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GUARDING MIRANDA
By
Amanda M. Holt
© copyright by Amanda M. Holt, June
2009
Cover Art by Alex DeShanks, June 2009
ISBN 978-1-60394-321-5
New Concepts Publishing
Lake Park, GA 31636
www.newconceptspublishing.com
This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are
of the author’s imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or
events is merely coincidence.
Chapter One
Brian Logan had just finished developing the last batch of
photographs when the cell phone on his belt began to ring. Alone in the dark room, the black haired
man quickly hung the last of the photos up to dry, and then answered the insistent ring of the
little phone, a tiny device that seemed even smaller as it was swallowed in the grip of his large
hand. With fingers larger than those of most men, he held the phone with firm, but gentle
attention.
“Hello?” he answered. There would be no mistaking his Australian
accent, even in so short a word.
“Good morning, Brian, my Aussie friend. How are you?”
Brian recognized the voice immediately. It was the voice of his
best paying and most persistent client, a voice he had come to know very well, as owner and
operator of Logan Security and Investigations.
Russ Gundy had insisted on dealing directly with ‘the man in
charge’. Brian Logan certainly was that man. Everything about him suggested raw masculine power and
authority, from his solid six-foot-four frame to the two hundred and thirty pounds of muscle that
went with it. If there was any doubt left in an observer’s mind as to who was in charge at Logan
Security and Investigations, one need only look into his eyes, eyes with irises the color of dark
steel, and an innate hardness that suggested he was a man used to getting his own way.
Russ wasn’t the most demanding client that Brian had ever had, but
the bloke certainly liked to be updated on a day-to-day basis. It wasn’t Brian’s style, to give
status reports first thing in the morning, every morning, but what the customer wanted, the
customer got.
And Gundy paid him very well for his services. Very well
indeed.
“Good, Mr. Gundy,” he began, as he pictured the red headed man on
the other end of the phone. “And you?”
“Good as I can be, given the circumstances. You left a message on
my voice mail,” replied the older, wealthier man. Now that Brian had some concrete evidence for his
client, he hoped that the morning phone calls would cease. Unlike the other mornings, it was this
morning that he had been the one to call Russ. “You said you had good news, evidence?”
Brian looked at the photos that hung, drying, on the line. As his
gaze fell on the blond haired man pictured in many of the frames, his stormy gray eyes narrowed
with cool speculation.
“Well, I’m not sure that you would take it as good
news.”
“Well, out with it. What did you find out?”
“Richard Alba is definitely in the business of trafficking drugs,”
said Brian, looking at one of the pictures he had taken with the help of a telescopic lens. The
image of Richard bent over a table, drawing a line of cocaine through a straw to his nose, testing
the product he was about to purchase. “No doubt about it.”
“I knew it.” Russ sounded pleased. “And you really have concrete
proof?”
“Photos taken by telescopic lens and a recording taken by
directional microphone.” Brian was proud of his work, the long months of research that had
culminated into the surveillance of the drug deal. His own pride in a job well done thickened his
Australian accent, and deepened his baritone voice. “An entire drug deal caught on film and tape.
These last three months of work, non-stop, have finally paid off for you, Mr. Gundy.”
“Excellent!” The older man sounded ecstatic. “And what of my
niece, Miranda?”
Brian’s dark gray eyes glanced at the picture that was his
favorite of the batch. Miranda was, in short, a photogenic beauty. The camera loved her, as did the
film ….
The young woman pictured there, he knew, was twenty-six and drop
dead gorgeous by his own tastes, what with her sexy, full lipped grin, high cheekbones, and long,
silky black hair. Her eyes were perhaps her most notable feature, though the photo was in black and
white, and shades of gray, he knew her eyes well. Set in a face of the purest ivory, as large as
they were luminous, her eyes were the dark green of pine needles, and were gazing up at him from
the photo with curious intelligence.
Brian knew that she had spotted him taking the picture. She had
been looking directly into the lens, there was no way she couldn’t have seen him. She had not seen
fit to alarm Richard as to his presence, so that had to account for something. If she was involved,
she would have been wary of a strange man taking her picture.
Rather than seem alarmed, she had smiled for the camera, smiled at
him, and as a result, her beauty had been caught on film, frozen in time.
A lovely smile, hers....
What a girl like Miranda was doing with a lousy bloke like
Richard, blond haired cokehead scum of the Earth that he was, was a mystery to Brian and Russ
alike. Their working theory was that she had no idea that Richard was involved in criminal
activities, the drug-dealing and gun-running that supplemented his wealth, as cornerstones of his
exporting business.
