Life Support Read online

  “What do you mean?”

  “Protecting his brother’s rights. Drew’s right not to be tied down, force-fed . . . become a puppet on strings for people who have his ‘best interests’ in mind.”

  An interest like saving his life?

  “You agree with Eli?” Lauren asked before she could stop herself.

  “I’m only saying . . .” Jess tossed her a pointed look. “I know what it feels like to have people trying to pull the strings in your life. That’s all.”

  - + -

  Eli looked up from the exam room computer, watching as Jessica attempted to get registration information from Darcee Grafton.

  “You’re sunburned too.” Darcee flicked her long red hair over the shoulder of her hospital gown as she studied Jessica’s face. “Let me guess: you’re an actress. Probably a model with that height.” Her voice was still raspy and hoarse. “Yeah, that’s it. A model with an upcoming gig for one of those ‘artsy’ layouts.” Her IV tubing dangled as she raised her hands to make quote marks with her fingers. “Artsy meaning no pesky tan lines allowed, so—”

  “The beach,” Jessica corrected after a sidelong glance at Eli. “At Galveston Island. Sunscreen fail. That’s all.”

  All? Eli thought of Lauren’s anxiety, the blame she’d accepted to spare her sister. Sunscreen fail wasn’t the half of it.

  “Yeah, well . . .” Darcee’s laugh ended in a groan. “Looks like we were on the same adventure quest, but you did better than me, girlfriend. I got blistered. And arrested, I guess.” She peered toward the doorway. “Good-lookin’ cop around here somewhere. Apparently it’s a crime to enjoy yourself in this town. A girl can’t dance and sing without—”

  “Jessica,” Eli interrupted, deciding it was time to spare her. “Are you finished there?”

  “Almost.” Her gray eyes met his for an instant. “Is there an emergency contact, Ms. Grafton?”

  “No. Nobody I’d want knowing my business.” The patient tossed a coy smile Eli’s way. “But you can give our hunky doc here my number, in case he—”

  “Nobody at the home phone?”

  “Look—” Darcee glanced at the bag of IV fluids—“how soon is this going to be done? This stupid hospital visit wasn’t part of my plans, you know?”

  “I’m sure that’s true.” Eli stepped away from the computer, hearing the squeak of Holt’s gun belt as he moved into the doorway. “But let’s get those fluids finished. I need to have a look at your lab tests.”

  “Fluids, tests, cop cars? What’s with you people? I have an innocent beer, a little fun at the park. There’s nothing illegal about that. I know my rights.”

  “Easy, miss.” Fletcher stepped into the room. “These folks are only trying to help.” His gaze moved to Jessica, obvious concern in his expression.

  “That’s right.” Eli took a few steps closer, trying to catch Jessica’s attention to indicate she should move away in case the young woman became belligerent. “You’ll feel better when you’re more hydrated and those burns are soothed.”

  “Can’t stay. I was on my way to Walmart to pick up my pills and some diapers . . .” Darcee’s eyes widened. She slid to the edge of the table, cursing as the IV tubing pulled taut. “What time is it? Is it night? Did I—?”

  “Easy.” Fletcher managed to sound gentle despite the imposing uniform.

  “Darcee . . .” Eli nudged Jessica aside. “Let me help.”

  “No! You can’t keep me here. I have to go.” Darcee hopped down from the table, swore again, grabbed at the IV tubing.

  “Don’t do that,” Eli warned. “Wait—”

  She yanked the needle from her arm. Blood sprayed.

  “Stop!” Fletcher bolted toward her.

  “Bring me some gauze pads,” Eli shouted to Jessica as he tried to capture his patient’s flailing arm.

  “My baby!” Darcee fought, flinging more blood as Eli and Fletcher worked to restrain her. Then her knees gave way, the raspy voice dissolving into guttural sobs. “I went out to get the medicine. And diapers . . . I can’t remember for sure, but I think she’s there at the house. All day. My poor little baby—alone.”

  “THANKS,” ELI TOLD LAUREN as she set the cafeteria tray on his desk. “I wondered what happened to Emma’s dinner.”

  “Delivered to our department by mistake.” Lauren noticed how tired Eli looked, his white coat draped over the back of his chair, scrubs rumpled. A few strands of hair had strayed across his forehead. She tapped the plastic lid covering the plate. “Grilled cheese, curly sweet potato fries, fruit smoothie. All inspected by hungry vultures in ER. It’s a miracle I got it away.” Lauren glanced toward the door. “Where is your daughter?”

