Fifty-One
“You heard Doogie Howser. The surgery’s going to take a while. You won’t be missing anything if we go get some breakfast.”
Maggie was prepared for an eyeroll. A “yeah right, Mom” and some sort of sass. What she got instead – and what disturbed her – was Ava’s expressionless headshake. She didn’t consider leaving the waiting room for a second.
“Dr. Roth might have a question,” she said. “And what if I’m not here? No. I’m not hungry.”
“Ava,” Maggie sighed. “Mercy was totally stable this morning. His white cell count was down. The antibiotics are working. You heard the doctor. This isn’t a risky surgery. You can walk to the cafeteria and get a muffin. He won’t die in that time.”
“You don’t know that,” Ava said softly, and it broke Maggie’s heart.
“Baby–”
“If she doesn’t want to go, don’t keep talking about it,” Ghost said. He stood, and shot Maggie a quelling look that she returned with a scowl. “I’m going to the vending machines. You want a Snickers?” he asked Ava. “And a Coke? If I bring it, will you eat a little?”
Ava shrugged and stared at the door Dr. Roth had disappeared through.
“How nutritious,” Maggie whispered as Ghost passed her.
“Doesn’t matter,” he whispered back. “Sugar’s better than nothing. When did she eat last?”
Maggie shook her head; she didn’t know. Ava had gone to sleep in the chair last night, after their arrival, and roused only in time to see Mercy off to the OR. That had been hours ago. During that time, Aidan had headed back to the clubhouse to catch some sleep, Tango had dropped by with coffee, and Ava’s doctor had released her, assuring that her head was fine, and giving strict instructions about her shoulder.
She watched, touched and amused, as Ghost returned and set the Coke and candy bar down on the little table at Ava’s elbow. He touched her shoulder, careful, gentle. “Eat a few bites,” he said, “so your mother will stop bitching about it.” His voice reminded Maggie of the one he’d used when Ava had been just a baby.
She had a flash of remembrance, a clear memory of the day Ava had been placed in her arms for the first time, pink, new, and squalling. Seventeen, just out of school, and her husband twenty-eight and beside himself with worry through every second of the labor.
“Do you want to hold her?” Maggie had asked him.
She’d wanted to cry watching the delicacy of his hands as he held his daughter that first moment. Maggie had thought of Ava – she loved the sound of the name – but Ghost had come up with Rose. His mother’s name.
However Ava perceived his gruff, dictatorial patriarchy, Ghost loved his daughter more than life. Always had. His face, when Aidan had told them over the phone about the accident, had stopped Maggie’s heart.
Now, in this sterile, lemon-smelling waiting room, Ghost perched on a chair three spots over, trying not to crowd Ava, watching alertly as she picked up the Snickers bar, unwrapped it, and took a tiny bite from one corner.
He glanced over at Maggie, with a face that said, I’m trying.
I know you are, baby, she projected back.
Then she jerked when she saw that Dr. Roth was pushing through the doors.
Ava drew upright as if pulled by strings, her back and neck rigid, the candy bar forgotten in her hands. It didn’t look like she breathed.
“Mrs. Lécuyer,” the young intern said, “Felix is doing just fine. He’s being moved to recovery. If you’ll follow me, you can see him.”
It was almost fifteen minutes before Mercy stirred. The surgeon, a severe, capable-seeming woman, came to brief them on the surgery. It had been complicated, she said, with the knee smashed so severely. She’d made the repairs, inserted several pins to hold the wreck together, and explained that he’d need at least one more surgery to regain full mobility.
Ava listened raptly, nodding, ensuring that she understood. All the while, she held Mercy’s limp hand.
It was in the quiet afterward, as they waited, that Mercy finally took a deep breath and his head shifted, his hand closing on Ava’s. His first word was her name. “Ava.” And then: “Shit, where…?”
“Right here,” Ava told him. “I’m right here.”
Maggie turned her face into Ghost’s shoulder. “I want to take them home. Let’s sign him out AMA, as soon as he can be moved, and let’s go.” When his eyes came down to her face, she saw the swirl of emotions in their brown depths. “I want to take them home,” she repeated, and knew that he understood her completely.
Mercy was theirs. He was, had always been, the only reason Ava was alive. His home was their home. Their family.
Ghost nodded. They wouldn’t turn him away again.
