The Guardian

  Craig looked up from the paper he was reading.

  “All quiet?” Marcus asked it softly, for the connecting door between the suites was open.

  “Yes.” Craig folded the newspaper. “Do you want me back here in the morning or should I meet you at the hospital?”

  Marcus shrugged off his jacket and loosened his tie. “Why don’t you report to the hospital about nine; I’ll make sure they are covered to there.”

  “Will do. You’ve got several messages.”

  Quinn would have paged with news on the shooter; that was the one message Marcus was waiting for. “I’ll get to them. Thanks.”

  Craig rose with a nod, said good night. Marcus locked the door behind him. He walked through the dark rooms lit only by the moonlight, too restless to settle even though he was exhausted.

  Jennifer. He needed to be there at Johns Hopkins, and soon. He had bought coffee for an oncologist at the hospital after talking with Kate, and the medical information swirling around in his head all felt black. Jennifer hadn’t been kidding when she said it was going to be a tough fight.

  All the O’Malleys had been paged. Rachel was able to grab a cancellation on a late flight and should be halfway back to Chicago by now from her current Red Cross assignment in Florida. She had returned the emergency page and asked only one question. “Where?” It had been the typical response of all the O’Malleys. The number of family emergencies called in over two decades could be counted on one hand. They would meet first thing in the morning, and by then he had to decide how he would break the news.

  Faint sounds echoed from the adjoining suite. Marcus walked over to lean against the door frame. “Couldn’t sleep?”

  His quiet words startled Shari, and she stopped halfway across the living room. “I didn’t realize you were here.”

  “We’re trading off shifts for the evening.”

  She waved her hand toward the minikitchen in their suite. “I was just going for something to drink.”

  “Want some company?”

  “Sure.”

  He walked toward the minikitchen. “Anything in particular you would like?”

  “A glass of milk.”

  He smiled at her tone. “Don’t apologize. It’s good for you.” He found a glass and opened the refrigerator, knowing from past stays in this hotel that the suites came complete with all the makings for breakfast. “Want something to eat to go with that?”

  She declined.

  He poured her a glass of milk, then retrieved a piece of cold pizza for himself from the box one of his guys must have ordered. He had, in the end, only pushed around the cheeseburger while watching Kate eat.

  “I’ve eaten a lot of cold pizza in my life, but rarely by choice.”

  Marcus felt the tension uncoil at finally having something on which the world would not rise or fall to talk about. “Cold pizza is great. It’s the best way to eat leftovers. Now Chinese, that is not good cold.”

  “You live on carryout.”

  “Travel enough, it’s a requirement of life.” She settled on the couch and he took the chair by the window. “How’s your father?”

  “No change. There has been little this entire day.”

  “I’m sorry about that, Shari. Truly sorry.”

  “He’ll pull through.”

  He didn’t bother to try and temper her hope. He now knew all about hope at any cost, against any odds.

  It was late, and he didn’t hurry to start a conversation, content to simply share her company. She curled up with her feet against the cushions, her back braced against the side arm of the couch, her hands holding the glass linked across her knees. Her hair was still tousled from restless sleep, and the black college sweatshirt she wore looked beaten up and faded, matching the jeans. It was a far cry from the elegance of the first time he had met her, but Marcus decided he liked this Shari better. She had vibrated with life and energy before; this version was a look inside when the comfortable circumstances were stripped away.

  He tucked away another nugget of information about her; she was not troubled by silence, didn’t feel a need to fill it with sound. The quietness after the turmoil of the day felt good, and it was nice to share it.

  She eventually stirred. “I would like to go to church in the morning. Would that be possible?”

  “Would the chapel service at the hospital be okay?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll be glad to make the arrangements.”

  “Thank you. I know you don’t believe, but it’s important to me.”

