Solace 7/14 (Without a Trace)
Solace
7/14
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.
**
Part Eight
7/14
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.
**
Part Eight