South Of Hell

Chapter Thirty-six

The needle in his hand burned. The young nurse who had put it in had apologized over and over as she stuck him, over and over, trying to find his vein.

It had taken forever. Louis had almost fainted.

He fucking hated needles. He could stand almost anything except someone sticking needles in him.

He closed his eyes, letting his head drop back against the pillow. The IV was necessary, the doctor had told him. So was staying one night in the hospital, no matter how much Louis had tried to argue that point.

“I’m all right,” Louis had told everyone who hovered over him.

“Your chest muscle is slashed,” the doctor had told him. “We just want to watch you for twenty-four hours.”

Twenty-four hours… Brandt could be in Canada by then.

Detective Bloom had left ten minutes ago. He had questioned Louis relentlessly, his undercurrent of irritation kept in check only by his need to get things under control. Bloom had pulled rank on the Ann Arbor cops and taken charge of the search for Brandt. Not that anyone needed motivating. Even though Shockey had been fired, Louis knew the bond between cops didn’t end with a pink slip. Every available officer was out scouring the farmlands for Brandt.

Bloom had brought other news. A semi driver had found Margi by the side of a country road out near the Brandt farm. She had arrived at the hospital in Howell near death. They weren’t sure she would live.

Louis lay there, listening to the noises out in the hallway. Brandt wasn’t going to get in; there was a cop stationed outside the room. But Louis wasn’t going to get out — not even to go check on Shockey.

No one would tell him anything. Finally, a nurse checked and came back to report that Shockey was not expected to make it through the night.

“Oh, God.”

He opened his eyes. Joe was standing at the door.

“Oh, Jesus, Louis…”

Joe was there, suddenly, at his side, clutching his hand, her head on his chest.

“Easy, easy,” he whispered.

“What?”

“My chest…”

She drew back, her eyes wet as she focused on the swath of gauze encasing his chest. “They wouldn’t tell me anything,” she said. “I didn’t know if you-” Her eyes welled as they traveled over the other bandages on his arms.

“I’m okay, honest,” Louis said.

She ran a hand under her nose. Her hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, her face splotchy. She was wearing a Browns sweatshirt and a pair of shapeless pink pants imprinted with cats that Louis recognized as the bottoms of her favorite pajamas. He had a sudden vision of her, slumped on the floor of his cottage that night a year ago when a madman had broken in while he was gone. Invaded his home, attacked Joe, and left her for dead. His heart softened. She had every right to that awful panicked look on her face now. He knew what she was feeling.

Joe bent down and gently kissed him. Her lips were a balm on his dry mouth. She drew back and let out a ragged breath.

“I can’t believe Shockey’s dead,” she whispered.

Louis had forgotten he had told her that over the phone. “No, he’s in ICU,” he said. “But they said he’s not going to make it.”

Joe shook her head slowly. “Brandt?”

“On the run,” he said. “And they found Margi by the side of the road out near Hell. Looks like Brandt threw her from the car. She’s in bad shape.”

“God.”

He was about to close his eyes when it hit him, and he struggled to sit up. “Where’s Amy?”

“Out in the hall with the officer,” Joe said. She hesitated. “Can I bring her in? She’s worried sick.”

Louis nodded and lay back against the pillow. He didn’t want to admit to Joe that he felt weaker than he was letting on.

He heard a faint shuffling and looked toward the door. Amy was standing just inside the room, staring at him. Her eyes were dark and huge in her pale face.

He tried to smile, but it hurt, and he had the feeling a smile, given his beaten face, might make him look even more grotesque than he was. But as Amy came toward his bed, she didn’t look frightened. She looked…

“He did this to you,” she said softly. “Poppa did this to you.”

He looked to Joe.

Amy’s eyes teared. “I’m sorry,” she said.

Joe was there. “Amy, it’s not your-” But Joe didn’t finish. She pulled Amy into her arms and held her close.

Louis thought suddenly of the small, blurred picture he had of Jean, the only photo that existed of the woman for all he knew. He thought of Shockey, lying in a bed somewhere in this huge, anonymous place without anyone to care whether he lived or died. He had a sudden, jarring vision of a cruel man named Moe, one of the countless blank faces whose blank homes Louis had passed through as the foster system funneled him downward. He thought of all of that and knew that Amy needed to know the truth.

She needed to know where she came from.

He met Joe’s eyes. She was thinking the same thing.

Joe led Amy from the room, giving the officer stationed outside a nod as they went by. They walked a short ways down the hallway and finally, Joe stopped and took Amy’s hand.

