Hostage To Fortune

Author: Linda Wilson, AKA ranapipens4ever (rana pipens=bullfrog—love frogs!)

e-mail: linda_31467@msn.com

Rated: PG-13 some strong language

Summary: Nick is taken hostage at LSoP.

Premise: Nick has made it past the ordeal with Mandy Gresler and Caldwell has
been booted out of F&A; Nick, still on probation, still works for LSoP. This
story is a possible scenario, considering the type of client likely to walk into
LSoP. More important than the events, however, are the characters’ reactions to
them.

Disclaimer: Nick and Burton Fallin, Lulu Archer, Barbara Ludzinski, Alvin
Masterson, James Mooney, Jake Straka, Brian Olsen and Burton’s Cadillac are
taken directly from “The Guardian.” Other doctors and nurses in the Trauma One
unit at Allegheny General Hospital (a real place) and the Sherwood family are my
own creation. Resemblance to any person living or dead is purely coincidental;
similarity of events, dates characters or the portrayal of events is
unintentional. In other words, I have attempted to create an imaginary garden
populated by real toads.

Once again, thanks to Janet Dillon for encouragement and better advice than
anyone can possibly hope for.



Assumes whatever obstacles need to be overcome concerning events of last season
have been overcome and things are back to normal at Fallin & Associates and
LSoP.

--+--

Hostage to Fortune, Part 1

Her name was Gale Sherwood and she was a type of client LSoP had begun to see in
increasing numbers—a domestic violence victim who didn’t think an order of
protection was going to be any help against a husband she was sure would refuse
to abide by its terms. She and her two small children, a boy six and a girl
four, had come to LSoP to ask if anything else could be done.

”Well, Mrs. Sherwood,” Nick, who with Lulu Archer had heard the lady’s lament in
the LSoP conference room, said, “I really don’t think we can do much more than
what’s already been done. Unfortunately, we’re pretty handicapped by what the
law on this matter will allow. If you’d like us to try to find you a place in a
shelter, we can call in one of our social workers.”

”I don’t know, Mr. Fallin,” Gale Sherwood said. “I don’t want my kids to have to
leave home and everything they’re familiar with, you know?” Lulu frowned.

”Someone has to leave, Mrs. Sherwood, and precisely for the sake of the
children, it looks as if it will have to be you.”

”Doesn’t seem fair,” the woman said.

Lady, you want to talk about fair? Nick thought. If I’m not out of here in the
next ten minutes I’m going to be involved in a little domestic violence incident
of my own. He would be cutting it really fine if he was to make his major effort
of the day—a conference at Fallin and Associates at which his father, Jake
Straka and the key players of one of the major investment firms in Pittsburgh
were supposed to confer about trying to avoid stepping on the toes of the
Securities and Exchange Commission and make a profit at the same time. His
abilities for finding safe paths through this kind of minefield were much in
demand and so he, too, was a key player in the matter. Of course, if he was too
late, there would be several kinds of hell to pay. 

He and his father had opened up to each other a little since the night Mandy 
Gresler had nearly died on his living room floor, but his occasional lapses from punctuality still drew at
least an exasperated sigh from time to time. In all honesty, he thought, he
couldn’t really blame his father for that—after all, that he was putting in pro
bono time at LSoP was nobody’s fault but his own. I wonder when I first came up
with that one? Well, whenever I did, it’s there. I could have worse attitudes,
he reflected.

In the meantime, Gale Sherwood and her two children required his professional
attention. 

“All right, then—“ he began, just as the glass paneled door to the
LSoP conference room burst open and a highly distraught man rushed in. He was
wearing a black tee shirt with an inscription Nick would surprise himself later
by remembering—“People like you are the reason people like me need
medication”—and jeans, but what attracted the immediate attention of everyone
in the room was the automatic pistol in his right hand.

The two Sherwood children began crying in fear. Their mother’s “You see?” was
almost a shout. Lulu started to say something, but was silent as Nick shook his
head at her.

“You’re Mr. Sherwood, I gather?” he said in a much calmer voice than he thought he possessed. 

“Damn straight,” the man replied. “Ray Sherwood, and I’m not leaving here 
without my kids.”

The situation plainly called for a skilled negotiator, which Nick considered
himself to be, as did several other people who had sat across from him at many a
conference table. 

“That’s reasonable,” Nick said. He had half risen from his chair when the elder 
Sherwood had charged into the room and had then straightened and begun to move very slowly and carefully to position himself between Sherwood’s gun and the four other people in the conference room.

“Mr. Sherwood, I think you and I could best discuss this as one man to
another—having women and children around can be distracting, don’t you agree?
Why don’t you have a seat and we can talk this thing through.” 
Sherwood hesitated, then sat down. Nick took the chair opposite. 
 
All right, Sherwood, just keep that gun pointed at me. Keep watching me. That’s 
my first objective—keep you fixated on me. 

“Ms. Archer, if I could trouble you to take Mrs. Sherwood and the children 
outside—just outside, where Mr. Sherwood can see
them—is that all right with you, Mr. Sherwood?”
 
Sherwood nodded slowly. “—and if someone could bring us some coffee, we can 
talk about this in a calmer atmosphere.”


”I want my kids—and my wife,” Sherwood almost wept. “Geez, I lose my temper
once and you’d think I was the devil. I don’t want to lose my family.”

”I think I know how you feel,” Nick said. “My folks divorced when I was ten. I
thought it was the end of the world. You don’t want to do that to your kids, Mr.
Sherwood. Let’s see what we can do to salvage your family situation.”

He had been focusing intently on Sherwood, trying to make the other man feel as 
if whatever he had to say was of paramount importance and the tactic seemed to have
worked—behind him, Nick heard the conference room door close. Hey! All right!


