Chapter 20
20
A listair gazed out the window at the small terminal as the train came to a halt a few hours after leaving Chicago. Exhaustion weighed him down, but there had been no time to sleep, no time to do anything but throw a few clothes in his haversack, drop Wanda’s car back in the garage where she kept it, and take a cab to the station with just minutes to spare before the morning train pulled away.
Sam had, of course, protested. Alistair didn’t have to come with him, he’d be fine, blah blah blah. As though Alistair was going to let him walk alone into the nest of vipers that was his family.
Sam sat beside him, nervously picking at a loose thread on one cuff, his face too pale. When the conductor opened the doors, he stood up and took down his suitcase like an automaton. Or a man trapped in a nightmare.
Alistair pulled his old haversack onto his back, the one he’d carried across France. Fear tried to prick at his heart—Sam had turned him down, didn’t want to bond, or didn’t believe he wanted to, or…well. This was clearly the wrong time to talk about it, so he pushed the feeling down mercilessly. Sam needed his support right now. Anything else would have to wait.
He let Sam lead the way off the train and through the small terminal. A few cars were parked outside, along with a farmer’s cart or two. The countryside was depressingly rural, nothing but farms and weathered houses outside of the small downtown. Grain elevators towered near the tracks, ready to hold the next harvest, whenever that would be. Fall? Or maybe there were summer crops? He’d never lived outside a city, had no idea how rural life even worked.
Sam had told his brother-in-law they’d be on the first train from Chicago. A Model T with “Cunningham Pharmacy” painted in curling letters along both sides waited for them just outside the depot. A man with brown hair and pale skin sat drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. He did a double-take when he saw them, his gaze skimming over Alistair, then lingering on the inhuman shade of his amber eyes.
“Who is this?” he demanded suspiciously through the rolled-down window.
“Alistair Gatti,” Alistair replied, before Sam could say anything. He thrust out his hand for a shake, and the man took it automatically, before seeming to recall halfway through that he was touching a familiar. “I’m Sam’s friend. And you are?”
“Ed Dwight,” he said coldly. “I’m married to Sammy’s sister, Opal.” He switched his gaze to Sam. “We haven’t planned for someone else. We don’t have room—your friend is going to have to go back to Chicago.”
Sam’s shoulders rounded and his head lowered. “I’m sorry—I know it’s inconvenient. I can sleep on the floor, it’s no trouble.”
Alistair’s anger grew by the moment—Sam shouldn’t be so cowed by this arrogant asshole. “We can stay in the hotel,” he said, keeping his voice pleasant even when he wanted to strangle the man. “We’d hate to put you folks out, after all.”
Ed’s expression remained unfriendly, but he said, “No, it’s no trouble, Mr. Gatti.” He glanced at Sam. “Get in; we’re going straight to the hospital.”
He didn’t offer to help them with the baggage, which would have been polite even though they didn’t have enough to bother. Alistair mentally put another black mark beside Ed’s name.
They climbed into the back with their bags, and the car chugged away from the station. Alistair peered out the window, taking in the little town that had formed Sam in ways big and small, bad and good.
It seemed to be the opposite of Chicago in every way: no buildings over three stories, dirt roads, wooden sidewalks, and few cars. They passed by no less than three churches within five minutes, and though the flapper style had made it here to the hinterlands, most of the women were more conservatively dressed.
Ed smiled and waved out the window frequently. Sam hunched in the seat, curling in on himself, seeming to shrink with every mile they traveled. Alistair put an arm around his shoulders, but Ed shot a searing glare via the rear view mirror.
“None of that funny business,” he snapped.
Alistair bared his teeth and tightened his hold. But Sam’s body grew even tenser, and he shifted away. Alistair let his arm drop, glaring daggers at the back of Ed’s head.
The hospital lay in the next town over; the drive through farm fields to get there felt interminable. Eventually, the large structure loomed up, surrounded by a wide lawn and trees, under which a few convalescents sat in chairs. Ed parked and got out, starting toward the hospital without a look back. Sam hurried in his wake, and Alistair sauntered after, hands in his pockets.
The interior of the hospital was busy, with patients, nurses and doctors rushing about. Ed led the way to the second floor. As they reached the top of the stairs, a woman’s voice called, “Ed! There you are.”
She had Sam’s auburn hair and freckles, though her shape was fashionably thin. She wore a long navy-blue skirt with matching suit coat, a plain white blouse peeking out from underneath, and a cloche hat. The man at her side looked like an older version of poor, dead Eldon, except Eldon had never appeared half as sour.
Alistair glanced at Sam, whose expression had gone completely neutral, showing no hint of whatever it was he was feeling. He wanted to take Sam’s hand, but after he’d pulled away in the car, Alistair wasn’t sure the gesture would be appreciated. Best to follow his lead.
Alistair hung back, watching as Sam approached the people who must be his sister and father. He’d mentioned their names at some point…Opal was the sister, and he was fairly sure Sam’s father was Kirk.
Opal drew herself up and narrowed her eyes. “You’re finally back,” she said to Sam. “You certainly took your time.”
“Sammy,” his father said gruffly.
“H-how is Mom?” Sam asked.
“Oh, so now you care,” Opal snapped, color high in her cheeks. “You certainly didn’t when you were running around the city, doing God knows what.”
