Ready to Die (Alvarez & Pescoli)

“Good, I guess.” Weaponry, trips to the sun country, tiny bathing suits. For Christmas. “Nothing says Peace on Earth like guns and string bikinis.”

Bianca rolled her eyes and groaned, and Pescoli thought about the gifts she’d bought for the kids, gifts not yet wrapped and hidden in a back corner of her closet: a pair of jeans and iPhone cover for Bianca; two new sweatshirts and a video game for Jeremy.

“Tomorrow,” she said, “I’ll make spaghetti. The day after Christmas, that’ll be our new holiday tradition from here on in. And we’ll have presents. Tonight, though, we’ll just let it slide.”

“If that’s okay with you,” Jeremy said. “You’re the one who was so dead set about us all having Christmas together. And I thought Nate was coming over.”

“No, we discussed it last night and he thought it would be best if it was just the three of us today.”

“Why?”

“Who cares?” Bianca said, but then she wasn’t looking for a father; she had always accepted Lucky for what he was. But then, biologically they were linked. Not so for her brother. Jeremy was still searching for a father figure and maybe always would be.

“Well, even if we’d planned something, it wouldn’t have worked because of what happened this morning.”

“You asking Nate over for tomorrow?” Jeremy asked, his expression taut. He vacillated between concern for his mother and contempt for anyone she dated, just as he kept stepping into adulthood, then cowering back to being a self-involved teenager.

“Maybe. Depends.” She thought of Santana stopping by the hospital, only to leave as quickly as he came. “We’ll see what tomorrow brings.”

The man lying in the hospital bed could not have been Dan Grayson. Pale, eyes closed, unresponsive, hooked up to all kinds of monitors, tubes, and bags as he lay beneath crisp white sheets and thin blankets he was far from the vibrant man Alvarez knew. Now, he appeared weak, his face unshaven, his mustache still thick, but grayer somehow. His head was bandaged, seeming nearly twice its

normal size, and she saw the edges of surgical tape at the neckline of his hospital gown, indicating further surgical dressing taped to his chest.

Don’t die, Grayson. Fight. You can win this battle, but please, please, do NOT give up. She blinked against a surprise attack of tears and beat them back. Crying wouldn’t help, and she wasn’t going to let herself think that this man she admired so much would let go of life.

He was in good hands here, she told herself, the best health care this part of Montana had to offer. In this isolated unit, there were several beds, each separated by a curtain as they fanned out from a central hub, which was the nurses’ station. Two women in hospital scrubs manned the large, semicircular desk that looked as if it were designed by NASA, while another tended to the only other patient in the ward, a woman whose curtained room was on the opposite side of the desk as Grayson, separated from the sheriff by five empty beds.

The ICU was quiet aside from the hushed tones of the workers and the soft beeps of computer monitors as patients’ vital signs were recorded. The only access was by a door with a punch-in code for those authorized, or a buzzer that would alert the staff to a visitor. The guard, currently Kayan Rule, a deputy from the department who Alvarez liked and trusted, was posted outside.

This area of the hospital was safe.

Secure.

The best place for Grayson to start his long recovery.

As she gazed down on his face, Alvarez felt a tug on her heart. She loved this man. Trusted him. He’d been a mentor, yes, but her feelings ran much deeper than that of a student to a teacher; she’d often thought if circumstances had been different, she and he could have become lovers.

Silly, really, but as she stared down at his serene face, she couldn’t help but wonder, What if?

She wasn’t the only one who had fantasies about the man now struggling to survive; Hattie Grayson was definitely romantically interested in him as well. While driving into the parking lot designated for visitors, Alvarez had seen Hattie hurrying to her car. One arm had been firmly around her middle, as if holding her coat closed as she’d gripped her purse, while with her free hand she’d swiped at tears. She’d looked so much younger than she had when Alvarez had run into her when she’d made the mistake of crashing Dan Grayson’s family’s Thanksgiving dinner one year. Alvarez had been greeted by Hattie, the mother of his nieces, who’d looked like a combo of Martha Stewart and June Cleaver in her frilly apron and pearls. Tonight, in a quickly donned coat over jeans, her hair flying from her face as she ran to her car, Hattie had appeared fresh-faced, but tortured. She’d climbed into her Toyota, gripped the wheel, and, probably thinking she was finally all alone, had completely broken down, her shoulders shaking with her sobs.

Alvarez understood the feeling of utter frustration and hopelessness now, as she witnessed how close Grayson had come to death.

And he wasn’t out of the woods yet.

She touched the rail of his bed, then backed away, her eyes hot, her throat tight, her chin set. She wasn’t one to break down in public, nor, for that matter, in private, and she didn’t intend to start now.

“Thank you,” she said to a nurse who pushed a button behind the sleek desk. As a buzzer sounded and the door unlocked, releasing Alvarez, the RN nodded and offered a small, encouraging smile.

Her chest so tight she could barely breathe, Alvarez walked into the hallway where Rule sat, unread sports magazine on his lap.

“How is he?” Rule asked, his trademark grin absent, his dark eyes filled with concern. A tall African American, Kayan Rule looked as if he’d spent years in the NBA as a power forward and was a head taller than Alvarez.

“Hanging in there.”

“Any prognosis?”

She shook her head, then felt the muscles in the back of her neck tighten as she noticed Manny Douglas stepping off the elevator. There was just something about the reporter that bothered her. Maybe it was his always-smug expression, as if he knew more than you, or the tinted glasses that often shaded his eyes, or maybe he was just one of those reporters who rubbed her the wrong way. Whatever the reason, he was here. “Son of a bitch,” she whispered under her breath. She’d never liked him, never would, and it wasn’t just that he was a member of the press, it was his damned attitude.