that's wise."
Danny shook his head and rubbed his eyes. He doubted that he could form a coherent argument in his favor. In his current condition, he'd be a liability, not an asset, to the team. Even in a desk-duty capacity. Still ...
"Jack, all I'm asking is for you to give me a chance. I had a good session with Dr. Harris yesterday, and Monday's almost a week away."
After closely scrutinizing the younger agent, Malone spoke. "Here's the deal. I know you aren't due to meet with Dr. Harris again until Monday, but I want you to see her on Friday. If she still thinks you're ready to come in next week, then come in."
Danny allowed himself a small sigh of relief and nodded. If he put his mind to it, surely he could pull himself together enough in the next three days to prove himself to Dr. Harris. He just had to get some decent sleep.
If only he knew how to make that happen.
His boss' voice broke into his wandering thoughts. "One other thing. I talked with OPR earlier. They're putting reprimands into each of our files."
He whistled softly. "Guess we got off easy on that one, huh?"
"It could've been worse," the older agent agreed, straightening in his chair. "We done?"
"We're done." Danny rose to leave and the room tilted, the floor lurching from under him. He swayed, desperately grabbing Jack's desk in an attempt to steady himself. Darkness tunneled his vision, and he blinked against it.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa." Malone's disembodied voice, barely audible over the roaring in his ears.
He felt the other man push him into a chair and urge him to put his head between his legs and take deep breaths. He obeyed, fighting a wave of nausea. He heard the door open, and hasty, retreating footfalls, which soon returned. His boss then pressed a cold, wet cloth to the nape of his neck and guided a cup of water into one of his shaking hands.
Sitting as still as possible, Danny focused on his breathing until the din in his ears receded and the darkness lifted. He carefully raised his head, relieved that nothing was spinning, and looked into Jack's worried eyes. He flushed and looked away.
*Good job, Taylor. Almost pass out in front of Jack. That'll get you back to work on Monday.*
He swiped at his clammy forehead, thanking his boss when the man removed the wet cloth from his neck and handed it over. He wiped his brow and then tossed the cloth into a nearby trash can.
"Take a drink," Jack ordered.
He'd forgotten about the cup in his hand, and sipped at the water, finding its coolness soothing.
"Maybe you should see a doctor," Malone suggested, leaning against the desk, arms crossed over his chest.
"No, it's okay. I'm fine." Danny finished the water and threw the cup away.
"When was the last time you ate something?"
"Last night. I didn't eat breakfast this morning. I didn't have time."
Jack scowled. "How much sleep did you get last night?"
That damned sleeping question again. "A few hours."
"Obviously not enough," the older agent grumbled. "You're doing a piss-poor job taking care of yourself."
"I'll be fine," Danny insisted, feeling like a sixth-grader being taken to task for not doing his homework.
"You gotta get some sleep."
He resisted the urge to roll his eyes at Jack's flair for the obvious. "I know. I promise I'll crash as soon as I get home, okay?"
Nodding, Malone took a step toward the younger man and laid a hand on his shoulder. "Let's grab some breakfast at the cafeteria, get some food in your stomach, and then I'll drive you home. We'll take your car, and I'll get a cab back here."
"Jack, you don't need -- "
"Yeah, I do." The older agent headed for the door, grasped the doorknob and turned around, raising his eyebrows. "What, you need me to carry you to the elevator? Get your ass moving. I've got a lot to do today."
The gruffness was oddly comforting, and Danny smiled as they headed to the cafeteria. Not for the first time, he was grateful to have Jack Malone not only as a boss, but also as a friend.
Chapter 17
A little after 10 a.m., Martin lay in bed, happily staring at his left arm. Patricia had just removed his IV. He'd officially graduated from being constantly hooked up to medical equipment. No more tubes or wires running in and out of him."So tomorrow's going to be a big day for you," the nurse commented. At her patient's perplexed expression, she explained. "We'll get you out of bed for the first time and have you sit in a chair. And on Thursday, we'll help you walk around a bit."
Sitting up. Standing up. Taking a few measly steps. Things that took no more effort than breathing on a normal day, but that now seemed like nearly insurmountable tasks. What a joke. He used to run two miles every morning, and now he'd been reduced to ... this.
"Can't wait," Martin said, smiling tightly.
