Shooting Starr (7 page)

C.J. cleared his throat and leaned forward. There were so many things he wanted to ask her…so many things he wanted to say. He didn't know where to start, so he murmured, “What way did you think it was gonna come?”

Her eyes crisscrossed him like searchlights, not silvery, now, but liquid and lost. Then, incongruously, she laughed, a soft ironic chuckle. “Well, for one thing, I never expected to be blind.”

C
aitlyn listened to the silence and felt anger rising. Once, she had treasured silence, regarded it as a gift, and on those rare occasions when she found herself immersed in it, had taken pleasure in the experience as she might in a warm bath, with scented oils and wine and candlelight. Now silence was her enemy, unknown menace lurking in the darkness beyond the firelight. Silence made her feel alone, and afraid.

But it was not in her makeup to give in to fear, and at the moment her only weapon against it seemed to be anger.

“Say something, damn you.” She shifted again, carefully. Despite the pain medication she'd been given, skyrockets had a tendency to go shooting around in her skull whenever she moved.

She heard a sound—the clearing of a throat—and then the voice, Southern and soft as a summer evening. She'd liked his voice the first time she'd heard it, she recalled. She hadn't expected to hear it ever again.

“Sorry. Guess I don't know what to say.”

Vaguely ashamed, she aimed a frown in the direction of the voice. “You knew, didn't you? About me being blind. They must have told you.”

There was another cough and under it a faint sandy sound. Shoes. No, boots…sliding over a vinyl floor. He must be uncomfortable; he'd shifted position, perhaps leaned forward in the chair. How did she know he was sitting? Because his voice came from a level near her own. She was pleased with herself for being able to deduce so much.

“They told me you're damn lucky to be alive,” he said, and there was a difference in the voice now. Something harder, denser. Emotion, certainly, but what kind? She made a mental grimace at the discovery that she wasn't nearly as good at deciphering emotional landscapes as she was physical. “They said a hair's breadth of difference and that bullet would have blown part of your head off.”

The brutality of his words surprised her. With a bitter smile she answered in kind, “Yeah, but instead it only grazed me a little and hit Mary Kelly in the heart. So, she's dead, and I have some minor brain swelling that just happened to involve my optic nerve. What luck.”

She heard the shifting sounds again. “They said the blindness might not be permanent. That your eyesight might come back as the injury heals, or if it doesn't, there's surgery they can maybe try later on.”

“That's what they say.” Caitlyn closed her eyes and carefully turned her head away from the man sitting beside her.
Might…maybe.
She felt so tired…and controlling her face and her voice took so much energy. If only he would go away. If only she could relax and let the tears come.

“Do you remember anything about, uh, the shooting?” His voice was raspy now, and again it vexed her that she couldn't read the emotions behind it.

She shook her head—bad move—and fought down the inevitable waves of nausea.

“You tried to shield her—Mary Kelly. Did you know that?” Oh, it was anger in his voice—definitely. It came through loud and clear, although he was obviously trying to hide it. It bewildered her, his anger, even as she felt a tiny flicker of triumph for having recognized it. “You threw yourself in front of her. That's why the bullet that struck her in the chest grazed you first.”

“Who told you that?” The intense emotions were becoming too much for her. She felt desperately close to crying; there were strange sounds inside her head, and a panicky tightness in her chest. “The police? What…did they say…do they know—”

“
You
knew, didn't you? You
knew
Mary Kelly was the target, the second you heard the shots. You tried to tell me—”

The noises in her head had become a cacophony. Through them she heard footsteps, quick and purposeful, and C.J.'s voice, seeming to rise and float above her.

“It was Vasily, wasn't it? You told me he'd kill her. You told me, and I didn't—”

She felt a rush of air. Hands touched her, gentle and cool.

“Look. I'm sorry….” She heard C.J.'s voice, moving away from her. “I'm sorry….”

Quiet came. And peace. With a grateful whimper she sank into the oblivion of sleep.

 

Summoning his courage, C.J. faced the people waiting at the nurses' station.

“I'm sorry,” he said, squinting with the effort it took to meet their eyes. “I didn't mean to get her upset. I just wanted to say—” He lifted a hand and let it drop. Shook his head and said it again. “I'm sorry.” Lately it seemed as if he'd been saying that a lot, both out loud and to himself.

