Kane, Andrea (19 page)

Sabrina's brows rose. "And I thought
I
was the workaholic."

"I just want to pick up some papers to run by Carson
tomorrow. He likes to pretend he's happy leaving Stan and me in charge, but
don't believe him. He's never happy unless he's in control."

That sparked a thought.

"Dylan, that reminds me, why did Carson make that request
before we left? Why would he want me there when you two catch up on
Ruisseau?"

"Not a clue." Dylan shrugged. "But Carson's mind
works round-the-clock. He must want your input on something. Remember, he knows
your professional reputation. Maybe he wants to tap your brain on how to make
the transition easier for the staff while he's incapacitated. Maybe he wants to
ship the whole management team up to Auburn so you can give them a refresher
course. I don't know. But we'll find out tomorrow."

Thursday, September 8th, 10:20 A.M.

Mt. Sinai Hospital

It was a local anesthetic Radison administered. But Carson had had
a restless night—first, fighting the ET tube they'd reinserted to help him
breathe, then thrashing around from the discomfort of the abdominal and chest
tubes. So they'd given him something to relax. As a result, he found himself
fading in and out during the twenty or thirty minutes that the minor surgery
was taking place.

The problem was that every time he slept, he relived the shooting.

Same scenario. He, standing at the window, wondering whether or
not he had a kid, waiting for Dylan to come back so they could finish work and
talk about whatever was bugging his friend. Something was definitely bugging
him. He'd been on edge the whole afternoon.

He never heard a sound, not even a footstep. Nothing before the
pop. Then, the pain, the colors, and that sweet smell. Oh, and the carpet
cleaner. He'd smelled that, too. Almost as sickening and powerful an odor as
the blood. The voices of the paramedics. Losing sensation in his limbs. The
cobwebs in his brain. And the pop... over and over. The smell... it wouldn't
leave his nostrils. Damn, he wished he could wipe it away. But it wasn't going
anywhere. And the more he slept, the more it plagued him.

Vaguely, he heard a
ping,
and he frowned, wondering if that
was a sound he'd forgotten. Like something solid hitting tin. It rattled
around. He turned his head, trying to clear away the haze.

"That was the bullet, Mr. Brooks." Dr. Radison's voice
was calm. "Just relax. I'm stitching you up."

"Smell... blood..." He was rasping again, his throat
irritated by the ET tube they'd, thankfully, removed this morning.

"Sorry, not this time. Not enough to bother even your nose.
The incision's too narrow to cause much bleeding. This time we got lucky. The
bullet cooperated by being close to the skin. Whatever you smell, it's not
blood."

"Heard the pop... felt the sting... smelled...
smelled..."

"You're just reliving the shooting. It's over now. You're on
the mend." Radison paused, addressing someone else in the room.
"Detective Whitman's outside the door. Call her in. I initialed the base
of the bullet for ID purposes. She can bag it and take it with her." With
that, he turned back to Carson. "Okay now," he said, continuing in
his original soothing voice. "Another few minutes and I'll be finished
here."

"What... time?"

"It's ten-thirty. I know you want to speak with Mr. Newport
and Ms. Radcliffe. I called them both, told them you were off the respirator
and would be up for visitors around noon. Until then, I want you to rest."

"... Too much rest already." Carson blinked, cracking
open his eyes in time to see a nurse leaning into the hall and gesturing to
someone outside ICU. An instant later, Detective Whitman stepped into the room.

"Hey, Detective..." he called out, his voice slurred and
gravelly. "Get your asses in gear... on my case, will you?" He
swallowed, a comer of his mouth lifting ever so slightly. "... I'd hate to
spread the word... that some amateur... outsmarted New York's finest...."

Whitman shot him a look. "I appreciate the kick in the pants,
Mr. Brooks. So will my partner. My precinct, too, for that matter. Shame alone
will get us moving."

"Yeah, well, it should.... And move in the right direction...
and to the right people."

Her expression didn't change. But Carson knew she'd gotten the
message. "How about leaving the crime-solving to us, Mr. Brooks. You just
worry about getting well. Cooperate with poor Dr. Radison. Let him do his job.
And let us do ours. That's what professionals are for."

"Sometimes." Carson wasn't nodding off without getting
the last word. "Other times they need help...."

"This isn't one of those times."

11:15 A.M.

Sabrina stepped out of the elevator and headed for ICU.

She knew she was early. Dr. Radison had said noon. But she'd been
awake since six, her emotional overdrive having won out over her exhaustion.
And, after two hours of paperwork, a long hot shower, and two essential phone
calls—one business, one personal—she'd virtually run out of things to do to
keep her mind occupied.

The first call had been to Melissa to tell her that she'd be in
New York a few days longer than expected, and that she'd check in later today.

The second call had been to her mother. Gloria sounded as tired as
Sabrina did, and almost as strung out. She told Sabrina that she was flying to
New York later today, both to be there for her daughter and for the more
practical purpose of meeting with the detectives to answer their questions.
That
was the easy part. The hard part was that, on her way to the airport, she
was stopping by to see her parents. They had to be told, and now, before the
media got hold of the story.

Sabrina had felt like Cruella De Vil. She couldn't help it. No
matter how valid her feelings were or how righteous her intentions, and no
matter how much her mother swore otherwise, Sabrina felt so damned responsible
for the pain and anguish she was about to cause. She loved her grandparents.
She didn't want them upset or strained. And she sure as hell didn't want her
mother to take the brunt of it when these old wounds were opened up—especially
since the old wounds now came with new, uncertain consequences.

Her head about to explode, Sabrina had left the hotel, hopped into
a cab, and made her way to the hospital.

