Live To Tell Part 39

"Generally fifty bucks."

"My, my, my," D.D. mused. She turned to Alex. "And here Lightfoot told us he was giving his gift away."

"Oh sure," Greg said sarcastically. "To the tune of a hundred an hour."

"Anyone else in on this?" D.D. asked.

"What do you mean?"

"Other MCs moonlighting as respite workers? Other therapists asking you to refer their services?"

"None that I know of. But again, not exactly something anyone can talk about on the floor. Maybe other staff members work outside the unit. Maybe not. You'd have to ask them."

Alex spoke up. "Wait a minute. First the Harringtons are paying you thirty an hour to take Ozzie to the park. Then they're paying Lightfoot a hundred an hour for counseling. They didn't have that kind of money."

"They'd submit the bills to the state, which generally covers a couple of hours of respite care a month. So the state paid for half my time, with the Harringtons making up the difference. As for Andrew, I don't know, but I'm betting they put it under 'psychiatric services.' I saw paperwork once, on the kitchen table. It didn't look like an invoice from a spiritual healer, but more like a clinical doctor. Andrew had initials after his name and everything. I'm guessing that was his way of finessing the system for people like the Harringtons."

"People like the Harringtons maybe," Alex said, still not sounding convinced, "but what about Tika's family? No way they could afford even a fraction of your bill."

"No, they couldn't," Greg agreed. "And they didn't. I saw Tika four times. Same deal. Established a rapport with her here, got to feel like she was making progress. When she was discharged, the dad asked if I could stop by from time to time. The mother was about to have a baby, she could use the break, yada yada yada.

"So I stopped by. First time I entered the house, I about lost my lunch. The dad was pa.s.sed out on the couch, obviously stoned, the mom's ankles were so swollen from the pregnancy, she couldn't get out of bed. I propped up her feet, got her some water, then I took all the kids to the park. Kept them for four hours. When I returned, the father seemed to have gotten himself together. He thanked me profusely and offered me a baggie for my troubles."

"He paid you in drugs?" Danielle asked sharply.

Greg shot her a look. "I turned him down."

"Oh, well, so you do have standards after all."

He flushed, squared his jaw, then returned his attention to the cops. "I turned down the drugs," he repeated stiffly. "What's-his-name said he'd pay me next week. I almost refused, but then Tika ran over and gave me this great big hug, and ... I don't know. That house. I knew I was screwed, but sometimes ... It's tough to walk away."

"So what'd you do?" D.D. pressed.

"Played sucker three more weeks. Showed up, took all the kids to the park, never got a dime. And just so you know, it's not all about the money. If I thought I could've helped Tika-h.e.l.l, I would've continued. But man, that family ... Her stepfather ... They're the kind of people you learn quickly to avoid. They're not interested in getting better. They want you to take care of them. They want you to do all the heavy lifting. Meaning nothing you do is ever gonna be enough, and nothing you do is ever gonna make a difference. You have to walk away, or they'll bleed you dry. Plain and simple."

"And Lightfoot? You recommend the family to him?"

"I recommended he stay clear," Greg answered dryly.

"And did he?"

Greg hesitated. "I don't think so."

"What makes you say that?"

"He seemed ... interested in them. I mean, the parents were a mess, but the kids ... Ishy, the oldest, clearly had some kind of autism, but he was a sweet, sweet boy. Then there was Roch.e.l.le, who was positively brilliant. And Tika ... Tika was ... complicated. Very sensitive, almost intuitive. Andrew seemed fascinated by all of them, but Tika in particular. Four old souls, he told me one day. Four old souls stuck in a corporal abyss."

"Four?" Alex asked.

"The baby," Greg supplied. "Apparently, Andrew had already met it on the spiritual superhighway."

"Really?" D.D. said.

"Sure. He even knew it was going to be a girl. Don't know, man, but sometimes ... Andrew knew stuff. And sometimes he did work for free; he could afford to. So if he wanted to deal with Tika's family ..." Greg shrugged.

"Did he?" D.D. pressed.

"Don't know. It's not like we hang out."

D.D. exchanged a glance with Alex. She could tell what he was thinking. Lightfoot had lied to them about not knowing Tika Solis. He'd also failed to mention that he was engaged in some manner of health-care fraud, billing the state for professional services he wasn't qualified to render. Made D.D. wonder what other secrets the healer had been keeping.

D.D. turned back to Greg. "Jealous? I mean, here you are, tragic past, mentally ill sister, having to work so hard to sc.r.a.pe by. And there's Lightfoot. He's got the looks, the life, the house on the beach. How are you ever gonna compete with a guy like him?"

"Compete?" Greg asked.

"Sure. He tosses you fifty bucks to send him some work, but we all know he'd give you even more if you'd hand over your girlfriend."

"Excuse me?" Danielle this time.

"Please. The way Lightfoot looks at you," D.D. drawled. "Like you're a dessert he wants to gobble up."

"He only cares about my family history-"

"No he doesn't." Greg this time, voice curt.

Danielle turned to him. "What the h.e.l.l?"

"He wants you. Always has. Anyone can tell by watching him watch you. What I don't understand is why you don't want him."

"Because he's an a.s.shole?" Danielle offered.

"An a.s.shole with money."

"You do have issues," she informed him, eyes blazing.

"Don't we all."

"Look, I had one dinner with Andrew, that was enough. Like I'm some commodity for guys to buy and sell."

"You never had dinner with me," Greg retorted. "How many times have I asked? One dozen? Two? Three? In your own words, you gave more consideration to the 'a.s.shole' than you did to me."

Danielle flushed. She slunk down in her chair, looked away. "Well, I honestly like you," she muttered. "That makes a difference."

"a.s.sholes get dinner. Likable guys get squat."