Lulu turned to the first person she saw, who was Barbara Ludzinski. “Barb, call
’911’—we have a hostage situation in the conference room. Mrs. Sherwood, you
and the children please sit over here where you can be seen through the door.
James”—to James Mooney, who had just come in, “can I talk to you and Alvin a
minute, please?”

She walked a few feet away from the Sherwood family, drawing Alvin Masterson and
James Mooney, both of whom had just come in expecting a normal day, with her.


”What’s going on?” the founder and head of LSoP asked. 

“Distraught husband witha gun interrupted a conference with a DV victim,” Lulu 
said. “Nick diverted him long enough so we could get out. Barb’s calling 911.”


”Nick diverted him, hm?” Alvin said.


”What did you expect?” Lulu snapped. “He’s the best negotiator we have and he
negotiated us all out of there. Barb! Did you call?”

”Yes, Lu. The SWAT team and hostage negotiators are on their way.”

”Okay. James, could you please get some coffee and take it in? Just knock and go
in, and be careful—Nick is looking in the barrel of an automatic right now.”

”Sure, Lu,” James said. His stomach knotted with worry. Despite Nick Fallin’s
sometimes prickly exterior, James liked his colleague and worked well with him.
Okay, buddy, he thought. I’ll try to do my best for you. He headed toward the
LSoP coffee machine.

”Guess I should call Burton Fallin,” Alvin said.

”That would be a decent thing to do,” Lulu told him. Sometimes, Alvin, you can
be such a horse’s ass.

In the conference room, Nick had devoted his efforts to establishing a basis for
conversation between equals with Sherwood. “This the first time you and Mrs.
Sherwood have had trouble?” he asked.

”Well, trouble—doesn’t everybody get into it now and then?” Sherwood responded.

”We had arguments, but nothing I’d call serious. Then all of a sudden she ups
and leaves.”

Nick smiled a little and shrugged. “Who can figure women?” he asked. Sherwood
visibly relaxed, even lowering the gun a little. “Not me,” he said. “I bring
home my paycheck, don’t even stop for one with the guys on Friday night—hell,
man, I wanta get home to my family.”

There was a tap at the door. “I believe that’s our coffee,” Nick said. “Yeah,”

Sherwood agreed. Nick turned in his chair and saw James carrying two stacked,
lidded paper cups. He nodded and James walked in, making sure that both Nick and
Sherwood could see his hands. Okay, be cool now, he told himself.
“Nick, Lulu said you wanted this,” he said, setting Sherwood’s cup down at his 
left hand.


Good, James, Nick thought. Sherwood’s still in control, or thinks he is, and as
long as he’s aiming at me no one else will get hurt. I don’t really think I
will, either. 

“Oh, thanks, James,” Nick said. “Mr. Sherwood, this is James Mooney—he works 
here, too.” 

Sherwood nodded in James’ direction. 

“Nick, you need me for anything?” James asked, looking intently at Nick. 

“No, we’re fine,” Nick said. James nodded and left.

Both men sipped the beverage cautiously. Now what, Nick asked himself. Do I
throw it in his face? No—I’m trying to establish his right to some dignity.
Anyway, it’s too cold to do more than annoy him. Let it alone.
 
--+--

”Where the hell is Nicholas?” Burton Fallin demanded of no one in particular.

Jake Straka, who had been waiting in the elder Fallin’s private office with his
employer, and had been wondering the same thing, let out a very small sigh of
relief. If the Old Man was pissed with his son, he wouldn’t have as much
hostility to aim at everyone else’s misdeeds and Jake personally was very much
in favor of that. 
 
He had to admit, though, that the founder and head of Fallin and Associates was 
basically a fair man. If you did something to get him annoyed with you, he was 
annoyed with you. He didn’t take it out on everyone else—most
of the time, anyway. This worked both ways, though—if Burton Fallin was mad at
you, you knew it. Maybe nobody else did, but you sure did. And he stayed mad
until he was damn well good and ready to cool off. 

I wonder what it was like growing up in the same house with that, Jake thought. 
He remembered that Nick had once mentioned that he had spent most of his adolescence in boarding school.

Maybe you were luckier than you think, pal, he reflected.

Burton made an impatient noise and reached for the telephone on his desk. As he
touched it, the intercom function on the unit buzzed. Burton picked up the
handset. “Yes, Sheila?” A sigh. “Put him through.”

”Burton?” Alvin Masterson’s voice said.

“What is it, Alvin?” Burton asked. “I was just about to call Nicholas.”

”Please don’t do that, Burton,” Alvin said. “That wouldn’t be a good idea. Nick
is kind of—kind of—ah, occupied right now.”

”I know that. It’s his own damn fault, but that doesn’t lessen his obligations
to what he’s supposed to be doing here.”

”Yes, well, he can’t leave just now,” Alvin said.

”I’d like to know why not.”

”Because he’s sitting in my conference room across from a client’s husband who’s
holding a gun on him,” Alvin let it out in a rush.

”He’s what?” Burton’s mind caught up with what had just been said. He felt
behind him for a chair and sat down. “My God, man! Is he all right?”

”Nick is talking with the guy and everything seems to be okay so far. One of my
crew just called ‘911’ and we’re waiting for the SWAT team and the hostage
rescue people. I’ll keep you posted. Look, I gotta go.” He hung up.

Burton put the handset down and stared at the telephone with unseeing eyes.

”What is it?” Jake asked, watching his employer turn as white as the shirt he
was wearing.

”It’s Nicholas,” Burton managed. “He’s—he’s being held hostage by some nut at
Legal Services.”

”Oh, my God,” Jake breathed. “What’s happened? Did they say?”

”He’s sitting in their conference room with a gun pointed at him—that’s all
Alvin Masterson told me. Then he hung up. Jake, I’ve got to know what’s going
on.”

Jake thought fast. The boss didn’t like this, but_ “Come on,” he said. “My
office.” As they passed her desk, he turned to Sheila, Burton’s secretary.