She went straight for the coffee machine—buying a cup of the fully
leaded variety this time—then veered toward the nurses' station. She'd check on
Carson's condition, after which she'd wait in the lounge for Dr. Radison to
call her in.

"Ms. Radcliffe?"

Sabrina turned to see Susan Lane seated alone in the lounge. She
was perched at the edge of a sofa, two empty Styrofoam cups on the end table
beside her, one full cup in her hand. She looked wrung out, so peaked and tired
that Sabrina's heart went out to her.

"Hi." Sabrina walked over, and sat down. "You look
exhausted. Have you been here long?"

"Hmm?..." A vague glance at her watch. "About four
hours, I think. After a while, I lose track of time. One minute blends into the
next."

The slight quaver in her voice made Sabrina tense. "Is
everything all right? There hasn't been a turn for the worse, has there?"

"No, nothing like that." Susan put down her cup. "I
guess the aftermath's just hitting me hard. It feels like months, not days,
since Carson was shot. And I still can't seem to absorb it. He's such a vital
man. I can't stand the thought of him lying there, fighting, not even knowing
if he'll make a full recovery." She waved away her own words.
"Anyway, the bullet's out. Whether or not it was the cause of the
infection, we'll have to wait and see."

"From what I hear, Dr. Radison is the best. He'll figure out
the source of the infection. Then he'll eliminate it."

"And then what?" Susan ran a shaky hand through her
frosted blond hair. "God knows how much damage was done, how many more
complications will crop up. There's also this crisis with his kidneys. I still
can't believe..." She broke off, shot Sabrina a rueful look. "I'm
sorry. You didn't come by today to hear me go on and on like that." A
puzzled knit of her brows. "Actually, why did you come?"

Sabrina was half-tempted to just blurt out the truth. After all,
the press would soon be all over this, so what was the point of keeping it a
secret, especially from someone as close to Carson as Susan was?

On the other hand, Susan looked too out-of-it to process a story
of this magnitude. And Sabrina wasn't really up for launching into a
blow-by-blow recounting of her conception.

So she settled for providing a fragment of the truth.
"Carson's having some kind of meeting with Dylan. He didn't supply the
details, but he did ask me to participate."

"Makes sense." Susan's half-smile was tender. "I should
have guessed. From what Dylan told me, you're no average management consultant.
You're exceptional. And Carson? He's the heart and soul of Ruisseau. He worries
about it like a father worries about bis child. Not just the company, the
employees, too. They're like his family. He's probably trying to think up ways
to keep morale high and productivity at a peak while he's recuperating. You
must have tons of experience in that area. I'm sure he's counting on
that."

A father worrying about his child. That reference carved a hollow
ache in Sabrina's gut, one she steeled herself against. She didn't want to go
there—not now. "You're probably right," she replied instead.
"And, yes, I do have experience working with teams who need guidance to
stay focused and unified. Losing a team leader—even temporarily—can be
disruptive to group morale and, as a result, to group performance. I'm sure
Carson's well aware of that, which is why he's concerned."

"Only Carson would worry about his company when his life's on
the line." Pride laced Susan's tone. "He's one of a kind."

One of a kind. Funny, those were the exact same words Dylan had
used to describe Carson. What an amazing man to have such a profound effect on
those he was closest to.

Sabrina inclined her head, studying Susan thoughtfully. Her
devotion to Carson was obvious. As was her respect, which bordered on awe.
She'd scarcely left the hospital, or Carson's side, for days. Just how serious
were they?

Even as she cautioned herself that she had no right to pry, that
Carson's love life was none of her business, Sabrina heard herself ask,
"Have you and Carson been together long?"

"About a year and a half." Susan didn't seem the least
bit put off by the question. "We met at a charity function I was hosting.
I've hosted dozens. Never have I been so impressed by a contributor before in
my life."

Sabrina took a sip of coffee. "Impressed how? It doesn't
sound like you're referring to the sum he donated."

"I'm not. Although the check he wrote was exceptionally
generous. But contributing money is easy when you're rich. Caring enough to
contribute your time, to offer your personal involvement, that's something
else."

"I agree." Sabrina's interest was piqued, once again, by
learning more about Carson Brooks. Each story let her glimpse another facet of
him. This time, it was Carson Brooks the philanthropist. "What charity are
you affiliated with, and what kind of personal commitment did Carson
make?"

"YouthOp." Susan settled back as she warmed to her
subject. "It's a combination mentoring and educational program for
troubled, low-income kids. We're still in our embryonic stage. But we're
growing. So far, we've initiated a work-study program, a big brother program,
even some cultural and recreational activities. Our teenage volunteers are
referred to us by schools and social services. They donate time and emotional
guidance—not professional guidance, but a been-there-done-that kind of
approach—to elementary school kids. In return for helping the younger ones get
their heads on straight, they get opportunities to intern at our participating
companies, and educational assistance—either in working toward a high school
equivalency diploma or going for a college degree. The latter includes
scholarship money."

"What a wonderful organization. Do you have any government
funding?"

"On a local level, yes. We're still lobbying for state and
federal funding. Until then, we have to rely heavily on personal and corporate
contributions."

"And Carson is one of those contributors." Sabrina
understood the scenario better than Susan realized. She knew what Carson had
done for Dylan; this kind of thing was right up his alley.

"Not just a contributor," Susan amended, confirming
Sabrina's speculation. "Carson opens the doors of Ruisseau to the teenage
mentors. He offers them internships, scholarships, even chances to make pocket
money. As for the little ones, he's a major supporter of the big brother
program. He sponsors trips to amusement parks, movies, ball games." A grin.
"He's even been known to attend a few of those ball games, when he can
tear himself away from Ruisseau. Oh, and then there's the annual camping
weekend."