Hour Game (Sean King & Michelle Maxwell 2) - Page 44
Michelle said, “You could have taught your kids to paint, ride horses, maybe they would’ve gotten into reenactments too.”
“And you still could have kids,” added King.
“To do that, I’d have to get another wife,” said Eddie with a resigned smile, “and I’m not sure I have the energy. Besides, Battles aren’t supposed to divorce. It’s unseemly. Hell, if Dorothea didn’t kill me, my mother probably would.”
“Well, it’s your life,” commented Michelle.
He looked at her strangely. “You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” He finished his drink and said, “So I heard on the news that they’ve called in the big guns to help.”
“Including your old friend Chip Bailey.”
“I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for him.”
“I’m sure your parents were really grateful to him.”
“Oh, yeah. My father offered him a position as head of security in one of his companies. Big bucks.”
“I didn’t know that,” said King. “But he obviously didn’t take it.”
“No. I guess he liked being a cop.” Eddie tapped his spoon against his fork. “I remember when I was a kid and this area was nothing but hills and woods. It was great. We never worried about anything happening.”
“And now?” asked Michelle.
“And now people are getting killed in their homes, left in the woods, shotgunned in their cars. If I ever did have a family, I don’t think I’d do it here.”
“Well, I guess you could live anywhere,” said King.
“I’m not sure my mother would be very happy about that.”
“Again, it’s your life, Eddie, right?” said Michelle.
This time Eddie Battle didn’t bother to answer her.
CHAPTER
28
WHILE KYLE MONTGOMERY
was committing his felony and Eddie, King and Michelle were in the bar, Bobby Battle lay in his hospital bed under a mass of IV lines. Remmy Battle sat next to him, her right hand clasped inside her husband’s still, pale one.
Remmy’s eyes were on the array of monitors that vividly detailed the slim grasp her husband had on life. He’d had a minor setback and gone back on the ventilator machine, and it emitted its unnervingly high-pitched screech whenever Bobby’s breathing veered off course. Remmy’s own breathing rose and fell erratically with the squawks of the infernal contraption.
The nurse walked in. “Hello, Mrs. Battle, everything all right?”
“No! He doesn’t know me,” she snapped back. “He doesn’t know anyone.”
“But he’s getting stronger, the doctors said so. It’ll just take time. His vitals are much better. Even though he’s back on the ventilator, things are looking up, they really are.”
Remmy’s tone changed. “I thank you for telling me that. I really do, honey.” She looked down at the large man in the bed.
The nurse smiled and then seemed uncomfortable. “Mrs. Battle,” she began in a deferential tone undoubtedly reserved for those fortunate few who had their names on buildings.
“I know,” Remmy said quietly.
“Are you going to sleep here tonight?” the nurse asked. “If so, I’ll get your bed made up.”
“Not tonight. I’ll be back in the morning. But thank you.”
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