Heart of the Night (50 page)

“I'll be here.”

Susan pressed the button to disconnect the call, then quickly punched out the number of the Providence police. Once she relayed her message to the officer who answered the phone, she could do nothing but sit and wait for Sam to call.

The waiting was hard. She tried to imagine where Sam was and what he was doing, but that made her nervous. Then she tried to imagine what kind of accident had befallen his family, which members were involved, and what condition they were in, but that was worse.

By the time an hour had elapsed, she'd realized two things. The first was that she wasn't sure she wanted to be involved with a police officer if it meant waiting, wondering, and worrying while she was totally out of touch. The second was that she wasn't sure she could
avoid
involvement with one, since the level of fear she felt on his behalf was directly related to the depth of her love.

When the phone finally rang, she jumped, then snatched up the receiver. “Sam?”

“This had better be good,” he warned.

“Thank God they could reach you,” she breathed. “A Captain Divine called from the Butler Police Department. There's been an accident, Sam. He said it involved your family. I don't know the details, but he left a number. He said you should call him as soon as you could.”

Sam was silent for a minute before quietly asking for the number.

She gave it to him. “Will you let me know what's happened?”

“Let me see first,” he said in that same quiet voice. “Thanks, sweetheart.”

Susan replaced the receiver, swallowed hard, then headed back toward the large leather chair. Her eye fell on the Chivas, and she was sorely tempted to reverse the effects of the caffeine and fresh air by taking a healthy dose of the stuff. Except that she didn't feel she could drink a thing. Her stomach was tied in a knot of worry.

But the worry wasn't all. She'd been fumbling through her relationship with Sam, wishing she had more to offer. This was her chance. If he needed her, she wanted to be sober.

Scooping up the bottle of scotch, the glass, and what remained of the bowl of ice from the floor, she put them away, then sank into the sofa to await word from Sam. It came thirty minutes later, but not in the phone call she'd expected. Sam, himself, walked through the front door.

One look at him told her the news was bad. His face was pale, his eyes confused. His shoulders sagged, as though suddenly burdened with an awesome weight.

Taking his hand, Susan held it in both of hers while her eyes asked the question she couldn't quite voice.

“There was an automobile accident,” he told her. “My parents were in the car with my sister, Lynn, and her husband. My mother is the only one alive.” Susan gasped. “The other three were killed outright. I have to go.” Closing his hand around hers, he drew her with him toward the stairs.

“Will she be all right?”

“I don't know. She's in critical condition.”

“Oh, Sam,” Susan whispered, “I'm so sorry.”

He didn't say anything, but he clung to her hand until he'd reached the bedroom, where he dropped it to take a duffel from the closet. “I'm driving straight through,” he said as he went to the dresser. “With waits and transfers, it'd take just as long to fly.”

Wanting only to help, Susan said, “I'll charter you a plane. I have a friend who's in the business.” Then she realized what she'd said. “Forget that. I'll drive with you.” She went for her own overnight bag.

Sam went on with his packing. “You don't have to do that.”

“I want to do it. If I'm along, one of us can drive while the other sleeps.”

“I don't think I'll be doing much sleeping.”

“Still, you shouldn't be alone.”

“I'm used to it.”

“Not at a time like this.” She took a skirt, then a pair of pumps from the closet, infinitely grateful that she had a fair supply of clothes there. Sam would never have considered her going if they had to stop in Newport first. “Besides, I'd rather be with you than stay here.”

She was pressing the skirt into her bag when Sam put a hand on her arm. “This won't be fun,” he cautioned. “I'm going to have to arrange three funerals. At least.”

Tears came to her eyes. “That's why I should be there,” she said. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she gave him a quick hug. “I love you, Sam. I want to be with you.”

For an instant, arms trembling, he completed the embrace and held her tightly. Then he released her and returned to his packing. After another minute and without looking up, he said in a low voice, “Could you phone your friend? If he can get someone to fly us there, it would save hours.”

