He was lying in a bed, but the room was not his. The mattress was hard. The wall ahead of him was an institutional green. No posters of Roger Staubach or Lyn Swann adorned it, no autographed photo of Walter Payton.
“John?”
His right leg was encased in plaster from knee to foot; a tube snaked into a vein on the back of his left hand. It felt as if a thousand drummers were beating inside his skull; every breath sent what felt like a sharp knife straight through his chest and into his back.
“John?”
Where was he? Not at Angie’s. Not in his car.
“John? Can you hear me?”
God. Oh God. His car. The truck. Everything spinning, tumbling out of control in the blackness. The screams, the shouts…
Jesus Christ!
He shot upright. Tried to, anyway, but pain lanced through him; the room went out of focus.
He screamed and fell back against the pillow.
“Easy,” a woman’s voice said. “Don’t try to move.”
“Alden,” he said hoarsely. “My brother…”
“Can you tell me your name?”
Johnny blinked. Looked up. A woman stood over him. She was wearing a white coat; a stethoscope hung around her neck.
“Johnny. Johnny Wilde.”
She nodded as if he’d said something profound.
“Good. And where are you, John? Can you tell me?”
What was with all this BS? He knew his name. He knew he was in some damn hospital.
“My brother,” Johnny said. “Is he OK?”
“Tell me where you are, John.”
Dammit!
“Hospital.”
“Right. You’re in the Mount Sinai emergency room. I’m Dr. Stuart.” She paused. “Do you remember what happened, John?”
Johnny shut his eyes. He could see the truck skidding, blocking the road…
“Truck,” he said, looking at the doctor. “Big truck, jackknifed…” A shudder ripped through him. “Steering wheel twisted out of my hands.”
Dr. Stuart put her hand on his shoulder.
“You’re going to be fine, John. You fractured a couple of ribs, fractured your right fibula, sustained a concussion, but otherwise…”
“My brother?”
“I know you’ll be glad to hear that the young women in the back seat came through with only a few bruises.”
“I want to see my brother!”
Johnny tried to struggle upright again. The doctor’s hands were firm as she clasped his shoulders and eased him back down.
“Easy. We don’t want you moving around until we’re certain that your concussion—”
“I don’t give a crap about that, goddammit! Tell me about Alden! Where is he?”
“In the morgue,” a hard-as-glass voice said. Amos Wilde elbowed the doctor aside. “That’s where my son is, you piece of shit! He’s in the fucking morgue, and you put him there!”
“Mr. Wilde,” the doctor said sharply, “please! Your son has just regained consciousness. Surely this could—”
“My son is dead!”
Bile rose in Johnny’s throat. He gagged; the doctor slipped her hand behind his head and supported it as a nurse shoved a blue plastic pan under his chin. He retched violently but his belly was empty—he never ate before a game and he hadn’t eaten since.
He couldn’t imagine ever wanting to eat again.
“Alden,” he gasped, “Jesus, no. Not Alden!”
Tears streaked down his face. The doctor turned to Amos. He stood at rigid attention, his face white, his expression cold.
“Mr. Wilde,” she said, “sir, please. I know this is difficult, but your son needs you.”
“I told you. My son is dead.”
Amos strode from the room. Johnny fell back against the pillow, racked by sobs.
“No,” he whispered, “No! No! Noo!”
The doctor stabbed a needle into the IV line.
Liquid heat shot through Johnny’s arm, his body, his brain, and he tumbled into merciful darkness.
CHAPTER THREE
ALDEN’S FUNERAL TOOK place four days later.
Johnny was still hospitalized, a cast on his leg.
He knew that he could have gone home the day before; he’d heard the nurses whispering when they thought he was asleep.
His father was the reason he had not been discharged. Amos didn’t want him home, and Johnny didn’t blame him one bit.
He’d killed his brother.
Nobody said so, but they didn’t have to put it into words. He’d been driving, he’d crashed his car, and Alden was dead.
