When Angels
Cry
by
Maria Rachel Hooley
When Angels Cry
Copyright ©2010
Maria Rachel Hooley
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.
Dedication
This one is for Laura Moyers, the best friend I could ask for who really wanted this one “To be it.”
Chapter One
The loaded .38 weighed cold and heavy in Bastian’s grip as he sat in the truck. Outside, beyond windows glazed with ice, traffic tooled by. He watched the cars drift past, dimly aware the people in them were probably headed home to someone. Along one side of the street stood a row of dimly lit shops a few feet back from the curb, their dirty windows reflecting the lamps of the bridge near where he parked.
Bastian looked at the gun. The frame glinted dully in the failing light, the sleek barrel seeming to burn of its own fire, but it was a fire without heat. The day he’d taken the pistol from his father’s desk drawer, almost fifteen years ago, had been the same day he’d left. Many times, like today, he’d lifted the barrel to his temple, rammed it in his mouth, shoved it under his chin, and tried every other position he could think of to blow his brains out. Still, he’d never cared for the smell of gun oil or the feel of the cold metal on his skin. Disgusted, Bastian laid the gun on the passenger seat, twisted open the bottle of Wild Turkey at his side, and drew a long swallow.
Bastian recapped the bottle and wiped his chin on his sleeve. The snow fell faster now. Any kind of warmth was a long way from Chicago in November, yet he wouldn't wait until spring to take the revolver and–-
BAM.
Bastian glared at the woman stumbling past, her steps shaky and uneven. Beneath her long leather coat, she wore a black, ankle-length skirt and pumps. The wind picked up, tousling her shoulder-length brown hair, whipping it up over her shoulder into her face. Bastian buried the gun under the seat.
He rolled down the window, intending to tell her to watch where the hell she was going, but when she banged into the next car, slumped with knees threatening to buckle, and wavered there, trying to regain her balance, he held his tongue. She was either drunk or clumsy--maybe both.
She brought a trembling hand to her face and walked without looking into the street, stepping away from the curb into oncoming traffic. Horns blared, but apparently she heard none of it.
“Get out of the street,” a driver shouted, leaning out his window as he jammed a meaty fist against his horn, waiting. When she didn’t move, he jerked the wheel to one side, shot into the adjoining lane, and sped past.
The snow thickened, falling faster. Bastian bolted from the truck and trudged after her, each step sending up a spray of new drift. Weaving deftly through the traffic, he followed as she left the road and started across the bridge.
“Hey, lady,” Bastian yelled. “You all right?”
The woman stopped and touched her forehead. One more shaky step, and her knees finally buckled, throwing her against the rail. With a sickening splinter of old wood, it gave, and she plunged headlong into icy water.
Bastian sprinted to the edge. The dark water had swallowed her quickly. “Sweet Jesus,” he whispered.
She’ll surface, he thought.
Stillness.
He could walk away; she wasn’t his problem. Still, he gripped the rail and stared. What if she had kids? What if she drowned and they were left wondering whether she had loved them? He had wondered that when his own mother had died. What if they turned out to be just as fucked-up as he was? God help them. Besides, he thought, it doesn’t matter if I don’t come out again.
“What happened?” A woman appeared beside him, staring.
Bastian stripped off his coat. “Call 911.”
As the woman thumbed buttons on the phone, Bastian dove. Cold air rushed past, and, when he hit, the iciness stole his breath and seized his chest. Water surged up his nose, and he tasted dirt. He forced himself to move, trying to ignore the pain, and seconds later, the growing numbness as he fumbled in the dark, searching, clawing through water, groping blindly.
Bastian’s chest burned. He needed to breathe. His fingers cramped and wanted to splay apart, but he forced them together and clutched at the water. The numbness spread, stealing over him, threatening to still his joints. Air bubbles rose in furious spurts. One last sweep, and–wait. There she was, brushing past, motionless on the way to the bottom. He grabbed her arm and pulled her to him. With one last burst of strength, he thrust toward the surface. Finally, their heads safely above water, Bastian turned the woman over and held her against his chest.