A sigh upon his lips, Brian looked again at the picture of her
smiling, and reached out to touch it with what might have been a gesture of longing. With a smile
of his own, he remembered her long, long legs, and slender, athletic body.
He remembered the fullness of her breasts, and the way that she
often held her head so high, with a pride that was stately, rather than arrogant. He had been
watching her, and watching out for her, for three months now, mostly from afar. Aside from the day
she spotted him taking her picture, to his knowledge, she hadn’t the foggiest notion that he even
existed. But of course she wouldn’t, he did his job well, and with a great degree of
stealth.
He wondered how she would react if she knew that her dear Uncle
Russ was having her and her fiancé followed ….
“Brian?” The voice of his client held a tinge of concern. “Are you
still there?”
“Yes, yes. I’m here. Sorry. I ... got distracted.”
“What have you found out, about Miranda?”
“So far, there hasn’t been a single shred of evidence that she’s
been involved with any aspect of Richard’s various and questionable business endeavors.” Brian
touched her picture again, and felt the familiar rush of blood to his loins. Even just the image of
her had the power to turn him on. One glance at her person, even from a distance, had the ability
to do the same. Somehow, she had gotten under his skin, which was quite a feat for a woman that he
had never even come within three feet of. Miranda was more addictive to him than chocolate, which
was saying a lot. He was very fond of chocolate. “So far, I’d say she’s faultless.”
Faultless - that’s what she was. A perfect ten ….
“Thank God for that,” said Russ, sounding relieved.
“Have you further need of my services?”
“Yes,” Russ said, without hesitation. “Miranda has tickets for the
baroque performance at Tillings Hall tonight. Richard will likely join her. I want you to follow
them, and watch out for her, make certain she isn’t involved. I won’t turn this matter over to the
police until I know for certain that she’s blameless.”
“And if she isn’t blameless?” asked Brian, once again losing his
train of thought for a moment as he gazed into her photograph. “What then?”
“We’ll clear that hurdle if and when we get there, Brian.” His
client replied, sounding frustrated by the possibility. “The performance starts at seven, by the
way. Be there.”
“I’ll be there,” he promised. With that, Russ ended the call, and
Brian returned his cell to his belt. To the empty dark room, he said, “For her, I’ll be
there.”
* * * *
As Miranda Fowler walked with Richard Alba down the stairs of
Tillings Hall, her green eyes were aglow with delight. “All I can say is that the guy on the
clarinet must have lips of steel.”
Richard eyed his fiancé with renewed hunger. She was breathtaking,
in her slinky black designer gown and heels. The gown was strapless, exposing her creamy white
shoulders while effectively holding in the fullness of her lovely breasts. Her long, black hair was
piled loosely on top of her head, in a manner that was intended to look casual and chic, but left
her looking glamorous and sexy, exposing her long neck, the dark tendrils framing her captivatingly
feminine face.
Richard hated these performances that she loved, so much, to drag
him to. When it wasn’t a concert, it was an opera. When it wasn’t an opera, it was theater. When it
wasn’t the theater, it was the ballet. But always, every Friday night, it was something.
Something annoying and from the realm of, how he hated the word
‘art’.
“So you enjoyed the performance, my dear?” he asked her, steering
her towards the parking lot, where he could see his pewter colored car glistening beneath the lot
lights.
“Immensely, Richard. And you? What did you think of the
baroque?”
He had struggled to stay awake during the two hour performance.
Even the half hour intermission had been a bore. He, of course, preferred live baseball games and
televised football broadcasts over violin solos and harpsichord dramas. In short, he had hated the
baroque, hated every minute of it. It was too much like elevator music--worse than that, it was
chamber music.
“Definitely my cup of tea,” he lied, his jaw clenched as he spoke.
His hand at the small of her back, he urged her towards the car. The quicker he got her to the car,
the quicker they would get back to his penthouse. The quicker they got to his penthouse, the
quicker he could get her into his king size bed, where her mouth would be less busy with questions,
and more intent on satisfying him. He smiled at that thought, at the dirty things he could get her
to do simply by professing his love for her.
Love. The only things he really loved about her was her hot body
and inherited fortune. And for now, he had to make do with the hot body. The fortune, he knew,
wouldn’t be his until after they married, and she had the accident that he intended and the money
the insurance company would compensate him for. He glanced sideways at her breasts, straining
against the material of the strapless gown.