Once Patricia left, he began brooding over his body's limitations. Dr. Gould had warned him that he'd require a lot of assistance when he went home. He'd made arrangements for full-time nursing care during his first week out of the hospital, and for part-time care for several days after that. A physical therapist would work closely with him, and his family, from his parents to the Tolands, had promised to visit often and help however they could.
For a while, someone would be at his apartment constantly, and that chafed at him. He didn't want to be coddled. He'd had more than enough of it these last few days.
About an hour later, his pain levels had hit the point where he could have some more Demerol. With the IV gone, he'd been switched to oral medication, and Patricia dropped two pills into his hand. He eyed them with disdain. As much as he needed the Demerol, he hated his reliance on it. He wasn't worried about getting hooked on prescription drugs, but they were a tangible reminder of his weakness, and he looked forward to switching to over-the-counter medicine.
Today was not the day for that, but maybe he could at least cut back on the Demerol. Exert a little bit of control over his circumstances.
Martin asked for a lower dosage and the nurse frowned slightly, but fulfilled his request. After she went to check on her other patients, he turned on the TV, channel surfing as he waited to see how the less-potent Demerol would fare.
Sleazy talk shows, insipid local morning programs, and more sleazy talk shows.
ood grief. Was daytime television really this bad?
Thirty minutes later, the pain had subsided. Not as much as he would have liked, but to a tolerable level, nonetheless. He'd secured a small victory, and allowed himself a satisfied smile.
The phone rang, startling him out of his self-congratulatory mood, and he answered it.
"Hey, Martin," Danny greeted wearily. "How you doin'? I'm hearing rumors about you getting released on Friday. Is that true?"
"Yeah. A few more days and I'll be loose amongst the general population."
"That's great, man." Danny unsuccessfully tried to stifle a yawn. "I bet you'll feel a lot better once you get home."
"Yeah. I can't wait to get out of here. The food sucks, and if I never hear the words 'sponge bath' again, that'll be fine by me."
Both men chuckled, Martin stopping first when he remembered what his partner had been up to that morning. "Hey, how'd your meeting with Jack go?"
The other man hesitated, and then rushed through his response. "Uh, it went great. Yeah. Really good. Looks like I'll be back to work on Monday."
Good news, on the surface, but Danny's nervous babbling made him wonder what his friend wasn't saying. He didn't think now was the right time to pry, though. Taylor sounded exhausted. Again. How long since he'd had a decent night's rest? Had he been taking care of himself?
Probably not.
Martin couldn't do much for himself right now, but there was something he could do for his partner. "Hey, I know you were going to come by later, but you sound wiped out. Why don't you get some rest today, and we'll push the visit until tomorrow?"
The other agent hesitated before answering. "You sure?"
"Yeah, no problem. Get some sleep."
"You too, man," Danny said, some lightness in his voice. "I'll see you tomorrow."
Martin hung up, wondering if he was imagining things, or if his friend had sounded relieved that he wouldn't be visiting today.
**
As Danny nestled the cordless phone back in its base, a wave of guilt washed over him. It was wrong, wasn't it? It was wrong to be happy that he didn't have to visit Martin.
While he'd promised to stop by the hospital after his meeting with Jack, he'd been so bone weary after getting home that he'd decided to ask if he could come over in the afternoon, instead. He'd been immensely relieved when his friend offered to postpone their visit until tomorrow. He wasn't up to facing a pain-riddled Martin today. And Martin probably wasn't up to once again trying to soothe his guilty conscience.
He headed for the bed and flopped onto it, pulling the covers tightly around him and arranging the pillow just how he liked it. Though prepared for yet another battle against nightmares and insomnia, he instead floated gently away into a long, deep, dreamless sleep.
**
Danny woke barely in time for his AA meeting, feeling much improved, although still tired. He hit a drive-thru on his way to the community center and ate in the car.
The meeting went well. He didn't do much talking, as several new members were introduced and shared their stories. Still, he drew strength in simply being near people who understood the disease he'd dealt with for almost ten years. If the time came when he had a strong urge to take a drink, this group would help pull him through it.
Since the shooting, he'd experienced only minor cravings and denied them pretty easily. When he'd imagined how an ice-cold beer might taste, he'd simply reminded himself that booze would complicate, not solve, his problems. Getting drunk would get him nowhere, fast.
