SB01 - The Guardian's Mission Page 11

  The desire to stay with Martha was so overpowering, Tristan almost said no. But the desperation in her eyes kept him silent. There were police everywhere, easing through grass and brush, searching for evidence that would lead to Johnson. Martha would be safe enough without him, but leaving her bleeding and scared was one of the hardest things he’d ever done.

  “Whatever you need, Sunshine.”

  “That’s what I need.”

  “Then I’ll go. If you promise to stay at Lakeview Memorial until I can come get you.”

  “I promise.”

  “I’m going to hold you up to that.” He trailed his knuckles across her cheekbone. Her skin was icy, but she forced a smile.

  “Call me when you know something.”

  “I will.” He let his hand drop, reluctantly moving away from Martha as they took her to the ambulance. When the doors to the ambulance closed, he turned to Sue, easing down onto the step beside her, covering her hand with his.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Martha wants me to bring you to Lynchburg General. Are you up to it?”

  “Yes. Thank you, Tristan.”

  He stood, offering his hand and gently pulling her to her feet. He’d do what he’d told Martha he would. He just prayed that when he called her he’d have good news rather than bad. He had to believe that’s what he’d have. The world was full of ugliness, but sometimes there was a glimmer of beauty that couldn’t be denied. A miracle that refused to be ignored. This was going to be one of those times. It had to be.

  Lord, this time, let it be. Place Your hand upon Jesse Gabler so that he can return safely home to his wife. To Martha.

  Tristan silently prayed as he escorted Sue to his car and drove her toward the hospital.

  FOURTEEN

  Martha prayed on her way to the hospital. She prayed as she was X-rayed and examined and as the deep gouge across the fleshy part of her shoulder was cleaned and stitched. She prayed while she was being questioned by the police and when she was left alone in a dimly lit hospital room, a television playing endless reruns.

  And then she prayed some more while she waited, and waited and waited.

  Please, God, let my father be okay. Please, God, let him live. Please let Tristan call me soon.

  Please.

  She pulled back the curtain and stared outside, smiling grimly when she realized she’d been put in a room that looked onto the roof of another part of the building. Four stories up. It would be all but impossible for Johnson to take a shot at her through the window. Obviously the police thought they were keeping her safe. If only they’d been as concerned about that before her father had been shot, then maybe he would have stayed safe.

  Seconds ticked into minutes. Then into an hour. Then two. No one entered the room. The phone didn’t ring. And like a prisoner waiting for release, Martha did nothing but pace and wonder if she’d ever get out. Her shoulder was numb, but her head ached with an insistent throbbing that made her stomach twist. Fear was a horrible beast, robbing the brain of the ability to think and the body of the ability to act. Martha knew she should do something, but couldn’t decide what. Instead of calling Lynchburg General, or dialing Sue’s cell phone, or calling friends who might come to keep her company, she paced the room. Scared of what a phone call might reveal, afraid that having friends close might put them in danger.

  “I know you’re with me, Lord, but I have never felt so alone in my life.” She whispered the words as she settled onto the edge of the bed, her muscles so tense and sore that she felt closer to a hundred years old than to thirty.

  A soft knock sounded on the door, and Martha braced herself for bad news as a police officer peered into the room. Older, maybe in his early sixties, his eyes were deep brown in nutmeg skin and so filled with compassion, Martha’s throat tightened with tears she knew she couldn’t allow herself to shed. Once she started crying, there was no way she’d be able to stop.

  “Ms. Gabler? Dr. Brian McMath is asking to see you. He says he’s a friend of yours. Do you know him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you up to a visitor? Or would you rather I send him away?”

  Under normal circumstances, Brian was the last person she would want to see, but these circumstances weren’t normal and she wasn’t sure what to do about his visit. Half of her wanted to send him away. The other half, the half that was terrified and lonely and unsure, wanted company no matter who that company might be.

  “I…have you heard anything about my father?”