  “Uh . . . checking on something.” Eli sighed, his shoulders stooping slightly. “This was nice of you. To bring her dinner by.”

  “I was on my way home. To my parents’ place, actually; I’m house-sitting for a few weeks.” An unexpected wave of guilt prodded. “I shouldn’t have laid into you earlier. About Jess. You didn’t deserve that after what you’ve had to deal with today.” She glanced down, noticed his coat again. There were speckles of dried blood on the collar. “Anyway, I’m sorry.”

  “You were worried. Even I can understand that.”

  But you’d do more than worry. You’d take a stand—isn’t that what Jess said?

  “She was in Galveston,” Eli added. “I overheard her tell a patient.” His lips quirked in a grim smile. “Your sister does have that tendency to run toward the sand.”

  Lauren’s stomach sank. Eli was thinking of that awful time, a little more than a year ago, when he and Jess argued and she ran off. Disappeared for days. After filling a prescription for sleeping pills. Lauren had never been so frightened in her life. The stress caused her father to have a small stroke. She’d been weak with relief when Eli finally found Jess in Corpus Christi and brought her home. And then, when things had mostly settled down, Jess’s stubborn insistence on “space” sent Lauren packing to Austin.

  “You know Officer Holt?” Eli asked, making Lauren think he was as eager as she to change the subject.

  “Since we were kids. He’s our neighbor. Or was. The Holts lived four doors down from my parents. They moved to California last fall—job transfer.” Lauren glanced toward the exam rooms. “Was that woman under arrest?”

  “No. It was a psych problem.” His lips pressed together. “Off her meds. There was some concern she’d left her daughter alone at home, but thankfully, it wasn’t so. The baby was with a neighbor.”

  “Oh, cool!” Emma Landry chirped, appearing in the doorway. She glanced at Lauren, then back to her father. “Did you ask her, Dad?”

  “No. I—”

  “Ask me what?” Lauren couldn’t imagine.

  Eli shook his head. “It’s noth—”

  “Shrek,” Emma blurted. “Our dog. Dad picked him up at the groomer on his way to get me at camp. Then we had to come here because of Uncle Drew. Shrek’s downstairs at the loading dock. Everyone’s being really nice; Vee even gave me a hospital blanket—oops.” She pressed her fingers to her lips. Chipped nail polish, each one a different color. “I probably shouldn’t tell you about the blanket. Anyway, he has water, too. And a place to lie down. But we’re worried because of the thunder.”

  Eli tossed Lauren a sheepish look. “Our dog’s a coward.”

  “We wondered if you could take him home with you.” Emma’s nose perked with appreciation as she caught a whiff of the cafeteria tray. “Just till Dad’s shift is over. That’s only a couple of hours from now. Shrek would be no problem.”

  “I think that’s too much to ask, Emma.” Eli lifted the cover from his daughter’s dinner. The salty-rich aroma of melted cheddar and fries wafted. “It isn’t right to impose.”

  “Only for a few hours?” Lauren watched as Emma poked her small finger through the vortex of a curly fry. “I’m watching my folks’ dog. And Hannah Leigh’s . . .” She decided there was no way she could explain that he
r parents’ shih tzu was under the care of a canine therapist. “She’s sort of sensitive.”

  “Everyone likes Shrek,” Emma assured her with a decisive nod. “They’ll get along famously. Really.”

  “It’s okay.” Eli must’ve read the doubt in Lauren’s eyes. “I’ll get some surgical cotton and plug his ears.”

  “No. It’s fine.” Lauren smiled at Emma, already wondering how she’d entice Hannah into the guest bedroom. How could she disappoint this child? “I can handle two dogs for a few hours. No problem.”

  Now Eli looked doubtful. “You’re driving that Volkswagen Beetle?”

  “Daaaad, it’ll work. Shrek will fit.”

  Fit?

  “He’s a Newfie,” Eli explained. “A Newfoundland. And he’s big even for that.”

  “Shrek’s on a diet,” Emma promised, rainbow fingers hefting her grilled cheese.

  Lauren fought an image of Bigfoot. She’d just had her lime-green Bug detailed. “How big?”