Two of the four people there at the counter—a handsome, middle-aged couple—nodded their heads in mute un
derstanding. It was to them he'd spoken—Caitlyn's parents. Of the others, C.J.'s sister-in-law and lawyer, Charly, clapped him on the shoulder and murmured supportive monosyllables. Special Agent Jake Redfield of the FBI, C.J.'s brother Jimmy Joe's in-law, leaned against the counter and took in everything with quiet and watchful eyes. He was a melancholy-looking man with stubbled jaws, and the only one present wearing a suit.

A nurse came from the glass-partitioned cubicle where Caitlyn lay, screened from view behind a curtain. “She'll sleep for a while,” she said in her high-pitched voice with its thick upstate South Carolina accent. “If you want to, you can go down to the cafeteria, get a cup of coffee, somethin' to eat.”

Caitlyn's mother gripped her husband's arm as if drawing strength from that touch, and asked the nurse in her quiet Midwestern voice, “Is it all right if I sit with her?”

The nurse nodded. “Sure. Go on in.”

Watching Chris Brown walk away from him, C.J. thought he could see where her daughter had come by her looks. Not her grace, though, that quality of
lightness
that made Caitlyn seem, in his memory, at least, fairy-like…not quite real. Though tall and slender like her daughter, Chris Brown moved with a coltish—he could think of no other word for it—awkwardness that was in no way unattractive—and which made her seem much younger than he knew she had to be. But her face was the same flawless oval as Caitlyn's, her hair almost the same shade of sun-streaked blond, but worn long and sleek and fastened at the nape of her neck with a clip of some kind. She had the same colored eyes, too—a clear and pale gray-blue—but without that heart-stopping flash of silver C.J. couldn't seem to forget.

Charly glanced at her watch. “Well. I think I'm gonna go see about that cup of coffee. Any of you-all wanna join me?”

Caitlyn's father smiled the kind of smile that probably came naturally to him no matter the circumstances, and shook his head. C.J. cleared his throat and said, “I think I'm gonna stick around here for a while.”

Nobody asked Jake Redfield what his plans were; he'd already gone wandering over to join the uniformed police officer seated in a chair beside the door to Caitlyn's cubicle. Charly gave everyone a “See you later,” and went off to the elevators, and C.J. found himself alone with the man whose only child he'd almost gotten killed.

Since he'd been raised by a mother who'd taught him to face up to the consequences of his actions no matter how painful they might be, he squared his shoulders and began with, “Uh, Mr. Brown—”

Before he could get another word out, Caitlyn's father took hold of him by his elbow and said in a low but friendly voice, “We might as well be comfortable, don't you think?” and steered him toward the waiting area.

They took chairs at right angles to each other, with a square table topped by a lamp and an assortment of magazines forming the corner. Perched on the edge of his chair, C.J. leaned forward, hands clasped and elbows on his knees, and tried again. “Um, Mr. Brown—”

Again he was interrupted. “I wish you'd call me Wood—most people do. I was given the name Edward Earl after my dad, but the only person who uses it is my sister, Lucy.” His mouth tilted in a half smile. “Only my students call me Mr. Brown.”

“You're a teacher?” said C.J., feeling dimwitted.

“Used to be. I'm a vice principal now.”

C.J. tried a smile and he, too, only managed half of one. “Guess that explains why I feel like I'm sitting in the principal's office.”

Wood Brown's smile was replaced by a look of dismay, then of compassion. He leaned forward, his pose almost a mirror image of C.J.'s. “Son—I know you feel responsible
for what's happened to my daughter and that other woman, but you're not. Chris—Caitlyn's mother—and I sure don't blame you, and I don't think Caty does, either. She put you in an impossible position, and you did what you believed was the right thing under the circumstances. That's all any man can do.”

“If what I did was so right,” C.J. said, looking at the floor and forcing words through clenched teeth, “then how come I feel so damn—excuse me—darn bad?”

Wood sat back with a sigh and ran a hand over his thick, iron-gray hair. His rugged features were somber. “It's not always a matter of a choice between a right and a wrong. Sometimes it's a matter of choosing the lesser of a whole bunch of wrongs. When that happens, you just do the best you can.”

