Catherine Coulter: Riptide

“I’m fine, Tyler. Don’t worry. I’m spending all my time at the hospital. Both my father and Adam Carruthers were shot, but they’ll both survive. The media is outside, waiting, but it will be a long wait. Sherlock is bringing me clothes and stuff so I don’t have to try to sneak out of here and take the chance the media might nab me. How’s Sam doing?”

There was a bit of silence, then, “He misses you dreadfully. He’s really quiet now, won’t say a word. I’m worried, Becca, really worried. I keep trying to get him to talk about the man who kidnapped him, to tell me a little bit about him and what he said, but Sam just shakes his head. He won’t say a word. The TV said that man was dead, that he set himself on fire and hurled himself at you. Is that true?”

“Very true. I think you should take Sam to a child psychiatrist, Tyler.”

“Those flimflam bloodsuckers? They’ll start psychoanalyzing me, claiming I’m not a fit father, tell me I need to lie on a couch for at least six years and pay them big bucks. They’ll say it’s about me, not Sam. No way, Becca. No, he just wants to see you.”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t leave here for another week, at least.”

Then she heard a little boy’s wail, “Becca!”

It was Sam and he sounded like he was dying. She didn’t know what to do. It was her fault that Sam was having problems, all her fault. “Put Sam on the phone, Tyler. Let me try to talk to him.”

He did, but there was only silence. Sam wouldn’t say a word.

Tyler said, “It’s bad, Becca, really bad.”

“Please take him to a child shrink, Tyler. You need help.”

“Come back, Becca. You must.”

“I will as soon as I can,” she said finally, and hung up the phone.

“Problem?” a nurse asked, a thick black brow arched.

“Nothing but,” Becca said, and lightly touched her fingers to her right arm. The burns were healing and were itching a bit now.

“Problems are like that,” the nurse said. “It rains problems, and then, all of a sudden, it’s a sunny day, and the problems have just evaporated away.”

“I hope you’re right,” Becca said.

The next day, Adam was much improved, even managed to joke with his nurse, who patted his butt, and her father came down with pneumonia and nearly died.

“It’s nuts,” Becca said to Agent Austin. “He survives a bullet to the heart and gets pneumonia.”

“There’s got to be some irony in that,” Agent Austin said, shaking his head, “but no matter, it still sucks.”

“He’ll pull through,” the doctor said over and over again to Becca, taking her hands in his. Maybe the doctor didn’t like the irony, either, Becca thought, lightly touching her father’s shoulder. It was odd, when she touched him-settled her hand on his arm, laid her hand over his, lightly touched his shoulder-his breathing calmed, his whole body seemed to relax, to ease.

And when he was finally awake, his mind alert, and she touched him, he smiled at her, and she saw the pleasure in his eyes, deep and abiding. And when she whispered, “I love you, Dad,” he closed his eyes briefly, and she knew she didn’t want to see his tears. “I love you,” she said again, for good measure, and kissed his cheek. “We’re together now. I know you love Adam like a son, but I’m very pleased that he isn’t your son. If he were, then I couldn’t marry him. Now you’ll get him anyway.”

“If he ever makes you cry, I’ll kill him,” said her father.

“Nah, I’ll do it.”

“Becca, thank you for telling me about all your mother’s things safely in storage in New York.”

He’d heard her, actually heard her speaking to him. And since he’d heard her speaking to him, just maybe her mother had heard her as well, maybe she did have a final connection with her. “You’re welcome. As I said then, it’s a start.”

“Yes,” Thomas said, smiling up at his daughter. “It’s a very good start.”

Adam was now walking up and down the corridor, ill-tempered, his back throbbing, his arm throbbing, feeling useless, wanting to hit someone because he felt so damned helpless. At least the damned catheter was out.

He was carping and carrying on when Becca laughed and said, “All right, you’ve finally driven me away. My father is doing fine, the pneumonia is kicked, and I’m going to Riptide to see Sam.”

“No,” he said, leaning against the hospital corridor wall, utterly appalled. He wanted to grab her and tuck her under his arm. “I don’t want you going there alone. I don’t trust McBride. I don’t want you out of my sight. I’d really like it if you would sleep in my bed with me and I could hold on to you all night.”

She realized she’d rather like that as well, but she said, “There’s no danger, Adam. How could there be? I’m not going to see Tyler. I’m going to see what’s going on with Sam. Don’t forget, Adam, it’s my fault that Krimakov even took him, my fault that Sam got traumatized. I’ve got to fix it. Tyler has nothing to do with it.”

“Dammit, it was Krimakov’s fault. Give it another couple of days, Becca, and I’ll go with you.”

“Adam, you can barely get to the bathroom by yourself now. You’ll stay here and just concentrate on getting well. Spend time with my father. And maybe you could work on all those church dates as well. None of your family can come to an agreement.”

“Well, are you still going to marry me?”

“Is that your final offer?”

He looked both pissed and chagrined. Suddenly he laughed. “I swear I’ll change that green tile. Do you mind moving from New York, living down here? We’re really close to your dad. Is he going to rebuild?”

“We haven’t discussed it yet. Yes, Adam, I’ll marry you, particularly if you change that bathroom tile. Consider it a done deal. I have no real ties to Albany. Goodness, there are so many folk around here who need good speechwriters. I’ll make a fortune. Now, you can’t flirt with any of the hospital staff anymore, you got that? I’m considering that we’re now officially engaged.

“Ah, good, here’s Hatch. Is that cigarette smoke I smell, Hatch? Adam won’t like that. He’ll probably take a good strip off you for that, maybe hit you with his walker.”

She watched the two men argue, smiling. Sherlock came up behind her and said, “Everything nearly back to normal, I see. Let’s watch CNN. Gaylan Woodhouse is going to be on in about a minute. He’s speaking for the president, and you’re going to love this spin.”

Good grief, she thought, watching the TV, she was now a heroine. Someone, she had no idea who, had somehow taken a photo, very grainy, showing her facing Krimakov on that burning roof, her white nightgown blowing around her legs, her Coonan held in front of her in both hands, pointed straight at Krimakov. Gaylan Woodhouse wouldn’t shut up. “Oh dear,” Becca said. “Oh dear.”

“It’s been a long haul, and you came through,” Sherlock said, and hugged her tightly. “I’m really glad to have met you, Becca Matlock, and I like your being a heroine. I have this feeling that you, Adam, and your father will be coming to lots of barbecues over at our house, beginning when they get out of this joint. Did I tell you that Savich is a vegetarian? When we barbecue, he eats roasted corn on the cob. We won’t know about Sean and his preferences for a while yet. Have you agreed to the date and that marvelous Presbyterian Church your in-laws have been members of for years and years?”

“Not yet,” Becca said. “Hey, I’m so famous maybe I’ll ask if the churches want to place bids for our ceremony.”

“You’re a writer, you could write a book, make a gazillion bucks.”

“She’ll have to make it fast,” Savich said, coming up and squeezing his wife against his chest, “fame is fleeting nowadays. Another week, Becca, and you’ll be a last-page footnote in People magazine.”