After the meeting, Danny went home and caught the last hour of "There's Something About Mary" on HBO. The juvenile comedy provided a welcome distraction, and he relaxed gradually, limbs growing heavy, eyes nearly closing several times. When the movie ended at 10 o'clock, he decided to turn in. While he didn't want another night of insomnia or nightmares or both, he felt encouraged by his earlier stretch of sleep.
The second his head hit the pillow, his eyes drifted shut and his breathing slowed. He was nearly asleep when an image of Martin rose up before him. Martin, laying in the hospital, pretending he was doing just fine, but obviously hurting. Is that how he'd look during tomorrow's visit?
Danny opened his eyes as tension coiled into a tight, hard ball in his stomach. He rolled over and pressed a hand over his gut, groaning in frustration. He had to get some freakin' rest.
Why had he been able to sleep earlier, but couldn't now?
It didn't take long to figure that one out.
He'd slept fine before because he hadn't been worried about seeing Martin in a few hours. Postponing their visit had taken some pressure off of him. But now ... now he was getting keyed up about his impending trip to the hospital. The more he tried not to think about it, the more obsessed he became with it, and he soon found himself wide awake and utterly exhausted.
Maybe ... maybe in order to get some decent rest tonight, he should skip tomorrow's visit. He could call Martin in the morning and explain that he was still catching up on his sleep, and had errands to run, and wanted to visit Viv ... all perfectly good excuses, right? He would apologize profusely, and he'd visit Fitzgerald on Thursday.
Yeah, a good night of sleep tonight would lead to a good night of sleep tomorrow, and on Thursday, he'd be up for seeing his partner.
Satisfied with his plan, Danny's stomach settled, and he soon drifted off into ten hours of slumber, broken only twice by nightmares.
Chapter 18
Wednesday dawned with a flurry of activity in Martin's room, starting with his breakfast's arrival. He just finished picking at the pale yellow eggs and barely buttered toast when his parents stopped in for a long visit. Then his sister arrived, directly from the airport and accompanied by his nieces, ages four and six. They left after thirty minutes, but only because Roger and Jamie Toland showed up, with a ridiculously bright floral arrangement and a gift bag bursting with science fiction novels in tow. Once they departed, the nurse arrived to give him a sponge bath -- an increasingly mortifying affair the more alert he was -- and then food services delivered lunch. Yet another round of chicken noodle soup, the only kind the hospital made, apparently, as well as a tuna fish sandwich in desperate need of moisture. The food-services staff simply didn't understand the importance of mayonnaise, although they held Jell-O in high esteem. It seemed to be its own food group, accompanying most meals.Martin was pretty sure he'd hate it by the time they discharged him.
He washed his food down with some water and Demerol, which he gladly took. His visitors had tired him out, and his aching body needed some rest, since the nurses would arrive later to get him out of bed for the first time.
After a two-hour nap, he blinked awake to a wonderfully empty room. A little peace and quiet would help him mentally prepare for the difficult task ahead.
He got exactly twenty-three minutes of solitude before Sam showed up.
They made small talk for a while, discussing sports and joking about the hospital food, and then she headed back to the office. A few minutes later, Patricia and a blond, athletically built male nurse Martin hadn't seen before arrived. His mouth went dry. He was more than a little nervous about getting out of bed. His body felt so alien to him, drained of its usual energy and prisoner to constant pain. Even with the nurses' help, he feared he'd never make it to the chair they had scooted parallel to the bed. It was just too damned far away. It might as well be in Jersey.
Steven, according to his nametag, raised him into an almost fully upright position as Patricia spoke. "All right, Martin. You ready?"
He took a breath and blew it out, steeling himself for the inevitable. "Yeah."
"I'll help you swing your legs out and onto the floor. We have your slippers right down there, waiting for you."
As the nurses moved his legs over the mattress and toward the ground, he clenched his jaw, unable to stifle a groan as agony ripped up and down his torso. He gripped the edge of the bed as he slid his feet into the slippers.
"Now we're going to help you stand up," Patricia explained, "but let us do most of the work."
Martin put an arm around each nurse's shoulders, and they gently grasped his hips. He tried not to bristle at the close contact. He had to get used to relying on other people. He wouldn't be able to do a whole hell of a lot by himself for a while.
Patricia smiled encouragingly. "On three, okay?"
He nodded as tiny beads of sweat broke out on his forehead.
"One."
*Oh God.*
"Two."
*This is gonna hurt like hell.*
"Three."
