22. Farrow #2
Pereira took us out of Cambridge through Memorial Drive and onto the Pike going south. She drove the way she always drove: ten over, no signal at the lane changes, and no expression at the wheel.
I didn’t ask Dane to speak over the comm. Cabot kept me updated.
“Ambulance at the service drive. Trauma bay on standby. They’re saying he’s stable.”
“How stable?”
“Stable enough that the federal medic isn’t going with him.”
“Are you with him?”
“I’m not leaving him. I’ll call every five minutes until you walk through the door.”
I closed my eyes. “Thank you.”
Dane’s voice, rough, came over the comm.
“Farrow, they’re loading me. Cabot’s with me.”
“Copy.”
“Medic put a line in. Saline. They’re giving me something for the pain.”
“Good.”
A pause.
“Drive safely.”
“I’m not driving. Pereira is.”
“Good.”
Another pause.
“I told you to ask me on Thursday.”
“Yes, that’s tomorrow.”
“The answer was always going to be yes.”
Pereira had her eyes on the road. She didn’t turn her head, but she’d heard him.
I calmed my breathing enough to speak.
“Dane, you don’t get to do that on a stretcher.”
“I just did.”
“You’re medicated.”
“Not yet. They said it’s coming.”
“Stay on the line and talk about something stupid.”
“Okay.” I heard the rattle of the gurney. “There are three coffee makers in my apartment.”
“What?”
“You said three coffee makers and one decent frying pan. I have all of those already.”
“Dane.”
“You said it on Monday. I’ve been thinking about it.”
I pressed the heel of my free hand against my eye.
“You’re bleeding through a thigh wound and doing inventory.”
“Nothing else to do.” He laughed briefly and coughed. His voice was thickening. Pain meds kicking in.
“I’ll be at the hospital in two hours,” I said.
“I’ll be there.”
“Canal in twenty,” Pereira said. “Close your eyes for ten of them.”
I closed my eyes, but I didn’t sleep. I sat in the dark with the earpiece feeding me the small, clean sounds of an ambulance moving Dane toward a hospital where they were going to fix him.
Eamon clicked in. “Charter’s ready. The pilot’s name is Renner. Six-eighteen wheels up if Pereira keeps her foot down.”
“She’s keeping it down.”
“Surgery starting in twelve. You’ll be there before he wakes up.”
Eamon clicked off.
I tapped the comm. “Cabot?”
“Here.”
“How is he?”
“Asleep. The surgeon came out of the doors. Said Dane's a good candidate for routine repairs. He used the word routine twice.”
Renner had the door open for the helicopter before I reached it. He was thick-shouldered in a flight suit.
“Farrow, belt across the chest and waist. Wheels up in ninety seconds.”
Renner ran his checks. The rotors started up. He spoke to the tower, got clearance, and left the ground.
The lights of the Vineyard appeared under the right window. Edgartown was the bright knot to the south.
Renner started his descent.
The earpiece clicked. It was Cabot.
“I’m at the pad. Car’s running. He’s out of surgery and in recovery. Not awake yet.”
“Stanley, thank you.”
“Don’t thank me.”
Renner set us down. The skids touched and settled. He killed the engines.
Through the window, I saw Cabot at the edge of the pad in his coat, hands in his pockets. His face looked pale in the running lights.
The cold off the water hit hard. When Cabot reached me, he put his hands on my shoulders, held them there for one second, and let go.
“He’s good, Farrow. He asked the surgeon two questions in pre-op. First was his crutch timeline. Second was where I was.”
I exhaled.
A nurse named Iris was at the nurse’s station inside the east entrance of the hospital. She was small, in her fifties, with reading glasses pushed up. She looked at me, then at Cabot.
“You’re the partner,” she said as she looked back at me.
“I’m the partner.”
“He’s in twelve. Out of recovery five minutes ago. He may wake up sooner than the surgeon said. He’s the kind who does. You can sit with him as long as you need to. Page the floor when he wakes. Red button on the wall.”
“Thank you,” I said.
Cabot walked me to the door and stopped three feet short. “I’ll be in the cafeteria. Phone’s on.”
“Stay close.”
I took off my coat, folded it over my arm, and entered room twelve.
The room was warm. A single light was on dim over the head of the bed.
Dane was on his back, blanket up to his chest. Left arm on top of it, IV taped to the inside of his forearm. His right arm was at his side, palm up, with fingers slightly curled.
His face was clean. Hair flat on one side from the pillow. He had a butterfly bandage at his hairline where his head hit the floor.
Dane’s color was good.
I pulled a chair up to the bed and sat down . He breathed slowly and steadily.
I reached out and placed my hand over his right palm. He stirred slightly, moving his thumb, and his fingers closed by a quarter inch.
Iris had said he was the kind who might wake sooner than the surgeon expected.
His eyelids moved. Opened. Closed. Opened again and stayed. He looked at the ceiling for a count of three. Then he turned his head, slowly, and looked at me.
“Hi.” His voice was scratchy.
“Hi yourself.”
“You’re here.”
“I’m here.”
“What time is it?”
“Seven thirty-eight.”
“Still Wednesday?”
“Yes.”
“I know it’s not Thursday yet, but ask me.”
“I’m asking. Yours, mine, somewhere with a door that locks and a bed that fits both of us.” I touched the edge of the butterfly bandage. “I’m too old to pretend I’m sleeping over, Dane. I want to be home.”
He looked at me for a beat.
“Yes.”
I closed my eyes and took a breath.
His thumb rubbed the back of my hand. I leaned forward and kissed him carefully. He smelled of antiseptic, but his mouth tasted like Dane.
He kissed back and tightened his grip on my hand.
When I pulled back, he said, “Don’t go.”
“I’m not going anywhere. Cabot’s in the cafeteria. Eamon and Vega are at Brattle House. Kohler and Wiley told me to come.”
Dane closed his eyes.
“I’ll be here when you wake up.”
“I know.”
“Sleep.”
“Mm.”
He dozed.
I sat, held his hand, and watched him breathe.