Nora Roberts - The Pagan Stone

There had been a lot of blood.

Cal was still pale, and the healing wasn’t complete. Gage felt Cal tremble-quick, light shivers-as his body continued the pain and the effort of healing itself. But Cal wasn’t dead, wasn’t lying in a pool of his own blood as he’d been in the vision. They’d changed that… potential, as Cybil would call it.

Score another for the home team.

But they hadn’t seen the old man. There’d been no vision of his father-dead or alive. No foresight of the old man leaping through the door and onto crazed Cy Hudson’s back. No preview of that hot, determined look in his eyes. There sure as hell hadn’t been any quick peek through the window to show him the way the old man lay on the floor, bleeding through Fox’s wadded-up shirt.

He’d looked broken, Gage realized. Broken and frail and old when they’d loaded him into the ambulance. It wasn’t right, it wasn’t the right image. It didn’t match the picture of Bill Turner that Gage carried around in his head the way, he supposed, he carried the picture of his mother in his wallet.

In that, she was forever young, forever smiling.

In Gage’s head, Bill Turner was a big man, hefting the sway of a beer belly. He was hard eyes, hard mouth, hard hands. That was Bill Turner. As soon backhand you as look at you Bill Turner.

Who the hell was that broken bleeding man in the ambulance up ahead? And why the hell was he following him?

It blurred on him. The road, the cars, the buildings as Fox swung toward the hospital. He couldn’t quite solidify it, couldn’t quite bring it into focus. His body moved-getting out of the truck, climbing out when Fox slammed to the curb of the emergency entrance, striding into the ER. Part of his brain registered odd details. The change in temperature from June warmth to the chill of air-conditioning, the different sounds, voices, the new rush as medical people descended on the broken, bleeding man. He heard phones ringing-a tinny, irritatingly demanding sound.

Answer the phone, he thought, answer the goddamn phone.

Someone spoke to him, peppering him with questions. Mr. Turner, Mr. Turner , and he wondered how the hell they expected the old man to answer when they’d already wheeled him off. Then he remembered he was Mr. Turner.

“What?”

What was his father’s blood type?

Did he have any allergies?

His age?

Was he on any medications, taking any drugs?

“I don’t know,” was all Gage could say. “I don’t know.”

“I’ll take it.” Cal took Gage’s arm, gave him a quick shake. “Sit down, get coffee. Fox.”

“I’m on that.”

There was coffee in his hand. How had that happened? Surprisingly good coffee. He sat with Cal and Fox in a waiting room. Gray and blue couches, chairs. A TV set on some morning show with a man and a woman laughing behind a desk.

Surgical waiting room, he remembered, as if coming out of a dream. The old man was in surgery. GSW-that’s what they called it. Gunshot wound. The old man was in surgery because he had a bullet in him. Supposed to be in me, Gage remembered as his mind replayed that quick whip of the gun toward him. That.38 slug should be in me.

“I need to take a walk.” As Fox started to stand with him, Gage shook his head. “No, I just need some air. I’m just… have to clear my head.”

He rode down in the elevator with a sad-eyed woman with graying roots and a man with a seersucker blazer buttoned tight over a soccer ball belly.

He wondered if they’d left anyone broken and bleeding upstairs.

On the main level, he passed the gift shop with its forest of shiny balloons (Get Well Soon! It’s a Boy!) and cold case of overpriced floral arrangements, racks of glossy magazines and paperback novels. He went straight out the front doors, turned left, and walked without any thought of destination.

Busy place, he thought idly. Cars, trucks, SUVs jammed the lots, while others circled, searching for a spot to park. Some of them would stop by the gift shop for glossy magazines and balloons. A lot of sick people around, he supposed, and wondered how many of them had a GSW. Was there an appropriate tagline on a balloon for a GSW?

He heard Cybil call his name. Though the sound of it seemed absurdly out of place, he turned. She hurried down the sidewalk toward him, at just short of a run. All that dark, curling hair was sunstruck, flying around that fabulous face.

Gage had the odd thought that if a man had to die, he could go happier knowing a woman like Cybil Kinski had once run to him.

She caught him, grabbed both his hands. “Your father?”

“In surgery. How’d you get here?”

“ Cal called. Quinn and Layla went in. I saw you so… Can you tell me what happened?”

“Cy brought his.38 into Cal ’s office, shot up the place. Cal, too.”

“ Cal -”

“He’s okay. You know how it goes.”

An ambulance roared into the lot hot, sirens, lights. Someone else in trouble, Gage thought. Another balloon on a string.

“Gage. Let’s find a place to sit down.”

He brought himself back to her, to Cybil with the gypsy eyes. “No, I’m… walking. It happened fast. Couple of fingersnaps. Let’s see. Bang, bang, Cal ’s down. Cy aims for him again, so I yelled out. No…” Not quite right, he remembered.

“It doesn’t matter.” She hooked her arm around his waist. If she could have taken his weight, she would have. But the weight he carried wasn’t physical.

“It does. It all matters.”

“You’re right.” Gently, she guided him around so they were walking back toward the hospital. “Tell me what happened.”

“We went for him first, for Cy, but the guy’s built like a mountain, and you add in the infection. Shook us right off. Then I yelled. He turned the gun at me.”

In his mind, it replayed in slow motion, every detail, every movement. “The dog had been asleep, as usual, under the desk. He came up like vengeance. I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it. Fox is about to charge Cy again, might’ve had enough time. We’ll never know. The old man, he comes through the door like a freight train, jumps Cy, and the three of them go down-and the dog, too. The gun went off. Fox was okay, so I got over to Cal. Never gave the old man a thought. Fox was okay, Cal was bleeding and working on pushing the goddamn bullet out. I never gave the old man a thought.”

Cybil stopped, turned to him. She said nothing, only watched his face, held his hands.

“I looked over. Fox must’ve pulled his shirt off. He was using it to put pressure on the wound. Chest wound. GSW. The old man, he can’t push the goddamn bullet out like we can.”

She released his hands to put her arms around him.

“I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel.”

“You don’t have to decide.”

“I could’ve taken the bullet. Odds are it wouldn’t have killed me.”

“ Cal could’ve taken another, on the same scale. But you tried to stop it. That’s what people do, Gage. They try to stop it.”

“We didn’t see this, Cybil.”

“No, we didn’t.”

“I changed it. I called a meeting with Cal and Fox, so we were there. Instead of Cal being alone in his office when Cy came in shooting, we were there.”

“Gage, listen to me.” She brought their hands together between them, looked over the joining directly into his eyes. “You’re asking yourself, you’re wondering if being there makes you to blame for what happened. You know in your heart, in your head-you know after twenty-one years of fighting this what’s to blame.”

“ Cal ’s alive. I know that matters to me more-”

“This isn’t about more, or about less.”

“He-the old man-it’s the first time in my life I remember him stepping up for me. It’s hard knowing it might be the last.”