Kitabı oku: «Grits And Glory», sayfa 2

TWO

Sean studied the pewter-colored but rainless sky. The break between rain bands gave him a small window of time to deploy the lights and camera. Everything should be fine unless there was an unexpected problem with the camera’s focus and color balance.

I could encourage the unlikely to happen and Carlo would never know.

Sean pushed the delightfully evil thought out of his mind. He would do his job properly, even though he ached to make Carlo look like a fuzzy, multicolored blob. Sean finished setting up with four minutes to spare. He found Carlo in the back of the van memorizing a script he’d written on a yellow notepad.

“Everything’s ready for you,” Sean said.

Carlo looked up and smirked. “Kind of like blond little-miss-what’s-her-name.”

“If you’re talking about the woman in the church, her name is Ann Trask.”

“So it is.” He chortled. “She’s not up to my usual standards, of course, but one can’t be choosy during a hurricane.”

“This isn’t spring break, Carlo. You’re in Glory on assignment, remember?”

“An assignment in a hick city is a perfect opportunity for a quick encounter with a local lass.”

“Ann Trask doesn’t seem a ‘quick encounter’ type of woman.”

“Says who? She checked out my ring finger, I checked out hers. Didn’t you spot her come-hither look when she saw me?”

“That’s nonsense!”

“There’s nothing like stormy weather to relax a woman’s inhibitions, if you know what I mean.”

“I do know what you mean—and you’re making me angry.”

Carlo snorted. “You sound as if you like her.”

“What if I do?”

“Great! We’ll both court her. Competition increases the joy of victory,” said Carlo.

Sean flinched as a bolt of lightning illuminated the interior of the van. The thunderclap came less than a second later.

“That was close,” Carlo said. “Since when do hurricanes have lightning?”

“Most don’t. Gilda is a special storm.”

“Which means?”

“Her vertical wind flows are creating an electrical field. That’s unusual.”

“Unusual bad? Or unusual good?” Carlo’s normally melodious voice had become a little shrill.

“I don’t know.”

“You have to know. You’re the expert. You actually have a degree in meteorology.”

“Don’t get your rain pants in a twist. Lightning doesn’t make a hurricane more powerful.”

“But it definitely increases the danger to reporters broadcasting from parking lots. I’m not in the mood to get struck by lightning this afternoon.”

“We’re parked next to a tall aluminum light pole. If lightning hits anything around here, it will be that.”

“Are you sure?”

“Completely.” He pointed toward the door. “Now get out there. We go live in two minutes.”

Sean sat down at his workstation and manipulated the joysticks that controlled the TV camera and the lights. He slipped his headset over his ears, pushed the attached microphone close to his mouth, and spoke to Cathy McCabe at the Storm Channel’s broadcast headquarters on Long Island.

“Hi, Cathy. We’re ready in Glory.”

“Glad to hear it,” she replied. “How’s Gilda so far?”

“Wet, windy and electric. Mr. Magnificent is worried about being zapped by lightning.”

“Get a picture if it happens. I know a dozen women who’d want copies.” Cathy’s voice became cool and businesslike. “Switching to Carlo in twenty seconds.”

Sean pushed the button that connected his microphone to Carlo’s earpiece. “Cue in fifteen seconds.”

Sean heard Carlo clear his throat. “Four…three…two…” Sean counted softly.

A red light lit on his console, confirming that an identical light on the camera had signaled Carlo to begin. Sean studied the monitor screen as Carlo spoke into his handheld microphone. As usual, the camera loved Carlo. He looked artlessly elegant even though his jacket’s tunnel-like hood was fully extended to keep his face dry.

“This is Carlo Vaughn reporting from Glory, North Carolina. It is only four in the afternoon, but the sky is dark in this pretty waterfront town on the Albemarle Sound, an ominous sign of things to come. Another of Gilda’s outer rain bands is dumping precipitation on Glory.”

A gust of wind suddenly tugged at Carlo’s hood and he grabbed at it with his free hand.

“Most of Glory’s six thousand residents have moved to higher ground, leaving a handful of emergency personnel to deal with the approaching hurricane. They’ve been told to prepare for major damage.

“Gilda is the most powerful hurricane to threaten the Albemarle region in more than a decade. The current forecast predicts steady winds exceeding one hundred miles per hour when Gilda arrives in Glory less than an hour from now.”

Sean adjusted the image when a lightning flash illuminated the sky behind Carlo’s head. A moment later, the rumble of thunder shook the van. Carlo took the interruption in stride. “As you’ve just seen and heard, Gilda is also an electrical storm, which is unusual for a hurricane.”