“You picked one helluva night to go for a swim, lady.”
His arms and legs felt distant, detached—nerveless. All but spent, he swam toward the edge until he could feel the bottom and stumbled up the bank. A few more steps more and he fell to his knees, leaning over her. His cheek hovered over her nose, waiting for the stir of breath.
Bastian tilted her head upright and ran his fingers down the center of her chest, feeling for the line of her ribs, and set the palm of his hand in place. He began chest compressions, counting loudly. Then he covered her mouth with his, filling her with his breath. Her chest rose and fell. Stillness. Her face was waxy and pallid in the glow of the street lamps; beads of water shimmered on her face. She had to be freezing.
“Come on, lady.” Bastian repeated the compressions. “Don’t do this to me.” After the fifth, he breathed for her again and again. He searched for the warmth of her breath. In the distance, the sirens screamed toward them.
He pressed his palms into place, preparing for another set, when her body jerked. Relieved, Bastian rolled her to one side. Her long hair lay splayed over his arm and she clutched at him, coughing violently, but at once, her strength faltered, and she crumpled into Bastian’s arms. He gingerly laid her down.
“Geez, lady. You scared the hell out of me.”
Shaking, she half-opened her eyes. “It’sss freezzing.”
“I know.” Bastian drew closer, trying to warm her. The whirling lights of the ambulance appeared at the corner and a moment later halted behind Bastian’s truck. The lights bathed the park in a harsh red and blue glow. Bastian heard the doors open, and he knew the EMTs would take over soon, but he couldn’t stop looking into the woman’s blue eyes. “It’s going to be all right now,” he whispered, squeezing her hand reassuringly. Droplets of water spilled down his face like tears, and he shivered uncontrollably.
She stared at him. “Are you an angel?”
Bastian snorted. “Lady, God would know better than to make an angel out of me.”
“I should–” Kaylee brushed her hand across her face and tried to sit up.
“Lie down.” Bastian ordered, tightening his grip on her. From the bridge above came a tumult of voices. A small crowd had gathered while in the water below, a wing of ducks darted placidly to and fro, oblivious. Lucky ducks, Bastian thought.
A male EMT hustled to Bastian’s side. “Is she breathing?”
Bastian nodded. “I pulled her out and gave her CPR. She’s cold.”
The EMT turned to his partner, “Hey, Jessie, bring a heated blanket.” He eyed Bastian evenly. “Better make it two.” The EMT turned to Kaylee. His name tag read “Steve.” “What’s your name, Miss?” Steve bent over the woman and checked her vitals.
She blinked “Kaylee. Kaylee Renard.”
“Anything broken that you know of?” Jessie returned with one open blanket and another
draped over her shoulder. She peered at Bastian.
Bastian shook his head and pointed to the railing. “No. That’s where she fell from.”
“Okay, you mind helping lift her so I can get this blanket the rest of the way around her?”
“Ready when you are.”
“Okay, Kaylee. We’re going to lift you,” Jessie said.
Bastian lifted Kaylee’s torso so he could slide one arm around her waist. The EMT lifted her knees, and Bastian slipped his other arm beneath them, drawing her body to his and lifting so the EMTs could place the blanket beneath. As he held her, she stared at him with an otherworldly gaze. Her head wobbled against his chest. Even soaking wet, she seemed unbelievably light. She tucked her head beneath his chin, and as her body shuddered with the cold, he held her even more tightly.
“Sir?”
“Yeah?” Bastian opened his eyes and found both EMTs frowning.
Jessie pointed at Kaylee. “You can put her down now.”
“Oh.” Bastian hurriedly laid her down and backed away as Steve bundled her in the blanket.
“Here. You’re as wet as she is.” Jessie held out the other blanket to Bastian.
