Solace 3/14 (Without a Trace)
Solace
3/14
Chapter 5
It was like watching a TV with no sound and a snowy screen. Then someone slowly turned up the volume and fiddled with the picture, clearing everything up until he could see a blur of white. The blur sharpened and formed into a solid white image. A ceiling.
Martin Fitzgerald had opened his eyes and found himself staring up at a ceiling.
“Martin?” His mom’s distinctive voice. What was she doing in his apartment?
“Son?” That would be his dad.
He rolled his head toward his parents. His eyebrows drew together in puzzlement, and he blinked slowly a few times. It felt like he hadn’t slept in weeks, and his body was strangely numb. And his parents were in his apartment. He hadn’t invited them over. Why had they come?
Soft beeping noises filtered through his foggy mind. Had he turned on the microwave?
“Son?” his dad persisted.
“Hmm?” Martin winced against the painful dryness in his throat. He noticed his surroundings for the first time. This wasn’t his apartment. He was in a strange, dimly lit room. Through bleary eyes, he saw an IV in the crook of his left arm. An IV? A hospital?
“I see he’s awake.” A woman’s voice, but not someone he knew.
“He’s pretty out of it.” Dad again.
Martin blinked slowly, trying to figure out why he was laying in a hospital bed. Was he sick? Had there been an accident?
The only thing he knew with certainty was that sleep beckoned him.
“Tired,” he murmured, closing his eyes as slumber carried him away.
**
“Martin? Martin?”
Danny’s voice sounded distant and almost pleading as he talked to his partner, who sat slumped over in the driver’s-side seat of their car, bleeding heavily. With great effort, Martin lifted his head and opened his mouth to speak. A torrent of thick, red, warm blood burst out of his mouth, splattering Danny’s face and neck --
Danny jerked awake with a gasp, his eyes wide, nostrils flaring, breaths coming in short, harsh pants. He looked around and saw he was in the ICU waiting area. He’d fallen asleep on the couch. The younger couple that had been there earlier was gone, and Sam lay curled up on her side next to him, her arm pillowing her head. Mercifully, she hadn’t stirred, saving him some embarrassment.
“Freakin’ nightmare,” he muttered, recalling the image of blood shooting out of Martin’s mouth. His stomach twisted and he groaned softly as vomit made its way up his throat. He quickly swallowed it back down, grimacing, and hurried to a nearby water cooler. As his heart thudded in his chest, he ripped a paper cup out of its holder, filled it, and gulped down the cool liquid.
After throwing out the cup, he raked his hands through his short, dark hair, letting them rest on the back of his head, fingers clasped. He moved toward Martin’s room and saw that a young woman close to his partner’s age had joined the deputy director and his wife. She had her back to Danny, but he could see that she stood nearly as tall as Rebecca Fitzgerald and had long, thick, brown hair whose color matched Martin’s.
“His sister,” Sam said.
Danny’s hands dropped to his sides as he pivoted to see the blonde agent sitting up on the couch. She studied him, eyes narrowing slightly in concern, and approached him, asking if he was okay.
“Bad dream,” he mumbled as his breathing finally started to slow. “His sister, huh?”
Sam nodded. “He has a picture of her at his place. She lives in Las Vegas. Married with two kids.”
Danny checked his watch. 9:43 p.m. He scrubbed a hand over his face and excused himself, then headed toward the men’s room. Once there, he relieved himself and then bent over the sink, grasping the edges and staring at his reflection in the mirror. Beads of sweat dotted his forehead, and the cut near his hairline stood out starkly against the pallor of his skin. He looked like hell.
Turning on the faucet, he washed his hands and splashed some water on his face. The coolness felt good against his skin, and he let the water run for a few minutes, keeping his eyes closed while taking deep, steadying breaths.
Once he felt more in control of himself, he returned to the waiting area and rejoined Sam on the couch. She eyed him critically and opened her mouth to speak, but settled instead for a sympathetic half-smile before focusing her attention on Martin’s room.