There was pain. A blinding red wash of it, pain that was remembered and current and projected for his future. The kind of all-consuming pain that had no boundaries. And beyond it, there was a black veil, separating him from the only thing he cared about.
He felt her hand against his. There was no mistaking those skinny fingers.
“Ava.”
Was that his voice? That awful dry croaking sound?
He forced his eyelids apart; they were heavy as painted-over windowsills, gummed and dry and resisting every fraction.
“Where…?” His fucking tongue wouldn’t work. He’d been run over by a truck, hadn’t he? Or maybe just slid under one. He couldn’t remember. His last conscious memory was of Ava’s fingers scrabbling against his as he unlaced them and pitched her off the back of the bike.
Oh, shit.
He needed her to understand. She had to know that he’d done that to protect her. It had been the hardest decision he’d ever had to make, but he’d made it in a snap, and he needed her to know…
But what if she was hurt? What if the hand he held belonged to a girl in the same sort of pain as him?
He tried to speak again. It was like lifting weights, opening his mouth.
And then, through the hazy slits of his eyes, he saw her face, haloed by a bright overhead light. Her hand tightened against his.
“Right here,” she said. “I’m right here.”
And she couldn’t have said that if she was hurt too badly, could she?
Sleep fell over him, a heavy drape of unconsciousness.
“He’s okay,” Ava whispered to the darkening evening sky. “He’s okay, he’s okay.” She’d sat vigil for so long, her legs had forgotten how to work. Finally, at the absolute insistence of her family, she’d taken the long walk to the main doors of this wing of the hospital. She’d lost all track of time; she was surprised to see the pinking sunset sky unfolding over the city. The air was hot and fragrant, but it went down into her lungs with the sweetness of home.
She should have known they’d never let her go alone, she reflected, when she heard the doors slide open behind her and a familiar pattern of footfalls approached her from behind. Ghost drew up alongside her, mirroring her posture staring up at the sunset, his hands in his jeans pockets.
“I didn’t expect it to be this hot down here,” he said. “It’s like a jungle or some shit.”
“It’s nice,” she said, voice hollow. “I was too cold inside.”
She heard the familiar sounds of him lighting a cigarette. “If you want,” he said, “you and your mom could go to the clubhouse. Or a hotel, if you want. Catch some real sleep. Take a hot shower.” When she glanced over at him, he said, “I’ll stay with Merc.”
“Thanks,” she said, not sure what to make of his attitude. “But, no. I’m not leaving him alone in this place.”
“The hospital?”
“New Orleans.”
His eyes moved over her face; she wondered what he was looking for, didn’t really care.
Something in the parking lot drew his attention and he turned toward it, touching her arm at the same time, gesturing with the hand that held his smoldering cigarette. “Heads up.”
There was a woman walking toward them, stepping up onto the sidewalk. Dressed in unfashionable jeans, Timberlands, a knotted flannel shirt over a white tee, her hair hastily scraped back, her face looking years-older than the last time Ava had seen her, Evangeline O’Donnell approached with hesitancy. Her mouth was pressed in a narrow, tight line, her eyes wide and questioning.
“Friend of yours?” Ghost asked in a stage whisper.
Ava said, “Evie,” and something in her tone brought the woman up short, three feet from them on the sidewalk.
To Ghost, she explained, “An old friend of Remy Lécuyer’s. Her husband said Larsen’s men had her. They were using her as leverage, to get him to show them the way out to Saints Hollow.” She spoke loud enough for Evie to hear, her voice cold and matter-of-fact.
“Ava,” Evie said again, her lips parting and trembling. “Don’t hate us. We never meant–”
“For us to get killed?” Ava asked. “And just exactly what did you think would happen to us if those men captured us?”
Evie batted her eyes and took a deep breath. “It wasn’t Larry’s fault. They put a gun to my head. They said they’d do awful things to me if he didn’t do what they wanted.”
Ava pressed the knuckles of her good hand to the base of her throat. What would she have done in the same situation? Sacrifice her spouse? Or the friend? There wasn’t a choice there.
An idea took shape in her mind, as she stared at the woman, caught between sympathy and blinding hatred.
Ghost watched, silent, a fixture against the hospital wall.
Ava said, “You knew we were being hunted. The first man, the scout. In the black hoodie. He stopped by your house, didn’t he?”
Evie swallowed and batted at the tears in her eyes.
“He was a local, a tracker Larsen hired.” Info Tango and Aidan had learned thanks to the NOLA Dogs’ digging. “And he found you two first, and you sent him to the Hollow to find us. Didn’t you?”