  He shook his head. “I’m sorry. I haven’t. I’ll let you know if I do.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Should I send Dr. McMath away?”

  There it was again. The same question that she hadn’t known how to answer and still didn’t. When had she forgotten how to make simple decisions? Probably at the same time she’d watched her father’s blood seep out onto the floor. She shuddered. “No. That’s okay. He can come in.”

  “All right. I’ll be outside your room for the rest of the night, so if you need anything, just let me know.”

  “I will.” But all she needed was to know that her father was okay and to hear that Johnson was behind bars, and no matter how hard she prayed, she just wasn’t sure she would be hearing either any time soon.

  The officer stepped back from the door, spoke quietly to someone else and then Brian walked into the room, his lab coat over a pristine shirt and muted tie, his hair perfectly combed and parted. Typical Brian. No matter how late the hour or busy the day, he always looked perfect.

  “How are you feeling, Martha?” He spoke quietly, his words softer than she’d expected.

  “I’m okay.”

  “I talked to your attending physician. You should be able to leave in the morning.”

  “Good.”

  “I also put in a call to Lynchburg General. Your father is in surgery. It may be hours before he’s out.”

  Surprised, Martha met his gaze. “Thank you for checking on him for me.”

  “It’s the least I could do under the circumstances.” He cleared his throat, took a seat on the bed next to her. “Listen, I’m really sorry this happened to you and your dad. I know we had our differences while we were dating, but I only ever wanted the best for you. Sometimes my way of expressing that leaves something to be desired.”

  An apology? From Brian? Like everything else that had happened, it seemed unreal. Part of a strange dream that Martha wanted to wake from but couldn’t. “It’s okay.”

  “It isn’t, really.” He sighed and stood. “Look, I just wanted to tell you I’m here if you need anything. And that I’ll try to keep you updated on your father. I’m praying things go okay with the surgery, but I want you to know that it’s going to be touch-and-go. Your father is older. He’s in grave condition. You should prepare yourself.”

  Now he sounded more like the Brian she knew. Stating the facts with blunt disregard to her feelings. Much as she knew she needed to hear the truth, she wouldn’t have minded having it couched in some pretty words of comfort. “How does a person prepare for something like this?”

  He blinked, shook his head. “If I knew that, I’d be able to make things easier for a lot of people. Call my cell if you need anything.”

  He walked away, closing the door with a soft click and leaving Martha in silent darkness, his words hanging in the air.

  Grave condition.

  Touch-and-go.

  She’d known it before Brian had said the words, but hearing them made it so much more real. More final. As if her father’s death were a done deal. Over already while she sat twiddling her thumbs waiting for news. A hot tear escaped and slid down her cheek. She ignored it, holding herself still, holding her emotions in, trying to pretend the world wasn’t falling apart while the pieces of it tumbled soundlessly around her.

  “Lord, I really need to know that You’re here. That everything will be okay. That I’m not as alone as I feel.” She
spoke the prayer out loud, her voice raspy and dry. Until now, she’d thought her faith capable of withstanding whatever the world might throw at it, but suddenly she wasn’t quite as certain. It would be nice to have a sign, some tangible proof that God was intervening in ways she couldn’t see.

  She flopped onto her back, staring up at the ceiling and wishing she was as sure of things as she’d been a week ago. There was something to be said for going through life naively believing things would always stay the same. Of course, she’d known they’d change. She’d just never imagined they’d change like this. That during the course of a few days, everything she held dear could be threatened.

  On the far wall a clock ticked the endless minutes as Martha waited for news. Twice, she placed a call to Lynchburg General. Twice, she was told her father was still in surgery. That was better than the alternative. Much better. But Martha could take little comfort in it. Anything could happen in surgery. As Brian had said, her father was older, less hardy than someone a decade or two younger. And he’d lost so much blood. If she closed her eyes, she could see it, oozing out onto the floor, bubbling up between Tristan’s fingers.