A few minutes later, Rebecca Fitzgerald left her son’s side and approached them, her lips curving up into a smile. Hope flickered through Danny and he rose to his feet, expecting good news. She didn’t disappoint him.
“He woke up for a minute. It’s a good sign.”
Sam, still on the couch, expelled a shaky breath, and Danny sighed in relief, eyes straying to Martin’s room.
“You two should go home and get some rest,” Rebecca suggested, drawing Danny’s attention back to her. “We can call you if anything changes.”
Sam spoke up quickly. “I’m staying until the doctors say he’s going to be all right.”
“Me, too,” Danny agreed. Yes, Martin’s condition had improved these last few hours, but until the medical staff said his friend was out of the woods, he couldn’t leave.
Rebecca nodded. “My son has good friends.” She smiled briefly before returning to room 412.
Danny sat next to Sam, who rested a hand on his knee. Without looking at her, he covered it with his own, squeezing gently.
And once again, they waited.
**
Chapter 6
During the night, Martin woke a few times, but never for more than a couple of minutes, and always confused about his surroundings and his family’s presence. He never stayed conscious long enough to ask anyone anything, however, until a little after 4 a.m.
He pulled his eyes open and lay quietly for a moment, giving his brain a chance to start working. It didn’t take as long as it had the last time he’d come around. Looking to the right, he saw his dad and sister, Meghan, sitting in a couple of chairs, dozing. His dad’s head was tilted back, mouth hanging open as he snored lightly. His sister’s head leaned to the side, her breathing soft and steady.
Martin opened his mouth to speak, but managed only a small, raspy grunt. His sister stirred, straightening in her chair, eyes blinking. Seeing him awake and rubbing his throat with his right hand, her expression went from happy to concerned, and she reached for a grey plastic cup resting on the tall table next to his bed. She grabbed a matching pitcher and poured ice into the cup, then dipped a spoon inside and held it to his lips.
“Ice chips?” she asked, yawning.
He nodded and opened his mouth. She tilted the spoon, easing its contents onto his tongue. The ice dissolved and trickled down his throat, soothing the painful dryness, and he closed his eyes and sighed.
“Thanks,” he whispered hoarsely, and studied Meghan. Exhaustion dulled her normally twinkling blue eyes, and her thick, brown hair, usually pulled back into a tight ponytail, lay haphazardly around her shoulders. Her white linen shirt and pants were rumpled.
He looked at his dad next, watching the older man’s head jerk forward and his eyes snap open. Victor Fitzgerald appeared even more tired than his daughter, his wrinkles more pronounced than usual.
Warmth infused the eldest Fitzgerald’s voice as he leaned forward to hold Martin’s hand. “How are you feeling, son?”
The tenderness caught Martin off guard. What the hell had happened to him, to make his father so affectionate? The answer should be in his head, but hell if he could find it.
The other man again asked how he felt, and he considered the question. He had the strange sensation of being a visitor in his own body, nothing more than an observer to whatever illness or trauma he’d experienced. They must have pumped him full of some really good drugs. That would explain his muddled mind and the distant throbbing in his left side.
“I’m okay,” he said weakly. “What happened?”
His father paused, and then proceeded as if he hadn’t heard the question. “Your mother is at the hotel, resting. She had the flu a couple of weeks ago, and she tires easily. She’ll be back soon.”
Noting the older man’s evasiveness, Martin nervously licked his lips. “What … happened?” he repeated, trying to sound stronger than he felt.
Before anyone could answer, a nurse entered the room. Seeing her patient awake, she smiled as she moved to check his IV line and a nearby monitor. “How are you feeling, Martin?”
Sensing that he couldn’t stay awake much longer but needing some answers, he ignored her, and turned back to his father. “Dad … what happened?”
When the older man hesitated, frustration took hold. Couldn’t they see he was too tired to keep asking the same question over and over? He searched his memory, focusing on his last clear image: stepping onto an elevator with Danny and Adisa Teno.
“We were … transferring Teno,” he recalled softly.
