Riders In The Sky Part 28

He had taken off his s.h.i.+rt and wadded it against her wound, did his best to staunch the blood that flowed from Reed's upper chest and back, did his best not to scream himself when, as the paramedics arrived, he became convinced they were both dead.

Even later, at the hospital, fending off reporters while, at the same time, trying to accommodate the inquiries of the police, he was positive that when it was over, only he and Cora would be left. And for the first couple of hours, Cora in the emergency room on a gurney, sedated for her hysteria, he wasn't so sure he wouldn't be the only one.

When a nurse finally grabbed him and sat him on a bed, he protested until she pointed out the dribbles and runs of blood the gla.s.s and splinters had caused.

"You are not," she said sternly, "going to bleed to death on my watch, mister."

For the better part of half an hour, she plucked wood and gla.s.s needles from his back, the back of his head, the backs of his hands and arms. She kept telling him he was lucky, all things considered, and he kept telling her she didn't get it, that his friends were out there somewhere, probably dying.

"Well, you're not going to do them any good like this," she said, slapped on disinfectant and a few bandages, and pushed him back to the overcrowded waiting room.

He had learned rather quickly the truth of the cliche of a waking nightmare.

The smell of blood, the smell of terror; voices raised and voices pleading; weeping and moaning, loud arguments and denunciations, hysterical laughter and not a few mordant jokes; people wandering dazed in torn clothes, in hospital gowns; the staff clearly near the end of its tether, doing its best to hold on.

The hospital was far too small to handle all the victims. Not enough operating rooms, the staff overburdened. He found Reed just as the young man was in the process of being transferred somewhere else. Cora had insisted on going with him; John hadn't argued. In the chaos, despite the best efforts of the increasingly harried nurses to keep track of all the admissions, all the treatments ... despite the families that refused to sit down and wait patiently, their demands growing shrill, fear feeding upon itself... despite his determination once Reed was safely on his way ...

He lost Lisse.

Three hours of roaming, paying no attention to suggestions and commands, sitting only when he was threatened with eviction by a cop... three hours, maybe more, he didn't bother to note the time because it no longer had meaning, he found her in a tiny windowless room on a different floor. With no idea how she'd gotten there, and not caring at the moment, he'd stood over her, staring at her bloodless face, at the thick dressing that wrapped halfway around her neck.

He held her hand.

He whispered to her.

He followed the drip of the IV attached to her right arm.

He had listened to voices in the hallway, but couldn't get anyone to come in and tell him how she was, how she would be, only that she had been in surgery. At the nurses' station he was told she would be all right. Blood loss had been replaced on the operating table, the vein sutured, the sliced muscle repaired.

Well past midnight a resident came in to check on her, told him her blood loss had indeed been severe, but it looked as if she would be left with little more than a scar on her neck.

"You shouldn't stay."

"I have to."

The doctor didn't argue. He shrugged, made notations on her chart, and left.

John never saw him again.

The only time he left her side was when he went in search of a chair, found it in a room whose signs warned of oxygen use, and carried it back. Sometime before dawn he fell asleep. Sometime later he woke up with a startled gasp, took several seconds to understand where he was, and saw Lisse.

Her eyes were still closed, but she was turned slightly toward him. She had moved, and that made him cry. Silently, one hand pressed to his eyes until he couldn't stand seeing the body of little Eddie with that hole in his throat anymore. Relief. And exhaustion. And a dreadful, certain feeling that he hadn't seen the last of the blood, or the dead.

Lisse's first words had been: "He's after us."

2.

The Morlane County prosecutor shook his head sadly and said, "Your Honor, much as I can sympathize with the young ladies' plight, I cannot in good conscience see how we can even think of entertaining such a foolish notion, considering the seriousness of the charges and the clear risk to flight on the part of the accused."

The judge, an elderly man whose robes were obviously meant for a man twice his girth, rapped a pencil idly on his desk. "Crawford, save the fancy talk for the courtroom, would you mind? I've got a kicking mule ulcer going here and I want to go home before I die."