”Sheila, we’re going to be in my office. Put any calls through from Legal
Services but no one else unless we tell you. Thanks.” 

He led his employer out and to his own office where a relic of former state 
Senator Nathan Caldwell’s brief and unwelcome tenure at the helm of the firm 
sat on a credenza—a police scanner. Caldwell and his henchman, Mitchell Lichtman, 
had brought the device in, much to Burton’s disgust. This was the most respected 
corporate law firm in Pittsburgh, not a collection of ambulance-chasing shysters, 
and police calls had no business infesting the atmosphere and lowering the tone.

”I never thought I’d see the day when I’d actually appreciate this thing,”
Burton said as Jake turned on the power and found the right frequency. 

“Me either,” Jake said, deciding not to mention all the times interns, 
secretaries and several very junior associates engaged in some electronic voyeurism.


The scanner crackled and a distant voice said “Hostage reported held at
gunpoint. Hostage appears unharmed. SWAT, HRT en route.”

Burton stood up. “I’m going over there,” he said.

Jake stood as well. “No, don’t do that. You’ll just be in the way. That’s what
the cops have always told us—stay out of a thing like this and let them handle
it. They know what they’re doing. All we can do now is listen and wait.” Both
men sat down again and stared at the scanner, which had fallen silent for the
moment.

--+-- 

Nick was never sure just how much time he spent in getting to know Ray Sherwood.
However long it was, he learned that Sherwood was 29 years old, worked in a
North Pittsburgh auto body shop and had never been in trouble with the law.
Sherwood admitted to occasionally losing his temper and “doing a little
yelling,” but nothing more—until last week when a drop-off in business at the
body shop had sent him home with the knowledge that his job might be in
jeopardy. Gale, his wife, had informed him that the older child, the boy, was
probably going to need glasses and the Sherwood family exchequer just couldn’t
be stretched that far. The discussion had become increasingly acrimonious and
finally Sherwood had let fly with a glass across the kitchen and Mrs. Sherwood
had immediately departed, taking the children with her. He had borrowed the gun
from a friend whom he declined to name, and Nick let it pass as irrelevant.
Where Sherwood had gotten the gun didn’t matter—getting it away from him
peacefully did and it looked very much like that goal was in sight.

The tensions in the LSoP conference room seemed to have eased. Sherwood had
calmed down—though he still held the gun it rested on the tabletop, rather than
pointing at Nick. At the very edge of his conscious attention Nick thought he
heard a helicopter, but dismissed it from his mind almost as soon as he heard
it. Helicopters flew over downtown Pittsburgh all the time. 

“I know where you’re coming from,” Nick told him. “I hate it when I think 
someone’s trying to put one over on me and I’ll bet you do, too.”

”Got that right,” Sherwood said. “Seems like everybody’s trying to do it these
days, too.”

”That’s for sure,” Nick said.

”Hey, man, I really appreciate what you’ve told me. I never thought of it that
way before,” Sherwood said.

”Just part of our friendly, full service,” Nick replied. “We always—“ A flicker
of movement at the conference room window caught his eye and he half rose. “What
the—“

The conference room window shattered as a black-clad figure swung through it. At
the same time, more police burst through the conference room door. Turning his
head, Nick saw that a police officer had entered the conference room. Turning
back, he saw that Sherwood had raised the gun again and had changed his point of
aim to over Nick’s left shoulder—straight at the cop. 

“You don’t want to do that, Ray,” he said, reaching out with his left hand to 
push Sherwood’s gun hand down. The gun was aimed at Nick’s right side when Sherwood involuntarily
tightened his finger on the trigger of the automatic and fired.

Nick was aware suddenly of two things: he was half sitting, half lying against
the wall where the bullet’s impact had flung him and there was a sharp and
lasting pain in his right side. The room was suddenly full of more police than
he had ever seen before, rappelling through the shattered window and what looked
like a full squad running in at the door. 
 
Gee, he thought, there weren’t this many when they raided my apartment and I 
thought every cop in Pittsburgh was there. He suddenly realized there were two very important things he must tell
the police and the paramedics, two of whom were bending over him. 
 
“He didn’t mean it,” he gasped, hoping he was speaking loudly enough to be heard 
over the considerable amount of chaotic noise that ensues whenever a SWAT team charges in
and a room full of paramedics and Emergency Medical Services technicians start
exchanging information in an emergency situation. “Don’t hurt him!”

He felt very cold and realized he was going into shock. No. Not yet. Gotta tell
them—He reached out and grasped the wrist of a paramedic. 
 
“Listen,” he gasped,”I—I’m in recovery—“ The paramedic, a woman, he saw, was 
listening attentively. 
 
“OK, what from?” she asked.
 
“C—coke” Nick got out, knowing that he must relate this information; it was 
important.
 
“You clean?” the paramedic asked. 

“Yeah—eight—eight months.” The woman smiled at him reassuringly.

”That’s good. We need to know that. They’ll give you stuff that won’t get you 
addicted again. What else can you tell me?” She tried to keep him talking and
awake, as she watched his breathing become increasingly labored. Other members
of her emergency response team were busy trying to stop the bleeding that had
gone on for too long now, even though not more than 30 seconds had elapsed since
they had begun to work on this patient. This one was in real trouble.

“Tell my  father—“ Nicholas Fallin’s head dropped to one side. Shock and loss of 
blood were taking their toll.



Burton and Jake had been listening as disjointed fragments of conversation came
over the scanner speaker. “Seems to be calming down,” Jake said and Burton
nodded. Then had suddenly come “SWAT team going in!” and the sound of shattering
glass. There were shouts and one more quick explosive sound that brought the two
to their feet.

”Hostage is down! Hostage wounded.” a man’s voice said. “Shooter in custody.”

”Get those paramedics in here now!” someone else shouted. There was more
noise—children crying and someone saying, “All right kids, come on over here.”