Susan didn't have to be asked twice. With a single phone call, she'd arranged for the flight. They'd be going in a private plane, one that was smaller and less luxurious than that in which she, Savannah, and Megan had flown to Florida, but she didn't mind, and she was sure Sam wouldn't. She didn't think he'd see his surroundings at all. His mind was in Butler.

The flight was an uneasy one. The plane had to plow its way through rain clouds that thickened the night. But they landed safely, and an unmarked police car was waiting to drive them directly to the hospital, where a doctor apprised Sam of his mother's condition.

She was in the intensive care unit. Having suffered multiple fractures, the most severe to her skull, she was unconscious. The prognosis was bleak.

Walking down the hall with Sam toward the ICU, Susan could feel his anguish radiating through the fingers that held hers so tightly. She was close enough to him to know what he was feeling far more than fear for his mother's life. He hadn't seen the woman in fifteen years. At that moment, he was deeply regretting the separation.

Susan paused at the door to the glass-enclosed unit. When Sam glanced quickly at her, she whispered, “You go in. She doesn't know me.”

But he tugged on her hand. His eyes were wide, pleading in the way of a man not accustomed to pleading.

Susan didn't hesitate any longer. She'd made a decision back in Providence, when she'd put away the scotch, that she wanted to be there for Sam. He needed her now.

Janet Craig looked pale and fragile against the pristine white sheets. A small woman, she'd reached her midfifties with a minimum of wear. Only the finest of lines, sprinkled at the corners of her eyes and mouth, marred the softness of her skin. Her hair was the same natural brown shade as Sam's.

While Susan saw all that, Sam only saw the bandages that swept diagonally around her head, the tube that was taped to her mouth, the machines by her bed, the needles that forged entry to her veins. She was his mother. He knew what she was supposed to look like, and it wasn't this.

“Mom,” he whispered. Dropping Susan's hand, he bent over the still figure on the bed. “Mom?” He cleared his throat and forced himself to speak louder. “Mom? It's Sam.”

His voice cracked at his name. Afraid she would cry, Susan pressed a fist to her mouth. Her throat was so tight that she doubted she'd have been able to say a word. But Sam either had greater strength than she, greater determination, or both.

“I'm here, Mom. Just got in a little while ago. The doctors are taking really good care of you. You'll be fine. Just fine.” He paused. “Can you hear me, Mom?”

His mother showed no sign of awareness.

Sam wore a look of raw fear when he glanced up at Susan, but there was little she could say to ease his grief. The doctor hadn't left much room for hope.

With the lightest of hands, Sam touched his mother's cheek. His fingers trembled on her hair, then on her arm. Taking care around the intravenous needle, he slipped his fingers through hers.

“When I was little,” he murmured, moving his thumb over her pale skin, “she used to hold my hand. I always thought it was because she was afraid I'd run off and get lost, and she probably was, but I liked it when she did it. She wasn't an openly loving person, but when she held my hand I felt safe. Loved.”

He leaned close again. “I'm here, Mom. I'm going to take care of you. Just open your eyes and look at me. Know I'm here.”

Susan pressed her fist harder against her mouth.

“It's Sam. Can you hear me, Mom? It's Sam.” He held his breath, watching in vain for a response that didn't come. After an interminable minute, he let that breath escape. “I'm going to see Dad now.” His voice broke again, but he forced himself on. “I'll be back, Mom. You work on getting better for me. Okay?”

Tears were pooling on his lower lids when he turned to face Susan. He took her hand again, then, as though knowing that he needed more, drew her close and held her tight. His voice was a ragged whisper by her ear. “It shouldn't have happened this way. Not this way.”

Susan didn't know whether he was talking about the accident or his reunion with his family. Neither should have happened that way, she knew. “Don't give up hope,” she whispered. “Modern medicine can do wonders.”

“They think she's already brain-dead.”

“Wait till they know it. Don't assume the worst until then.”

