In the Teeth of the Wind (16 page)

"Did you hear something hit the house?"

Rhianna switched on the lamp by her bed. Trip stood in the doorway, squinting against the brightness.

"Did you?"

"I thought it came from in here."

"I don't think so. It - "

Something slammed against the front of the house, and their heads turned in unison toward the sound.

The sound came again, hard and demanding.

"That ain't the goddamned wind," Trip said through clenched teeth. "If it's that bastard Corbettson, I'll

rack him and mount his ass on the grill of my goddamned Jeep!" He headed for the living room.

"Wait!" Rhianna said, flinging off the covers. She hooked her robe from the foot of the bed and was

thrusting her arms through the sleeves as Trip jerked open the front door.

"Damn you, Corbettson! I'm gonna rip you a new one!" Triplett snarled. He stormed across the porch

and nearly snapped the lightweight hook off the lintel as he flung open the screen door. "You sorry, no

good…"

Rhianna saw her partner's head jerk down as though someone had chopped him on the back of the

neck. He stood there, staring at the porch steps for what seemed like forever before he squatted.

"What is it?" Rhianna asked, hoping against hope Corbettson hadn't left some gruesome memento on

her steps.

"Call an ambulance," she heard Trip whisper.

"What?" She started through the door, but Trip's head snapped around and he pierced her with an

unwavering look of shock.

"_Call 911!_" When she still didn't move, he bellowed at the top of his lungs: "_Damn it, Marek! Call

911!_"

Re-animated by the command in his voice, she turned around and ran to the wall phone. Even as she

punched in the numbers, she heard Trip grunting as he came back across the porch. She turned in time to

see him carrying a body into the house.

*Part Three*

*Chapter Twenty-Four*

Captain Darlington nodded to Trip as he hunkered down in front of Rhianna and held out a cup of

coffee. "Drink it. It may be a long night."

"I'll just throw it up," she told him.

"No, you won't," Darlington replied. He took her hand and molded it around the foam cup. He looked

up at Trip. "Can I speak to you a moment?"

Trip, whose arm was around Rhianna as they sat in the hospital waiting room, pulled her gently to him.

"Think you'll be all right for a minute?"

"Yeah." Rhianna took a sip of the coffee, grimaced, then lowered the cup to her lap. She stared

sightlessly across the room where Samuel, Cortesio, and Fullick were pacing.

Darlington and Trip walked a ways down the hall and stopped. Trip bent over a water fountain,

straightened, then slouched against the wall, running the back of his arm across his wet lips. "She's taking

this hard."

"She's a very strong lady."

"Oh, she is," Trip said, "but this is over the top, you know?"

"You were at her house tonight?" The Captain asked as Joey Cortesio joined them.

"Yeah." Trip stuck his hands into his pockets. "I felt like a sonofabitch for not being there at the airport

this morning, you know?" He shrugged. "I didn't get the message, but I felt bad. She didn't need to have

Corbettson lurking about."

"You brought over supper," Darlington encouraged. "It got late. You decided to sleep on the couch?"

"Something woke me up. I thought it came from her bedroom." Trip's mouth twisted. "I thought sure

Corbettson was trying to break in. But when I went into her room, she was sitting up in bed. She turned

on the light and that's when we heard the noise out front."

"You found him on the steps."

"Just sitting there, looking up at me," Trip remembered, shuddering.

"Then he was conscious?" Cortesio asked.

"I couldn't move," Triplett answered as though he hadn't heard. "I just stood there staring at him, then

his head slumped down to his chest and I thought he was dead." Trip shuddered again. "I saw that needle

in his thigh and I thought he was a goner for sure."

"He was injecting himself?" Darlington asked.

Trip nodded bleakly, then turned his eyes to Darlington. "He was sticking it in his thigh, Cap'n," the

cop said in a whisper. "Right into his thigh through his jeans." A low, keening moan came from Triplett.