She knew the answer, but the way Evie’s eyes bulged proved her correct.
“After all your superiority, the way you lectured me about taking care of Mercy, and you sent someone out into the swamp after us and didn’t even think to call with a heads up.”
She ducked her head. She had no defense.
Ava swallowed and felt the lump rise in her throat. “I’m sorry your husband’s dead,” she said, and Evie made a choking sound; she lifted tear-filled eyes. “But I can’t forgive you for what you did to mine.”
Evie sniffled into the back of her hand. “Is he okay? Felix, I mean. I came to see him.”
“He’s sleeping,” Ava said.
“Maybe I could–”
“No,” Ava said, and felt her father’s gaze against the side of her face.
Evie wiped at her eyes. “I’m sorry, Ava. I’m so sorry. Larry and me, we – I – we did–” She struggled for the words, wrestling with the past and present tense concerning her freshly-dead husband. The Dogs had broken the news to her, when they’d found her, held hostage in her own home. “We didn’t want any of this to happen. We love Felix. You know we do.”
Ava nodded, but she couldn’t stop the words from falling off her tongue. “What I know,” she said quietly, “is that everyone in his life who loved him, or claimed to, allowed him to get hurt. Badly. His whole life. That stops with me. I love him. And I won’t let him get hurt anymore.” She pointed to the parking lot. “Please leave, Evie. Please.”
“I’m sorry,” Evie said again, but when Ava wouldn’t budge, she turned and walked back to her car, crying into her hand.
When she was gone, Ghost took a deep breath. Here came the judgment. The lecture. The fatherly advice that it was good to be cold, but not this cold. Nothing she ever did would hit the mark with him. She didn’t care anymore. What she’d told Evie was true: it didn’t matter if she was a disappointment to Ghost for the rest of her life; she was the person who wasn’t going to hurt Mercy. That was all she needed when it came to the approval of men.
But to her surprise, he said, “I was wrong.”
Ava couldn’t blink. “What?”
He sighed, and gave her a tiny wry smile. “I’ve spent years worried that Mercy was bad for you. I don’t think I saw things the way they really are.”
She felt a stinging in her throat, creeping to her eyes. “What way is that?”
“A girl like you isn’t ever in danger of changing. The influence is the other way; you’re good for him. You make him better. There’s not anyone in the world who could make you less than what you are.”
She closed her eyes, fighting the sudden wave of emotion.
She felt Ghost’s arms close around her, and he pulled her into a gentle hug, his face against the top of her head. “Do you have any idea how strong you are, little Rose? I’m so proud of you, sweetheart.”
“Even if I married him?” she asked, sniffing hard.
“Especially because you married him. I love you,” he whispered into her hair, and she felt it, the love, its stern, strong warmth radiating through her.
“Dad, I want to go home.”
“We’re going. Soon as we can.”
“When you guys gonna discharge me, Doc?” Mercy asked as Dr. Roth pulled his stethoscope back and looped it around his neck. His voice wasn’t full of its usual bright spark. It sounded dry and hoarse. His dark eyes were still slumberous, and when they passed over Ava, she felt the heat of a hundred unsaid things in them.
But he was awake, and according to Dr. Roth, he was healing up beautifully.
Dr. Roth had also become totally comfortable with the whole rag-tag lot of them at this point: Ghost, Maggie, Ava, Aidan, Tango and Rottie all camped in Mercy’s private room for the afternoon.
“Considering you had two major surgeries in the last two days,” he said, “I’d give it another three or four days. You can sign yourself out before then, obviously” – he passed a look across all of them that suggested they not do that – “but Dr. Evans and Dr. Kimber want to be on the safe side.”
“Hmph.” Mercy gave the doctor an unimpressed look.
“Everything looks good,” Dr. Roth said. “Your white cell count’s great. The incisions on your knee look good.” He gave them all a little smile. “I’ll check back in later.”
“Thank you, Dr. Roth,” Maggie said as he left. “I want to bake him cookies,” she commented, when he was gone. “He’s a sweet boy.”
Ghost snorted. “Bake them on what? Should I smuggle in an Easy-Bake Oven?”
She smacked his leg with her magazine.
“Speaking of food,” Ghost said. “How much have you eaten today, Ava?”
She lifted her chin in mild defiance. “I had yogurt with berries at the cafeteria this morning.”