Dragging in a ragged breath, Sam straightened. He glanced back at his mother, called, “I'll be back, Mom,” then took Susan's hand again and led her out to the hall, where he looked down at her. “Do you want to go somewhere to wait?”

Susan knew where he was going. He had to identify the bodies of his father, sister, and brother-in-law. It promised to be a heartrending task. He was giving her an out.

But she shook her head. “I'd rather stay with you.”

“You don't have to. I'm okay.”

“I want to.”

“Are you sure?”

She nodded.

He didn't smile; she doubted he was capable of it just then. But the way he held her hand, keeping her close by his side as they walked toward the elevator, told her that he appreciated what she was doing, and as long as that was the case, she knew she'd do whatever she could to ease his pain, even if it meant increasing her own.

The elevator opened. They entered it and began the short trip to hell.

Fifteen minutes later, the same elevator returned them to the ICU floor. They were both paler and more drawn. Heads down, they started down the dim corridor toward Janet Craig's room, only to stop at the sound of Sam's name and look up.

A policewoman stood by the nurse's station holding the hand of a tousle-haired little girl who looked to be no more than five. The child was wearing a light jacket and sneakers over flannel pajamas. Her eyes were large and frightened.

For a minute, Sam didn't breathe. Then he whispered, “My God. Oh my God.” Slowly, he approached the little girl. Though his voice had risen above a whisper, it was hoarse. “Courtney?” He reached out to touch her face, but she shrank back against her custodian.

“She was with a sitter,” the policewoman explained softly. “It's better that she be with family.”

Bewildered, Sam looked from the woman to the child and back. “Where's John's family?” He'd thought for sure that his brother-in-law had parents or siblings in the area.

But the policewoman silently shook her head.

The look Sam sent Susan verged on panic. She was feeling a little of it herself. If Sam's mother died, Sam would inherit a daughter. He didn't know what to do with a child. Neither did she.

Someone had to do something, though. The policewoman couldn't stand there forever holding the child's hand, and the child was obviously scared.

Trying to recall what people had said to her when she was six and had been separated from her mother and Savannah in Saks, Susan came forward and squatted before the little girl. “Courtney's a beautiful name,” she said gently. “Do you have a middle one?”

The child nodded.

Susan waited. When the name wasn't forthcoming, she said, “I bet it's Jane.”

The child shook her head.

“Alice?” Susan asked.

Another headshake.

Susan tried again. “Dawn?”

“It's Marie,” Sam told her without taking his eyes from his niece.

Susan gave him a quick glance of thanks, then turned back to Courtney. “He knows that because he's your uncle. His name's Sam. Samuel John Craig.”

“I don't know him,” the child said in a small, high voice.

“That's because he lives way off in Rhode Island. But he's your mommy's brother.”

“Where is my mommy? She was supposed to bring me a Kit Kat, but it wasn't there when I woke up.”

Susan tossed a helpless glance in Sam's direction. At her silent bidding, he, too, hunkered down. “It's still the middle of the night,” he said. “Are you tired?”

The child shook her head. Her eyes were wary, her tiny lips pressed together as though she might cry.

Susan didn't want that to happen. Nor did she want another question about Courtney's mom. Eventually the answer would have to come, but now wasn't the time. Instinct told her that it was critical to establish rapport with the child.

So she exclaimed softly, “Oh my, what's this?” The tip of something promising was peeking from the child's jacket pocket. Very carefully pulling on a furry white ear, she extricated a small stuffed bunny.

“That's Peter,” Courtney told her.

“Peter Rabbit?” Susan cradled the miniature creature in her hand. “He's adorable!”

“The Easter bunny brought him. They're cousins.”

“Peter and the Easter bunny? You must be very special for the Easter bunny to give you one of his cousins.”

One shoulder moved in a half-pint shrug, while she pinched in the corner of her mouth.

Sam spoke then. “Do you have any cousins of your own? Any people cousins?” He was having trouble grasping the fact that he might be the child's only living relative.

Courtney went silent again and shook her head.