His father nodded, his reluctance to continue clear. “Emil Dornvald ambushed you and Agent Taylor. You were shot twice.”
The words were a trigger. Martin’s lips parted, and his eyes lost their focus as memories flashed before him in rapid succession. A van. Dornvald. Automatic weapons. Screeching tires. An explosion of pain. His blood. Danny’s blood. A suffocating weight on his chest, growing heavier each minute.
*Please, someone get it off my chest -- *
The memories halted abruptly, and he lay gasping for breath, straining against his father’s hands, which firmly held his shoulders in an attempt to keep him from sitting up.
“Can’t … breathe,” he wheezed, heart thudding painfully in his chest, the dull pain in his side intensifying with each tortured breath. Panic flooded through him as he tried to escape the vise that had tightened around his lungs.
“You’re all right, son, you’re all right,” his father soothed, voice not entirely steady. “Just try to relax.”
But he couldn’t. He couldn’t breathe. There wasn’t enough air in the room. He desperately clawed at the plastic tubing that ran into his nose. He had to get it out. It was in the way.
“Relax, Martin,” the nurse gently commanded, capturing his frantic hands in her soft, steady ones. Then she leaned away and shouted something, and his sister told him to calm down, and his father shushed him in a way he hadn’t in a long, long time. But none of it helped. He wheezed and gasped, and pain sawed across his chest and stomach, bringing tears to his eyes. Then someone slipped an oxygen mask on him, and his IV line moved slightly. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the nurse inject something into it.
His father laid a warm hand on his forehead and spoke again, but he couldn’t decipher the words. It was as though he stood at one end of a long, murky tunnel, and everyone and everything were at the opposite end, drifting farther and farther away. Martin reached out, and someone clasped his hand just as the world receded into nothingness.
**
A nurse’s shouting startled Danny out of a sound sleep. He sat up quickly and saw the chaos taking place in room 412. Martin lay in bed, struggling to sit up as his father held him down and the nurse slipped an oxygen mask over his face.
Danny sucked in a deep breath, heart pounding at his friend’s distress.
“Oh God,” Sam breathed from behind him.
They rushed into Martin’s room, not caring that they weren’t supposed to be there, just as the nurse injected something into the IV. Machines beeped urgently as the nurse, Victor and Martin’s sister spoke to the pain-ridden agent, telling him to settle down, to relax, that everything was all right.
Danny’s mouth dropped open at the sight before him. His friend was hurting, and afraid, and so very, very lost. The injured man reached out, as if searching for something, or someone, and Danny moved forward and clasped the hand with his own. A second later, Martin’s eyes fluttered closed and he sagged against the mattress.
The room’s occupants stilled, watching as the patient’s breathing finally slowed and evened out. Victor stepped away from the bed, arms hanging loosely at his side, face contorted with emotion, as his daughter dropped into a chair and leaned forward, rocking back and forth. Sam covered her mouth with one hand as a tear slid down her cheek.
Danny simply stayed where he was, holding Martin’s hand, watching his friend’s lax features.
The nurse pressed a call button and requested that Dr. Gould be paged before turning to the cluster of people crowding the room. Her expression was kind, but her words authoritative.
“I need you all to step out so we can examine him. It’ll just take a few minutes.”
Danny looked at her, fear and uncertainty in his eyes as he continued gripping Martin’s hand, not making any move toward the door. “Is he gonna be all right?”
The nurse -- Melanie, he remembered -- smiled sympathetically. “He had a panic attack when he remembered what happened to him. He had some trouble breathing, but I don’t think he did any real damage. Now please, let us do our job.”
Reluctantly, Danny released his hold on his partner and followed the others into the waiting area. Victor and his daughter sat down on a couch, the older man’s arm going around her shoulders.
“I need some air,” Sam mumbled, and nearly tripped in her haste to escape. She passed by a short, bald, middle-aged doctor who entered Martin’s room.
Danny took a deep breath and blew it out before sinking into a chair.