“Off in thirty seconds,” Sean informed Carlo softly.

Carlo unexpectedly took a sideways step. He gazed at the sky to his left and his right, as if he were an expert meteorologist studying the storm. Sean worked the joystick to move the lens to keep Carlo’s face framed in the image. But then, without warning, Carlo stepped closer to the camera, his expression full of compassion and concern. Sean suddenly realized that Carlo was trying to impress Ann Trask.

Cathy’s voice filled Sean’s headphone. “What’s your boy doing? It looks like he’s trying to climb into the viewers’ laps.”

“You don’t want to know,” Sean said grimly.

Carlo began to speak. “The small cadre of people who chose to remain in Glory will soon be tested by Gilda’s fury. I call them the courageous few.

“We’re broadcasting from the parking lot of a church that may provide emergency shelter when the storm hits. The person on duty inside—a young woman named Ann Trask—is willing to brave the danger, not for personal gain, but in the spirit of public service. Stay tuned—we’ll hear Ms. Trask’s observations about Gilda during our next broadcast.

“Glory—we’re with you. This is Carlo Vaughn signing off for now.”

Sean killed the connection to the TV camera.

Blast the man! He put a phony quiver in his voice and his eyes looked weepy.

Sean poked angrily at more buttons on his control console. It wouldn’t matter to Ann that Carlo knew next to nothing about the weather. She wouldn’t care that he was merely imitating a knowledgeable meteorologist. Nope! Like every other female with a pulse, she’d be dazzled by his smarmy good looks. Sean sighed as he zipped up his jacket and prepared to go outside to retrieve the camera and tripod.

Ann Trask is a grown woman. She’ll have to fend for herself in Carlo-land.

“Perhaps I shouldn’t say this,” Ann said, “but I’m delighted you stayed in town this evening.” She positioned a golf umbrella to shield Richard Squires’s back from driving rain, fighting against the wind. His big-brimmed baseball cap seemed to be doing a good job keeping rain off his face.

“They won’t let me leave Glory,” he said with a laugh. “I manage the crew that keeps the rest of the emergency personnel well fed. More light on the right side of the engine, please.”

Ann shifted the powerful utility light she held in her other hand and wished she could do more to help Richard. He was a self-taught expert on engine maintenance and a restorer of vintage cars when he wasn’t managing Squires’ Place, one of Glory’s best restaurants. He also sang tenor in Glory Community’s choir.

He picked up a wrench. “One of these days, we’ll have to buy a replacement fuel pump, but this fix will keep the engine running throughout Gilda’s visit.”

“Amen!” Ann murmured.

He went on, “I’m glad that TV fellow tested the generator—I should have done it this morning.”

“You’re one of our most valuable volunteers, Richard. I thank you for all you do for the church.”

She watched Richard stretch to work on the back of the engine. “This is one of those times I wish I was taller,” he said. Even standing on a step stool, Richard, who was only an inch or two taller than Ann, had difficulty reaching deep into the generator’s cabinet.

Her cell phone rang.

“Give me the utility light,” Richard said. “That’ll free up your right hand.”

Ann managed to flip her phone open and was surprised to find her brother calling.

“Alan! Everything all right with Mom?” she asked.

“Mom’s fine—and proud as punch.”

“About?”

“You didn’t hear it?”

“Hear what?”

“You’re famous! Carlo Vaughn talked about you on the Storm Channel.”

“Oh, no! What did he say?” Ann laughed.

“He called you one of the ‘courageous few.’ Even better—he’s going to put you on the air later today.”

“I’ve never been on TV before.” Ann saw Richard struggling with the utility light and the wrench. “I have to run, Alan. Thanks for the news! I’ll call you later. Love to Mom.”

Richard extracted himself from the generator box. “I only heard one side of your conversation, but it seems to me that you should find yourself a TV set. The Storm Channel often repeats Carlo Vaughn’s broadcasts.”

“You don’t mind?”

“Not at all. I’m nearly done. I can replace the generator cover by myself.”

“Then what will you do, Richard? The storm’s getting worse,” Ann said, raising her voice to be heard over the wind.

“It’s a short drive to the emergency command center. I’ll be there long before Gilda arrives for real.”

Ann thanked Richard and headed for the Chapman Lounge, the location of the church’s only TV set. As she walked down the hallway, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in a glass-paneled door. Nothing about her face appearance had improved during the past hour. I’d better freshen up if Carlo is going to stand me in front of a TV camera and ask questions. She made a detour to her office and retrieved the duffel bag she’d packed that morning.