They guided him to his feet, shouldering most of his weight. Still, the movement ignited a white-hot burst of agony, and he cried out. Spots flared in front of him and merged, and the room seesawed. He sucked in a breath and sagged, but Steven adjusted his hold and kept him upright.
"Easy, easy," the blond soothed. "Give yourself a minute."
Martin slammed his eyes shut and waited for the vertigo to pass. It seemed to take hours, but finally it receded. He tentatively scanned the room and was relieved to see only a couple of dwindling spots in his vision. The pain had not abated, but at least he no longer felt on the verge of fainting.
"Let's get this ... over with," he panted.
Steven nodded. "You don't even have to take a step. We're just going to turn you to the side and lower you into the chair."
They shifted him left, and the other man hooked the chair with one foot and slid it to lightly touch the back of his legs. The nurses then eased him down, going slowly so they could support him. They moved carefully, but it still hurt. A sharp pull along his chest joined a burning over his stomach, forging a searing heat that made him gasp. He breathed heavily as his vision narrowed into pinpricks and cold sweat trickled down his face and neck.
*Stay awake, stay awake, stay awake.*
Voices urged him to relax, but he didn't answer, all of his energy focused on remaining conscious. Slowly, ever so slowly, his eyesight cleared and he saw Patricia bending near. She wiped his face with a washcloth as she spoke.
"You did great, Martin."
He clutched the arms of the chair and tried to ride out the all-encompassing pain.
"Thanks for your help, Steven," Patricia told her co-worker, who nodded and exited the room. She smiled sympathetically at her patient. "I know it hurts. I'm sorry. Let me just check those bandages, make sure there's no bleeding, and then I'll bring you some Demerol. Do you want the higher dosage?"
He nodded, unable to form words just yet.
A few minutes later, he was medicated. Thank God.
"Can you handle sitting there for a little while?" Patricia asked. "I know it's uncomfortable, but it's important that you're able to get out of bed and sit up a few times today. Otherwise, we won't be able to start you walking tomorrow, and that'll push your release back."
The hospital bed had never looked so luxurious, and Martin longed to collapse on it and lay absolutely motionless until the pills kicked in. But what he wanted even more, was to get the hell out of the hospital on Friday.
"Chair's fine," he replied shakily.
"Good. We'll come back in about fifteen minutes and help you into bed."
"Okay."
"Call me if you need anything." Patricia lightly squeezed his shoulder and left him to his suffering.
Ten minutes later, he still hurt. Badly. Millions of tiny claws raked over his skin, and his hands trembled. Frustrated by his pain and weakness, and the knowledge that he had a long recovery ahead, anger began burning within him. He didn't direct it toward himself, or at the hospital staff who alternately soothed and tortured him, but at the person responsible for his predicament: Emil Dornvald. The man who, in the space of mere seconds, had profoundly altered the course of his life.
Martin was not a stupid man. When he'd joined the FBI, he knew his job could put him in harm's way. But it was one thing to accept the risks, and quite another to live the consequences.
Thanks to Dornvald, he now knew what it was like to get gunned down and wake up in mind-numbing, breath-stealing, excruciating agony. To endure each day that followed in an exhausting misery, wondering when he'd feel good again.
The phone rang, interrupting his dark musings, and he scowled. He didn't want to talk to anyone, and he couldn't reach the damned thing anyway. It rang several times before stopping, and a few seconds later, Patricia came in and said Danny was on hold.
"Do you need me to get the phone for you?" the nurse offered. "Or if you're not up to taking the call ... "
He really wasn't. He doubted that he could hide the pain in his voice, and he didn't want Danny to hear it. The man had enough of a guilt complex as it was. He was about to have Patricia tell his partner that he'd call him later when he realized Taylor was probably getting ready to come visit.
But he really, absolutely, positively, could not face Danny or anyone else right now. All he wanted to do was crawl into a deep, dark, warm hole and pass out until the pain went the hell away.
"I'll take it," he sighed, and then cleared his throat.
Patricia placed the phone in his lap, pressed the "hold" button, and left. He picked up the receiver and cringed at his shaky, "Hello?"
"Martin? You all right?"
"Yeah, I'm fine," he lied, trying to steady his voice, but doing only a halfway decent job of it.
"You sure? You don't sound so good."
"Just a little winded. They had me get out of bed."