“He’ll be fine,” Victor declared, jaw clenched, eyes flashing, daring anyone to say otherwise.
Danny simply nodded, not trusting his voice.
Martin’s sister smiled at him before looking up at her father. “Of course he’ll be fine, Dad. The men in this family are stubborn, and that’s working in Martin’s favor.” She tilted her head toward Danny. “Agent Taylor, right?”
“Yeah,” he said, shaking the hand she offered.
“I’m Meghan Watkins, Martin’s sister. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
He smiled wryly. “All of it good, I hope.”
“Most of it,” she allowed, eyes twinkling, and Danny couldn’t tell if she was teasing or being truthful. What exactly had Martin told her, anyway?
Sam rejoined them then. A few minutes later, Melanie arrived with the doctor, who inclined his head toward Victor before introducing himself to the others.
“I’m Dr. Gould. I was the lead surgeon during Martin’s operation.”
He paused, as if waiting for some response, and Danny quickly grew impatient. Did the guy want a medal?
The doctor turned his attention toward Victor and Meghan. “Would you like to discuss his condition privately?”
“Right here is fine,” Victor assured the other man. “Agents Taylor and Spade are Martin’s friends. They deserve to know what’s going on.”
The surgeon nodded briefly. “He’s doing well, resting comfortably. The sedative will keep him out for a few hours, and when he wakes up, provided that he doesn’t have another panic attack, we’ll remove the mask and put him back on the cannula.”
Victor’s mouth tightened into a grim smile. “He was getting better.”
Dr. Gould held up a hand in a staying motion. “There’s no reason to view this as a setback.” He lowered his hand and continued. “It’s not unusual to see victims of violent crimes react like this after waking up from general anesthesia. They’re confused, and sometimes the memories are a little overwhelming.”
Danny almost laughed. A little overwhelming? What an understatement. Given how the memories were preying on him, they had to be devastating for Martin.
“Despite what happened in there,” the doctor said, “I believe he’s turned the corner. His vital signs are strong; they improved faster than we expected. His wounds are clean, with no sign of infection. He regained consciousness for a good amount of time. These are all things we wanted to see happen in the first 24 hours, and they have. “
Danny closed his eyes for a moment, almost dizzy with relief.
“Now, his injuries are serious, and we’ll be monitoring him closely for awhile, but given his age and physical condition, he has a good chance of making a full recovery.”
Sam arched an eyebrow. “A ‘good chance’? What does that mean?”
The doctor checked his watch, his mind clearly elsewhere, and Danny fought the temptation to smack him upside the head. “He may have some long-term side effects, some residual pain or intestinal issues, but they’d probably be minor.”
Victor nodded his head. “How long will he be in the hospital?”
“Several days in the ICU, followed by several days in a regular room.” Dr. Gould again checked his watch, this time frowning. “It’s difficult to give an exact answer until we see how quickly he begins to heal, but probably seven to ten days. Now if you’ll excuse me?”
Without waiting for an answer, the man briskly walked away.
Melanie smiled apologetically. “He doesn’t always have the best bedside manner.”
“You think?” Danny muttered darkly, giving the doctor’s retreating back a dirty look.
“Martin really is doing well,” the nurse said, easing the tension in the room. “He won’t wake up for a few hours, and he’ll probably sleep most of today. Why don’t you all go home and get some rest? Or get a shower and a change of clothes, at least.”
At their hesitation, Melanie spoke quickly, before they could protest. “I think everyone could use a break. And you don’t want to run yourself so ragged that you collapse from exhaustion. That won’t do Martin any good.”
They nodded reluctantly and Victor squeezed his daughter’s shoulder. “We should go to the hotel and clean up, and then we can bring your mother back here.”
As Meghan nodded, Danny turned to Sam. “I guess a few hours away wouldn’t hurt.”
“Yeah,” the blonde agreed, smiling tentatively.
As they stepped onto the elevator, Danny took one last look at Martin’s room, his heart aching at the agony his friend had suffered a few minutes ago, and the pain he’d endure for some time to come.