Yes, her hot body would do,for now. He kept his hand on the small
of her back, and steered her through the parking lot, in the direction of his car.
Miranda warmed at Richard’s touch, thinking that he was making a
gesture of affection, rather than hurrying her along. She glanced at him from the side, and felt
her breath leave her chest. He was so handsome, in his designer charcoal suit, his suntanned skin
such an attractive contrast to the white of his dress shirt. He was blond, and gorgeous, and full
of youthful zeal. His baby blue eyes always beheld her with such interest, such playful
intent.
He was incredibly good looking, so very California, and she knew
that she was lucky to have him. He was always so doting on her, so attentive, so
loving....
As she looked at Richard, she couldn’t help but wonder what his
father looked like, or if perhaps he more closely resembled his mother. She wouldn’t ask him,
though. Her fiancé spoke very rarely of his parents, and when he did, it was without favor, none
too fondly. At Richard’s insistence, his parents were not going to be at their wedding, which was a
pity, in her eyes.
Miranda thought it was unfortunate, that he would have such a poor
relationship with his parents, when in truth, he should have been glad to be lucky enough to have
both of them alive. She wondered what tragedy, what great horror could have put him at such odds
with his parents. What could be so horrible that the Albas could not work it out?
She herself had lost mother, father, and brother in one tragic
evening, ten years before. Not a day went by that her heart did not ache for them. Not a day went
by that she did not feel the pain of what she had lost when she was sixteen. She was grateful to
her Uncle Russ and Aunt Nancee for taking her into their home, and their hearts, but no surrogate
love, no surrogate family could ever replace the one that she had lost.
Family was important to her. She wished that family were important
enough to her fiancé for him to attempt to work out his problems with his family. Surely the rift
between them wasn’t too wide for filial love to close the distance? She resolved to bring up the
issue one day soon, to see if she couldn’t convince him to give them another chance, to try to work
things out.
They were soon approaching Richard’s pewter car. He unlocked the
doors with the keyless remote, and surprised Miranda by pulling her into a hungry kiss. His lips
were warm, and demanding, very fervent as he kissed her. His kiss stirred in her a warmth that she
recognized as the early signs of her arousal. His hands found her breasts, and gave them an eager
squeeze.
“Not here, not in public,” said Miranda, chastising him lightly.
He was so naughty.
“Yeah, I’d hate to give one of these patrons of the fine arts a
heart attack,” Richard said with sarcasm, keeping one arm around her. “Or, for that matter, a hard
on.”
“You’re shameless,” she said, but he silenced her protest with
another ravenous kiss. When at last they parted, a smile adorned each of their faces.
Surrendering to her will, Richard opened the passenger door of the
car for her. She slid into the leather-bound seat, and was slightly alarmed by the sudden sound of
quickening footsteps behind her beloved, coming closer and closer....
“Hey, Richard!”
Miranda would never forget the look of surprise that crossed her
fiancé’s face in that exact instant. He turned around, and faced the man.
“Barry?” he asked, of the approaching figure in black. “Is that
you?”
Miranda gasped in surprise. ‘Barry’ was wearing a black ski mask
over his face. As the man extended his hand, the light of the parking lot glinted off of something
metallic there.
It had taken her only a split second to identify the object in his
hand, but even as she did, she could not believe her eyes. A handgun? Why was ‘Barry’ pointing a
handgun at her fiancé? She was frozen to the seat, her stomach knotted with fear. Terror made her
heart stop, and then begin to pound violently as her adrenaline came in a rush. As horrified as she
was, she couldn’t have moved if she wanted to.
The color had all but drained from Richard’s face. “Barry, what
the fu--?”
The man in black lifted the handgun a few inches. His gravelly
voice was gruff and full of menace as he said, “Consider this an end to our business
arrangement.”
Miranda saw him pull the trigger in the same instant that
something warm and wet sprayed the front of her face. She barely acknowledged the gunshot, even
though it had been fired right in front of her. Stunned, she reached her hand up to wipe away the
gore, just as Richard’s body went limp and began to fall. “Barry” turned the gun on her. She saw
the dark ink of tattoo art on his wrist, behind the gun, but was far more spellbound by the gun
itself than by any of the man’s features.
“Say ‘goodnight’, princess.”