  Marti gagged, then sat up, letting her head drop down to her knees.

  She barely heard the door when it opened, and didn’t bother to look up to greet her visitor. A nurse, probably. Or a doctor. Or Brian, back to tell her something else she didn’t want to hear.

  “Hey, babe. How are you holding up?” Tristan’s voice should have pulled her from the fog she was in, made her leap from the bed and rush forward to demand answers, but she couldn’t make herself look up, let alone stand. She was afraid. Afraid of what she might see in his face and in his eyes.

  The mattress dipped under his weight as he sat beside her. Close. So close she could feel the cold chill of fall that he’d carried in. He brushed hair from her neck, his hand sliding across her skin.

  “Sunshine?” He pulled her in, wrapping her in autumn mist and strength. “Your dad is out of surgery. He’s alive.”

  At his words the tension that held her upright seeped out, and she sagged against him, her arms wrapping around his waist, her face buried against his shoulder. She wanted to ask questions, but her body shook with fatigue, with relief, with fear that still thrummed through her, and she couldn’t get the words out.

  “It’s okay. Everything is going to be okay.” Tristan smoothed her hair, pressed her closer to his chest. She could feel his heart beat, the steady rhythm clashing with her frantic pulse. The tears she’d been trying so hard to hold at bay escaped, rolling down her cheeks, spilling onto Tristan’s shirt. She let them fall, too drained to wipe them away. Her father was alive. For now, that was all she would think about. For now, that would have to be enough.

  FIFTEEN

  Tristan grabbed a blanket from the end of the bed and pulled it around Martha’s shoulders, wishing he could offer her more.

  He couldn’t give her what he wanted—a promise that her father would live and that he’d fully recover. The doctors were giving Jesse Gabler a forty percent chance of survival. But doctors didn’t know everything. Only God could determine whether the man would live or die.

  “How bad is he?” Martha lifted her head, looking at him for the first time since he’d entered the room. Her face was stark white in the darkness, her eyes feverishly bright.

  “He’s bad, Sunshine, but not so bad that he can’t survive.”

  “But will he?” She straightened, tugging the blanket close around her chest. She looked young, vulnerable and scared. If he could have, he would have hidden the truth from her, let her think for just a little while that the picture wasn’t as grim as doctors were painting it. But he couldn’t. No matter how young Martha looked, she was an adult. She had the right to know the truth.

  “The doctors are giving him a forty percent chance of making it.”

  She nodded, let the blanket drop and stood. “That’s better than I thought. I’m going to see him.”

  She took a step away, her movements unsteady enough to make Tristan wonder just how far she’d be able to go.

  He jumped up, wrapping his good arm around her waist and adding his support to her trembling legs. “Slow down, babe. You’re not going anywhere if you end up on the floor.”

  “So you’re not going to tell me I can’t go?”

  “He’s your father. I’d never tell you that.”

  She offered a shaky smile. “Okay. Then maybe I’d better sit down for a minute, because things are starting to fade.”

  “You lost a lot of blood.” Too much blood. On Martha. Jesse. The floor. The walls. Everywhere. Because Tristan hadn’t thought Johnson would be so brazen. Because he hadn’t been careful enough.

  Tristan pushed the thoughts away. He needed to focus on the present, not obsess on the past and its mistakes. He helped Martha sit down, poured water from a plastic carafe on the bedside table and held the cup out to her, letting himself think only of now. This moment. Making sure Martha was okay. “Drink this. I’m going to find a wheelchair.”

  His tone was harsher than he’d intended, and Martha grabbed his hand, holding him in place when he would have walked away. “It wasn’t your fault, you know.”

  Surprised that she’d read him so easily, he squeezed her fingers. “I was there to protect you. I failed. In the process I nearly got your father killed.”

  “It wasn’t your fault.”