"Cap'n?" Joey Cortesio leaned his head back against the wall and stared up at the acoustic ceiling. "Do

you think Irish would deliberately do something like this?"

"You're asking if I think he was where someone was torturing him with the drug? Getting him hooked

on it?" the Captain asked, holding Cortesio's look. "Like in the movie, _The French Connection?_"

Trip flinched. From the moment he'd laid Conor Nolan on the living room floor, checking him for

breathing - relieved to find he was - he'd been struggling with the notion that his friend had been damaged

in some way. As long as he lived, he would never forget the look on Conor's face when he found him

sitting on the front steps. It had been one of utter hopelessness.

Joe Cortesio didn't even blink. "Yes, sir. That's exactly what I'm asking."

"I don't believe it for a minute," Darlington answered.

****

The room was too brightly lit and the chirping of the monitors grated on the nerves of the visitor.

Nurses flitted around the bed, adjusting tubes, checking the IV, straightening the covers. One turned to

smile at her as the doctor escorted Rhianna into the ICU.

"Don't stay long," the doctor instructed Rhianna.

All the activity around the bed seemed to float away as the nurses moved back, giving Rhianna a clear

view of the bed and the still figure lying there. She drew in a ragged breath, bit her lip and took the final

few steps to the bedside. She trembled so violently, she feared she would collapse as she got a good

look at Conor's pale face.

He was so utterly still. His eyes were closed, but she knew he was awake because the fingers of his

right hand kept plucking nervously at the sheets beside his leg. Although his breathing was erratic, the

heart monitor gave off a reassuring blip that sounded strong. A nasogastric tube protruded from his left

nostril, IVs fed into both arms, and a catheter tube ran from beneath the sheet into a collection bag

beneath the bed.

"Irish," she whispered, hating the dark circles engraved beneath his eyes, the way his cheeks had

sunken, and the unhealthy pallor of his skin. But when those glorious brown eyes fluttered open - eyes

she had never thought would look at her again - he was still the most handsome man she had ever met.

"Rhee…" She put a hand over his lips.

"Shush. Don't try to talk." Careful of the IV tubing in the back of his right hand, she picked it up

between both of hers and laid his palm against her lips,Gkissing the lightly callused flesh as though it were

his mouth. "Just rest."

"P-pretty l-lady," he whispered and tried to smile. He couldn't quite do it.

"Worried lady," she said, mindless of the tears streaking down her cheeks. "God, you'll do anything to

get attention, won't you, Irish?"

"L-love you," he said and the effort was too much. His eyelids slid closed and his breathing became

less sporadic.

"That's enough for now," the doctor said. He put his hands firmly on Rhianna's shoulders and pulled

her away.

She laid Conor's hand on the bed and reached over to smooth the hair back from his forehead. She

was amazed at the dryness of his skin.

"Hopefully he'll sleep through the night," the doctor explained as he led Rhianna out of the ICU. "If you

come back in the morning…"

"I'm not going anywhere tonight," she said, cutting him off.

Dr. Gilbert smiled. "I was going to say, if you come back here in the morning, I will see the nurses on

duty allow you to sit with him, if you like."

Blushing, Rhianna thanked him, then as he turned to go she took his arm. "You are going to help him

get through this as easily as possible, aren't you?"

"I'll do everything I can to make him comfortable, but as I'm sure you know, he is going to be in a lot

of discomfort once the withdrawal begins. Once he is stable, we'll talk about putting him through Rapid

Detox. I want him cognizant so he'll know what we plan to do."

"What exactly is that?" she asked.

"We'll put him under general anesthesia then administer Naltrexone to compress the duration of

withdrawal to within four to six hours. Naltrexone induces severe withdrawal and that's why the patient

must be under."

"How does it work?"

The doctor smiled. "The drug competes with the heroin at the receptor level and blocks the effects."

He patted her shoulder. "It is completely safe and when he's up to it, that's the way we'll go." He

frowned. "I may need his sister's permission to treat him."