The Chapman Lounge was a comfortable room next to the pastor’s office that had a small sofa, two armchairs, and a big-screen TV set. Ann had to wait less than ten minutes for the rerun of Carlo’s report.

She felt somewhat eccentric laughing out loud in an empty church, but she couldn’t stop herself. Hearing herself praised by Carlo cracked her up. He’d made a grim day more cheery by pushing Gilda to the back of her mind.

She unzipped the duffel bag and surveyed her meager wardrobe. Everything fell into the “working clothing” category—clothes suitable for working in the kitchen, working in the basement, working on the church grounds. Nothing was really appropriate for a TV interview. She finally decided on a pair of tan chinos (clean but threadbare) and a dark blue cotton sweater (originally part of her mother’s wardrobe and at least fifteen years old). The bright blue tactical police radio hanging from the lanyard around her neck would spruce up her outfit with an extra touch of color. It was the best she could do on short notice, she decided.

Ann hadn’t meant to stay in the lounge for long, but she got caught up in the Storm Channel’s coverage of Gilda provided by other weather reporters who were based closer to North Carolina’s Atlantic Coast. The slowly changing satellite images showed the revolving hurricane approaching the shoreline like a huge Frisbee.

Suddenly, the lights flickered. Not the electricity. Not yet. They flickered again, then died, leaving the lounge in complete darkness.

Ann fumbled for the flashlight on her lanyard. The lounge, now illuminated by a single beam, seemed bleak and forbidding, a sensation made even worse by the roar of the wind and the pelting of rain against the wooden shutters, sounds previously covered by the TV. Gilda had arrived.

She soon began to hear the reassuring chug of the church’s generator. The lights blinked back on.

Please, God, keep the engine going.

Ann decided to move to the narthex, to be closer to the front door. As she walked down the hallway, strange creaks from above added to the cacophony of sound. A few seconds later, a loud tearing noise made her flinch, followed quickly by a loud crash outside. It took her a moment to put the sounds together.

Gilda ripped our steeple off the roof.

Sean stumbled against the wind and managed to grab the handle of Glory Community’s door with his good left hand. He used his aching right hand to wipe rain-diluted blood off his face, then gingerly placed his thumb on the doorbell. He pulled again and again, ignoring the throbbing in his head and the haze that seemed to saturate his mind.

He saw the door begin to open and pulled even harder. “It’ll take both of us to hold it against the wind,” he shouted.

“Okay,” Ann shouted back. “You pull, I’ll push.”

The force of the wind against the heavy steel door was even greater than he’d anticipated. It shoved him a step backward and simultaneously tugged Ann beyond the sill, exposing her to the curtain of rain whirling beneath the narrow overhanging portico. He managed to stay on his feet and, with Ann’s help, held the door half-open against a sudden gust.

“Goodness!” she said. “Your head is bleeding.”

“The church’s steeple fell on our truck when it blew off the roof.”

“Where’s Carlo?”

“Still in the truck. He’s unconscious.”

He heard her gasp.

“Let’s get inside,” he said. “Then I’ll call for help.”

Sean maneuvered around Ann and grabbed the inside handle. Slowly…slowly, they dragged the door shut. Sean felt muzzy headed. He sagged against the wall.

“You need a doctor,” she said.

“Probably—but not as much as Carlo.”

Ann guided him toward a chair in the small lobby. “You rest. I’ll radio the emergency command center.”

“I don’t want to drip blood on your upholstery.”

“That chair has survived a dozen Vacation Bible Schools. It’s seen far worse than a few drops of blood.”

Sean sat down. He heard the radio crackle, heard Ann say something, but couldn’t make out what she said.

He felt Ann shake his shoulder. “Huh?”

“They told me to keep you awake,” she said.

He pushed himself to his feet. “I’d better look after Carlo.”

“You did that by walking from the parking lot to the church.” She pushed him back down. “When you rang the bell, I was already at the side door. I heard the steeple fall and I wanted to see what happened.”

“What happened is that it hit our van, and some big pieces of wood plowed through our windshield.” Sean recalled the noise of glass breaking…

“Don’t fall asleep,” Ann said. “Keep talking.”

“Carlo and I were sitting up front, watching the storm. I’d lowered the outriggers, so the wind wouldn’t tip the van…”

“And?”

“There were two strong gusts. The first one knocked out the electricity. The second made a big ‘boom,’ glass and wood flying everywhere. Carlo got the worst of it. He was in the passenger seat.”