  “One sixty-two,” Eli admitted. “Or was. I have no idea what he’s eaten down in the loading dock. We cautioned them, but the old boy’s a hard-core beggar.”

  “Which isn’t so good with his diabetes,” Emma said. “But don’t worry; he had his insulin shot this morning. You won’t need to do that.”

  Insulin?

  “And he’ll be fine with the weather noise.” Eli poked a straw through the lid of Emma’s smoothie. “As long as he’s inside, distracted. Sometimes I pull my old ski headband over his ears. His hearing is hypersensitive.”

  “Yes.” Emma took a sip from her straw. “Because he’s blind.”

  Two hours later, Shrek was asleep on the Barclays’ family room floor. With Pamela Barclay’s pink satin sleep turban on his head. And a bath towel under his chin for the flood of drool. Somehow Eli had failed to include that particular affliction along with diabetes, thunderphobia, blindness, and hip arthritis bad enough that it required a team of three to boost the hairy black behemoth into the passenger seat of her Bug. A seat now slick with doggy saliva. Lauren was certain she’d swallowed some fur. Still . . .

  “You are sweet. I can’t deny that.” She glanced down at the black dog, stretched out and snoring on the pink carpet—“Sunset Cloud,” her mother insisted, a shade that harmonized with the whole weather theme that had overtaken their family room. Lauren hugged her knees on the fog-gray couch, eyes sweeping the modest space, a full-blown tribute to her mother’s postcollege stint as weather girl for a tiny TV station in Sugar Land. It had been the only stretch of time in the city’s history without a tornado, flash flood, impressive hail, or even record heat. That an emergency appendectomy sidelined Pamela from the career-making devastation of Hurricane Alicia was an often-repeated lament. Lauren let her gaze skim the whitewashed wood paneling and move to the glass cases holding her mother’s collection of antique weather devices: marine compass, rain gauges, copper hygrometer, barometers, the beautiful liquid-filled glass Galileo thermometer, and six weather vanes. Another five were installed on the Barclays’ aging roof: a horse, a rooster, an eagle, a mermaid . . . and a huge winged pig. The perfect family mascot, Jess liked to chide.

  “Easy, big guy,” Lauren soothed as Shrek’s head rose in response to the sound of tree branches slapping the window. Lightning lit the sky, making the limbs stand out in sharp relief. Thunder rolled. Lauren reached down to adjust the dog’s turban, letting her fingers linger on his silky ears, reminding herself that the TV news had reported no imminent danger to the US coastline from the tropical storms brewing in the Caribbean. She thought of what she’d told Vee at dinner: her parents would never have left home if they thought a hurricane was coming. Carl Barclay’s insurance company protected hundreds of homes in their community, and his wife’s smiling face appeared seasonally in his TV ads, offering weather statistics and a checklist for disaster preparedness. Get a kit. Make a plan. Be informed.

  “We’re fine,” she told the dog as thunder rumbled again. “It’s been a long day, but—” A yawn escaped. She was tired, wrung out from the toll of her workday, the conflict surrounding Drew Landry, worry over Jess, and the discomfort that always came when she had to deal with Eli. She shivered but told herself it was the weather, fatigue. What happened between them, that one confusing moment more than a year ago, had been an emotional reaction to the stress of Jess’s disappearance. A mistake Lauren regretted. Time and distance—165 miles between Houston and Austin—had blurred the memory.

  Lauren’s cell phone rang in her lap. Eli.

  “I’m sorry; it’s taking a little longer than I figured.” His voice sounded muffled as if he were whispering or being buffeted by wind. Maybe both. “I had to stop by my folks’ place to pick up some of Emma’s things. She usually stays overnight when I work, but . . .”

  Lauren wondered if his unfinished statement was from a bad phone connection or because he didn’t want to explain his reasons for not letting his daughter stay with her grandparents. She recalled the conversation in the code room: that threatened restraining order to keep Eli from interfering with his brother’s care. “You’re at your parents’ house now?”

  “Yes. Used my key, in and out. Everyone’s asleep. I’ve got Emma’s backpack and I’m on my way to the car. It’s a distance to the parking pad.”