  “Shari—trust me, it’s not a problem.” He should have been more careful in what he said. As many doubts as he personally had, he had a heritage from his mom that respected religion, and Shari didn’t need any more sources of turmoil in her life. He changed the subject. “I read your brief recommending Carl for the court.”

  “Did you?”

  “You’re good. You certainly convinced me.”

  “Communication is what I do for a living.”

  She said it quietly, and it took a moment for the significance of what she had said to register. He’d lived in Virginia for a long time; she worked for the governor, was working now on his reelection campaign. “Modesty doesn’t suit you. You’re very good at what you do.” He smiled. “And despite your protests to the contrary, you can write profound and elegant sound bites. I actually haven’t minded listening to the campaign speeches.”

  She returned his smile. “You’re being generous, but thank you. I can write the speech, the brief, just don’t ask me to sit through its delivery by someone else. I would much rather be the one giving it.”

  “So you do have an Achilles heel.”

  “I’ve got a couple to go along with those secrets I don’t plan to share.”

  Her dry humor in this moment was deeply appreciated. “Good secrets, are they?”

  “I bet you’ve got a few.”

  “More than a few,” he agreed easily.

  “Care to trade one?”

  “There’s a grapevine in my family, so you’d have to promise to keep it quiet.”

  His words got her interest, and her curiosity; she sat up straighter. “Okay.”

  “I know who swiped Rugsby the raccoon, our family mascot. There is about to be a ransom demand made for him.”

  “Please tell me that’s a stuffed animal.”

  “Jack won him for Kate at a carnival when we were in our teens.”

  “Who took it?”

  “Rachel and Jennifer. They decided to give the others a real puzzle to solve.”

  She chuckled softly. “Let me guess, you put them up to it.”

  “Every good plan needs a mastermind. Besides, no one in the family would ever suspect it could have been Rachel and Jen.”

  “That’s good.”

  “Very. I think I’ll stump them. Your turn. Give.”

  “Josh has been using a marked deck of cards for when we play rummy, and he doesn’t realize it.”

  Marcus choked on his soda.

  “One of the kids left the deck of cards at the house, and it got put away on the shelf of games.”

  “And you feel guilty winning as a result.”

  “Worse, I’m having to count cards to make sure I lose half the games.”

  “An honest cheat. You could just tell him.”

  “Remember when you said there were some secrets that take on a life of their own? This one has.”

  “You’re a card player?”

  “Josh is. That and dominoes. I personally prefer Scrabble, but he refuses to play because I wipe the board with him most games. Are you a game player?”

  “Within the family, it’s Monopoly. There have been a few games that have gone on for days. Personally, my partner Quinn and I play a lot of chess.”

  “Any good?”

  “I haven’t beaten him yet.”

  “How long have you been trying?”

  “Oh . . . ” Marcus thought about it, “about five years.”
br />   “Years?”

  “I’m a slow learner. And the guy is brutal at the game.”

  “It’s the victory you dream about.”

  “Yes.”

  The clock chimed another quarter hour gone. Shari got up and carried her glass to the counter. “Thank you, Marcus.”

  He leaned his head back so he could see her. “For what?”

  “Just being here. For providing a distraction and a laugh. I’ll see you in the morning.” She moved back through the rooms to return to bed.

  Marcus watched the door she had left through and smiled. The more time he spent around Shari, the more he liked her. Her habit of falling back on humor in the midst of the crisis told him more about her than she probably realized. She had learned to cope with ongoing crisis and stress from somewhere. Since her family appeared close, it had to be her political job.

  Marcus finished his drink, speculating on what was an unusual discovery. He knew what it took to cope with ongoing pressure. She had developed a skill that would not only calm down her own reaction, but also those around her. John had made a good choice when he put her to work on his campaign.

  He sighed. This situation was out of her league. They had to find the shooter, and quickly. Asking Shari to cope with this crisis for more than a few days would be asking her to endure a weight that would break her. The intensity of it came back as he thought about how little progress they had made during the course of the day.