“Wow. Call Weight Watchers,” he muttered.
Aidan stood and went to the door, eased it shut and leaned back against it. His movements had an air of the official about them, like he’d drawn a shade on the mundane little conversations.
Mercy sat up straighter against the elevated head of his bed.
“When Merc gets discharged,” Aidan said. “What’s waiting for us back home?”
Translation: how much shit were they going to be walking into?
Ghost sighed. “I don’t think this is the place for that conversation.”
Aidan glanced toward Maggie, and then Ava. “Well if we don’t have it now, Ava might get back to Knoxville and start blowing people’s faces off at random.”
Ava bit her lip, not sure if she wanted to laugh or bury her face in her palms and burst into tears.
Everyone glanced at her, with those flat, impossible to read expressions all the boys slipped on when official club business came up.
Ghost said, “Larsen and his crew are totally wiped out. Now we’ve just got Stephens, Fielding, and that FBI dick to contend with.”
“Will you kill Stephens?” Ava asked, shocking not only herself, but everyone else, judging by their looks. “I’m not some stupid outsider,” she defended. “I know how things work.”
Ghost gave her a truly frustrated look. “I don’t want to kill him, no. I want to discredit him.”
“We’ve got the drugs,” Tango said. “That would get him and his cousin.”
“The money ties to the Carpathians,” Rottie said.
“And my recommendation letter,” Ava said. “Don’t forget that.”
Ghost sat back in his chair, scratching at the stubble on his chin thoughtfully. “We’ll come up with something. We’ve got the ammo; now it’s just about delivering it.”
Everyone went out for lunch. Maggie tried to pull Ava along with them, but she refused. She hadn’t had a moment alone with Mercy since he’d awakened. She needed one desperately.
“How are you feeling?” she asked as she settled into the chair beside his shoulder.
His hair looked limp and dull in the light of the overhead tubes, his complexion still waxy and pale, the shadows beneath his eyes still prominent. It was amazing, Ava reflected, how devastating to the body the art of healing was.
“Well,” he said, with a faint ghost of his usual smile. “I’ve learned it gets real old real fast to be asked how I feel.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry.” He grew serious, his gaze latching onto her face. “Not when I’m the bastard who threw you off a moving–”
She shook her head. “You had to. I know that.”
“Doesn’t make it right.”
“Mercy, nothing about the last few weeks has been right.”
His brows lifted. “Nothing.”
Too late, she realized what she’d said. She reached for his hand on the bed with her good one, curled her fingers through his. “That’s not what I meant,” she said.
But his face was still too-serious. “Would you have married me if we weren’t running for our lives?”
The question stung, maybe more than it should have. “You know I would have.”
He studied her a long moment, eyes touching every curve and corner of her face, tracing her brows and the line of her lips. There was a wall up between them. She could feel it, the way it draped against her skin, and neither of them knew the magic pressure point that would send it tumbling. So much trauma lay between them now, past and present, that they’d faced alone and survived together.
“It hasn’t hit you yet, has it?” he said finally, closing his fingers over hers. “What you did out there on the highway. You’re still in shock.
“I know exactly what I did. I don’t regret it. If you think I should, then you’re kidding yourself, and we both know that.”
He shook his head, the pillow crinkling. “I’m not talking about regret. You just haven’t processed it yet.”
She frowned. “Say you’re right. What happens when it ‘hits me’?”
His smile was tired and wry. “I don’t know.”
They left two days later, bearing prescriptions for Mercy, hauling a borrowed trailer with his bike behind the truck. “We’ll get it back eventually,” Bob assured, waving away Ghost’s concerns. “Don’t worry about it. Take that monster and his little girl home.”
Ava watched New Orleans glide past the window, feeling heartsick and homesick all at once. This city was tainted for her now. She wanted to return to it one day, to have another breakfast at Café du Monde, stroll through the Quarter, have her palm read at Marie Laveau’s, stay in one of the lush hotels and lie down with Mercy on expensive sheets. She wanted a chance to let the magic of New Orleans sink deep into her bloodstream, until they were both infected, until the wall was down again, and they were just them. Finally together, finally free.
But he’d let his demons out of their cages. And she’d put fourteen bullets in the son of the man who’d tried to kill her fourteen years ago.
It was home that they needed now, and that was where they were going. What would happen after that, she didn’t know. She and Mercy had that in common right now, at least: a total lack of knowing.