**
Part Four
3/14
Chapter 5
It was like watching a TV with no sound and a snowy screen. Then someone slowly turned up the volume and fiddled with the picture, clearing everything up until he could see a blur of white. The blur sharpened and formed into a solid white image. A ceiling.
Martin Fitzgerald had opened his eyes and found himself staring up at a ceiling.
“Martin?” His mom’s distinctive voice. What was she doing in his apartment?
“Son?” That would be his dad.
He rolled his head toward his parents. His eyebrows drew together in puzzlement, and he blinked slowly a few times. It felt like he hadn’t slept in weeks, and his body was strangely numb. And his parents were in his apartment. He hadn’t invited them over. Why had they come?
Soft beeping noises filtered through his foggy mind. Had he turned on the microwave?
“Son?” his dad persisted.
“Hmm?” Martin winced against the painful dryness in his throat. He noticed his surroundings for the first time. This wasn’t his apartment. He was in a strange, dimly lit room. Through bleary eyes, he saw an IV in the crook of his left arm. An IV? A hospital?
“I see he’s awake.” A woman’s voice, but not someone he knew.
“He’s pretty out of it.” Dad again.
Martin blinked slowly, trying to figure out why he was laying in a hospital bed. Was he sick? Had there been an accident?
The only thing he knew with certainty was that sleep beckoned him.
“Tired,” he murmured, closing his eyes as slumber carried him away.
**
“Martin? Martin?”
Danny’s voice sounded distant and almost pleading as he talked to his partner, who sat slumped over in the driver’s-side seat of their car, bleeding heavily. With great effort, Martin lifted his head and opened his mouth to speak. A torrent of thick, red, warm blood burst out of his mouth, splattering Danny’s face and neck --
Danny jerked awake with a gasp, his eyes wide, nostrils flaring, breaths coming in short, harsh pants. He looked around and saw he was in the ICU waiting area. He’d fallen asleep on the couch. The younger couple that had been there earlier was gone, and Sam lay curled up on her side next to him, her arm pillowing her head. Mercifully, she hadn’t stirred, saving him some embarrassment.
“Freakin’ nightmare,” he muttered, recalling the image of blood shooting out of Martin’s mouth. His stomach twisted and he groaned softly as vomit made its way up his throat. He quickly swallowed it back down, grimacing, and hurried to a nearby water cooler. As his heart thudded in his chest, he ripped a paper cup out of its holder, filled it, and gulped down the cool liquid.
After throwing out the cup, he raked his hands through his short, dark hair, letting them rest on the back of his head, fingers clasped. He moved toward Martin’s room and saw that a young woman close to his partner’s age had joined the deputy director and his wife. She had her back to Danny, but he could see that she stood nearly as tall as Rebecca Fitzgerald and had long, thick, brown hair whose color matched Martin’s.
“His sister,” Sam said.
Danny’s hands dropped to his sides as he pivoted to see the blonde agent sitting up on the couch. She studied him, eyes narrowing slightly in concern, and approached him, asking if he was okay.
“Bad dream,” he mumbled as his breathing finally started to slow. “His sister, huh?”
Sam nodded. “He has a picture of her at his place. She lives in Las Vegas. Married with two kids.”
Danny checked his watch. 9:43 p.m. He scrubbed a hand over his face and excused himself, then headed toward the men’s room. Once there, he relieved himself and then bent over the sink, grasping the edges and staring at his reflection in the mirror. Beads of sweat dotted his forehead, and the cut near his hairline stood out starkly against the pallor of his skin. He looked like hell.
Turning on the faucet, he washed his hands and splashed some water on his face. The coolness felt good against his skin, and he let the water run for a few minutes, keeping his eyes closed while taking deep, steadying breaths.
Once he felt more in control of himself, he returned to the waiting area and rejoined Sam on the couch. She eyed him critically and opened her mouth to speak, but settled instead for a sympathetic half-smile before focusing her attention on Martin’s room.