"Okay, it's a stupid idea, Judge."

"That's better."

"Then you agree."

The judge shook his head. "Not so sure about that, Crawford." He leaned back and tented his fingers under his chin, the pencil clamped between his palms, tip aiming at his lap. "Mrs. Harp, I'm going to ask you one more time to find yourself an attorney. Granted, what you've done thus far is first-rate, but being a lawyer in your own country doesn't really amount to a hill of beans over here. The systems are too different. You're a solicitor, not a barrister, if I understand the distinction correctly. You've never argued a case in court. You're treading on awfully thin ice here, ma'am, and I don't want to see your client pay for your mistakes."

Beatrice smiled. "Your Honor," she said politely, "if we could stick to the matter at hand, please?"

The judge's chambers was a small room, bookcase-lined, the desk old and scarred between the areas of high polish; all in all, not very imposing. But then, as Judge Trueax had explained earlier, it didn't have to be.

Beatrice wore a simple grey suit, and what she had told the girls were sensible shoes. The only jewelry, a small gold pin on her lapel, in the shape of a winged bird.

"Your Honor," she said, "may I a.s.sume you have... seen Mrs. Levin?"

Judge Trueax nodded gravely.

She gave him points for not wincing.

"Then where would she go? How could she hide? Her veil is on at all times, and without it..." She spread her hands. "I don't see the harm, and the children miss her. They need her, Your Honor." A self-deprecating smile. "I am not exactly the motherly type, and they need mothering right now. Now, more than ever."

"Your Honor," Crawford Marlbone protested mildly, "I admit this is an unusual case here-as far as the accused is concerned, that is. However, she has-" He stopped when he saw the look on the judge's face. "She's killed a man, Judge."

"Saving me," Beatrice reminded him.

"Doesn't take away from the killing part, ma'am. The public deserves--"

"From what I read in the local paper, Your Honor, the public thinks Mrs. Levin has done the world a favor."

"Maybe yes, maybe no," the judge answered, "but that's not for us to decide."

"She's not going to run," Beatrice insisted. "In point of actual fact, she has nowhere to go."

"Doesn't matter," said the prosecutor.

"In her condition, it matters quite a bit."

"Judge, we're talking precedent here. You want to start something you can't stop down the road?"

The judge leaned forward, let the pencil drop to the desktop. He pulled a tissue from a box, blew his nose, tossed the tissue into the overflowing wastebasket beside him, pulled out another, and mopped his brow. "We got Christmas barely around the corner, it ain't all that cold outside, why the h.e.l.l do they keep the furnace blowing like this? I swear, I'm going to catch pneumonia before the year's out."

"When the year's out," Marlbone said with a laugh, "it won't matter. We'll all be dead, remember?"

"How could I forget? Every d.a.m.n TV show and magazine's been telling me the same thing ever d.a.m.n day- d.a.m.ned, no matter what the h.e.l.l I do."

"Then perhaps," said Beatrice quietly, "you ought to listen."

The two men looked at her carefully, not sure if she was serious. Neither, however, was sure enough to smile.

"One night," she said, as if making a final offer. "The motel's two blocks away around the corner. An armed guard-"

"Judge, this isn't Mobile. We haven't got-"

"At the door. There is no exit, you can seal the bathroom window if you wish." She. looked at Marlbone. "No one has to know, Mr. Marlbone."

"Trust me, Mrs. Harp-they'll find out."

"By then it'll be too late. It will be tomorrow and she will be back in court, and back in her cell afterward." A corner of her mouth pulled slightly. "It's not as if we're Donnie and Clyde, you know."

The judge fumbled with his pencil, then leaned back and aimed a loud laugh at the ceiling.

Bea frowned until Marlbone leaned over and tapped her knee. "That's Bonnie and Clyde, Miz Harp. Bonnie and Clyde."

"Ah. Yes. Well, the point is the same, you see. We're not a gang. We are two women and two children. I hardly think we pose a serious threat to society. At least," she added as the judge wiped tears from his eyes, "not for one short evening. As I understand the procedure, the trial may not even begin before Christmas. One night, now, could absorb a lot of the sting."