“Amy, come sit here with me for a second,” Joe said, pointing to a bench.

Amy sat down, but her eyes went beyond Joe to a woman sitting at the end of the hallway, who was sobbing into the shoulder of an elderly man.

“I have to tell you something,” Joe said, sitting down. “Amy, Owen Brandt isn’t your father.”

Joe held her breath, watching Amy’s face as it passed through surprise and confusion before settling into a lost look that made Joe’s heart ache. Then Amy’s expression changed, and Joe could almost see the girl’s mind racing, racing backward as it searched desperately for a sign or a clue to remember. For a second, Joe regretted telling Amy about Brandt. Her sense of identity was so fragile, and as despicable as Brandt was, he was the only real link to her past.

Except for Shockey. Even if there was no way to prove he was Amy’s father, he had loved her mother. This was an awful place to tell her, this ugly, sterile hallway. But Amy needed to know this, too.

“There’s something else I need to tell you,” Joe said.

Amy had been staring at the crying woman down the hall and looked back at Joe.

“It’s about Mr. Shockey,” Joe said. “He might… Mr. Shockey and your mother knew each other before you were born. They loved each other.”

Amy blinked in surprise but said nothing.

Joe drew in a breath. “Mr. Shockey thinks he might be your real father.”

Amy’s eyes widened, with surprise but also with an odd look of recognition.

Joe touched her arm. “Are you okay?”

Amy could only nod.

“This is a lot to take in, I know,” Joe said.

Amy didn’t seem to hear her. She was just sitting there, staring at nothing.

“Where is he?” she asked.

“Mr. Shockey?”

“Yes, where is he?”

When Joe didn’t answer immediately, Amy searched her face. “Did he get hurt, too?” she asked.

Joe nodded. Then she linked her arm through Amy’s. “Let’s go find him,” she said.

The nurse at the ICU stopped Joe and Amy at the door, telling Joe that children weren’t allowed to visit. Joe took the nurse aside, discreetly showed her badge, and explained why she wanted Amy to see Shockey. The nurse told her Shockey was not going to regain consciousness.

“I don’t think you should let her see him,” the nurse said.

Joe glanced at Amy, who was waiting at the door. “She can handle it,” Joe said.

The nurse led them into the small room. Joe watched Amy’s face as she moved forward slowly, taking in the monitors and tubes, the bleats and blips of the machines that were forcing air into Shockey’s ravaged lungs.

Shockey’s head was wrapped in gauze. Only the left side of his upper face was visible, the skin mottled purple, the eye swollen shut.

None of it seemed to bother Amy. She went right to the bed and looked down at Shockey.

“Can he talk?” she asked softly.

“No,” Joe said from the shadows.

“You said he loved Momma?”

“Yes. Very much.”

“Is that why he was trying so hard to find her?”

“Yes. He tried for a very long time.”

Amy looked like she was trying to figure something out. She turned back to Joe. “How old am I?” she asked.

The question surprised Joe, because there was no reason for Amy to wonder when exactly Jean and Shockey had been together.

“You’re sixteen,” Joe said.

In the dim light, Joe saw that the answer pleased Amy. At least there was that.

Amy turned back to Shockey again. She was quiet, just standing at the bedside, staring down at him. Even when a shrill beeping sound brought a nurse into the room, Amy didn’t move. The nurse briskly adjusted a machine and left.

“Why didn’t he come get us before?” Amy asked.

The words had been spoken in a whisper, and Joe wasn’t sure she had even heard right.

“He didn’t know about you until just a little while ago,” she said finally.

Amy fell silent again. Joe let out a breath of relief that her answer seemed to satisfy her. For now, at least. There would be a million questions later.

And no one left to answer them, Joe thought, looking away.

“Does he want me now?”

Joe’s eyes shot back to Amy. There was nothing to do but lie. Not for Shockey’s sake but for Amy’s.

“Yes,” Joe said.

It had hit her only in that second. She was going to take Amy back to Echo Bay. The thought had come out of nowhere and left her heart beating so fast that Joe felt a sudden warmth flood her body. It was just the rush of adrenaline, she knew, the same rush that came when you were afraid or backed into a corner. But that was exactly where she felt like she was right now. There was no other choice. There was no one else.

The beeps of the machines moved in to fill the silence. Joe was watching Shockey’s swollen eye, almost willing it to open. Finally, she focused on the jagged green line jerking slowly across the heart monitor.

“He’s going to die,” Amy whispered.

She picked up Shockey’s hand and wove her fingers through his.