"You're kidding." A beat of silence. "They've got you walking around already?"
"No," Martin replied, silently cursing the pain that didn't want to let up. "They helped me stand up and then sit down in a chair."
"Oh."
He could picture his friend's anguished expression and sighed. "I'm fine, Danny. Just waiting for the pills to kick in."
A long pause, and then the other man cleared his throat. "Hey, maybe it'd be best if I skipped our visit today, huh? You don't sound like you're up for company."
Taylor seemed almost enthusiastic about the idea, and he couldn't blame him. Who really wanted to watch somebody else's suffering, if they didn't have to?
"That's probably a good idea, man," Martin agreed. "I'll give you a call tomorrow, okay?"
"Sure. Take care."
"You, too."
He hung up and closed his eyes. He took a shaky breath and slowly exhaled, waiting for the nurses to come help him back into bed. He wanted to go to sleep and forget, just for a little while, about his pain.
And Danny's, too.
Chapter 19
Danny's plan had been rock solid.He'd figured that since he'd had a good night's sleep on Tuesday, and had taken a two-day break from visiting Martin, he'd be all right Wednesday night. He'd get some rest, and would be ready to see the wounded agent on Thursday. But he'd tossed and turned for much of the night, and had spent the remaining hours lost in nightmares.
When Thursday morning rolled around, he dragged himself out of bed and padded into the bathroom, where he splashed cold water on his face and grimaced at his reflection. He still had circles under his red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes. If he looked this crappy tomorrow, there was no way Dr. Harris would clear him for work on Monday.
Danny took a deep breath and noisily sighed. The next few days were critical. First, he had to get through his meeting with Dr. Harris, and if that went well, he needed to make sure he was in good shape for Monday: healthy and happy, smirk and wit firmly in place.
To pull all of that off, he needed to relax and get plenty of sleep. But if he saw Martin today, or tomorrow, or even the next day ...
It wouldn't hurt to wait a little bit to visit Martin, would it? After all, the man would be released from the hospital tomorrow, and he'd need some time to settle in at home. Sam had said that Fitzgerald had hired a full-time nurse, and between the nurse and family and even Sam, Martin would have more than enough visitors for the next few days. They'd probably drive him crazy. All that Fitzgerald pride, subjected to people fussing over him 24/7. The injured man didn't need his partner stopping by too, did he?
If he waited until early next week to see Martin, he'd be doing both of them a favor. Right?
Right.
Sure.
After taking a shower and eating a bowl of oatmeal, he called the hospital. As the phone began ringing, he braced himself for the conversation. No matter how he tried to spin it, his actions were driven by self-preservation, not concern for his friend's well-being. Fitzgerald would probably see right through him.
And yet, he couldn't stop himself.
Three rings, and then his friend answered sleepily.
"Hey, it's Danny. Did I wake you?"
"Mmm, yeah, but it's all right." Martin yawned. "Breakfast will be here soon anyway. What's up?"
"Well, I was thinking." Danny paused and then ran through the excuses he hadn't needed to use yesterday, thanks to the other man's misery from getting out of bed for the first time. "Umm, look, I planned on visiting you today, but I've got a lot of errands to run, and I wanted to see Viv before she goes home, and I need to get ready for tomorrow."
He cringed at his babbling, and at the awkward silence that followed. He rested his head against the wall.
"Tomorrow?" Martin sounded more awake now, and decidedly perplexed. "What's tomorrow?"
"I'm taking a weekend trip. Leaving in the morning, coming back Sunday night. Thought it'd be good to clear my head a bit before I go back to work on Monday."
*Liar, liar, liar. No way is he going to buy it.*
"Uhh ... okay," Martin said quietly. "Guess I'll see you next week, then."
There was something in his friend's voice that tore at him. The other man sounded hurt, but more than that, he sounded disappointed.
*He knows. He knows I'm lying. And God help me, I'm too weak to do anything about it. I'm too weak not to lie.*
Danny tried to sound upbeat. "I'm sorry, man, but I'll call you soon, all right?"
"Sure."
A hasty goodbye, and then he hung up and banged his forehead lightly against the wall, turned around, and slid to the floor. He dropped his head into his hands as shame and guilt made his chest burn and his throat tighten.
"You're a selfish son of a bitch, Taylor."
**
Martin hung up and let out a long sigh, wincing as the gently throbbing pain rose and fell with the exhalation.