"I have his limited Power of Attorney," Rhianna said, her gaze fierce. "That's all you need if he isn't

able to say yes or no, isn't it?"

"Well, yes, if it covers medical treatment."

"Then do it when he's able," she said, knowing full well the limited Power of Attorney did not cover

medical decisions.

The physician nodded. "We'll do everything we can to help him, Detective Marek."

"I know," she said, her eyes filling with tears. "But you will make sure he doesn't hurt too much, won't

you?"

Dr. Gilbert patted her hand. "What do you think?" He gave her fingers a brief squeeze then continued

on down the hall.

"How is he?"

Turning to find Franc Boucharde behind her, Rhianna just stood there, looking at him. "Oh, Franc!"

she breathed, her lips trembling.

Boucharde opened his arms and she ran to him.

****

Brett Samuel yawned, threw the magazine he'd been reading down on the table beside him, stretched

out his legs, crossed his ankles, and folded his hands in his lap. He was hungry and tired - just coming off

a long night of surveillance - and yet nothing could have kept him from pulling his shift at the hospital. He

leaned his head back and watched the nurses padding silently up and down the ICU corridor outside the

waiting room. He thought briefly about going to get another cup of coffee, but he was beginning to slosh

when he walked as it was.

Across the room, a young couple whose baby had been brought in earlier that morning were sitting

side by side speaking quietly to an elderly nun. The young mother was weeping; the father looked

stricken and said very little. As all three bowed their heads, Brett looked away, not wishing to intrude.

It had been a long three days, he thought. Nearly everyone from the station had made an appearance

at the hospital. Although none of them had been allowed to see Conor, they had at least come to pay

their respects and to add their prayers to Rhianna's in the little chapel downstairs. Since the night they'd

brought Irish in, the blood center had dramatically increased its collections. The polite inquiry to Rhianna

of 'what can I do to help?' had sent each and every one to the donor lab.

"He'd like that," she'd tell them.

It became an inside joke to see the men and women from the station all walking around with little

cotton balls taped to the crooks of their elbows. The wounds were a badge of honor, an insignia of the

elite group who loved and cared for Conor Nolan.

In three days, Irish had endured a singular hell, Samuel thought, and wasn't out of the abyss yet. Going

through the stages of withdrawal was something most of them knew a little bit about either from contact

with addicts or from watching TV or from reading. It was not something they would wish on their worst

enemies - well, maybe with the exception of C.C. Corbettson. They felt their presence might help to

make things easier for a man they deeply respected, even if Irish was unaware of their loyal support.

"Good morning."

Brett was jerked out of his revelry by Donne's gruff voice. He pulled in his legs and sat up straighter in

the chair. "I didn't think you were supposed to be here 'til this afternoon, bro."

Dave Donne flopped down in a chair across from Samuel. "Didn't have nothing better to do," he

groused. "Just sitting around thinking about it was making me crazy."

It was the waiting, Samuel thought. The damned waiting that kept them all so tense and on edge. If

they could just see Irish, talk to him, tell him how they felt, let him know that not all of them believed he

had done this to himself. But after the second time Irish had awakened to find Rhianna crying over him,

not even she had been allowed in his room. Irish had asked his doctors not to let her see him until he felt

better. Everyone knew it was because he didn't want her to witness him going through the worst part of

the withdrawal. But even his good intentions had not kept her from hearing the occasional groan of

torment that had wafted from his room.

"They're going to move him today," Samuel told Donne. "Over to the drug rehab wing."

"Yeah, I hear. Thought I'd hang around 'til they do."

"Maybe we'll get to see him."

"Just so long as Marek gets to, that's all that matters," Dave said.

"She's down having breakfast in the cafeteria. The nurse said they'd call her when they're ready to take

him over."

"They're ready now," Rhianna said from the doorway. Trip was standing with her. She bit her lip. "You

guys wanna see him?"

Donne stood up. "You think he'd mind?"

"I don't know." For the first time since the two men had known her, Marek seemed unsure.