Brad Meltzer - Dead Even

“Does that mean I’m safe for the next month?”

“ Safe is a nonsense word. But if I were you, and I were playing the odds, I’d start looking at other job options.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

Sara walked back to her office in a daze, her mind still reeling from the afternoon’s one-two punch. The moment Guff saw her, he said, “You got fired, didn’t you?”

“Not yet,” Sara said. “But never fear. It’s coming soon to a theater near you.” Rather than sitting behind her desk, Sara sank to the floor and leaned against the wall. “Think Purchasing will deliver my new sofa within the next month?”

“Tell me what happened,” Guff said. “Are you okay?”

“I think so,” she said unconvincingly.

After Sara had relayed Monaghan’s news, Guff said, “Well, at least you weren’t fired. Now what’s the story with the doorknob guy? What’d he do?”

“Ah, yes, Sunken Cheeks. First and foremost, he threatened me. Besides that, he really freaked me out. He had all this information about me, and he said if I don’t win my case, he’s going after Jared.”

“Do you think he’s serious?”

“I don’t know what to think. I was hoping that when his fingerprints came back, we’d know if he was dangerous or not.”

“Well, Crime Scene said they’d have them first thing tomorrow morning. They said if you can give them some more information – hair color, physical features, anything like that – it will speed up the ID.”

“Actually, can you hand me my legal pad and a pencil?” Sara asked. “I started sketching him, but he stole the sheet when I reached for the phone. That’s what he lit on fire.”

“Then what do you need this for?” Guff asked, handing her both items.

“You’ll see.” Lightly brushing the side of the pencil lead against the top sheet of the legal pad, Sara revealed the outlines of her original sketch.

“Holmes, you’re a genius,” Guff said.

“You have to pick your moments.”

“Did he say anything else?”

“Not really. I just wish I knew who he was. Then I’d know if I was dealing with a blowhard or a real lunatic.” When Sara’s phone started ringing, Guff picked it up. After a few seconds, his face went white.

“What is it?” Sara asked.

“It’s Pop,” Guff said. “There’s been an accident.”

RUNNING THROUGH THE EMERGENCY ENTRANCE AT NEW York Hospital, Sara raced toward the information desk, followed by Guff. “I’m looking for my grandfather,” she said to the nurse as panic flooded her voice. “Maxwell Tate. He was admitted here about an hour ago.”

Checking her clipboard, the nurse said, “He’s currently undergoing surgery.”

“Is he going to be okay?” Sara asked.

“He’s in the O.R. Should be out pretty soon.”

Wiping her forehead, Sara closed her eyes. “Please, God, don’t take him from me.”

An hour later, Sara and Guff were sitting in the sparsely decorated hospital waiting area. While Guff flipped through year-old magazines, Sara sat motionless, staring at the starkness of the light blue wall.

Eventually, Guff put his hand on Sara’s shoulder. “He’ll pull through. You’ll see.”

“It always happens with a phone call,” Sara said.

“What’re you talking about?”

“Everyone thinks that death comes when you’re in a hospital, surrounded by loved ones. But death is far more random and chaotic than that. It doesn’t ease in during a moment of silence. It leaps in – exactly at the moment you’re not ready for it.”

“Is that how you found out about your parents? On the telephone?”

“I should’ve been so lucky. In my case, the wonderful hospital administrators decided to leave the news on my answering machine. Can you imagine that? You play your messages and that’s what you get: ‘Sorry. Your parents are dead. Sleep tight.’”

“You just walked in and played it?”

“I had just gotten home from studying for finals,” Sara explained. “As long as I live, I’ll be able to picture that little blinking light. I can still do the message by heart: ‘Hi, this is Faye Donoghue. I’m the patient advocate for Norwalk Hospital in Connecticut, and we need to speak with a family member for a Mr. Robert Tate and a Mrs. Victoria Tate. It is an emergency.’ She had a slight tinge of a Massachusetts accent, but otherwise, there was no emotion in her voice.”

“That was all she said? She didn’t say they died?”

“She didn’t have to. I knew the moment I heard it. You get that feeling. I hit the play button right as I walked in the house, and since my feet were cold, I headed to the kitchen to warm up some cider. I heard a message from a classmate who wanted to study for torts; a message from Jared, who, even though he barely knew me, still wanted my outline for civil procedure; and then the message from Faye Donoghue – ‘It is an emergency.’ That’s what I kept hearing: It is an emergency, it is , it is . I played it back three times to make sure I heard it correctly.”

Afraid to say the wrong thing, Guff remained silent. Finally, he offered, “I’m really sorry.”

“It’s not your fault. It just taught me that there’s no such thing as a romantic death – and to always prepare for the worst. That’s the real lesson. As long as I do that, I’ll never be surprised when it actually happens.”

“That’s no way to live your life.”

“It’s not like I have a choice, Guff – that’s just the way my life works. Whenever I let my guard down, I get smacked in the face. As soon as I got excited about this job, I found out about the layoffs. The second I got excited about the case, I found out my husband was on the other side. When I got excited about chasing Victor, I found out he was the one chasing me. Then today, the moment I finally started feeling good about the grand jury, they called me about Pop. And since it happened right after that guy came into my office-”

“Sara, I know what you’re thinking, but this probably has nothing to do with that guy in your office.”

Sara stared skeptically at Guff.

“I’m not saying it definitely doesn’t. Just don’t let your fears get the best of you. When Pop gets out of surgery, we’ll hear the story.”

Ten minutes passed before a doctor entered the waiting room. “Are you Ms. Tate?”

“That’s me,” Sara asked, jumping up. “How is he?”

“He took a bad fall down a flight of stairs,” the doctor explained. “He has a fractured pelvis, which is why he needed surgery, and he has a Colle’s fracture.”

“A what?” Sara asked.

“It’s a break in the distal radius,” the doctor said. “His forearm. Probably happened while he was trying to break his fall. He also has a contusion on his forehead, which is nothing more than a bump.”

“Will he be okay?”

“Considering his age, he’s holding up pretty well. He’ll be out of commission for a while, but he made it through the surgery without incident.”

“When can we see him?” Sara asked.

“He’s in recovery right now. Why don’t you go find out where his room is. They’ll be bringing him up there within the hour.”

Twenty minutes later, Sara waited impatiently in her grandfather’s semiprivate hospital room, fluffing his pillows, rearranging the flowers she had brought, and making sure the TV worked. Finally, the door to the room opened and two orderlies wheeled Pop in on a gurney. He looked awful: His features were pallid, his arm was in a cast, and a gauze bandage covered the right side of his forehead. The moment Sara saw him, tears flooded her eyes.

“Pop, are you okay?” she stuttered.