There was no weekend trip. And maybe there were no errands or a hospital visit to Viv, either. Danny simply didn't want to see him. He couldn't decide what bothered him more: The fact that Taylor couldn't stand to be in the same room with him, or the fact that the man had just lied to him. And badly, at that. The nervousness that had seeped into his voice and rushed words had easily given him away.
He was tempted to call his partner and demand that he come to the hospital. He would tell him, again, that he didn't blame him for what had happened. But the face-to-face contact obviously hurt the other man, and he didn't want to inflict that pain again. The best thing he could do was just give his friend the space he so obviously needed.
He'd let Danny come to him on his own terms.
Chapter 20
Martin's day went downhill after Danny's call. Later that morning, Patricia and Steven helped him walk for the first time in a week and a half. Making the short trip from one side of his bed to the other was an excruciating, tedious ordeal. He faltered more than once, as sharp spasms jackknifed through him and nearly drove him to his knees. But after several minutes and a fair amount of encouragement from the nurses, he reached his destination. He'd become almost dead weight by that point, hurting too much to do anything but breathe through his nose in short, harsh pants.Patricia asked if he was all right, and he nodded, knowing that if he opened his mouth to speak, he'd almost certainly scream, and that wouldn't be very manly, would it?
He was utterly spent, and incredibly frustrated. With the hospital releasing him the next day, he'd hoped to be in better shape. He didn't expect to be doing wind sprints, but still ... it seemed like he wasn't making any significant progress in his recovery.
"Just give it time," Patricia urged, apparently reading his thoughts. "You're doing great, Martin. Really. Now let's get you back in bed, and you can rest for a few hours. We'll get you up again this afternoon."
No. She did not just say that they'd repeat this damned process later today, did she?
Tears stung his eyes, and he blinked them away, angry at his physical and emotional weakness. Fitzgeralds weren't supposed to be weak.
Martin was suddenly very grateful that his family hadn't been present to see his less-than-spectacular performance. With any luck, they wouldn't witness his pathetic attempts to walk until he'd made some significant headway.
But a few hours later, they were there when the nurses arrived to get him out of bed again. Meghan took one look at his mortified expression and ushered their parents out. He'd have to thank her for that one.
And he did, thirty minutes later, as he lay in bed wracked with pain and so exhausted he could hardly stay awake. He barely got out a "thanks, Sis" before the Demerol pulled him under.
When consciousness crept back in, he opened heavy eyelids just enough to see his parents standing with their backs to him, talking with Dr. Gould in hushed, but urgent, tones. His mother seemed the most distressed, judging from the stiff set of her shoulders and the anger and worry edging her voice.
"I just don't see how you can release him when he's still in so much pain."
Dr. Gould nodded his head and smiled sympathetically. Or tried to. Martin had caught on pretty quickly that the man had a weak bedside manner. The surgeon seemed more than competent, though, so it didn't bother him too much.
"I promise you, Mrs. Fitzgerald, your son is well enough to be discharged. The in-home nurse he's hired will be there around the clock for the first week, and she's more than qualified to care for him."
The eldest Fitzgerald shook his head but remained silent, merely wrapping an arm around his wife's shoulders and squeezing gently. She was not appeased.
"I'd feel better if he was here," she said brusquely, "with a full staff of medical personnel at his disposal."
Dragging his eyes all the way open, Martin cleared his throat and waited for his parents and doctor to acknowledge him. He saw the concern on his mother's face, and the frustration on his father's. They were trying to protect him, and he appreciated it, but no matter how lousy he felt, he had to get the hell out of this place. A nine-day stay was more than enough. He longed to sleep in his own bed and be around his own things. To have some control over his surroundings.
"It's all right," he soothed, voice soft and husky from sleep. "I want to go home. I need to go home."
His parents frowned, but his mother's expression soon softened as she stepped up to place a gentle hand on his cheek. "We just hate to see you hurting, Martin."
"I know." He reached up and covered her hand with his own, trying to muster a reassuring smile. "But it'll be okay, Mom. I'll be okay."
*I'll be fine.*
*I'm a Fitzgerald, aren't I?*
**
Martin sighed in relief as his father steered the wheelchair over the threshold of his apartment. Home had never looked so good.