Another voice, this one sounding more authoritative, said “We’ll never land a
medivac chopper on this dump. Escort the bus—Trauma One. Move it—we haven’t
got all day!”

”Bus?” Burton wondered, amazed that he could ask so completely irrelevant a
question at a time like this. 
 
“That’s what they call an ambulance,” Jake said. ”Where are your car keys?” 
 
Wordlessly Burton handed him the Cadillac’s keys.

Jake picked up the phone. “Sheila,” he said, “cancel the conference—we’ve got
an emergency. That’s all they need to know. I’ll call you when we know
something.”
 
He and Burton headed for the elevator and the parking garage.
Jake made the brakes squeal as he pulled the Cadillac out and up the drive and
onto the street. In the distance ambulance sirens were screaming and Jake tried
to follow the sound as he sped out of the garage and narrowly missed a
Pittsburgh Post Gazette delivery truck, ignoring its driver’s furious blast of
its horn. 
 
Please let a cop stop me so I can get a police escort, he thought.
He got his wish when he ran a light and an officer came toward the car. 

“Okay, where’s the fire?” the cop asked, briefly astonishing Jake who thought 
that line had been retired long ago. 
 
“There isn’t any fire, officer, but this is an emergency.” Jake told the cop, 
showing his driver’s license and bar association ID. “I’m sure you heard that ambulance siren?” 
 
The cop nodded, still looking skeptical. 
 
“And that there was a hostage situation at a downtown law firm?”Again the nod. 
 
“And you heard there was a casualty?”


”Yeah.”

”Officer, that casualty is a friend of mine. Did they mention the victim’s name?”

”They did—Fallin, something Fallin?”

Jake turned to his passenger, in whom he recognized the signs of mounting
impatience.
 
“Well, this is his father. Burton, let the officer see your driver’s
license.” Burton handed it over.

Fortunately, the cop was not of the pencil-licking, deliberative variety. The
name Nicholas Fallin had been broadcast on police radios all over Pittsburgh and
the father’s license and picture matched. That was all the incentive the cop
needed.
 
“Mr. Straka, you take station on my port tail light and we’ll get you
there,” he said.
 
Jake handed Burton his license and stowed his own. The officer
got into his cruiser and was laying rubber on the street as Jake followed.
Burton was silent as Jake drove his car like a Formula I racer.
 
I was annoyed because he was late, he thought. “I was annoyed because he was 
late,” he voiced his thoughts, “and he—he was—“

”How were you to know? You couldn’t know,” Jake said. “Look, Burton, right now
we don’t know much more than we did to begin with. This could be very minor. You
may very well get to chew him out before the day is over.” I hope.

”What’s that Trauma One, where we’re going?” Burton asked. 
 
“Allegheny General,” Jake replied. “That’s where we’re headed.” And that means 
this is serious. 
 
They don’t take you to the leading trauma center in the western half of the 
state of Pennsylvania if all you got was a bullet graze. Oh, boy.

Jake dropped Burton off at the Emergency Department entrance of Allegheny
General and went to park the car. Burton was directed to a waiting room where he
found Alvin and Lulu had just arrived.
 
As Jake came in, two police officers followed.
 
“Can you give us a statement, Ms. Archer?” one asked. 
 
Lulu took a deep breath and looked at Burton. 
 
“Yes,” Nick’s father said. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to hear it, too.”

”We—Nick—Mr. Fallin—and I—were talking about divorce proceedings with this
Gale Sherwood, a client,” Lulu said. “Her children were present. A white male,
late 20s, ran in.”

”The male we’ve ID’d as Raymond Sherwood?” one officer asked. Lulu nodded. 
 
“Yes. He was waving a gun and screaming something about not wanting to lose his
children.” She paused. “Nick—Mr. Fallin—stood up and started to talk to him,
started trying to calm him down. He—he was trying to keep himself between us
and the gun. Nick got Sherwood to sit down at the table and then convinced him
to let me, Mrs. Sherwood and the children leave. Nick asked me to have some
coffee brought in” Her voice trailed off.

”Go on,” someone said.

”Then we left. I asked James—James Mooney, another attorney—“

”We know who he is,” an officer said. “Go on, miss.

”I asked James to take in some coffee—and I told Barbara—Ms. Ludzinski—to
call 911. Alvin—Alvin Masterson called Mr. Fallin—Nick’s father.

”Then we just watched—and waited. Everything seemed to be going all right—they
talked some more. Someone phoned and told us the police were on their way.
Then—then the first officer appeared at the window. I guess it startled Nick
and Sherwood both. I saw the SWAT team—is that who it would have been?”

”Yes,” the other officer said.

”I saw the SWAT team member come through the window. I think Nick was half out
of his chair then, but I’m not sure. I saw the other police officers enter the
conference room. I think—I think I saw Sherwood aim over Nick’s shoulder at an
officer. I saw—I saw Nick push the gun so Sherwood wasn’t aiming at the—the
cop. I heard him tell Sherwood ‘No, you don’t want to do that’—something like
that. I think—I think—that was when I heard the—the shot. I think that was
when I saw Nick had been—had been—hit.” 
 
Burton closed his eyes. The pain on his face was something from which everyone 
else in the room had to avert their
gaze.

”What was Sherwood doing then?” an officer asked.

”Nothing” Lulu said. “He was looking at the gun as if he couldn’t believe it.
Then the rest of the SWAT team came in through the window. I didn’t realize more
police had come into the office by the elevator until they all went into the
conference room. I looked again and I saw paramedics were working on Nick. He
was saying something to one of them but I couldn’t hear him. I did hear him say
’He didn’t mean it, don’t hurt him’—I think he was talking about Sherwood.” 
 
She paused, closed her eyes briefly and then opened them again. “I can’t get 
that sight out of my mind,” she said slowly. “I close my eyes and all I see is
Nick—putting himself between two women, two kids and that gun.” 
 