The ER doc sent a shrink to talk to him.
He pointed out that the police report had cleared him of responsibility. There were no skid marks that would have indicated high speed. Blood tests for drugs and alcohol were negative. The three girls had given statements that said the tractor trailer was going fast; it veered over the yellow dividing line, jackknifed and came straight at them. They said that Johnny had done his best to avoid it.
Still, Amos blamed him for what had happened.
And Johnny did, too.
He’d been behind the wheel. As far as he was concerned, that made him responsible for everything that had happened, starting with making the decision to go to Angie’s and talking Alden into going with him.
Alden was dead.
He was alive.
That was fact.
And of the two Wilde boys, only one had been worth anything and it sure as hell wasn’t him.
That was fact, too.
So, no. Johnny had no difficulty understanding why his father hated him.
It was the first time in years they’d agreed on anything.
He’d killed his brother. That was the simple truth.
Amos surely wouldn’t want him at the funeral, but no way was Johnny going to let that stop him from being there. He wanted to see Alden one last time, tell him that the wrong brother was dead, and to hell with Amos.
He phoned a friend. Told him what he’d need and when.
The nurse on duty—his father had paid for private duty nurses and Johnny figured it was only because anything less would have looked bad—tried to stop him when TJ showed up carrying a dark suit, a white shirt and a tie, said “Hey, man, how you doin’?” and dumped the clothes on the foot of the bed.
“What’s this?” the nurse said.
“Clothes,” Johnny said flatly, swinging his feet to the floor.
“You can’t check yourself out, John. You’re a minor.”
Johnny began taking off his hospital gown.
“My brother’s funeral is today. No way am I not going to be there.”
“I’ll have to notify your father, John. And the doctor. And—”
“Here’s the deal,” Johnny said. “You can walk away and pretend you didn’t see what was happening or you can notify everybody on the planet. One way or another, I’ll be at that funeral.” His voice cracked. “I need to be there, for Alden.”
The nurse stared at him for what seemed a very long time. Then she picked up his chart and walked to the door.
“I have some notes to make,” she said briskly. “I shouldn’t be gone more than a few minutes. If you need me—“
“Thank you. I mean it. Thank you for doing this.”
She nodded. “What happened wasn’t your fault,” she said softly. “You must believe that.”
“Sure,” Johnny said, but they both knew he was lying.
He dressed quickly. There was no way to get his leg into the pants so he slit the trouser seam until he could get it over the cast.
Standing up wasn’t easy, either. His ribs hurt hard enough to make him stagger.
TJ grabbed his arm.
“I’m all right,” Johnny said, shaking him off.
By the time he was ready, he was in a cold sweat. He winced when he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Both his eyes were amazing shades of purple and black. His hair was too long. And the suit…
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TJ and he were about the same height, but TJ was a linebacker. The suit was at least two sizes too big. The tie was a wide blob of red polka dots on a teal background. To top it off, both he and TJ had forgotten about shoes. The sneakers he’d been wearing the night of the accident would have to do.
He looked like something out of a bad movie.
So what?
He was going to be there for Alden no matter how he looked.
He took a breath. Started to hobble toward the door and swayed; TJ caught him by the arm.
“You’re not gonna make it, man.”
“I’m fine,” Johnny said through his teeth.
“No,” the nurse said, “you’re not.”
She came into the room fast, held out two tablets and a paper cup of water.
“I don’t need that,” Johnny said.
“Would you prefer I ring for an orderly to stop you from leaving?”
Johnny’s eyes met hers. She’d do it, he knew.
He reached for the tablets, gulped them down, grabbed the cup and drank.
The nurse took back the cup.
“There’s a wheelchair outside the door. “
“I don’t need a chair.”
“What are you going to do, John? Fly to the church? Of course you need a chair.”
“Crutches,” Johnny said. “I’ll use crutches.”