J. Jance - Trial By Fire

“Call her, then,” Robson ordered. “Tell her Agent Gary Robson with the ATF needs to see her. Immediately.”

“I’m sorry, that’s not possible,” the charge nurse said.

It was the same nurse who had dealt with Robson the day before. If he recognized her, he gave no sign of it, but Ali was sure the charge nurse knew exactly who he was, and she also had his number. Her “sorry” didn’t sound sorry at all.

“You’ll have to wait until Sister Anselm comes out,” the nurse said. “We’ve been advised that we’re not to put through any calls at this time.”

Sister Anselm hadn’t responded to Ali’s earlier text message, but she was sure it had gone through.

“I really must speak to her,” Robson insisted.

Ali opened her phone and sent a second message.

Robson’s here. In w8ing rm. Wants to see you. Mimi’s kids r here, 2.

This time Sister Anselm’s response was immediate.

Thanks. B rt there.

Ali opened her briefcase and booted up her computer. It turned out she had forgotten to charge the battery the night before. When she pulled out a power cord and started looking around for an electrical outlet, James’s friend came to her rescue. Taking the plug end of the cord from her, he moved a chair aside and plugged it into a wall socket.

“Thank you,” Ali said. “What’s your name?”

“Mark,” he said. “Mark Levy. James is my best friend.”

“He’s lucky to have you,” Ali said.

Mark ducked his head self-consciously when she said the words. Ali suspected he was hiding a tear, but a moment later he squared his shoulders and faced her again.

“I’m going down to get something from the cafeteria. Do you want anything?”

“I’d love some coffee.”

Ali fumbled a five-dollar bill out of her purse and handed it to him.

“Cream and sugar?”

“No. Black.”

By the time the elevator door opened, Robson had given up arguing with the nurse. He had taken a seat and was reaching for his cell phone when the brunette approached him with her hand outstretched.

“I’m Serenity Langley,” she said. “This is my brother, Win, short for Winston Junior. Mimi Cooper is our mother. We’ve been here for hours. My mother’s husband and that Sister Anselm won’t let us into Mother’s room, either.”

A frown of annoyance had flashed across Robson’s face at the idea of being interrupted. Once he realized who Serenity was, however, the frown was immediately replaced by a more appropriate expression. Standing to accept her proffered handshake, Robson left his phone and plucked an ID wallet out of his pocket.

“I’m Agent Gary Robson,” he said, displaying his badge to both of them. “I’m with the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives. Sorry to meet under such difficult circumstances, but our agency has been charged with investigating the incident in which your mother was injured.”

“It’s true, then?” Serenity asked.

“What’s true?”

“What they said in this morning’s paper-that you guys are investigating what happened to her instead of the local sheriff. The article claimed the fire is suspected of being some kind of domestic terrorism.”

Robson peered around the room. The charge nurse had disappeared from the nurses’ station. James’s father appeared to be sound asleep. Ali focused her eyes on her computer screen and began to type. For a time, the father’s quiet snoring and the clatter of Ali’s keyboard were the only sounds in the room.

Satisfied that no one was paying attention, Robson turned his attention to Serenity. “Yes,” he said. “That’s true, although you’ll understand I’m not at liberty to discuss details of an ongoing investigation with anyone.”

“Yes, of course.” Serenity nodded. “We understand.”

“Perhaps you could help by giving us some general information about your mother,” Robson said, withdrawing a small notebook from his jacket pocket. “As you can see, we’ve been unable to speak to her directly.”

“Win and I will do whatever we can to help,” Serenity said. “Tell us what you need.”

In the dream Mimi was young again, young and beautiful and living in California with Winston. They had just moved into a new house, a beautiful place overlooking Santa Barbara. Winston was so very proud of it. “I love it,” he said, “and I love you.”

The shock of hearing those words again, and hearing them from him, caused her eyes to pop open. Yes, he had said them once, but had he ever meant them?

For a disorienting moment, Mimi couldn’t figure out where she was. Then she saw the cross hanging on the wall and knew she was in a hospital, a hospital somewhere in Phoenix.

She was afraid Hal would have disappeared somehow. Her eyes darted quickly to the right, but there he was, dozing in the same chair where he’d been sitting wide awake the last time she had drifted into a drug-induced asleep. His chin had fallen to his chest; his hands lay loose and open in his lap. His clothes were wrinkled, his hair rumpled. Had he been sitting in that chair watching over her all night long? He must have been.

Already the pain was knocking at the edge of her consciousness, but her heart was filled with gratitude. Hal was here. She knew he loved her in a way Winston never had. She wanted to tell him that, but of course she couldn’t, not with the ventilator in her throat.

Sister Anselm appeared. She looked tired, too. She walked over to Hal and shook his shoulder. “Mimi’s awake,” she said.

Hal jolted upright. He looked around wildly for a moment, as if he didn’t quite understand where he was or who Sister Anselm might be. Then he nodded. “Thanks,” he said.

He stood up stiffly and came over to the side of the bed. When he looked down at her, his face looked so haggard and worn that Mimi wanted nothing more than to reach up and touch him and tell him thank you.

“Good morning, Mimi girl,” he said. “How’s my honey bun? Did you have sweet dreams?”

How could she answer that with one blink or two? The dream about Winston hadn’t been sweet at all, but it was far better than the other nightmare, the one about the fire. The one where she was on fire. That dream had mercifully ceased for good once she saw Hal’s face and knew he was there beside her.

She understood what Hal was really doing in asking about her dreams-stating his hopes for her. He was praying that in spite of the machines and the pain she really was okay; that she was comfortable; that she was sleeping peacefully. And so she answered his question by responding instead to all the things he didn’t say, and when she answered those unasked questions, she lied. She blinked once for yes.

“Sister Anselm showed me how to push the button,” he said. “Do you need me to do that?”

That was easy. She wanted to stay with him as long as she could, looking up into his loving eyes and bearing the pain for as long as she could. She blinked twice for no. No, not yet. Please not yet.

He was silent for a long time. He seemed to be building up to asking something or saying something. Maybe he was about to tell her that he had to leave again. How long had she been here? Days? Weeks? Maybe it was time for him to do another flight. She didn’t want him to go, but he might have to. He had a job that he loved. She couldn’t ask him to give it up so he could stay here with her.

What? she wanted to say to him. What are you going to say?

“It’s about the picture,” he said finally.

What picture? she wondered. What’s he talking about?

“The one over the fireplace,” he explained. “The one that looks like a patchwork quilt.”

The Klee, she thought. What about it? What’s wrong?