Ann said something into her radio, but he only caught one word: paramedic.

“You’re drifting,” Ann said. “Stay with me.”

“I want apologize on behalf of the Storm Channel.”

“Apologize for what?”

“You won’t be on television tonight. Our satellite antenna is smashed. No more live broadcasts from Glory.”

“And here I went to all the trouble of acquiring this soaking wet look.”

Sean gazed at Ann. Her hair was drenched and makeup had run down her cheeks.

“You’re pretty.”

“Now I’m sure that you need medical attention.”

Sean knew he had chuckled, but he couldn’t remember what was funny.

He felt another shake. “Talk some more. Tell me about Gilda.”

“There’s not much to tell. She zigged to the east.”

“What does that mean?”

Sean couldn’t remember. He told himself to focus. His thoughts abruptly sharpened. “Gilda’s track shifted, so Glory’s out of the bull’s-eye. The storm’s weaker southwestern quadrant is blowing through town. The last time I checked, the wind speed was down to eighty-five miles per hour.”

“Glory won’t be flattened?”

“Nope. There’ll be less wind damage and a much smaller storm surge.”

“That’s the best news I’ve heard all day,” Ann said.

“We weather forecasters try to please.”

He watched Ann step away from him when a man dressed in yellow magically appeared at his side.

“This must be our patient,” the man said.

Ann nodded. “Sean, meet Dave. He’s an emergency medical technician.”

Sean tried to look at Dave, but all he could see was a bright light shining in his right eye.

“He might have a concussion,” Dave said. “I’ll transport him to the hospital, too. Trouble is I can’t use a gurney right now because the rest of the team is working on Carlo Vaughn.” The light blinked off. “Sean, do you think you can walk to the ambulance?”

“Absolutely!” Sean began to stand—and staggered into Ann.

“Not so fast,” Dave said. “I’ll support your right side. Ann, you grab his left arm.” He continued, “Sean, take a step at a time. Tell us if you feel faint.”

“How’s Carlo?” Ann asked.

“Yeah,” Sean muttered. “How is Carlo?”

“He’s conscious, but barely.”

“Oh, my!” Ann said.

“Oh, my,” Sean echoed, and then he said, “I feel dizzy.”

“That’s what happens when you get whacked in the head.” Dave spoke to Ann. “I’ll handle the door, you prop up Sean.”

“Yummy!” Sean said when he felt the rain against his face. He lifted his head. The light poles were dark but three powerful floodlights on the ambulance provided enough illumination to see most of the parking lot. The ambulance was positioned on the left side of the van—the side away from the fallen steeple. The wind was still roaring, but less loudly than before.

“Sheesh!” Sean said to Ann. “Your steeple looks like a stack of firewood.” He tried to move toward the pile of rubble.

“Slow down,” Dave said. “Take one step at a time.”

“I must be seeing things in the dark,” Ann said. “Don’t those look like red boots sticking out from beneath the white boards?”

“Yep,” Sean said. “They look exactly like fake boots.”

“Except…” Ann began, then went silent.

Dave took over. “Except those are real boots, attached to real legs. Someone else was hit by the falling steeple.”

Sean felt uneasy when Ann left his side, ran toward the mound of shattered wood and began to yank the boards away.

“Be careful!” Dave shouted. “Those boards are studded with nails.”

“Shouldn’t you help her?” Sean said to Dave.

“I will—after I get you to the ambulance.”

They’d reached the back of the broadcast van when Ann screamed, loudly enough for Sean to hear her over the wind.

“Dave! It’s Richard Squires!”

Sean remembered. The man who fixes generators…

And then everything went black.

THREE

Ann stood behind Dave as he kneeled down and felt for the artery in Richard Squires’s neck. She knew Dave wouldn’t find a pulse. The way Richard’s body lay under the shattered boards and the empty expression on his face declared he wasn’t alive.

She sucked in two deep breaths to stop the churning in her stomach and glanced up at the clouds that were barely visible against the inky sky. She saw distant flashes of lightning and heard the rumble of faraway thunder.

Both the wind and the rain had subsided considerably since her last sojourn outside, but Gilda was still roaring loudly enough to make conversation difficult without yelling.

“Shift your flashlight a little to the right,” Dave shouted. Ann recalled with a shiver that this was the second occasion in less than three hours that she’d held a light for Richard Squires.

Only this time he was dead. All because he had done a good deed for the church and repaired the generator.