She looked directly into the man’s face then, too terrified to
scream. She looked right into his cruel icy gray eyes, and saw the hint of a smile through the slit
of his ski mask, the flash of yellowed, twisted teeth in the dim light.
He pulled the trigger, and this time she heard the gunshot at the
same time that the bullet struck her, in the shoulder, with all the violence of a kick from a
horse. The shattering of glass behind her didn’t sound right, somehow, as her momentum carried her
back into the driver’s seat. It was strange that although her ears rang from the assault of the two
gunshots, she heard the footfalls of the man known as ‘Barry’ running away, followed by the squeal
of car tires on the concrete.
Her entire shoulder was numb, and she felt something warm running
down her back. She could not move her left arm. With her right hand, she touched her fingers to her
chest, just above the seam of her gown, and then pulled them away, wondering why they were
wet.
She looked at her fingers, and wondered why they were sticky with
red.
It's blood , she
thought, stupidly, examining her fingers closely.Why am I
leaking blood? was her last thought, as the shock set in,
and the swift mercy of unconsciousness came to claim her.
* * * *
Brian was out of the car by the first gunshot and running as fast
as he could by the sound of the second. He saw the man in the black ski mask running away from
Richard’s car, and then speed away in the waiting car, saw Richard’s body slump further to the
concrete. He was dialing nine-one-one on his cell phone by the time he was half way across the
parking lot. The operator answered just as he got to the car.
“Emergency services, how may I direct your call?”
“There’ve been two people shot at Tillings Hall on Lombard
Street.” He announced, speaking as quickly as the words would come out. “The man is dead, the
woman’s bleeding profusely. I know First Aid,” he said, commanding the call. “I’ll work on her
until the ambulance gets here.” He glanced at the unmistakable pool of red that was spreading
beneath Miranda on the beige leather upholstery of the driver’s seat. “Tell them to
hurry.”
“Is the assailant still in the area?”
“No, he’s gone.”
“Can I get your name...?”
“I don’t bloody well have time for this. She’s probably bleeding
to death!” He closed the cell phone with an angry snap, and focused on the unconscious woman before
him. Images of his First Aid training came flooding back to him.
“Elevation and pressure,” he said to himself. “Elevate the wound,
and apply pressure....”
Brian climbed into the car, and easily pulled Miranda free,
cradling her in his strong arms a moment before setting her on the concrete before him. A bullet
casing lay near her head. He was careful not to move it. The police would need it as evidence. He
took a moment to survey the damage. Her left shoulder had an entry hole about the diameter of a
pen, but the back of her shoulder had a messy exit hole, at least six times the size of that of the
entry wound. From what he could tell, the bullet had passed right through her. It explained the
shattered driver’s side window.
“Oh, Miranda, I’m so sorry,” he said, rolling her on to her right
side, as he had been told to do in First Aid. “I should have been closer. I should have been
watching more carefully....”
He tore off the lower half of his T-shirt, and used it to staunch
the bleeding wound. His large hands were soon covered in her bright, crimson blood. He applied
direct pressure to the wound, the adrenaline in his body causing him to tremble ever so slightly.
He checked her ABC’s - her Airway, Breathing and Circulation. She was breathing, that much he was
certain of. He felt for her pulse, in her neck, and found that its tempo had become somewhat
quicker than what he knew was normal.
He offered the unconscious woman a wry grin. “That’s a good sign,
luv, means you’re in luck, haven’t lost too much blood. If your heart was beating slowly, it’d mean
a whole lot of bad news.”
A small crowd of spectators, most dressed in formal wear, had
gathered about the scene.
“Stand back,” he warned them, remembering the bullet casing.
“There’s evidence here the police will need to survey.” He looked back at the milling crowd of high
society’s crème de la crème, and asked, “Is there a doctor amongst you?”
Several heads shook side to side. “Shit,” said Brian simply. “Any
nurses?”
There was more head shaking, plenty of gawking mouths, and several
blank stares.
“Damn,” he said angrily.
Just his luck! He was both a witness to the crime, and the first
on the scene of the incident with no one trained in medicine to help him. He was going to have to
make a statement to the police, and Lord knew how much fun that was going to be. He could hardly
explain why he had been there in the first place--that he was keeping an eye on a millionaire’s
niece, to be sure she wasn’t mixed up in her fiancé’s drug dealing and gun running
schemes.
That would go over really well with the cops, more questions would
follow, and more questions after that....
