Page 42 of Soul

We find out that the private jet we took here can be ready within the hour. Gillian and I go to our room. When we get there she gasps. Hanging directly over our bed is the trinity tapestry she purchased from the little old lady she met and incidentally attended our wedding unannounced. My wife walks over to the large tapestry and fingers the fabric. “It’s perfect.”

“It is, and we’ll come back and enjoy it very soon. I promise you. This is our home away from home. We can bring all your friends here to vacation together. Just as soon as this is over. And it will be over soon.” I place my hand on her shoulder as she stares at the intricate design. On a sob she twirls around and cowers into my chest, her shoulders heaving with her grief.

“I wasn’t there. If I was there, maybe he would have gone for me and not them.” She cries out as if she is in physical pain. Sometimes the emotional strain is far more painful than the physical. I know that all too well after spending years seeing my mother beat to a bloody pulp until my father took his hand to me.

I shake my head and pet her hair. “Baby, no. This man is sick. It doesn’t matter. He’s going to strike wherever he wants to strike. There is no possible way to know what he’s going to do next, but we’re working with the FBI and the San Francisco PD. I’m certain when they go through this fire investigation, they’ll come up with something. A lead. In the meantime we’re working on a plan. Okay? Let’s just focus on getting home and checking on the girls.”

Gillian nods sniffing loudly, her tears running so quickly down her cheeks it’s as if they were two identical waterfalls. I hand her the handkerchief in my pocket and she wipes her nose noisily against it. Then she sucks in a long, slow breath bringing her body back in control and pushing her emotions to the wayside. It’s amazing to watch how she slowly puts herself back together. With effort, she straightens her spine, breaths deep, clears her throat and tilts her head. “Okay, let’s go.”

We gather up a change of clothes, our phones, which had been off and left on the nightstand, and are now are flaring with a large numbers of notifications. It’s as if each ding is another spike into Gillian’s bleeding heart. It’s going to take mammoth effort to keep her together.

Soon we’ve said our goodbyes to Colin and Rebecca with our apologies and promise to return soon.

The plane touchesdown in SFO International after an eleven-hour flight. That did not include the drive to the airport, getting through the airport, and the taxiing time. Overall, the trip has been a good sixteen hours, and I for one am drained. Gillian finally fell asleep after taking a couple sleeping pills. I stayed up most of the flight working with Jack and the additional guards on a plan. We’ll need to talk to Agent Brennen and Thomas Redding, but we think it’s a good one. None of us can continue to live like this. Always on edge, waiting for the next person to get hurt. McBride is too intelligent. He seems to be a step ahead of the team. Our plan, however, is designed to draw him out of the shadows. The three of us agree that it’s foolproof. It has to work. No more waiting. This time next week McBride will be ours.

Jack drops us in front of San Francisco General Hospital, a building I now know all too well. It’s sickening that I’ve been to this hospital more in the past year than I’ve been to a grocery store or a library. I know too many of the hospital staff by first name, and it fills me with a sour seed that’s setting roots in my gut.

Gillian rushes to Intensive Care not even needing to look at the directory or the signs. She also knows this place well.

When the elevator doors open, we can see a crowd of people at the end of the hall, the easiest to recognize is the six-months, pregnant woman who’s pacing the floor, hand to her lower back. Carson, Phillip, and Thomas are sitting in a line of chairs opposite her pacing. It’s as if time stops when she looks up. Her pretty face with the big, blue eyes and soft features seems to disintegrate into a massive ball of devastation. Gillian runs to her, pulls her into her arms and holds her close.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here,” she cries into Bree’s neck.

Bree’s long, blond waves cover them like a shroud. She speaks softly to my wife, their foreheads pressed together. Both of them cry, hug, and hold one another for long minutes.

“When can I see them?”

Bree shakes her head. “They haven’t let any of us see either of them but supposedly they’ll let us see Maria very soon.”

“Excuse me?” I ask my voice a heavy timber in the otherwise quiet space.

Bree sniffs and pushes her hair back. “They aren’t telling us anything about Kat, but I guilted one of the nurses, who’s a client of mine. They said we couldn’t see her because of something about her being too serious and the potential for contamination. All we know is that she’s stable, for now, but she’s undergoing serious burn treatment.” The tears rush down Bree’s face and she hiccups.

“They said…they said…she was going to need a lot of surgeries to repair the damage to her arm and that she may not…” she chokes and Phillip stands next to her holding her in his arms, running a soothing hand up and down her back. He calms her down enough that she can finish. Gillian locks her arms around me. “They said, she may not ever be able to use that arm again. She’s going to have severe nerve damage and the scarring…” She shakes her head. “Please God let her be okay,” Bree crumbles into a fit of sobs as Phillip holds her, leads her to a chair, and scoops her into his lap.

With as much patience as I can, I take hold of my girl and maneuver Gillian into a seat, lock my arm around her shoulder then keep her pressed into my side where she belongs. She leans heavily against me and silently lets the tears fall.

Across from Gillian, I lock eyes with Carson. He looks shattered, half-dead, and from what I gather, hasn’t been able to see his woman. The turmoil pumping off him is thick and ripe with fury. I nod in his direction, and he shakes his head. His position, those blue eyes devoid of anything, speak for him. He might as well have a sign around his neck that says, “Back off.” I won’t approach, not right now. Now we wait.

After an hour of sitting Dr. Dutera enters the waiting room. Man this guy has had far too much time with our group of friends. His eyes widen when he sees Gillian and me.

“Thought this group was familiar.” The doctor grumbles.

“Need an update. How are Maria De La Torre and Kathleen Bennett?” I ask.

The doctor frowns. “Mr. Davis, you are not direct kin of either of these women.”

“No, but I’m listed as the direct medical contact for both of them as Kathleen’s parents are separated and live in other states, which obviously...” Gillian makes a point to look around the room with her hands out wide before continuing. “...they haven’t been contacted. Maria doesn’t have any family but me,” she continues.

The doctor’s eyes assess the validity of her statement, and he must believe it because he finally gives us the run down.

“Ms. De La Torre has been moved to a regular room. She was treated for slight carbon monoxide poisoning and several surface wounds on her abdomen and feet.”

“Her feet?” I ask.

“Apparently she kicked at some wooden beams and glass with bare feet to get your friend out,” the doctor confirms. Now that, I believe. That Italian-Spanish fireball would do anything to save her friends.

Then Dr. Dutera’s look turns somber, and I know he’s about to give us bad news. “Ms. Bennett didn’t fare as well. She’s being treated for severe smoke inhalation, a collapsed lung, and third degree burns over her left arm, side of her neck, and down her left side ribcage. All layers of the skin in those areas have been destroyed. The damage extends into the subcutaneous tissues and she’ll need grafting in order to heal. Right now we’ve managed the lung, gotten her stable and are dealing with the poisoning. She is on one hundred percent oxygen, is heavily sedated and will undergo many rounds of hyperbaric oxygen therapy until her levels have come back to something resembling normal. She is not out of the woods. We will take her prognosis one day at a time.”

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