And I can’t forget that other picture, she thought. Nick on the conference room 
floor, blood everywhere—his shirt, his suit, even his shoes. No, I won’t say that. Not in
front of his father, anyway. Please, officer, don’t make me say it.

”All right, Ms. Archer,” the first of the two officers said. “That’s fine for
now. We’ll be talking to you later.” The two officers left.

”Sounds like the cops changed procedures,” Alvin said. 
 
“Yes,” Jake agreed. “I always thought they waited and talked before they moved 
in a hostage situation.”

Burton had opened his eyes. “I’ll want to talk to the police,” he said. Jake and
Alvin exchanged glances. Jake was Burton’s employee and Alvin had known Nick’s
father for more than 20 years. Both of them recognized the quiet fury in
Burton’s tone and both had the same thought at the same time: I don’t envy the
cops.

A nurse in scrubs walked into the room. “Mr. Burton Fallin?”

”Yes?”

”We have some of your son’s personal effects—pager, cell phone, wallet, keys,
address book, watch__” she handed Burton a sealed plastic bag. “I can take you
up to the Trauma/Surgical Unit waiting room—it’s a little quieter and more
private.”

”Yes, please.” On his way out, Burton turned. “Alvin, can I talk to you about
this?”

”Sure, Burton,” Alvin said and rose.

Jake had also risen “Do you want me along?” he asked. 
 
“Thanks, Jake, no,” Burton said. “If you would, I’d appreciate if you could get 
back to the office and let everyone know what’s happened. Tell Sheila I don’t expect to get back today,”

”Sure, Burton. Your car’s in the hospital garage,. Here’s the ticket stub. Call
when you can. “

”And thanks for getting me here. You were great with that cop.”

Burton and Alvin followed the nurse out of the room. 
 
“Cop?” Alvin asked. 
 
“Jake ran a red light and managed to get us a police escort here,” Burton 
replied. “I wasn’t sure he had that kind of ingenuity. You learn—you learn something every
day, don’t you?”

Once in the elevator, the ride to the trauma surgery floor was a silent one.
Burton finally turned to the nurse. 
 
“Can you tell me something about my son?” he asked. “All I know is that he was 
shot.” The elevator stopped and the three got out and walked to another waiting room as characterless as the emergency
department facility had been. 

”I really should let the doctor tell you,” the nurse said. “I can tell you that
he was in shock and had lost a lot of blood but we got him stabilized and took
him upstairs. Mr. Fallin, I know this is hard for you, but this is the best
place he could possibly be and the people working on him now are the best
surgeons they could possibly be. He could not be in better hands.”

Burton sank down on a sofa. Alvin followed the nurse out of the room. 
 
“Look, Miss, can’t you tell us a little more? We won’t rat you out to the
doctors—honest. Whatever you tell us, they’ll never know we heard it from you.”

The nurse turned and Alvin realized suddenly that she looked very tired—and not
terribly optimistic. “Are you a friend or a family member?”

”Yes, I’m a friend. Masterson’s my name. Look, it really would help to know
something about what’s going on.”

”What’s going on, Mr. Masterson, is that the best surgical team in western
Pennsylvania is working very hard right now to save this patient, but it’s touch
and go. He stopped that bullet in a very bad place. Let us tell his father about
the results. That way, if we have to give him bad news he can hate us, not you.”
She turned and headed back toward the elevators.

Burton looked up as Alvin entered the room. “She tell you anything?” 
 
Alvin shook his head. “Nurses. They can sure do one hell of a good imitation of 
a clam when
they want to. Wait a minute—maybe we do have another information source.” 
 
He picked up his cell phone and dialed.
 
“Lulu? Alvin. We’re in the Trauma/Surgical Unit waiting room on three north. 
Is Brian on duty? Yeah. Could you get him to tell us anything? Nobody seems willing 
to talk and Burton’s getting pretty edgy. So am I, for that matter. Thanks.” 

He turned to Burton. “Lu’s married to a resident here. Maybe he can tell us something.”

”It’s worth a try,” Burton said. Alvin began making other calls to LSoP. How
long before anyone tells me anything? Burton wondered. No news is good news,
bullshit. The less I hear, the more afraid I am. And I am very afraid at this
moment.

Lulu came into the room. “ Mr. Fallin, this is Brian Olsen, my husband,. Brian,
this is Nick’s father, Burton Fallin.” Burton rose and put out his hand. 
 
“Good to meet you, Dr. Olsen,” he said. They shook.

”Why don’t we sit down?” Brian Olsen said. They did. “I’m a very junior member
of the ER team and mostly I just try to keep out of the way. Mr. Fallin, I’ll
try to tell you what I can, but you may not like some of it.”

Burton took a deep breath. “Dr. Olsen_.” 
 
“Brian,” Brian interjected. 
 
“Brian, I gather that this isn’t exactly a terrific situation. I’d appreciate 
whatever you can tell me, though. Other people may feel differently, but I do better when I
have as much information as I can get.” I think.

That doesn’t mean I’m going to hit you with the naked truth, though, Brian
thought. You can’t handle that, Fallin. Nobody can. That’s why they teach us to
be selective about what we tell and who we tell it to.
 
“Well, Mr. Fallin,” Brian began, “what do you know about trauma medicine?”

”Not much,” Burton said. “We’ve done a couple of hospital contracts with medical
groups that specialize in trauma medicine, but we were negotiating things like
working hours, nothing about medical details.”

”Okay,” Brian said, aware that keeping the discussion academic might prove
useful. “In trauma medicine, the first 60 minutes after an incident—a motor
vehicle accident, a shooting, whatever—that 60 minutes is the Golden Hour. What
you do and how fast you do it during the Golden Hour can make the difference.
About 25 minutes of that hour were spent just getting Nick stabilized in the
field and then getting him here.” He paused. “You with me so far?” 
 
Burton  nodded. 
 