A few minutes later, Rebecca Fitzgerald left her son’s side and approached them, her lips curving up into a smile. Hope flickered through Danny and he rose to his feet, expecting good news. She didn’t disappoint him.
“He woke up for a minute. It’s a good sign.”
Sam, still on the couch, expelled a shaky breath, and Danny sighed in relief, eyes straying to Martin’s room.
“You two should go home and get some rest,” Rebecca suggested, drawing Danny’s attention back to her. “We can call you if anything changes.”
Sam spoke up quickly. “I’m staying until the doctors say he’s going to be all right.”
“Me, too,” Danny agreed. Yes, Martin’s condition had improved these last few hours, but until the medical staff said his friend was out of the woods, he couldn’t leave.
Rebecca nodded. “My son has good friends.” She smiled briefly before returning to room 412.
Danny sat next to Sam, who rested a hand on his knee. Without looking at her, he covered it with his own, squeezing gently.
And once again, they waited.
**
Chapter 6
During the night, Martin woke a few times, but never for more than a couple of minutes, and always confused about his surroundings and his family’s presence. He never stayed conscious long enough to ask anyone anything, however, until a little after 4 a.m.
He pulled his eyes open and lay quietly for a moment, giving his brain a chance to start working. It didn’t take as long as it had the last time he’d come around. Looking to the right, he saw his dad and sister, Meghan, sitting in a couple of chairs, dozing. His dad’s head was tilted back, mouth hanging open as he snored lightly. His sister’s head leaned to the side, her breathing soft and steady.
Martin opened his mouth to speak, but managed only a small, raspy grunt. His sister stirred, straightening in her chair, eyes blinking. Seeing him awake and rubbing his throat with his right hand, her expression went from happy to concerned, and she reached for a grey plastic cup resting on the tall table next to his bed. She grabbed a matching pitcher and poured ice into the cup, then dipped a spoon inside and held it to his lips.
“Ice chips?” she asked, yawning.
He nodded and opened his mouth. She tilted the spoon, easing its contents onto his tongue. The ice dissolved and trickled down his throat, soothing the painful dryness, and he closed his eyes and sighed.
“Thanks,” he whispered hoarsely, and studied Meghan. Exhaustion dulled her normally twinkling blue eyes, and her thick, brown hair, usually pulled back into a tight ponytail, lay haphazardly around her shoulders. Her white linen shirt and pants were rumpled.
He looked at his dad next, watching the older man’s head jerk forward and his eyes snap open. Victor Fitzgerald appeared even more tired than his daughter, his wrinkles more pronounced than usual.
Warmth infused the eldest Fitzgerald’s voice as he leaned forward to hold Martin’s hand. “How are you feeling, son?”
The tenderness caught Martin off guard. What the hell had happened to him, to make his father so affectionate? The answer should be in his head, but hell if he could find it.
The other man again asked how he felt, and he considered the question. He had the strange sensation of being a visitor in his own body, nothing more than an observer to whatever illness or trauma he’d experienced. They must have pumped him full of some really good drugs. That would explain his muddled mind and the distant throbbing in his left side.
“I’m okay,” he said weakly. “What happened?”
His father paused, and then proceeded as if he hadn’t heard the question. “Your mother is at the hotel, resting. She had the flu a couple of weeks ago, and she tires easily. She’ll be back soon.”
Noting the older man’s evasiveness, Martin nervously licked his lips. “What … happened?” he repeated, trying to sound stronger than he felt.
Before anyone could answer, a nurse entered the room. Seeing her patient awake, she smiled as she moved to check his IV line and a nearby monitor. “How are you feeling, Martin?”
Sensing that he couldn’t stay awake much longer but needing some answers, he ignored her, and turned back to his father. “Dad … what happened?”
When the older man hesitated, frustration took hold. Couldn’t they see he was too tired to keep asking the same question over and over? He searched his memory, focusing on his last clear image: stepping onto an elevator with Danny and Adisa Teno.
“We were … transferring Teno,” he recalled softly.