  “Ah.” Lauren wasn’t about to let on that she’d heard descriptions of that home in prestigious River Oaks—and seen photos. Her mother had toured the Landry gardens during a charity event last fall. Despite Pamela’s disapproval of their son, she’d been more than effusive about Julien and Anita Cruz Landry’s sumptuous New Orleans–style estate. She’d covertly snapped phone pics: blurry glimpses of banana and magnolia trees, ferns, and magnificent rose gardens. She’d also captured a small film clip of the towering brick house with its black shutters, ironwork balconies, and window boxes . . . ending with a zoom shot of the Landry gateposts topped by daunting sculptured lions.

  Stone lions and flying pigs . . . Lauren shook her head. Different down to the yard art.

  “I’m leaving for your folks’ place in a couple of minutes,” Eli told her. “Emma’s asleep in the backseat, so I’ll just run in and grab Shrek. If that’s still okay. Sorry. I’m keeping you from bed.”

  “I’m not tired,” Lauren fibbed. “It’s better if you pick him up. I put my parents’ dog in the guest room . . .” She touched a finger to the tender nip on her forearm, slathered in the antibiotic ointment her mother kept with a stash of dog treats and cutesy distraction toys. A sort of Hannah preparedness kit. True to form, the shih tzu had been a reluctant hostess. Even now Lauren could hear her toenails shredding the bedroom door down the hall. She’d have to repaint before her parents’ return. “I’ll be awake, no problem.”

  “Great. Thanks.” Eli’s voice puffed as he walked. “I hope the thunder wasn’t an issue.”

  “No.” She smiled at the ridiculous pink turban on his dog. “We’re pretty well prepared for storms around here.” Lauren’s gaze moved to the wall of weather maps that had decorated their home for as long as she could remember. Huge, neon-color depictions of famous storms: Agnes, Hugo, Andrew, Ivan, Katrina, Rita, Sandy . . . Swaths of blue, turquoise, green, yellow, orange, and gigantic buzz-saw whorls of red. The same colors painted on Emma’s cheek today. Lauren’s mouth sagged open as the thought struck her: My first rainbows were hurricanes.

  “Okay then, I’ll be there in—” Eli’s voice broke away.

  “Eli?”

  “Gotta go.”

  - + -

  The security lights flicked on in the distance, then the porch light, illuminating the dark brick of the house.

  “Eli?”

  His mother’s voice, frightened. This had been a stupid decision. He hadn’t wanted to scare her, only to avoid a confrontation with his father. He should have taken the risk and rung the bell.

  “Eli? Is it you? Darling, please . . .” Her voice was smothered by a gust of humid wind.

  “I’m coming.” Eli
glanced at his darkened car, sighed, and began jogging back up the graveled path, once again setting off the string of motion lights that lit the towering boxwood hedges in stingy glimpses, just enough that he could move forward without tripping. He’d reassure his mother, then get away before his father could—

  “Hold it there. Right there!” There was a thud of heavy footfalls, scattering gravel, a garbled curse. Then a motion light illuminating his father’s angry face. A dark blur, the glint of steel, and—Eli’s blood ran cold—the unmistakable sound of a shotgun being racked.

  “No, Dad, it’s me. It’s—” Eli dropped to the ground, covered his head.

  The blast was deafening.

  “YOU SURE YOU’RE OKAY?” Fletcher asked again, raising his voice over the squawk of his radio. The last remaining officer, besides him, had managed to stop an ambulance from being dispatched. It could have been the SWAT team. The neighbors had made a panicky flurry of calls regarding the sound of gunfire; recent burglaries had folks on edge. Maybe over the edge, considering the current incident. He met Eli Landry’s gaze, saw the red-blue flicker of the patrol car’s strobes reflected in the man’s eyes. “No injury?”

  “No. I’m fine.”

  Even twenty minutes after the incident, Eli’s face was gray, shiny with sweat. No wonder—it wasn’t every day a man’s father mistook him for a burglar. And it wasn’t anywhere near routine for Fletcher to have to question a federal judge. The truth was, he’d made the acquaintance of more members of this family than he cared to today.

  “I wish you’d come inside, dear,” Anita Landry called out, stepping through the huge double doors again. Her fingers trembled as she swept dark hair off her forehead. “I’ve fixed Emma some lemonade. Come have some—you too, Officer.”

  “Thank you, ma’am, but no,” Fletcher told her, catching the expression on her son’s face that said even a medicinal shot of bourbon wouldn’t tempt him inside. “I’m almost finished here and need to be going.”

  “Me too.” Eli glanced past his mother and into the foyer. “I’ll need Emma.”