“Mr. Fallin, I’m not going to lie to you—Nick was in serious condition
when he arrived. He had lost a lot of his blood volume and went into cardiac
arrest shortly after the ER team began working on him.” Burton flinched. “That’s
a routine problem for a trauma team, and it’s no longer a concern. There was
extensive damage to several internal organs, especially to the liver and spleen,
and that’s what the surgical team is working on now. They’re very capable and
really well trained and Nick couldn’t be in better hands. I won’t tell you
there’s nothing to worry about, but from the standpoint of the care Nick is
getting, things look pretty good.”

”Does Nicholas need blood?” Burton asked..

”No,” Brian answered. “That problem is under control.” So far. “I would ask you
to keep what I’ve just said to yourself—technically I’m not the person who
should be talking to you about this, and when Nick is out of surgery, his
surgeon will discuss it with you in much greater detail. I did think, though,
that filling you in now might help to put you a little more at ease.”

”Thank you,” Burton said. “It did.”

Brian looked at his watch. “I have to get back downstairs.”

”I’ll go with you,” Lulu said. “Alvin, do you want me to go back to the office?”

”Yes, Lu, please,” Alvin said. “Burton, I’m going to get some coffee for both of
us. Will you be okay?”

”Yeah, sure,” Burton said. “Brian, thanks again. It really helps to be put in
the picture.”

”Glad to do it,” Brian said. “Alvin, there’s better coffee in the doctors’
lounge than the coffee shop. Come on with me and I’ll sneak you in.”
Brian shepherded Lulu and Alvin onto the elevator, He was silent while the
elevator descended to the first floor and the three got off. Lulu and Alvin
followed Brian through a door reading “doctors only” and crossed to a coffee pot
with some paper cups stacked next to it. Alvin poured two cups and topped them
with plastic lids. “Okay, I’m going back upstairs,” he said. “See you later, Lu.
Thanks, Brian.”

”No problem,” Brian said. He waited until the door had closed and then turned to
his wife with a grim expression on his face. “Well,” he said, “I didn’t exactly
lie my ass off to that man upstairs, but I sure didn’t tell him the whole truth,
either.”

”What do you mean?” Lulu asked. She and Brian sat down at a table near the
coffee pot.

”Exactly what I said. I told him the truth, but not all of it. The truth is,
this is a shit sandwich here, Lulu.”

”When he called, Alvin said something to me about the nurse who took him and
Burton up to the Trauma Unit saying it was touch and go,” Lulu said.

”She’s right,” Brian said. “It took three tries before they got his heart
started again—that means he was clinically dead for about a minute.” Lulu
gasped. “Taking out his spleen, which they should be just about finished with by
now, will cut down on the blood loss, but the liver is a vascular organ too—it
bleeds really easily—and it’s a bitch to work on—like trying to sew Jell-O. If
they don’t get that bleeding stopped and the damage repaired, they’ll lose him.
Once they do the repairs—if they can—if the liver function doesn’t come back,
there again, he’s gone. And all you can do about that is wait and see—for at
least eight hours. These are the best surgeons around, but some things are
beyond their control. At this point, whether or not your pal leaves that
operating room alive and makes it through the night is anybody’s guess.”

”Why didn’t you tell Burton Fallin that?”

”And destroy any hope he’s got? There are two sides to this picture, Lu. Nick
could make it—I’ve seen patients in worse shape pull through. At this point we
just don’t know. Nobody knows. If it comes down to a choice, I’ll try to give a
patient’s family something to grab at. You never know what’ll give you an edge.
Besides—how old is Burton Fallin?”

”I don’t know—late sixties, seventy, maybe.”

”Okay. He’s probably not exactly an insurance salesman’s dream, either. For sure
I don’t want Nick to come out of this and find his old man had a fatal
myocardial infarction because of something I told him—that wouldn’t help
anything either.”

Lulu sighed. “And from what I’ve been hearing, it’s all because some cop wanted
to make a grandstand play. God, Brian, this is a mess. What do I do now?”

”Aren’t you supposed to go back to your office?”

”Yes.”

”Well, then, go ahead. There’s nothing else you can do here.”

”I suppose not. Brian—thanks for being honest with me.”

”It’s all part of the ‘love, honor, cherish’ thing.”

Lulu kissed him and left. Brian sat for a few minutes. Did I do anybody any
favors here? I don’t know. Hell, what do I say—Mr. Fallin, your son is a good
candidate for leaving this hospital feet first? I’ve never considered myself a
perfect human being, but even I can’t do that. And if he recovers, what then?
Who knows? His pager beeped and Brian rose to answer it. Whatever happened to
Nicholas Fallin, there were other patients out there. It was time to get back to
work.

In the Trauma Unit waiting room, Burton thumbed idly through a brochure telling
about the first Shock Trauma Center in Baltimore, Maryland, on which the
Allegheny General facility was modeled. Eventually he tossed it aside and stared
at the wall. 
 
This is all my fault, he thought. If I’d been a better father 20
years ago he wouldn’t have needed to mess around with drugs. He wouldn’t have
needed to put in 1,500 hours of community service for Alvin Masterson and his
stable of sicko clients with idiotic cowboy cops charging in and screwing
everything up. I wouldn’t have had to suck up to the biggest sleaze ball in
town, throw away something I worked my whole life for, that I thought I’d be
able to hand over to my son—my son, who got it back for me.

My son. Oh, God, my son. My Nicholas. My little boy. What did that Archer woman
say? He kept putting himself between the women and the kids and the gun. Oh,
dear sweet Jesus. Nicky, Nicky, you don’t ever need to be a hero for me. I love
you just because you’re you. My son. My baby. Please, God, please. I can’t lose
him now. Please.

Alvin came in carrying two paper cups of coffee. “Brian was willing to vouch for
what this will taste like, and I think we can use it,” he said. 