Nobody had to tell him twice to drape it around his frame as he watched Steve carry Kaylee up the steps to the ambulance. From a short distance, he saw them quiz her. Their breath rose in three small wisps toward the black heavens. Of the three, Kaylee’s was the faintest, and despite the ratty clumpiness of her dark, sodden hair, Bastian saw beauty. There was no denying it: high, aristocratic cheekbones, pouty lips, sloe eyes, and a slightly retrousse nose. He took a look at her clothes—a long leather coat and shoes, silk shirt. She wasn’t only beautiful but rich, which meant she was out of Bastian’s league, and if he were wise, he’d forget her. Otherwise, he’d end up sorry he’d taken the leap.
Bastian saw them place Kaylee on a gurney. Jessie climbed in, and the two hefted it inside. “We’re taking her to Chicago Memorial,” Jessie yelled. “You want to ride along?”
Bastian shook his head. “I’ll drive.”
“Suit yourself,” Steve said, slamming the rear doors and climbing into the driver’s seat. The ambulance siren screamed and flashers whirled as it lurched from the crowed, heading into the still thickening snow, leaving Bastian in the freezing air with a truck that held a bottle of whiskey and a gun. Behind him, back up on the bridge, he heard the murmur of voices subside as the onlookers scattered.
For a moment, he stood in the growing stillness, knowing better than to follow. A woman that wealthy and beautiful didn’t need somebody like him looking after her. She came from money, and he came with nothing, and all the nothing in the world couldn’t amount to anything. Hell, she was probably married. His jaw tightened as he wondered if she did have kids and whether they would ever know just how close they’d come to losing her.
Bastian retrieved his coat, thankful for the added warmth. He sauntered back to the truck and opened the door that wouldn’t lock. He climbed inside and slammed the door. Reaching under the seat, he found the barrel of the gun and drew it out. Alone again in the harsh moonlight, he flicked off the safety and brought it to his mouth.
An image of his mother jumped into his head. She lay on her back, her hands at her side, one palm still clutching the empty vial of pills, and he ran into the room, jabbering as he’d carried a Lego spaceship he made. He thought she was sleeping, but he couldn’t wake her. Bastian shuddered, remembering how he’d shaken her, screaming her name. Tears pricked his eyes. “Mommy, please wake up!” he’d screamed. He’d shaken her over and over. “Mommy, I love you. Wake up!” Stillness.
Frowning, Bastian yanked the gun from his mouth and smacked his head against the steering wheel as he spent the tears and shivered from a chill that a Chicago winter had nothing to do with. God help him, how could he live like this? He brushed his hand across his face, clicked the safety on, and thrust the gun in the glove compartment. He turned the key in the ignition. On the third growl, the engine caught, and he thought about his dark motel room where all the bulbs had burned out. The stench of rotting meat and mildewed fabric echoed the smell of the dumpster beneath the window. The hospital—or his hotel room? Such options.
Bastian drove through the snow. Perhaps if he’d figured out somewhere else to go, he would have ended up there. Instead, he found himself parking near the rear of a crowed lot and ungathering the blanket from around him. He bunched it into a manageable bulk.
Bastian crossed the lot and stepped through the emergency room entrance. A throng of people bustled about, all with some story, Bastian was sure, but all somehow vague and faceless just the same. They moved like phantoms, their footfalls noiseless, suppressed somehow by the weight of this place. Death dwelled here, and they all knew it.
All the chairs were full, and people leaned against the walls or skulked in corners, drifting aimlessly, but Bastian tried not to wonder what had brought them here. One middle-aged woman holding a baby on her lap blinked at him briefly and turned away. An elderly man leaned forward, staring into space. Another man and woman in their late forties stared expectantly at the closed doors, and many others waited, all of whom had much better reasons for being here than he did.
Bastian’s steps faltered, and he shoved his restless hands into his jeans pockets, ignoring the cold wet. He could still leave and pretend tonight had never happened. Without fully realizing he’d made up his mind, he stepped to the triage desk.
“Can I help you?” A brunette with a nametag labeled “Beth Turrow” looked up at him.