Brian glanced at Richard’s body, saw the small, oozing hole in the
front of his head, the splattering of grayish-red gore and fragments of bone, of skull, that
adorned the interior of the car. He looked down and felt ill at the sight of Richard’s blood on the
front of Miranda’s beautiful face.
The palms of his hands were warm with her blood, the backs of his
hands cold with it.
He put more pressure on the wound, and prayed that the ambulance
would hurry up. It wasn’t long before he heard the sirens, approaching in the night. It wasn’t much
longer after that, he saw the red and white flicker of the ambulance lights followed closely by the
red, white and blue of the San Francisco Police Department.
Brian looked down again at Miranda. Her eyes were closed, and he
knew that it had to be a good thing. It was better for her to be in Morpheus’ arms, than for her to
be awake to watch her life’s blood pouring out of her. Her lovely ivory face was marred by her dead
fiancé’s blood, seeming paler under that bloody mess than usual. He knew, looking at her, at the
pallor of her skin, that she would have been closer to death, if not for his First Aid
intervention.
Yet, he hadn’t done her any favors by being on the other side of
the parking lot, when she had needed him most.
The ambulance drove a few feet past him, and parked. He heard
doors from the ambulance open and close, and before he knew it, there was a tall thin man, at least
fifty years old kneeling next to him, with a bag of supplies. The female attendant who joined him
went immediately to Richard’s side, in what Brian knew was a vain attempt to deduce the
obvious.
“He’s dead,” she said upon seeing the large exit wound at the back
of his head and checking his vitals.
“Obviously,” replied Brian, focused entirely on
Miranda.
The woman covered Richard’s face with a cloth from her bag. “Time
of death - twenty two hundred hours.”
Brian didn’t let go of Miranda until the attendant was ready to
move in. The man checked her airways, her breathing and her pulse. “She’s likely in shock,” he said
simply, while his female partner went to the back of the ambulance, and pulled out the
stretcher.
“You shouldn’t have hung up on the operator, son.” The male
ambulance attendant scolded him, as he removed a wad of bandages from his bag. “We could have used
more information.”
“She’s been shot,” said Brian tersely. “What bloody more
information did you need?”
“You could have told us her name, at the very least.” The
ambulance attendant remained calm, despite having invoked the anger of the man who nearly dwarfed
him. “Like if she was walking when she was shot, if she’s suffered any sort of neck
trauma....”
“She was sitting in the car.” Brian looked down at her again,
knowing that he was in part to blame for what had happened to her. He felt nauseous, ill. He had
let her down. Her and Russ Gundy both.
“Well, we’d better stabilize her neck, just in case.” The
attendant returned from the ambulance with a collar in his hands, and busied himself with putting
it about Miranda’s throat.
The second attendant, a woman of about thirty, was finished with
the stretcher, and, having set a red back board down on the ground parallel to Miranda, was now
kneeling next to them. She saw the bullet casing, and carefully moved away from it. “You did a good
job of elevating the wound. First Aid?”
“First Aid,” Brian conceded with a nod.
The male attendant wore a smile of approval. “You were wise to
bandage the wound. There’s definitely vessel damage - there’s a lot of blood.” He looked at his
partner. “Ready Sherry? On three, we log roll her - one, two, three.”
Brian watched them lift Miranda, first on to the board and then on
the stretcher, and knew that he was no longer needed. Still, he wasn’t ready to be dismissed. The
police hadn’t forgotten him, though they were busily surveying the car, and the ground about
it.
“You were first on the scene?” asked the younger cop, aiming his
flashlight about the car. The beam from the flashlight caught the pool of Miranda’s blood, dark on
the seat, and for the second time, Brian felt ill.
“I was.” Brian retrieved his cell phone from the top of Richard’s
car, where he had left it. He reached for his wallet, took out his business card, and handed it to
the young cop. “This is where I can be reached, for questioning, and the statement I’ll no doubt
have to make. There’s one bullet casing there,” he pointed it out. “And likely another nearby that
could have rolled under the car. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to ride with Miss Fowler in the
back of the ambulance.”
“Fowler?” asked the older cop, a man with a paunch for a belly. He
looked at Miranda, and recognition crossed his chubby face. “You’re telling me that’s Miranda
Fowler on the stretcher?”
“Yes.” Brian found himself wishing that he had not
spoken.
“And who’s that?” the young cop asked, of the dead drug
dealer.
“Richard Alba.” His next words left a sour taste in his mouth.
“Her fiancé. Well, former fiancé.”