He sat silent for a moment, looking at nothing, then shook his head. “I have—had—this great-aunt. She lived to be well over a hundred, but she's gone now, bless her soul. Aunt Gwen always believed if you wait long enough it usually turns out things happen the way they're supposed to. Providence, she called it.” He smiled in a remembering way. “Take me, for example. I met my wife after I broke both my legs in a truck accident in Bosnia. At the time I thought it was the end of the world—the end of sports, my career, all the things I liked to do—but if it hadn't been for that accident I wouldn't have met my wife. And I wouldn't have been there when she needed me to save her life.”

C.J. gave a snort of surprise, and Wood smiled. “A long story and one for another time. I guess what I'm saying is, it's too soon to tell, yet, how this is all supposed to play out. Could be you were where you needed to be just so Caty could pick you to hijack.” His smile slipped sideways, and he gave a one-shoulder shrug. “You never know…”

Since C.J. couldn't think of a thing to say that wasn't going to sound rude, he kept his mouth shut. Thinking about it, though, it occurred to him that whether he believed
in all that Providence stuff or not, it was a remarkable attitude for a man whose only child was lying in a hospital bed with a bullet crease in her skull and blinded maybe for life. He felt humble and grateful and undeserving, which brought him back to what he'd wanted to say to Caitlyn's father in the first place.

This time he plunged right in, talking fast so he wouldn't get cut off again. “I appreciate your not blaming me for what happened to your daughter, but it doesn't change the fact that she wouldn't be where she is if I'd done what she asked me to. I'm not asking you to forgive me for that—” he held up a hand to stop Wood interrupting him “—but what I am asking is for you to let me have the chance to make it right.”

He had to stop there and force his jaws to unclench, and into the pause Wood dropped a quiet “How do you intend to do that, son?”

“By getting the guy who did this to her.” C.J.'s voice grated with rage.

“I think I know how much you want to do that,” Wood said after a moment. “I think about it myself. But that's a job for the police and the FBI, isn't it? Realistically, do you think there's anything you can do?”

“Not by myself, no.” C.J. was surprised at how calm and confident he felt. How certain. “But I'd have a whole lot of help. That man you met in there, he's FBI, true—Special Agent Jake Redfield—but he also happens to be married to my brother's wife's sister.” He paused, and for the first time in a long while felt his dimples showing. “And I do know how awful Southern that sounds.” The smile vanished as quickly as it had come. “The point is, we—and that means the FBI included—believe we can get the man responsible for all this. We have a plan, but it involves…” He sat back and sucked in a breath. “We need Caitlyn. We'll lay it all out for her, once she's up to it, and if she's willing—”

Wood let out air in a rush and once again ran a hand back through his hair. He shook his head, and for the first time C.J. saw the lines of tension and strain in his face…the deep shadows around his eyes. For the first time he looked like a man staring unthinkable loss in the face. “She'd say yes, of course.” His tone held more than a touch of irony. “That's just Caty.”

He leaned forward, his hands rubbing against each other making a faint sandy sound, and gazed at the carpet as he spoke in a soft, slurred voice. “It's been hell, these past months. Especially for her mother. Right now all Chris wants to do is get Caty home so she can take care of her. She's been counting the hours…” He looked up at C.J. “You have any kids?” C.J. shook his head and so did Wood. “I don't know if you can understand, then. Your child is always your child, even if she's grown-up. In fact, that makes it worse because you don't have control over what she does anymore. She makes her own decisions.”

He slapped his knees and stood abruptly. He looked down at C.J., forcing a smile. “Well. That's it, I guess. In a nutshell. It's her decision to make, C.J., not ours. If Caty wants to go along with your plan, we won't try to stop her. We couldn't anyway, no matter how much we might want to.”

C.J. got to his feet and mumbled, “Thank you, sir.” He held out his hand.

The older man shook it briefly but firmly. Moving in the jerky, uncoordinated manner of a man distraught, he turned and began to walk rapidly away, but after a few steps he whirled and jabbed a finger at C.J. “Promise me one thing,” he said, and his voice grated with emotion. “Just get him, you hear me? You get that SOB.”

 

Caitlyn drifted in a twilight zone that was not quite sleep yet not full consciousness, either. Her mind wandered, as it does in dreams, but with her permission; she knew she
was dreaming and took comfort in knowing she could wake up anytime she chose.