Sam cringed. “I do care,” he protested weakly. “I did. I just thought…”
“She’s in there,” Kirk interrupted, pointing at a pair of swinging doors with a sign labeled Women’s Injury Ward beside them. “I suppose you’ll want to see her.”
“Yes.” Sam took off his cap and twisted it nervously in his hands. “What happened? H-How bad is it?”
Kirk’s mouth flattened, as though he was trying to stuff down his own emotions. “The Fletcher boy held up the store. I guess he thought it was an easier target than the bank.”
“Ronald Fletcher?” Sam’s eyes went wide. “But—we know him! We sat behind his family in church for years.”
“One and the same.” Kirk shook his head in disgust. “It’s all the violence from the city, spilling out to corrupt honest folk. Normally you would have been working the store at that time, but of course you ran off. So your mother was the one he shot instead.”
All the color drained from Sam’s face, and he swayed on his feet.
To hell with it. Alistair stepped forward, forcing his fists to unclench. “That isn’t fair,” he said tightly. “Sam isn’t responsible for what this Fletcher fellow did.”
“Who the devil are you?” Kirk demanded, at the same time Opal gasped and grabbed Ed’s arm. “Eddie, look at its eyes! That’s a familiar!”
Fur and feathers. Alistair gave her a grin that showed off his teeth, watching her shrink back against her husband. “Alistair Gatti at your service, ma’am.”
Kirk shot a glare at Sam. “Thank you for accompanying my son on his trip, sir, but this is a family affair. You can leave it up to us now.”
Alistair’s smile didn’t waver. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Sam moved toward the door. “I want to see Mom.”
“Do you want me to come with you?” Alistair asked.
“No,” Sam said, before Kirk could object. “I need to do this alone.”
Alistair nodded. “I’ll be waiting right here.”
Sam felt in a daze as he walked down the long ward. It seemed impossible he could actually be back here—well, not here , but in Gatesville. With his family.
Thank God Alistair had come with him. Otherwise, he might have thought his months in Chicago were just a dream. Something that had happened to another, more interesting, version of himself.
He stopped a nurse, who pointed him to a bed at the very end of the ward, on the left. The windows were all open to let in fresh air, but even so, he could smell the disinfectant used to scrub the floors. Women lay beneath white sheets or were hidden behind privacy screens. Some slept, others chatted or read books. Bandages swathed heads and arms, or casts made awkward lumps beneath the sheets.
Mom lay absolutely still on her narrow bed, her skin unnaturally pale. Her right arm was in a cast, strapped to her body with a sling to prevent movement. At the sight of the hexes drawn on the plaster, his heart fell. Mom and Dad had always said magic was evil; she must be in bad shape for Dad to agree to its use.
A doctor in a white coat was making the rounds; when he reached her bed, Sam asked, “Doctor? I’m Sam Cunningham—her son.”
The doctor shook his hand. “Good to meet you.”
“I’ve just gotten into town—how is she?” His voice quavered a bit on the last word, despite his attempt to keep it steady.
The doctor looked at him kindly, if a bit sadly. “Not very well, I’m afraid. The broken arm will heal, but the bullet passed through into her chest. It missed the heart, thank heavens, but ended up in a position where we can’t operate without killing her.”
“Oh. But she can live with it there?” he asked, even though he already guessed the answer from the doctor’s expression.
“It’s possible,” the doctor said. “We’re doing everything we can.”
A gray fog seemed to be closing in all around. “But you can’t perform miracles.”
“No, but I’ve learned never to give up hope for a patient.” The doctor put a comforting hand to Sam’s shoulder. “Your mother is a fighter—she’s survived this long. Take comfort in that.”
He gave Sam a final pat on the shoulder, then moved on to the next patient. Once he was gone, Sam sank onto the lone metal stool beside the bed. A part of him wanted to reach over and take Mom’s hand, though he doubted she’d appreciate the gesture even if she were conscious.
A sob suddenly formed in his throat; he swallowed it back so he wouldn’t be asked to leave for upsetting the other patients. Hot tears leaked between his lashes, though, and he took off his glasses to wipe them away.
Maybe this was why his parents had always compared him so unfavorably to his dead brother, Jake. They’d somehow sensed that he’d let them down at some critical juncture. Jake, surely, wouldn’t have run off to Chicago and left them short-handed at the pharmacy. Jake, who had the constitution of an ox right up until the accident that took his life, would have been the one to face down Ron Fletcher’s gun. Assuming Ron would have even had the gumption to pull a weapon on a strapping young man rather than a middle-aged woman.
But Sam had abandoned them. Left his own mother to be gunned down mercilessly.
Even though he struggled to weep as quietly as he could, a nurse approached him. “Sir,” she said, and the compassion in her voice brought a fresh round of tears to his eyes, “I’m sorry, I truly am. But I have to ask you to leave, before the other patients become disturbed.”
He nodded, sniffled. “Yes. I’m sorry.”
“Nothing to apologize for,” she said. “Lord knows I’ve shed enough tears. Haven’t we all?”
She left, and he stood up, looking down at Mom. They didn’t have the best relationship, and the memory of her words cut deep…but did that even matter now? She was dying.
Dying fast, while Sullivan’s son died slow. But maybe the hex Sullivan believed could save the boy could save Mom, too.
Determination settled in his gut. “I’m going back to Chicago, Mom,” he told her insensible form. “But I’ll be back soon, okay? I-I’m going to make this right. I promise.”