“Miranda Fowler.” The young cop looked at the helpless woman on
the stretcher. “That really her?”
“It is, and I’m going with her.” He drew himself up to his full
six feet, four inches of muscle-bound height. He hadn’t been a bodybuilder in his twenties for
nothing. At thirty-five years of age, due in part to regular work-outs, Brian Logan was still a
hulk in comparison to most men. “Any objections?”
He didn’t hear any. He walked back to the ambulance, where the
attendants were finishing up, and asked, “It is all right if I ride with her? I’m … her
brother.”
“Absolutely,” said the attendant named Sherry. “We’re leaving like
right now.”
“And you’ll wait for the Coroner?” asked the male attendant of the
police. They gave their affirmative, and he climbed into the driver’s seat.
“Letterman General Hospital is only a few minutes away,” Sherry
told Brian as she climbed into the seat next to him, and closed the ambulance doors. “It’ll be a
short ride.”
“The shorter, the better,” Brian said, looking down at Miranda,
unconscious on the stretcher. He had to fight the urge to hold her hand, a hand that was so much
smaller than his own.
As Sherry busied herself with adding more bandages to Miranda’s
shoulder, Brian gave into his urge, and took her left hand in his own. He noticed then that the
only jewelry she wore was the engagement ring on her left hand.Poor girl, you won't be needing that anymore, he thought, feeling pity for her, for her loss, for the grief awaiting her
whenever she regained consciousness.
The driver, the male attendant, activated the siren, and they were
on their way to Letterman General Hospital.
* * * *
As though from a great distance, Miranda could hear a siren. It
clanged and reverberated all about her.Siren, she thought, furrowing her
brow.What was up with that?
She struggled to open her eyes, but she was tired, so very tired.
She forced them open, only to close them again. There had been a blurred surrealism to what she had
seen, white walls, white ceiling, an instrument panel with buttons and dials, and a dark-haired
head peering down at her. The light overhead was too bright, too bright.
She was just beginning to stir from a deep and restful sleep, and
was about to allow sleep to again swallow her whole when she heard a man mutter, “Sherry, she just
opened her eyes.”
“Miranda....” The voice was saying something else in a soft, husky
tone, but the moment her ears recognized the sound of her own name, on male lips, she was fading
back to sleep.
What an odd accent , she thought, and it was her last thought as Morpheus embraced her once
more.
The next time she woke up, she was lying flat on her stomach, a
bit of moisture running from the corner of her mouth onto a white pillow. She opened her eyes, and
saw an obscure contraption of metal and plastic and neon green numbers dancing in a liquid crystal
display. She closed her eyes, feeling more exhausted than she had ever been in her life.
Something was not right. Where the Hell was she? She had a feeling
that she should force herself up, off of her stomach. There was something very important she had to
know, but at the moment, she couldn’t remember what that was, or why it was so important in the
first place.
All she knew for certain about her surroundings was that, while it
was very quiet around her, there seemed to be a hum of activity nearby, of people, perhaps, coming
and going. It was then that she heard the page, “Dr. Morgenson, lab please, Dr. Morgenson,
lab....”
Doctor , thought
Miranda, her weary eyes closed?Am I in the hospital? If so,
then why? Why could I possibly be in the hospital?
She was incredibly weary. She felt like she hadn’t slept in days.
Or was it drugs, medication? She listened intently, and her suspicions were confirmed by someone
asking to speak with a nurse. She was in the hospital, but she still didn’t know why. There had to
be a reason why they were keeping her on her stomach, but what, pray tell, was that
reason?
She opened her eyes again, and the metal contraption was still
there, looking like a piece of modern art, with its long plastic tubes coming out of it all over
the place, and those neon green lights flashing numbers and symbols that made no sense to her. No
sense at all. She listened intently, fighting the urge to again close her eyes.
She saw that there was a curtain behind the tall, narrow machine,
and she was sure she heard breathing. Deep, shallow breathing. Was someone there, on the other side
of the curtain?
Miranda shifted her right arm, and her head, and was amazed by the
amount of effort that the single, simple move took. Her arm felt like lead, and her head swam as
she looked at the small push button device that was pinned to the sheet of the bed that she was on,
just within reach of another one, a yellow one. She stared at them for a long moment, because
staring took less energy than moving. But she was determined to move, so she raised and turned her
head back to its original position, and stared some more to her left, at the tall machine that was
as appalling as it was intriguing.