“Thanks,” Burton said, sipping carefully and then putting the cup down. How many 
hours passed he
never knew.

”Mr. Fallin?” A tall woman wearing a white lab coat over surgical scrubs had
come into the room. 

Burton stood up. “Yes?”

”I’m Dr. Maya Agnello, head trauma surgeon. My colleague, Dwayne Burke, and I
just finished working on your son.” She sat down and so did Burton. “It was very
close, I have to tell you that. The good news is, the bullet missed his
aorta—that’s the large artery that supplies blood to the lower half of the
body—but it lacerated his spleen. We removed the spleen, which helped control
the bleeding. He’ll be able to get along without it, so don’t worry about that.
Some of the large bowel was also damaged, but we repaired it successfully. He
should also recover from that injury quite satisfactorily. However—“.

However, Burton thought. I hate that word. They should give it a number and make
people pay a licensing fee to use it. It’s more dangerous than artillery. “Yes?”
he said.

”However, the bullet lacerated the liver and the artery that feeds blood to the
organ. Repairing them both is what took us so long. I think the liver function
will return to normal, but at this point it’s impossible to tell. The liver is a
very important organ—it helps maintain the body’s biochemical balance, helps in
blood formation, removes toxins from the bloodstream. You can’t live without
one. Right now, your son is in very critical condition.”

”Are you saying he—“ Burton couldn’t finish the sentence.

”Mr. Fallin, your son lost a tremendous amount of blood. His heart stopped soon
after he got here, probably from the loss of blood volume. We started it again,
replaced the fluids and did the repairs—it took us about five hours—and I
think the sutures will hold and the function will be maintained, but at this
point it’s impossible to be sure. Yes, he might not make it, but I think his
chances are very good. We’re monitoring his blood chemistries very closely;
that’s what will give us the best indication of how things are going, but I
can’t be more certain than that. We won’t know for the next eight or nine
hours.”

”Eight or nine hours?!”

”Yes. Mr. Fallin, if your son’s heart had stopped in the ambulance on the way
here, I would be telling you that he had died right now. If the ambulance had
been five minutes later, he would not have survived—that’s how close it was.
But we deal with this sort of problem all the time and we have a very high
survival rate. I feel very strongly that your son will pull through, but at this
point I cannot be absolutely certain and that’s why I don’t want to say more
than I have.”

”Can I see him?”

”No. I’m sorry, but right now he’s in the critical care recovery unit, and we
keep that as sterile as an operating room—the biggest threat to our patients in
the immediate postoperative period is infection. If he continues to improve as I
think he will, we can let you put on scrubs and a mask and see him briefly.
He’ll be heavily sedated and probably won’t be awake, but you can still talk to
him and I think he’ll hear you, or at least know you’re there.”

”Sedated,” Burton said. “Did—do you know that Nicholas—my son—is in recovery
for drug use?”

”Yes.” Dr. Agnello smiled. “He fought off going into shock long enough to tell
the paramedics. That’s one reason why I feel as positively as I do about his
recovery. There aren’t too many people that strong-willed. You can be proud of
him, Mr. Fallin, and not just because he kept two women and two children out of
the way of small-arms fire. He’s a very special person.”

”But we still won’t know for eight or nine hours for sure if he—“

”No, we won’t but there’s every reason to be hopeful,” Dr. Agnello said. She
smiled and patted his hand. “ I think you should go home, but you probably don’t
want to do that, so try to get some rest, Mr. Fallin—believe me, when I can,
I’m going to.” She left the room.

Alvin sat down next to Burton. “Well, that’s good news, isn’t it?”

”Not entirely,” Burton sighed. “It’s still iffy for the next eight or nine
hours, she said. I see Brian Olsen did a little sugar-coating. I suppose I can’t
really blame him for that—there’s probably some rule for doctors that says ‘try
to give the patient’s family the best news possible.’ Part of the training.”

”I suppose. We tailor a lot of things we tell our clients to what we think they
want to hear, don’t we?”

”Guess so. You know, Alvin, I’d really like to talk to one of the cops on that
SWAT team—it sounds like something went very wrong there.”

”I think so, too. I wonder—maybe they’ll be conducting a follow-up at my place,
if not tomorrow, then in a couple of days. Want me to let you know if they do?”

”I’d really appreciate that, Alvin. Listen, if you need to get back there now,
I’ll be okay.”

”You sure?”

”Yeah.”

”All right. Call if you need anything.” Alvin left.

After Alvin departed Burton tried another sip of his coffee, but it was cold and
skinning over. I don’t need it anyway, he thought. 
 
Nicholas, Nicholas, what’s going on here? Walk in front of a nut with a gun, 
don’t let yourself pass out until you tell a complete stranger something I never thought you’d say where
anyone else could hear it in a million years? What did she say, “a very special
person”? That’s for damn sure. Oh, Nicholas, please, please live through this.
Please. I love you so much. I need you so much. I can’t lose you—I’m not strong
enough for that. Anything else, but I can’t handle that. God, please, give me
back my son. The tears he had not had time to shed earlier started then and he
let them come.

An interminable time later Burton became aware that someone was standing in
front of him. “Mr. Fallin? I’m Maureen Dykstra, one of the nurses taking care of
your son.”

Burton lifted his head to see another woman, yet again in scrubs, with a
surgical mask pulled down around her neck. “Yes?” he whispered.

”Dr. Agnello said to let you know that the latest blood chemistries are back and
the numbers are very, very good. We have every reason to expect that your
son—Nicholas?--that Nicholas will make a complete recovery.”

Burton sighed in relief, but did not quite trust himself to speak, which did not
surprise the nurse, who had been with the trauma unit for the previous two
years, in the least. She went on: “We didn’t expect him to wake up at this
stage, but he did, and since he’s responding so well we thought we could bend
the rules and let you see him. If you’d like to come with me we’ll get you into
a set of scrubs and a mask.”