  Shari needed him. Jennifer needed him. In a few hours all the O’Malleys were going to need him. He had never been one to shy away from responsibility, but this burden he wished he could give to someone else. He got to his feet, weary. A day couldn’t get worse than this one.

  * * *

  Marcus woke to the sound of his pager, reached over to check the number, and then picked up the phone. “It’s Marcus.” He rubbed his eyes at the news he was given. “Five minutes. Have the car brought around to the underground garage.” He went to wake up Shari and her mom. William Hanford had just taken a turn for the worse.

  * * *

  William Hanford coded at 3:07 A.M.. Sunday morning.

  Marcus pulled Shari out of the way as nurses and doctors worked to bring him back from cardiac arrest. They stood on the other side of the glass watching as CPR was done and repeated attempts were made to get his heart started. Beth, her sister Margaret, and a nurse with her stood off to one side inside the room. Marcus had never realized how long doctors would continue the fight. Ten minutes passed, fifteen.

  Shari watched it all . . . silent, still.

  He could almost feel the intensity of her prayers.

  As a child he had tried so hard to believe enough to have his prayers answered, but one by one they had failed. His mom had died. His dad had continued to drink. And eventually he had been abandoned. It wasn’t just family that abandoned him, it was God. For the first time in years, he wished he could pray and know it would be answered. Shari believes. Please answer her prayers. Please don’t abandon her.

  The doctors worked another five minutes. And then the activity slowly ceased.

  “No.” It was a quiet wail.

  Marcus turned Shari into his chest and away from the reality before them. “I am so sorry.”

  He could feel the pain flow off her in a wave. He tightened his arms, enclosing her in a firm grip, afraid she would fall. And then with a deep gulp of air she turned back into the room. “Mom.” She pulled away to join her mom at her father’s side.

  Marcus had to look away from the grief. Anger flared hot and intense inside: at the shooter, at fate, at a God who didn’t care. He was sick and tired of religion that offered false hope.

  Shari didn’t have the reserves for this kind of emotional hit. God got all the praise and thanks for fortunate coincidences attributed to prayer, while men like himself had to deal with the disappointment, disbelief, and grief when those prayers were not answered. It wasn’t right to raise hope and disappoint, and that was what religion did.

  And as he watched, fear wrapped itself hard around his heart. This was the face of the pain he would feel if he ever lost Jennifer; this was the pain that would rip apart the O’Malleys, and he didn’t know how to brace himself for the possibility the unthinkable would one day happen.

  * * *

  The waiting room had become Shari’s private place to grieve. Joshua was awake now, had been told. As she had expected, his reaction had been intense. He’d tried to throw the vase on the bedside table through the wall. And he’d gotten mad at himself for not stopping the shooter, for not yanking the door closed and throwing the lock when he knocked her out of the doorway.

  Mom and Aunt Margaret were sitting with him. She had slipped away from the other family. Shari couldn’t handle Joshua’s grief, her mom’s, on top of her own. If only she hadn’t opened that door! Tears ran down her cheeks and the Kleenex clenched in her fist was worthlessly sodden. She wiped her face with the back of the sleeve.

  She was more than just hurt, she was angry, and it was bottled up like an explosion inside. She paced to the window. She, too, felt like throwing the coffee mug she held against the wall, watching it shatter. She could almost taste the fury.

  God how could You do this? Mom grieves but says this was Your will. Well it wasn’t mine! I want my father back. I want my prayers over something critical to matter to You!

  The sobs were wrenching her chest so hard she couldn’t breathe. It wasn’t the best way to handle this; it wasn’t the mature Christian thing to do, but she couldn’t stand the stoic acceptance others in her extended family were determined to showcase. If God didn’t like her getting angry it was His problem, frankly she didn’t care. There wasn’t much left in life He could strip away from her.

  The anger eventually burned out into exhaustion.