A dim recollection of a medical program she had watched once told
her that it was an IV machine, IV meaning intravenous, of course. That much she knew. She
considered calling out for help, but the moment she found her voice, the door to her shared room
opened, and she saw a flash of white.
A uniform! There was someone standing before her. A nurse
maybe?
“I see that you’re awake,” said the woman, in a soft, chipper
tone. “Don’t try to move any more than you absolutely have to. You’ve had a medical emergency, and
as a result, you’re in a surgery recovery room at the Letterman General Hospital.”
“What?” Miranda croaked, and, though her mouth was dry, recovered
her voice. She seemed to have difficulty concentrating. Her mind was as numb as the rest of her,
her thoughts seeming to move slowly, sluggishly. “What sort of emergency?”
“I’m not sure its best for you to talk about that right now,” said
the nurse, who bent over so that Miranda could see her. The nurse had short-cropped blond hair, and
from the look of the big smile on her face, Miranda just knew that she was one of those incredibly
cheerful people who loved to annoy the hell out of immobile, weary people such as
herself.
“What am I doing on my stomach?” she asked, frustrated with her
situation.
“The lesser of two evils,” said the nurse, still as cheerful as
the moment she had come in. “You’ve had surgery to your front and back, but most of the damage was
done to your back, so I’m afraid you’ll have to be on your stomach for a few days.”
Miranda fought to keep her eyes open. “What are those devices near
my right hand for?”
“The yellow one is the call bell. You push the button if you need
help. The white one is Morphine,” she said. “When the pain in your shoulder comes back, press the
button once, and the machine will measure out a dose for you.”
“Does my family know that I’m in here?”
“Your aunt and uncle were in to see you earlier today. You were
asleep.”
Miranda frowned. “How long have I been in here?”
“Since about ten o’clock last night.”
Last night? What had happened last night? She struggled to
remember, but groggy as she was, she could not. “What time is it now?”
“Twenty after nine. In the evening.”
Almost twenty-four hours had passed since her ‘emergency’. She
wondered where Richard was, if he had come to see her, too. No, that didn’t seem quite right.
Richard was ... Richard was.... Had something happened to Richard, too? Vaguely, she remembered the
baroque. They had gone to the performance, hadn’t they? She remembered leaving her seat, remembered
speaking with Judge Aitken briefly at the intermission. Beyond that, she could not remember a
thing.
“Upset, aren’t you?” asked the young nurse, brandishing a
hypodermic needle. “I have just the thing....”
Whatever was in the needle, Miranda didn’t want. The adult in her
fought against her childhood fear of needles, inner conflict that it was, but either way, she was
on the losing end of the battle. The blond nurse pulled back her covers, and Miranda felt a rush of
cool air on her bare legs. She swabbed Miranda’s skin with a piece of alcohol-moistened cotton and
inserted the needle in the flesh of her bottom with the blatant lie. “It won’t hurt a
bit.”
It didn’t hurt as much as other needles she’d had in the past, but
she still felt the pinch....
The next time Miranda awoke, her left shoulder was aching. Vaguely
remembering the nurse’s words, she depressed the button of the white button with her right hand,
and quick relief was soon granted to her by the saccharine embrace of the morphine. She felt even
fuzzier than she had been before as the drug took renewed hold.
These are some cool drugs , she thought, amused in her state of drug stupor.Very cool drugs.
And so it was with amusement that she looked up at the transfusion
stand that had been placed next to the IV machine. With amusement also that she watched the red of
a donor’s blood drip slowly into the needle that disappeared into her flesh on the back of her
hand. The needle amused her some more. She hated needles, but this one didn’t hurt a bit, despite
the different tubes that were attached to it, dripping their solutions into her veins.
Contrary to the young nurse’s claim that she was going to have to
be on her stomach for a couple of days, the head nurse came with a helper that afternoon and
propped her into a sitting position. The left side of her body was heavily bandaged, her left arm
in a sling to keep it immobile, and promote healing. They put a great number of cushions at the
small of her back to ensure that there was no pressure being put on her shoulder, and thus, she was
able to sit up, and sip water, and visit with friends and family.
Around three o’clock, her Uncle Russ, Aunt Nancee, and cousin
Sheryl came to visit her. They crowded Miranda’s small half of the hospital room, and it was with a
sheepish smile that her uncle said, “We tried to get you a private room, but the hospital was
packed.”