“A woman was just brought in— ”
“Five women were brought in during the last thirty minutes. You wanna be more specific—or do I get to guess?” Turrow stared at her computer screen.
Bastian gritted his teeth. “I was trying to be more specific. Her name is Kaylee Renard,” he finished and shoved the blanket at her. “This belongs to the ambulance that brought her here.”
Turrow stared at it indignantly, and she had no choice but to take it. She dropped it to the floor then peered back at his worn clothing, his unshaven face, and his wild, wet hair.
“Well?” he finally asked. “Surely you only have one near-drowning named Kaylee Renard.” Bastian folded his arms across his chest as she stared coldly at him.
“The doctor is still with her. He’ll be out when he’s finished.” Turrow grabbed a file from the counter, and her fingers hammered at the computer keys.
Bastian headed toward the only empty space he could see–a place in back wedged between a woman holding a toddler and a tall man with an ice pack on his knee. Once seated, he leaned back. Rolling his shoulders, he tried to work out the tension gripping his muscles, but there was no way to loosen the knots. Bastian raked his fingers through his hair, wondering how long it would be before he could finish what he had come to do and could actually go. He closed his eyes and thought about that roach-infested motel he called home and thought better of this gauze-white hell. The antiseptic smell would fade from memory eventually, but the images of roaches skittering across the floor remained. Then again, at least they were alive, simple, and with no obvious purpose. They had nothing to prove and nothing to live down. As he leaned against the glass, Bastian felt the winter outside and thought dimly about the distant spring.
The door leading to the emergency room opened, and a doctor stepped through carrying a clipboard. He was older–in his late fifties, maybe—and gaunt, with sad, tired eyes. The stoop of his shoulders said a lot.
“Renard?” he called. “The family of Kaylee Renard?”
Bastian strode forward. The doctor saw him coming and gestured for Bastian to follow. The pair stepped just beyond the door, where the doctor halted.
“I’m Dr. Barsley,” he said, offering his hand. Bastian shook it. “Are you Kaylee’s husband?”
“Not even close.” Bastian held up his palms and took a step backward.
“A family member?” Barsley frowned.
“Wrong again.” Bas
tian crossed his arms over his chest.
“Then why are you here?” The doctor stared blankly at him before glancing cursorily at Kaylee’s chart.
“I saw her take a nose dive into a pond, and I dove in after her. When I pulled her out, she wasn’t breathing, so I helped out. I went through a helluva lot to make sure she was all right, and I just want to know how she’s doing. Do you have a problem with this?” Bastian said, his tone on the verge of a growl. He rubbed the back of his neck.
“No, not at all,” Dr. Barsley replied with a tense smile. “I didn’t see the connection, that’s all. Do you know how to reach any of her family members?” He tapped the clipboard absently against his open palm.
“No, I don’t. How is she?” Bastian shook his head. His gaze wandered down the hall, wondering which room they’d put her in.
“Well, I’m not supposed to say, as you’re not really a family member, but under the circumstances, I see no harm.” He glanced back at the chart in his hand. "Truth be told, she’s exhausted. She still has a nasty headache.” He continued tapping the clipboard.
“May I see her?” Bastian balled his fingers into fists to keep from yanking away Kaylee’s chart.
“She’s really tired. She needs rest.” The doctor tucked the clipboard under his arm.
“It won’t take long,” Bastian insisted.
“Very well. Right now, she’s in room three, but she’s going to be admitted for observation.” The doctor started out the door to the nurses’ triage desk.
Bastian proceeded down the hall to Kaylee’s room. Once there, he stared into the semi-darkness to find Kaylee tucked under thick covers, lying flat on her back with her long hair flowing upon the pillow and sheets like strands of silk. She seemed frail and childlike in the bed, but then, that was mostly illusion, Bastian thought—a trick of the light. He quietly entered, and as she slept, he wondered what might have happened had he not found her. He closed his eyes and thought of the cold, dark water that had closed in around them. He’d clutched at it water, searching. His lungs had hurt and yet he’d forced himself to go even deeper, fingers groping.