His father nodded, his reluctance to continue clear. “Emil Dornvald ambushed you and Agent Taylor. You were shot twice.”
The words were a trigger. Martin’s lips parted, and his eyes lost their focus as memories flashed before him in rapid succession. A van. Dornvald. Automatic weapons. Screeching tires. An explosion of pain. His blood. Danny’s blood. A suffocating weight on his chest, growing heavier each minute.
*Please, someone get it off my chest -- *
The memories halted abruptly, and he lay gasping for breath, straining against his father’s hands, which firmly held his shoulders in an attempt to keep him from sitting up.
“Can’t … breathe,” he wheezed, heart thudding painfully in his chest, the dull pain in his side intensifying with each tortured breath. Panic flooded through him as he tried to escape the vise that had tightened around his lungs.
“You’re all right, son, you’re all right,” his father soothed, voice not entirely steady. “Just try to relax.”
But he couldn’t. He couldn’t breathe. There wasn’t enough air in the room. He desperately clawed at the plastic tubing that ran into his nose. He had to get it out. It was in the way.
“Relax, Martin,” the nurse gently commanded, capturing his frantic hands in her soft, steady ones. Then she leaned away and shouted something, and his sister told him to calm down, and his father shushed him in a way he hadn’t in a long, long time. But none of it helped. He wheezed and gasped, and pain sawed across his chest and stomach, bringing tears to his eyes. Then someone slipped an oxygen mask on him, and his IV line moved slightly. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the nurse inject something into it.
His father laid a warm hand on his forehead and spoke again, but he couldn’t decipher the words. It was as though he stood at one end of a long, murky tunnel, and everyone and everything were at the opposite end, drifting farther and farther away. Martin reached out, and someone clasped his hand just as the world receded into nothingness.
**
A nurse’s shouting startled Danny out of a sound sleep. He sat up quickly and saw the chaos taking place in room 412. Martin lay in bed, struggling to sit up as his father held him down and the nurse slipped an oxygen mask over his face.
Danny sucked in a deep breath, heart pounding at his friend’s distress.
“Oh God,” Sam breathed from behind him.
They rushed into Martin’s room, not caring that they weren’t supposed to be there, just as the nurse injected something into the IV. Machines beeped urgently as the nurse, Victor and Martin’s sister spoke to the pain-ridden agent, telling him to settle down, to relax, that everything was all right.
Danny’s mouth dropped open at the sight before him. His friend was hurting, and afraid, and so very, very lost. The injured man reached out, as if searching for something, or someone, and Danny moved forward and clasped the hand with his own. A second later, Martin’s eyes fluttered closed and he sagged against the mattress.
The room’s occupants stilled, watching as the patient’s breathing finally slowed and evened out. Victor stepped away from the bed, arms hanging loosely at his side, face contorted with emotion, as his daughter dropped into a chair and leaned forward, rocking back and forth. Sam covered her mouth with one hand as a tear slid down her cheek.
Danny simply stayed where he was, holding Martin’s hand, watching his friend’s lax features.
The nurse pressed a call button and requested that Dr. Gould be paged before turning to the cluster of people crowding the room. Her expression was kind, but her words authoritative.
“I need you all to step out so we can examine him. It’ll just take a few minutes.”
Danny looked at her, fear and uncertainty in his eyes as he continued gripping Martin’s hand, not making any move toward the door. “Is he gonna be all right?”
The nurse -- Melanie, he remembered -- smiled sympathetically. “He had a panic attack when he remembered what happened to him. He had some trouble breathing, but I don’t think he did any real damage. Now please, let us do our job.”
Reluctantly, Danny released his hold on his partner and followed the others into the waiting area. Victor and his daughter sat down on a couch, the older man’s arm going around her shoulders.
“I need some air,” Sam mumbled, and nearly tripped in her haste to escape. She passed by a short, bald, middle-aged doctor who entered Martin’s room.
Danny took a deep breath and blew it out before sinking into a chair.
“He’ll be fine,” Victor declared, jaw clenched, eyes flashing, daring anyone to say otherwise.