She looked at the red-haired man, and wasn’t sure if she heard him
right. The drugs were playing tricks on her ears. “That’s all right, Uncle Russ. A room is a room,”
she shrugged, and smiled a dopey smile, elated by the morphine. “So, what happened to me,
anyway?”
Her Aunt Nancee frowned and her cousin Sheryl glared at her Uncle
Russ.
Sheryl was every bit as redheaded as her father, and had the
Scottish temper to match. Her green eyes sparkled dangerously as she said, “Tell her, dad. Tell her
thetruth.”
“The truth.” Miranda agreed, with a big dopey grin for the family
she loved.
Uncle Russ looked uncomfortable with whatever truth he had to
offer. “You were shot, Miranda. We’re not sure by whom. The police are hoping you could tell
them.”
“Shot?” An array of images flashed through Miranda’s mind, too
quick, too tangled for her to make sense of. She felt a surge of panic as she thought of Richard.
Panic directed at his well being. Panic that brought her to fear the worst. Even in fear, she wore
a smile. Only morphine could offer her such detached bliss. “Richard was with me, wasn’t
he?”
Her tiny blond-haired aunt seemed particularly uncomfortable,
shifting from foot to foot. Nancee rubbed her small hands nervously, a gesture that told Miranda
bad news was about to hit the fan.
“Well,” Nancee began, and then paused, to let out her burden, a
long, deep sigh. “Richard ... Well, Richard ... he was shot, too, sweetheart.”
Fragments of memory flooded Miranda’s mind full of waking dreams.
She thought she remembered a gunshot, a voice, a voice that was not Richard’s.
“Say 'goodnight', princess”.
Miranda’s intelligent green eyes swelled with horror as she
remembered Richard’s body slumping to the ground before her, remembered the splash of warm wetness
that had hit her face a moment after the first gunshot. Remembered the second gunshot, the one that
had, no doubt, put her here, in the hospital.
“He was shot. Richard...?” Her fearful green eyes turned to behold
her Uncle Russ, who sported a frown beneath his red moustache. “Uncle Russ, is he all
right?”
“No, my dear, he’s not all right.” Russ shoved his hands deep into
his pockets. In his pockets, the hands became tight, frustrated fists. “Richard is
dead.”
“Dead?” Even though she knew that it was true, she didn’t want to
believe it.
“I’m so sorry,” said Sheryl, stepping forward from the group of
Gundys. “Oh, Miranda, you don’t know how worried I was about you--how worried we all were. When Mr.
Logan called us, and said you’d been shot....”
Sheryl kept talking, but Miranda was no longer listening. Richard,
dead? That couldn’t be. They were going to be married. She loved Richard, and Richard loved her.
The Fates would not be so cruel as to part two lovers about to be married, would they?
Yet, over and over again, in her mind’s eye, she could see
Richard’s head jerking back after the first gunshot, saw the hole left there, saw his body slump to
the ground, saw the man with the menacing gun, saw....
“Barry,” she said suddenly, interrupting her Aunt Nancee. “A man
named Barry shot us. Richard knew him by name.”
“And you’re sure it was ‘Barry’?” Russ asked, though the name was
familiar to him, for reasons he was not about to disclose. It was bad enough that his wife and
daughter had forced him into confessing to them the private investigator he’d hired. He was not
about to tell Miranda everything. Not now, in her drugged state. He knew that she was on morphine.
He had spoken to her doctor himself.
He would tell her everything, in due time. Now was not the time to
discuss Brian Logan.
“Certain,” said Miranda, the first of tears welling up in her
eyes. She swallowed the lump that had formed in her throat and sought her glass of
water.
The morphine was cushioning the shock of the news but only just.
To hear that Richard was gone still hurt her. The loss was a horrible, crushing weight on her
chest, an ache in her heart that she was sure no drug could fully ease. She had come to know loss
quite well through her twenty-six years. And this loss didn’t seem to hurt any less even with the
morphine.
She considered her losses for a moment.
First, there had been the untimely death of the Fowlers--her
mother, Simone, father, Eric, and brother, William, when she was only sixteen. Then, when Miranda
was twenty, she suffered the loss of her grandmother, Serena, a woman she had loved with all of her
heart. Now, as painful as all the others, was the loss of her fiancé, the man she had loved with
all of her being, all of her soul.
He was gone. Dead. Miranda knew only too well what dead meant.
Dead meant lost, lost to her forever.
Abandoning pride, she sobbed freely and loudly before the Gundys,
spilling her glass of water in the process.
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