Charlaine Harris - Grave Secret

“Don’t you worry about Harper,” Matthew said. “She’s fine . She’s going to be okay.” He was examining Tolliver’s wounds with his fingers, pulling Tolliver’s shirt up to examine the skin.

Then Tolliver’s eyes rolled up and his face went slack.

“Oh, Jesus !” I almost moved my hands, but even in the panic of the moment I knew I mustn’t. I’d held on for what felt like hours. It was no time to let go.

“He’s not dead,” Matthew yelled. “He’s not dead.”

But he looked dead to me.

“No,” I said. “He’s not dead. He’s not. He can’t be. It’s his right shoulder, and that’s not the heart. He can’t die from this.” I knew what a fool I was being, but there was no shame in it right at that moment.

“No, he won’t die,” his father said.

I opened my mouth to scream at Matthew, though I don’t know what I would have said, and then I clamped my lips together because I heard an ambulance.

There were people crowding in the door to the room, and they were talking and exclaiming, and I heard some of them shouting at the ambulance driver Come over here, come over here, and if I turned my head to my left, I could look out the window and see the flashing lights. More than anything else I’d ever wanted, I wanted someone who knew what the hell they were doing to come into this room and take the hell over, someone who could fix my brother and stop this bleeding.

There was more yelling outside, as the police got there right along with the ambulance and began urging everyone to move back, move back, and then the ambulance guys were there inside the room and Matthew and I had to get out of the narrow space so they could work.

The police took me outside, and I could not remember a single face after that night. “Someone shot him through the window,” I said, to the first face that seemed to be asking me a question. “I was standing behind him and someone shot him through the window.”

“What relation?” asked the face.

“I’m his sister,” I said automatically. “This is his dad. Not my dad, but his.” I don’t know why I made the distinction, except I’d been making it clear to people for years that I had no kinship to Matthew Lang.

“You need to go to the hospital, too,” said the face. “You need to get that glass pulled out.”

“What glass?” I said. “Tolliver got shot.”

“You have glass in your face,” the man said. I could see now that he was a man, that he was an older man in his fifties. I could see that he had brown eyes and deep creases radiating from their corners, and a big mouth and crooked teeth. “You gotta get that pulled out and cleaned.”

I needed to start wearing safety goggles if I was going to keep on getting glass in my face.

Then I was at the hospital, sitting in a cubicle, and someone had taken my wallet from my purse to get the insurance information. About a hundred people were asking me questions, but I couldn’t talk. I was waiting for someone to come to tell me how Tolliver was doing, and there was no point in talking until I knew what had happened to him. The doctor who was removing the glass seemed a little scared of me. She tried to keep talking, maybe thinking I’d relax if her voice kept going.

“You need to look down while I get this piece out,” she said finally, and when I looked down I could feel the tension go out of her body. I must have been staring. I was wishing that I could let go of my body and float down the hall to see what was happening to my brother. If I promised to give him up if he lived, would that help? The bargains you make when you are frightened are probably a true measure of your character. Or maybe just an accurate measure of your primitive nature, what you would be like if you’d never been to a mall or gotten a paycheck or relied on someone else to provide your food.

A woman in a pink smock asked me if there was anyone else she could call for me, anyone who would like to stay with me, and I knew I would start screaming if I saw Iona or Hank, so I said no.

They let his dad go in with him. Not me! I had to get the glass out! I was so angry I thought the top of my head was going to come off when my brain exploded. But I didn’t scream. I kept it inside me. When the doctor and the nurse had finished with me, and they’d given me a couple of pills because they thought I’d have an uncomfortable time of it for a while, I nodded to them and went in search of Tolliver. I found Matthew sitting in a waiting room, talking to a policeman.

He looked at me when I came in, and I could see the caution in his face.

“This is Tolliver’s stepsister. She was in the room with him, standing behind him,” Matthew said, as if he were the master of ceremonies introducing the lineup.

The policeman was a detective, I guess, since he was in slacks and a shirt and a Windbreaker. He was very tall, and he looked to me like a former football star, which in fact turned out to be the case. Parker Powers had been a famous high school football player from Longview, Texas, who’d gotten injured two years into his contract with the Dallas Cowboys. That made him very nearly a star, certainly a notable. I got all that within ten minutes of meeting him, thanks to Matthew Lang.

Detective Powers was a medium shade of brown and had light blue eyes. His hair was dusty brown and curly and clipped close. He wore a wide wedding ring.

“Who do you think shot at you?” he asked me, which was more direct than I’d expected.

“I can’t imagine,” I said. “I would have said it was Matthew, here, if he hadn’t gotten back in the room so quickly.”

“Why his dad?”

“Because who else cares?” I said, realizing that wasn’t the most coherent way to make my point. “Granted, some people don’t like what we do, but we’re honest and we don’t make enemies. At least, not any that I knew of. Obviously, we made at least one.” I don’t know how the police made any sense of this, but presumably at some point I had explained what Tolliver and I did. I don’t remember.

Detective Powers went through the whole question-and-answer routine about how we made our living, how long we’d been doing it, how much money we made, what our last case had been. I actually had to think for a minute about that, but then I remembered the Joyces’ visit and I told him about it. He didn’t seem too happy to discover that we were on speaking terms with a wealthy and powerful family.

A doctor came in, an older man with a fringe of hair and a worn-out face. I was on my feet in an instant.

“Mr. Lang’s family?” He looked from me to Matthew. I could not speak; I was waiting. Matthew nodded.

“I’m Dr. Spradling, and I’m an orthopedic surgeon. I’ve just operated on Mr. Lang. Well, good news, on the whole. Mr. Lang was shot by a small-caliber bullet, probably from a.22 rifle or a handgun. It went through his clavicle, his collarbone.”

I gasped. I couldn’t help it. I was acting like a fool.

“So I’ve pinned the clavicle. There was no major damage to nerves or blood vessels from the bullet, so he was a lucky man-if you can call anyone who gets shot lucky. He made it through the surgery just fine,” the doctor said. “And I think he’s going to recover without many hitches. As far as what’s going to happen next, he’ll have to stay in the hospital for two or three days. If everything continues to go well, if no complications come up, he can be released. But he’ll probably have to have IV antibiotics for a week after that. We can arrange for a visiting nurse to help with that, but you’ll have to remain in the area, and I understand you don’t have a residence here.” He aimed his gaze more or less between us, as he waited to see what would develop.