  She sank down on the couch and leaned her head back against the fabric, looking up at the ceiling. I don’t like You anymore, God.

  The silence felt sad.

  What was this family going to do without Dad?

  Shari contemplated the impossible and tried to find a way to accept it.

  Someone sat down beside her. She didn’t bother to look over. Marcus. She was becoming used to his stillness. She wanted to bury her head against his shoulder and cry until there were no more tears, to take him up on the friendship he offered and pass to him this weight collapsing down on her. But there was only sadness now, too deep for any more tears. She lowered her head and sighed. “Marcus, I want this all to be a bad dream.”

  He brushed back her hair caught on the bandage on her cheek. “I know.”

  There was rain hitting the window. A soft rain, leaving drops on the windowpane that eventually joined together and slid down the glass. “The sky is crying,” she commented, fatigue making the observation significant.

  Marcus’s hand closed firmly on her shoulder. “Shari, you’re going to get some sleep. You’ll deal better with this after you’ve slept twelve hours.”

  “It won’t change the fact Dad is dead.”

  “No, it won’t.”

  She wanted time to stop, but life was going on without Carl and her father. “I’m tired.”

  His other hand hovered and then settled against her back. “Come on, Shari.”

  * * *

  Shock best described the O’Malley family reaction as they gathered at the hotel late Sunday morning and heard the news about Jennifer. Stephen and Jack looked grim. Lisa stunned. Rachel wrestling with disbelief. Kate, who already knew, had reached to grip Dave’s hand. Marcus looked around the hotel room and felt like his heart was breaking.

  “She’s already in Baltimore?” Jack asked.

  “Her flight was late last night.”

  Rachel took a deep breath. “What’s the plan? We need to be there.”

  “If we juggle schedules, I think we can cover the full time she is in the hospital.”

  Every one of them wanted to fly out first. Marcus smiled, for it was the first moment of
relief since Jennifer had given him the news. He wasn’t carrying this alone. He kept forgetting at times just how powerful this family was when it came to rallying around one of their own. “Get your calendars. Let’s figure it out.”

  * * *

  Shari woke up late Sunday morning, not certain at first where she was at, vague memories of ugly dreams clouding her thoughts. There was movement in the suite outside her closed door.

  It hit her again, the heavy weight of what she had to carry now because of what one man had done. Her eyes were too dry to cry anymore. Dad was dead. So many things pressed against her that had to be done. His funeral arrangements. His law practice.

  The door cracked open. She turned her head on the pillow, looked over, expecting her mom, saw it was Marcus.

  “Awake?”

  “Of sorts.” She swung her legs to the side of the bed. The sweats she had worn to the hospital, collapsed in bed wearing, were rumpled but at least warm; her bones were still chilled. “Come on in.” The grief was so heavy that she couldn’t remember what it had felt like to once smile. “Any news on the shooter?”

  “No.”

  She eased to her feet and crossed over to the chair, sat down to take the weight off her aching knee. She wearily looked at the window and the sunlight streaming in. “I slept a lot longer than I intended.”

  “Your mom wanted you to sleep.”

  “Is she here?”

  “I just took her back over to the hospital. She’s with Joshua.”

  She should probably join them. She frowned at her shoes, then awkwardly pulled them on. She got to her feet. Her thoughts drifted.

  “Are you okay?” He had crossed the room to join her.

  She heard the concern in his voice and wanted more than anything to find her composure and not appear like she was going to fall apart on him. “I’m fine.” She gave him a polite smile and was totally disconcerted when he lifted his hand to push back the hair on her forehead. Her eyes closed as the pressure of his palm eased her aching headache.

  “You’ve got a slight fever.”

  An aching headache, a strained voice . . . she should have known. Add a fever and it was her common pattern for when she got a cold. “Stress reaction. A couple aspirins will knock it down.” He looked skeptical but she had weathered this reaction too many times to be worried about it. And at the moment a cold didn’t seem like something of much significance.