C.E. Murphy - Coyote Dreams

“I don’t know if I would. Look, Doc, I’m sorry.” Apologizing was not high on my list of favorite things to do, and I listened to myself with nearly as much surprise as Brad’s expression showed. “We got off on an incredibly bad start, and that’s my fault. I was completely out of line and I’m sorry. I was…” I raked my hand through my hair again and sighed. I needed a shower. “I was trying to protect people, and trying to show off, and I was a total jerk. I’m not going to ask you to forgive me, but Robert’s not stupid, and his parents are in there asleep and nobody knows if they’re going to wake up. He doesn’t need you and me bristling at each other.”

“So you want me to bury the hatchet.” Brad spoke so suddenly I hiccupped, caught out of an apology that was only starting to build up steam.

“Yeah. Please. You want to go mano a mano with me when Billy and Mel are awake again, okay, fine, name the time and place.” Last time I’d challenged somebody to mano a mano it had been a god. Brad Holliday was a real come-down, comparatively. “We’re not really on opposite sides, you and me,” I added more quietly. “Just traveling from different directions.”

“I don’t want to know.” Brad’s voice went thin and stressy. I lifted my hands in another apology.

“Sorry. Peace?”

He jerked his chin in a downward nod and walked back into Billy’s room. Robert watched him, then watched me, his clear gaze telling me he knew perfectly well I’d let him listen in on the conversation. His hand crept into mine for a squeeze when I came back to his side, an eleven-year-old’s way of saying thank you without drawing notice to himself. “They’re bringing Captain Morrison in here,” I said as if that had been the topic all along. Robert held on to my hand harder, dismay radiating off him.

“Captain Morrison’s sick, too? He can’t be. I thought you’d keep him okay.” Robert’s voice rose in alarm. “Gary’s okay, isn’t he?”

“Gary’s fine.” Robert relaxed a little under my arm, then gave me the same sideways look he’d gotten when he’d first met Gary. Even he thought I was dating the old man. “How come Gary’s okay and Captain Morrison isn’t?” he asked, somewhere between suspicious and testing. I groaned and closed my eyes.

It did nothing to make the world go away. My second sight just slid into place, letting me see everything in vibrant neon glows and swirls of color. Robert’s aura spiked orange, pulses of curiosity. “Gary’s okay and Morrison isn’t because Gary listens to me.” I opened my eyes and looked down at Robert. “ Not because Gary’s my boyfriend.”

Robert said, “Hnh,” through his nose, and assumed an expression of innocence as he looked away.

I could feel Brad’s gaze turn curious and nearly groaned again. After all, Gary had been the one to ride to the rescue Wednesday morning when Melinda’d gotten sick. It all made sense, from an outside point of view. I muttered, “He’s not,” aware that the lady was protesting too much.

I was rescued from further attempts at extracting myself from a relationship with the old cabbie by a tired orderly wheeling my sleeping captain into the room. Brad got up from the far side of Billy’s bed, said, “I’m a doctor,” and gave the orderly a hand in getting Morrison into bed. After one look to see who’d entered the room, I kept my focus wholly on Melinda and Billy. For some reason I really didn’t want to watch people manhandling my boss into a hospital bed. I was going to take that piece of topaz and hammer it into Morrison’s skull when this was all over.

It took a while for them to get Morrison settled. Robert, rather too loudly, asked Uncle Brad to take him down to the café for breakfast, and I wondered if the kid was just teasing me about Gary for form’s sake. Either way, they left me alone and I found myself by Morrison’s bed, sitting on my hands so I wouldn’t take his in both of mine.

The poor man looked like he needed the sleep, honestly. I didn’t know if a coma was proper rest or not, but the inability to worry wiped some of the lines from his face, making him look younger than his thirty-eight years. If I let my eyes unfocus just a little, I could see the shielding I’d put in place, sparking blue along the silver threads in his hair and swimming over the surface of him. I could feel it, too, if I wanted to, and I was trying hard not to. I didn’t think Morrison would appreciate the intimate invasion, and the last thing I wanted was fullbody memory flashes when I went to work and faced my boss every day.

After a while I noticed my face was in my hands and there was salty wetness leaking through my fingers. For someone who didn’t think of herself as the crying sort, I’d sure done a lot of it recently. More in the last six or seven months than I could remember in years. I had a fair idea that said nothing good about my ongoing emotional status.

Eventually I stood up and put my fingertips on Morrison’s shoulder, as polite a farewell as I could manage, and said, “Sorry about your kitchen,” before I went out to finish what I’d started with Barbara Bragg.

That was one of those easier-said-than-done plans. I didn’t know where to look for Barb, or what to do when I found her. Finishing kicking her ass was definitely on the roster, but that was sort of nebulous, in a specific way.

I shuddered. My brain was starting to show the lack of sleep. I stopped at a drive-by coffee shop and got a quad shot of espresso and had them pour a generous splash of amaretto flavoring in to make it drinkable. I was tired enough to find myself balancing the coffee and my cell phone, making a phone call while I was driving.

That had to be one of the stupider things I’d done lately. Except the scene at the restaurant, which I hoped took the cake for at least the next couple years. But if I was ever going to mar Petite’s bumper with a sticker, it would probably be one of those hang up and drive ones. Watching people drive juggling coffee and cell phones made me the bad kind of crazy. Doing it myself and compounding it with no sleep was the sort of behavior that made me want to take my keys away for a week as punishment. I promised myself I’d do that later.

By the time I’d muttered and scowled and scolded myself I’d also dialed my home phone, which got snatched up so fast I thought Gary must’ve been sleeping on it. “Jo?”

“I’m okay. Are you?”

“Worried sick,” he said grumpily. “Where you been, Jo? What’s goin’ on?”

“Thank you,” I said instead of answering. “For staying there. For looking out for me. Thank you, Gary. I’m really sorry. I kind of lost it last night.” I flicked my turn signal and almost poured coffee in my lap. “Did Mark call?”

“He finally stopped callin’ around one,” Gary growled. “I been chewin’ my fingers to the bone tryin’ ta decide if I should call you or not, Jo. What the hell happened?”

I laughed, hoarse sound. “I don’t even know where to begin, Gary. The really short version is I completely embarrassed myself and my boss, saw the end of the world has my face on it and learned Mark and Barbara are involved in it somehow. Did he leave a number?”

“Same one as before.” Gary rattled it off like he had it memorized, and I wondered why he did and I didn’t.

“Thanks. Gary, I…look, I don’t know when or how this is going to go down. I’ll try to call you, okay? Are you going to be—where are you going to be?”

“I’ll be here,” the old man promised. “If I need ta go out I’ll give you a call. You okay with that?” Worry colored his voice again and I wished I could give him a hug. Stupid phones.