He'd been released midmorning Friday, following a long review of the post-operative instructions Dr. Gould had provided. The same information had already been faxed to Denise, his private nurse. Martin had tried not to dwell on the many restrictions he'd have to follow during the next several weeks. The two-page dietary suggestions in particular had elicited a snort of disbelief. The list of "Don'ts" was far longer than the list of "Do's." The rule of thumb seemed to be if it tastes good, don't eat it.
His parents had driven him home in their luxury rental car, a lightweight wheelchair stowed in the trunk. He'd frowned when he spied the contraption, but he wasn't up to walking very far yet, even with assistance, and his fourth-story apartment was on the opposite end of the floor from the elevator. He had little choice but to use the damned thing, at least for now.
As the front door closed behind him, his father spoke to the trim nurse standing next to them. "Should we take him straight to bed?"
"That'd be best," Denise agreed, and assumed control of the wheelchair.
Martin was grateful that she so efficiently took charge. His father would have gladly helped him into bed, but it'd be less humiliating if a stranger handled that task. He didn't want the other man to see how crappy he felt. It had taken nearly forty minutes to drive home, and sitting upright for that long had set his wounds to throbbing sharply, despite the Demerol he'd taken shortly before being discharged.
It took only seconds for the nurse to push him into his modestly sized bedroom. She parked the wheelchair parallel to the queen-sized bed, which had been turned down. The thick navy-blue comforter and crisp white sheets beckoned him, and his lips curved up, despite the hurt coursing through him.
"Ready?" Denise asked, stepping in front of him and smiling pleasantly, hazel eyes warm, wildly curly, honey-blonde hair bouncing against her shoulders.
Martin had known from the moment he met Denise Reynolds that she was the right nurse for him. After a brief phone conversation to review her credentials she'd visited the hospital, where they'd discussed her approach to home health care. As she'd talked, he'd assessed her with the same scrutiny he used while interviewing people during an investigation.
She'd come across as extremely professional and straightforward, which he appreciated. More importantly, while she was friendly, she didn't seem like the hovering type. He'd get plenty of hovering from his family. He didn't need it from his nurse, too.
He hadn't bothered to interview anyone else in person. An hour after Denise left, he'd hired her.
Looking at the nurse now, he was glad for the decision. He didn't expect to form a lasting friendship with the woman, but her solid presence suggested that he could rely on her without hesitation for the next few weeks.
"I'm ready," Martin said, eager to lie down on his pricey Stearns & Foster mattress and down-filled pillows. While his apartment décor was fairly minimalist, he'd splurged on the bed. When he'd lived in Seattle, he'd bought a cheap mattress and substandard pillows, and had later regretted it. He'd rarely had a good night's sleep in that bed, and the few women he'd brought home had been less than impressed.
The nurse helped him lean forward and gently, expertly guided him upward and into bed. He lay breathless when they completed the maneuver, spikes driving through him. He hoped the pain would settle soon, now that his body rested on a soft surface.
"You need anything?" Denise asked, checking his bandages and then pulling the sheet and comforter over his chest.
Sunlight filtering through the vertical blinds reflected off her engagement ring, and the brilliant glare grabbed his attention. He stared at it, transfixed, lips parting, as a memory popped in front of him: A flashing of light, accompanied by rapid gunfire.
"Martin? Do you need anything?"
Shaken by the image, he cringed and dragged his eyes away from Denise's ring and up to her face. He shook his head. "No. I'm good ... Thanks."
She cocked her head to the side. "You sure?"
"Yeah."
"All right. Just relax and get some sleep." She pointed to a small silver bell that rested on the dark oak nightstand. "Ring if you need me."
After she closed the door behind her, Martin stared at the ceiling, focusing on its stark whiteness and trying to tamp down on the memories that surged through him.
He tried, but he failed.
Every violent minute of the shooting battered him. The gunfire. Danny screaming. Screeching tires. Slamming into another car. A deep nothingness.
And then ... awareness. Painful awareness. Struggling to breathe. Struggling to live. Danny's hands on him. Danny's fear. The ever-increasing darkness.
In the safety of his bedroom, Martin tensed, awakening fresh rounds of agony in his wounds. His breathing quickened and he squeezed his eyes shut, searching feebly for control over body and mind, but unable to find it.
Finally, too debilitated by pain and exhaustion to stay awake, he slipped into a fitful sleep. Nightmares assaulted him, soft moans giving testament to his torture, but going unnoticed by the people in the next room.