"I must admit, I'm tempted, Crawford."

Marlbone puffed his cheeks, rubbed his jowls thoughtfully, hooked a thumb in his vest pocket. "Judge, if word of this gets out before we pick the jury ... I don't know. Mrs. Harp here is a clever woman. Accused murderer of a sc.u.m-of-the-earth b.a.s.t.a.r.d allowed one night with her children because she won't be home for Christmas, said sc.u.m-of-the-earth b.a.s.t.a.r.d killed while trying to rape the accused's lawyer." He shook his head. "You really think I'll be able to find a fair jury after that?"

"Then don't let it get out," Bea said reasonably. "I'm certainly not going to say anything."

Judge Trueax pointed the pencil at her. "One word, and you're in a cell with your client."

Marlbone rolled his eyes.

"You have my word on it, Your Honor."

"If we work this right, Crawford, there's no precedent."

"If we work this right," the prosecutor said sourly, "it'll be a d.a.m.n miracle."

"Well," said Beatrice with a sly tilt of her head, "it is the season for it, isn't it?"

The judge opened the center drawer and dropped the pencil in. "See to it, Crawford, will you? And Mrs. Harp, you make d.a.m.n sure I see you both here first thing in the morning. I will not be made a fool of, do you understand? Be grateful you found yourselves in this county, not somewhere else. We're small, my dear lady, but small doesn't mean we're stupid. One wrong move, and your British a.s.s is mine."

The room, Moonbow thought, was much nicer than that other one. The TV worked, the beds were comfortable, there was no smell in the bathroom, and they couldn't hear anyone in the adjoining rooms. It would have been a lot nicer if Momma would talk, but all she did was sit on the edge of the bed, her head down, her hands still in her lap.

Star wasn't much better. She spent most of the time in the bathroom, like always, trying to make her hair look good. That was impossible. The way she'd cut it, it'd take weeks for anything to happen so she didn't look like one of those orphans in the old movies.

"Lady Beatrice?"

Beatrice stood by the bed farthest from the window.

She was packing.

"Lady Beatrice?"

"What is it, dear?"

"I don't understand."

"It's quite simple," she answered, keeping her voice low, staring pointedly at the door so Moonbow would do the same. "We're going to leave as soon as we can."

"But how?" She pointed at the door. "There's a-"

"Oh, for G.o.d's sake, Bow," Star said from the bathroom door. "Will you can it, huh? You've been yapping all night, you're giving me a headache."

Moonbow stuck her tongue out at her sister; Stars.h.i.+ne did the same and sat beside their mother.

"Momma? Momma, you ever going to talk to us again?" She winked broadly at Moonbow. "Are we going to have to learn sign language?"

"Oh, no," Moonbow declared in mock horror. "I can't learn that. I can barely talk good as it is. Momma, please don't make me learn that finger stuff. I'll make all kinds of mistakes and Star'll make fun of me."

"Will not."

"Will too."

"Girls," said Beatrice softly.

Jude looked up then, and Moonbow could sense the smile behind the veil, could see it in those large dark eyes. Her mother was in one of her long loose dresses, the kind that flowed and danced like water when she walked. Her hair had been braided, and it hung down to her waist, so thick that Star had said she could have clobbered the guard with it and run away.

The smile vanished.

"You must never forget, girls," Jude said, "that I've killed a man."

"Momma," Stars.h.i.+ne said angrily, hands on her hips, a scowl on her face. "Momma, that man was trying to rape Lady Harp. He threw me against the wall, and could have broken my neck." She touched the side of her head where the edge of bruise crept out from under her hair. "He would have killed you, Momma. He would have killed you."

She clapped her hands and rubbed them together.

End of story.

Moonbow watched her mother's eyes, but for the first time in a long time she couldn't read them, couldn't figure out what she was thinking or what she would say.

Then Lady Beatrice closed the suitcase and snapped the locks in place, slapped the lid, and said, "Get your coats, don't forget whatever money you have left."