Danny simply nodded, not trusting his voice.
Martin’s sister smiled at him before looking up at her father. “Of course he’ll be fine, Dad. The men in this family are stubborn, and that’s working in Martin’s favor.” She tilted her head toward Danny. “Agent Taylor, right?”
“Yeah,” he said, shaking the hand she offered.
“I’m Meghan Watkins, Martin’s sister. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
He smiled wryly. “All of it good, I hope.”
“Most of it,” she allowed, eyes twinkling, and Danny couldn’t tell if she was teasing or being truthful. What exactly had Martin told her, anyway?
Sam rejoined them then. A few minutes later, Melanie arrived with the doctor, who inclined his head toward Victor before introducing himself to the others.
“I’m Dr. Gould. I was the lead surgeon during Martin’s operation.”
He paused, as if waiting for some response, and Danny quickly grew impatient. Did the guy want a medal?
The doctor turned his attention toward Victor and Meghan. “Would you like to discuss his condition privately?”
“Right here is fine,” Victor assured the other man. “Agents Taylor and Spade are Martin’s friends. They deserve to know what’s going on.”
The surgeon nodded briefly. “He’s doing well, resting comfortably. The sedative will keep him out for a few hours, and when he wakes up, provided that he doesn’t have another panic attack, we’ll remove the mask and put him back on the cannula.”
Victor’s mouth tightened into a grim smile. “He was getting better.”
Dr. Gould held up a hand in a staying motion. “There’s no reason to view this as a setback.” He lowered his hand and continued. “It’s not unusual to see victims of violent crimes react like this after waking up from general anesthesia. They’re confused, and sometimes the memories are a little overwhelming.”
Danny almost laughed. A little overwhelming? What an understatement. Given how the memories were preying on him, they had to be devastating for Martin.
“Despite what happened in there,” the doctor said, “I believe he’s turned the corner. His vital signs are strong; they improved faster than we expected. His wounds are clean, with no sign of infection. He regained consciousness for a good amount of time. These are all things we wanted to see happen in the first 24 hours, and they have. “
Danny closed his eyes for a moment, almost dizzy with relief.
“Now, his injuries are serious, and we’ll be monitoring him closely for awhile, but given his age and physical condition, he has a good chance of making a full recovery.”
Sam arched an eyebrow. “A ‘good chance’? What does that mean?”
The doctor checked his watch, his mind clearly elsewhere, and Danny fought the temptation to smack him upside the head. “He may have some long-term side effects, some residual pain or intestinal issues, but they’d probably be minor.”
Victor nodded his head. “How long will he be in the hospital?”
“Several days in the ICU, followed by several days in a regular room.” Dr. Gould again checked his watch, this time frowning. “It’s difficult to give an exact answer until we see how quickly he begins to heal, but probably seven to ten days. Now if you’ll excuse me?”
Without waiting for an answer, the man briskly walked away.
Melanie smiled apologetically. “He doesn’t always have the best bedside manner.”
“You think?” Danny muttered darkly, giving the doctor’s retreating back a dirty look.
“Martin really is doing well,” the nurse said, easing the tension in the room. “He won’t wake up for a few hours, and he’ll probably sleep most of today. Why don’t you all go home and get some rest? Or get a shower and a change of clothes, at least.”
At their hesitation, Melanie spoke quickly, before they could protest. “I think everyone could use a break. And you don’t want to run yourself so ragged that you collapse from exhaustion. That won’t do Martin any good.”
They nodded reluctantly and Victor squeezed his daughter’s shoulder. “We should go to the hotel and clean up, and then we can bring your mother back here.”
As Meghan nodded, Danny turned to Sam. “I guess a few hours away wouldn’t hurt.”
“Yeah,” the blonde agreed, smiling tentatively.
As they stepped onto the elevator, Danny took one last look at Martin’s room, his heart aching at the agony his friend had suffered a few minutes ago, and the pain he’d endure for some time to come.
**
Part Four