She moved her flashlight beam to the right of Richard’s head, revealing a glistening pink pool of blood mixed with rainwater. She felt like throwing up but managed to resist the urge. Instead she murmured a quiet prayer asking God to comfort the many people in Glory who knew and liked Richard.

Dave aimed his penlight into Richard’s eyes. “No pulse, no pupil response. He’s gone.” Dave climbed to his feet and added, “Richard must have been walking toward his car over there.” Dave pointed toward a compact sedan near the back of the parking lot. Ann could hear the anguish in his voice. “A board smashed the back of his head when the steeple fell.”

Ann switched her flashlight off. “Should we—” The question caught in her throat. She tried again. “Should we move him to the ambulance?”

“We don’t have a second gurney. I’ll come back for Richard’s body after I transport Carlo and Sean to the hospital.”

The ambulance’s rear door was open, the interior brightly lit. Ann could see Carlo, still unconscious, lying on a gurney. A thick white bandage covered his left eye. Sean, his face pale, sat near the door, leaning against another paramedic. The cut on his head had stopped bleeding, but a big bruise on his forehead was beginning to color.

She watched Dave climb into the ambulance. “Do you want to ride with us to the hospital?” he shouted. “You look more than a little shaky yourself.”

Ann ached to say yes. She didn’t want to be alone inside a sealed-up church—not with Richard Squires lying dead outside, half-buried under a pile of rubble. There was plenty of room for her next to Carlo and Sean. Everyone would understand if she bugged out.

Everyone except Ann Trask. The administrator of Glory Community Church had to stay at her post as long as Gilda threatened the town.

Ann shook her head. “I can’t leave.”

She expected Dave to argue with her, but he didn’t. “It’s a short run to the hospital. Expect us back in less than ten minutes.” He killed the three floodlights atop the ambulance and yanked the rear door shut. The vehicle’s white, red and amber warning signals spun to life, illuminating the jagged remains of the steeple piled next to the Storm Channel’s broadcast van and casting bizarre shadows in the parking lot.

Then the ambulance drove away, leaving almost total darkness in its wake. Ann wished that she’d remembered to switch on the exterior light above the church’s side door.

She tugged her rain hood forward and tightened the drawstrings. Not that the hood would make much difference. She was soaked to the skin inside her clothing—what were a few more drops of wind-driven rain dripping down her neck?

It hardly made sense to seek a few minutes of shelter inside the church, but she decided to check if anyone had telephoned in her absence. A quick glance at the answering machine in her office told her that no one had called. She made it back to the parking lot in less than five minutes, a moment before one of the police department’s four-wheel-drive SUVs, a boxy truck decked out with red and blue strobe lights, entered from King Street. Dave must have notified the emergency command center that Richard had been killed. She cringed. Why hadn’t she thought to call Rafe Neilson first?

Probably because you’re more shocked by Richard’s death than you’re willing to admit.

The SUV stopped next to the crippled broadcast van, inches away from Ann. Its headlights lit up the wreckage of the crushed steeple, making Richard’s red boots look especially garish compared to the mostly white chunks of smashed wood.

Rafe slipped out of the driver-side door and Phil Meade exited the passenger side. Their faces, alternately lit by blue and red flashes, seemed surreal, but Ann could see anger glowing in Phil’s eyes as he strode toward Richard’s body.

“Are you okay?” Rafe asked, approaching Ann. Ann took comfort in his strong, caring voice.

“I don’t think what’s happened has sunk in yet,” she said. “It doesn’t compute that Richard is dead. He was killed in such a weird way.”

“Weird happens,” Rafe said, “both for the bad and the good. The broadcast van was in the wrong place at the wrong time. So was Richard Squires. But as far as we know, no one else in town, or the county for that matter, has been seriously injured. One dead and two wounded is a lot better than we hoped for a few hours ago.”

“Praise God for that.”

Phil’s booming voice overpowered the wind. “Praise God indeed for good news, Miss Trask, but not for the way that you deal with crises.” He brought his face inches from Ann’s, close enough for her to see raindrops dribble off his nose. “Your foolish stubbornness killed a wonderful man. I hope you’re satisfied.”

Ann flinched as the impact of his words hit home. Phil Meade blamed her for Richard’s death.

She pressed her lips together to control the fury she felt. No way would she give Phil a close-up view of her anger. She would behave like a professional manager, no matter what he said to provoke her.

Rafe stepped between Ann and Phil. “For the tenth time, Phil, you can’t blame Ann for Richard’s death. She didn’t bring down the steeple—that was Gilda’s doing. Hurricanes are dangerous. Everyone who stayed in Glory understood the risk. Including Richard Squires.”