  “Sunshine—”

  “Don’t say it. Don’t say that you should have been more careful, or you should have known that Johnson would be there, or that you could have prevented what happened. Because if it’s true about you, it’s just as true about me. I knew Johnson was a killer. I never should have let Dad come near me. If this is your fault, then we share the blame equally.” She looked away as she spoke, and he knew that she believed what she was saying.

  “You couldn’t have known, and so you couldn’t have prevented it.”

  “Then neither could you.” She took a deep, shuddering breath that tore at Tristan’s heart. He wanted to make things right. Wanted to be an epic hero, a man who could defeat every monster, even those that couldn’t be seen. Like worry. Like fear. Like guilt and self-blame.

  He caught her tear with his thumb, wiping it away, his pulse leaping at the contact. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that. For years, he’d avoided serious relationships. He’d known too many ATF agents whose marriages had crumbled under the strain of long work hours and uncertain futures. He’d always thought it better to be alone than to risk creating something that wouldn’t last. He never went out with a woman more than three times. Any more than that and he risked falling into something he absolutely wanted to avoid.

  Lately, though, reassessing his relationship rules seemed like a good idea. Lately, forever seemed like it might just be a possibility. Martha’s strength, her independence, her optimism and faith reminded him that as many women as there were who couldn’t handle being with a man whose job demanded so much, there were just as many who could.

  And only one that he might be willing to try it with.

  He forced the thought to the back of his mind, and let his hand fall away from Martha’s cheek. “I’ll be back with the wheelchair in a minute.”

  She nodded, but didn’t speak. He couldn’t blame her. It was nearly four in the morning. If she was feeling as tired as he was, she was probably too exhausted to speak. He did his best to be quick as he found the wheelchair and a nurse who gave him permission to use it. Then he informed the officer on guard duty that Martha was leaving.

  Tristan had already spoken to his boss, arranged a safe house for her to stay in until Johnson was caught. There would be no more chances taken. No more opportunities for Johnson to silence Martha.

  Now all he needed to do was get Martha out of the hospital under Johnson’s radar. He pulled his cell phone out and dialed Grayson’s number, relieved when he heard his brother’s harsh greeting.

  “What?”

  “I�
�ve got a problem and I need your help.”

  “At four in the morning?”

  “It’s a big one.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I’m at Lakeview Memorial. Martha and her father were shot last night.”

  “How come I didn’t hear about this?” Grayson’s harsh grumble had been replaced by cold, precise questions. He was in lawyer mode—logical, savvy. Someone Tristan needed on his team.

  “We’re keeping it quiet. Trying to keep as much information out of Johnson’s hands as possible, but I’m not convinced that’s kept him from finding her here.”

  “What do you need me to do?”

  “Do you know the all-night convenience store a block west of the hospital?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I need you to meet me there. Martha’s father is in bad shape. He’s at the Lynchburg trauma center.”

  “You want me to give you a ride?”

  “I do, but it could be dangerous. You need to know that ahead of time.”

  “And?”

  “And there’s a potential that someone could get hurt.”

  “When isn’t there? Give me fifteen minutes, and I’ll be there.” Grayson hung up in typical Grayson style, quickly with no goodbye. As if he didn’t have time to waste on such things.

  This time, he didn’t. They had to move fast. Keep one step ahead of Johnson.

  Tristan strode back to Martha’s room, expecting to find her seated on the bed just where he’d left her.

  Why he’d expected that, he didn’t know.

  Since he’d met her there hadn’t been one time when she’d stayed where he’d asked her to. This time wasn’t any different. Instead of sitting meekly on the bed, she was hovering in the doorway, staring down the police officer assigned to guard her as he blocked her path to the hallway.

  He stepped aside as Tristan approached, and Martha moved into the hallway dressed in the same dark jeans she’d been wearing earlier, her shirt replaced by a hospital gown. Thick bandages peeked out from beneath the short sleeve of the gown and blood stained her hands.