"As you said, we've all got issues."

"Well, now I'm an a.s.shole who milks desperate parents for money. Does that mean I can buy you dinner?"

"Excuse me," D.D. interjected. "Hate to intrude, but forget dinner: Next place Gym Coach here is heading is jail. You knew all the families. You had opportunity to hang Lucy and poison Lightfoot. You're also obviously familiar with the more deadly uses of strychnine, plus have a history with family annihilations-"

"Technically, no." Greg interrupted. "I have a family history of patricide. My sister killed my parents. That's not family annihilation."

"He's correct," Alex spoke up.

D.D. glared at him.

"And I have an alibi," Greg continued. "Thursday night, the Harringtons, right? I was working, watching Evan Oliver, the boy who was brought in this afternoon."

"Wait a minute." Alex leaned forward. "The boy who was admitted today. That's the one who stabbed his mother, right?"

"Evan Oliver, yes. I work for his mom once a week."

"You met the family outside the unit?"

Greg nodded.

"What about Lightfoot? Did he work with the boy, too?"

"I might have referred him. He might have paid me fifty bucks."

Alex leaned back. Looked at D.D. Looked at Greg. "Experienced with firearms, Greg?"

"Hardly."

"What about Tasers?"

"What? Come on, look at me: I don't have to resort to toys."

"Not even a pillow, maybe to suffocate a baby?"

"What?" Greg appeared horrified.

D.D. turned back to Alex. "You think?" she asked.

"I'd like to ask Healer Boy a few questions," Alex agreed. "Including why he lied about not knowing the Laraquette-Solis family, when he decided to start billing for his 'gift,' and what kind of alibi might he have for Thursday or Friday night."

"Then it's a good thing we know where he's at." D.D. pushed back her chair. Alex followed suit. "You two," she addressed Danielle and Greg, "stay put. If you're lucky, when I return I'll decide not to arrest you. But I make no promises."

She smiled at them wolfishly. Then she and Alex were on the hunt again.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE.

VICTORIA.

A rumbling sound from the hallway wakes me up. My eyes pop open. I feel a moment of intense, overwhelming nausea, and roll onto my right side to vomit.

Then the queasiness pa.s.ses, and I'm left disoriented and shaken. Slowly, I return to my back. I stare at the blank ceiling of my hospital room and give myself a moment to adjust.

Playing with my son. Speaking with my ex-husband. And then ... this.

Should I cry? I want to. I think if your child stabs you, crying is probably a logical thing to do. But I can't summon any tears. I feel stark, hollowed out. For years I've fought a war. Then, in thirty seconds, I lost it.

Now there's no going back. This is the new reality. My son is a violent offender and I'm his first victim.

At least it wasn't Chelsea, I think, and then I do cry, low, m.u.f.fled sobs of relief, because Michael wasn't the only one who'd spent years terrified that one day he'd have to harm his son to save his daughter. At least it didn't come to that. At least not that.

Then I picture Evan again, his bright blue eyes and infectious giggle as we raced around the backyard, and I cry harder.

I will always look at Evan and know what he did. And he will always look at me and know what he did, too.

Can't go back. No going back.

It comes to me again. The burning, obsessive realization: I have to get out of here. I can't be this person anymore. I can't lead this life. It hurts too much.

I sit up. The movement sends a sharp, bolting pain through my left side. I gasp, falter, then catch myself. After everything I've been through, I refuse to be cowed by something as trivial as physical pain. I grit my teeth, and force my way to standing.

My legs wobble. I grab the metal bed-rail and hang on tight.

When I'm finally convinced I won't collapse, I turn my attention to the row of machines. I turn off the heart monitor first, unclipping the plastic lead from my finger. Next, I remove the tape holding the IV needle in the back of my hand, sliding the needle free. A single drop of blood appears against my pale skin. I wipe it away and will myself not to bleed again.

I walk gingerly, five steps across the room; I'm not going to make it. With each inhale, my insides feel like they're being flayed by shards of gla.s.s. I'm light-headed, achy. I need to lie down. I can try again tomorrow. But when I turn back to the bed, I can't do it. Maybe I'm crazy. Maybe Evan isn't the only one who broke this morning. But I can't go back. I won't.

G.o.ddammit, after the past eight years, I'm ent.i.tled to at least one nervous breakdown.

Tighter binding, I decide. Something wrapped around my ribs to support my weakened side.

Good news: I've spent years quietly repairing the results of Evan's rampages. I've reset finger bones, superglued deep cuts (I saw it on the Discovery Channel), and taped fractured ribs. All I need is a few supplies, and I'm a surprisingly decent medic.

Well, I am in a hospital.

I shuffle slowly into the hallway, clutching the back of my hospital gown. The clock on the wall shows it's after midnight. Sunday is over. Monday has officially begun. I try to find strength in that. A brave new day. Mostly, standing in the middle of the overbright corridor, I feel lost and alone.

The ward is quiet, the nurses' station empty. I keep moving. Four doors down, tucked against a wall, I find a cart of first-aid supplies. I slip a roll of gauze and a box of b.u.t.terfly clips into my hands, then shuffle back to my room, shutting the door behind me. I have to rest. My head is spinning. I chew some ice chips, then crawl into bed. My lips hurt. I chew more ice; then, despite my best intentions, I fall asleep.

When I wake up, the wall clock tells me two hours have pa.s.sed. Someone has placed a blanket over me, and a small duffel bag rests on the chair. Michael, probably. I feel an ache in my chest, as if my ex-husband has left me all over again. Crazy. I'm going crazy.

I don't care.

I'm still clutching the first-aid supplies. That fortifies me, returns my sense of purpose. I climb out of bed; my legs feel stronger this time and my breathing remains even.