“For the eleventh time,” Phil shouted, “there’s only one reason that Richard is dead. Ann Trask panicked when she couldn’t start the generator, because she’s too young and too inexperienced to handle routine problems.” He clasped his hands to his temples and shook his head, an extravagantly complex gesture that Ann read as a signal of his bewilderment.

“I don’t understand the leaders of Glory Community Church,” he said. “Why would you guys put someone in charge of your building during a storm if she can’t prime a simple diesel fuel pump?”

Ann felt her anger surge again when Phil spoke about her in the third person, as if she weren’t there. She leveled her index finger at him. “Richard kept the generator in good running order. We were supposed to call him immediately if anything went wrong.”

“If anything major went wrong,” Phil replied, with a generous wave of his hands, “or if circumstances truly required the generator to be operational. The very last thing Richard wanted to do this evening was leave his job at the emergency command center and deal with a trivial generator glitch. He did it because you don’t know diddly about diesel engines, and because you seemed scared stiff of the dark. That’s what he told all of us before he left.” He glanced at Rafe. “You were there—you heard Richard moaning and groaning about going to the church. Tell her I’m right.”

Ann’s anger quickly turned to concern. Rafe’s unhappy expression told her that everything Phil had said was true, which meant that Richard’s gracious “I should have tested the generator this morning” had been nothing but a polite fib, spoken to cover how he really felt.

That doesn’t change my reason for calling him.

Words came rushing out of her mouth.

“I called Richard this evening because I had to. A major hurricane was about to hit Glory. A backup generator is an essential piece of equipment at an emergency shelter. It has to work reliably. The generator was Richard’s responsibility, not mine. If he’d maintained it properly, I wouldn’t have needed his last-minute help.”

Ann watched a vein begin to throb in Phil Meade’s temple.

“You’re plainly inexperienced,” he said angrily, “but I didn’t expect you to also be mean-spirited. How dare you blame Richard for your own ineptitude?” He stretched to his full height and went on. “Shame on you! Richard deserves better than that.”

Phil spun around and made his way back to Richard’s body.

“I give up,” Ann said to Rafe. “Phil is determined to blame me.”

“Phil’s upset about Richard and not in a mood to listen to reason.”

She stood still as Rafe gently brushed away a little puddle of rainwater that had collected on the brim of her hood.

“Richard was in charge of the generator,” Rafe went on. “He often told people that keeping it running was part of his ministry at Glory Community Church.”

“Even so, I’d better smooth things over with Phil.”

“Good idea,” Rafe said, “but give him a chance to calm down before you try. He’ll come around after he’s had some time to cool off.”

Ann knew better. Phil might never “come around.” She had embarrassed him earlier by forcing him to back down. He was the sort of person who didn’t forgive and forget. Especially not now that he’d discovered her Achilles’ heel—her so-called fear of the dark.

“I started my new job at the church just a few months ago,” she murmured to herself. “The last thing I need right now is an influential enemy questioning my competence.”

God, why do You keep putting me in this position?

Sean felt something squeezing his arm. He opened his eyes and found a smiling nurse standing next to him, pumping a blood pressure cuff. A name tag clipped to her blouse identified her as “Sharon R.N.”

“How long have I been out, Sharon?” he asked with a yawn he couldn’t suppress.

“Six or seven hours, on and off. The doc stitched the cut on your scalp, ordered an MRI, and then decided you’d suffered nothing worse than a simple concussion and a painful bruise on your forehead. And in case you’re wondering why you’re yawning, we woke you up repeatedly throughout the night.”

Sean glanced at the window behind Sharon. He saw sunlight streaming through the panes and blue, cloudless skies. Gilda had moved on during the night, gifting Glory with a beautiful morning.

Her smile widened. “Are you hungry?”

“Not particularly.”

“Blame the concussion. Your stomach might be touchy for a few days. But I do suggest you eat a light breakfast. This could become a busy morning for you. Rafe Neilson wants to talk to you and a woman named Cathy McCabe at the Storm Channel began to call for you an hour ago.”

Sean had no idea who Rafe Neilson might be and didn’t really care. But Cathy McCabe, his producer, was another matter. “What did you tell her?”

“That I wasn’t your secretary and she should leave messages for you on your cell phone. She countered that she didn’t much like my attitude and that only an overzealous bureaucrat would refuse to give her any specific information about Carlo’s medical status.”