”Ms. Dykstra,” Burton found his voice, “you don’t have to ask twice.” They
started down the hall to the staff elevators.
 



Somewhere on the edges of Nicholas Fallin’s awareness there were voices. They
came in clearer and stronger, like an amplified radio signal, and he somehow
realized he was becoming conscious.

”Nicholas!” Nick! Can you hear me?” A woman’s voice, very close. He opened his
eyes. His blurred vision cleared and he saw a woman’s figure in what looked like
a pair of light green pajamas with a sort of shower cap on the top of her head.
It surprised him that he could hear her clearly through the surgical mask that
covered her nose and mouth.

”You’re in the hospital—the Trauma Unit at Allegheny General. We’re taking care
of you. You can’t talk because there’s a tube down your throat—we have you on a
respirator. Can you hear me? Close your eyes once if you hear me.” Nick
complied. “Do you remember what happened? Yes—you were shot. You’re going to be
okay, but we’ll let the respirator breathe for you for a little while longer.”

Oh, wow, Nick thought. So that’s what happened.

Another similarly clad woman approached. “Nicholas? Mr. Fallin? I’m Maya
Agnello, the surgeon who operated on you. You’re going to be fine. You can’t
breathe on your own because we’re using small doses of a drug that paralyzes
muscles to keep you from moving suddenly and injuring yourself or damaging all
the sutures I put in you.” 
 
She smiled under the mask, a smile that even Nick could see. “We expect you’ll 
be off the respirator soon. I know you’re worried
about drug dependence; don’t be. We’re using analgesics that won’t get you
addicted—you’ll stay clean. I’ve never gotten a patient hooked on anything yet
and I’m not going to start with you. You’re doing so well, in fact, that we’re
going to let your father in to see you for a few minutes.”

She paused to judge her patient’s reaction. So far she had talked only to the
father and had no idea whether or not his feelings were reciprocated on the part
of his son. It was obviously all right, though—even if the monitors and
readouts hadn’t shown a sudden release of endorphins, the chemicals that make
the human body experience overall pleasurable feelings, the sudden light in her
patient’s eyes would have assured Maya Agnello that getting the father in here
was very much in both his and his son’s best interests.

Burton leaned over his son. “Nicholas? Son? I’m here. Daddy’s here. It’s all
right. Everything’s gonna be all right.” Nurse Dykstra had warned him about the
respirator tube, but it still distressed him a little to see it, to know that
this machine was pumping air into his son’s lungs because Nick couldn’t breathe
on his own right now, though he wasn’t in pain, according to what she had said.


Even worse was the no-touch rule. The nurse had explained that the guardians of
this very special unit could not risk the slightest chance of transmitting some
unfriendly and opportunistic microorganisms to these very special patients. All
the same, he had never before wanted to gather his son in his arms as much as he
did at that moment. He fought back tears yet again. “They won’t let me stay much
longer, but I’ll be back.” 
 
Oh, God, he looks so young, so vulnerable. My baby. My little Nicky. The 
resemblance to the little boy of years ago was too much to resist, and Burton 
leaned even closer to his son’s left ear. “Hush, little baby, don’t say a word, 
Daddy’s gonna buy you a mockingbird. If that mockingbird don’t sing, Daddy’s gonna buy you a diamond ring...”

Over the mask his father’s eyes, as blue as his own, met Nick’s and Nick found
himself relaxing completely into the sound of his father’s voice. Somewhere,
somehow, he was in a world of flannel pajamas with the feet attached and warm
milk at bedtime and the faint but suddenly familiar smell of witch hazel and
light cigarette smoke and knowing that nothing and no one could ever hurt you as
long as Daddy was there.

”He’s asleep,” Dykstra whispered. “We have to leave now.” Burton let her lead
him out through the unit’s automatic doors which sealed with a whoosh of air as
they came back into the changing room. “He’ll be fine now,” the nurse said. “You
can go home, now, Mr. Fallin. We’ll call you tomorrow morning.”

The End of Part I


--+--


Hostage To Fortune, Part 2


On orders from John Daniels, Pittsburgh chief of police, the two officers had
been waiting in the James Street parking garage of Allegheny General Hospital
for this particular person for hours. Finally, the elevator doors opened and
Burton Fallin emerged and headed toward the Cadillac that Jake Straka had parked
earlier.

”Mr. Fallin,” one said.

”Yes, officer--Officer Thompson?” Burton noticed the officer’s name from his
badge and, as was his habit, tried to use it--it never hurt for a lawyer to
develop good rapport with cops. “How can I help you?” Now what?

”We have orders, sir. I’m to drive you home.”

Burton looked hard at the officer. “What’s going on here?” Oh, no. Not more to
do with Nicholas. No. Not now.

”Sir, I have orders to drive you home. Officer Hernandez will follow us to your
residence so I can get back. “ By this time Burton and Officer Thompson had
reached the Cadillac and Burton saw that a squad car was parked next to it. As
they approached, he heard its engine start.

”Orders from whom?” Burton asked. “Chief Daniels, sir,” Thompson replied. “May I
have your keys, please?” Burton handed them over--for the second time that day,
he remembered. Thompson held the passenger door open and Burton, feeling once
again that events were entirely beyond his control, got in. Thompson closed the
door and as Burton fastened his seat belt, came around the front of the car and
got in the driver’s seat.

As Thompson started the car and headed out of the garage, the squad car
following, Burton shifted in his seat. “Officer Thompson, this is very kind of
you and John Daniels both and I really appreciate it, but could you tell me why
I have the honor of a police escort home? I really don’t think this happens
for the families of every--every shooting victim.” This guy must have had
special training in being noncommittal. What do I have to do to get to the
bottom of this, anyway?

”No, sir, it doesn’t,” Thompson said. “You were present when Ms. Archer gave
her statement, weren’t you?”

”Yes, but there’s been so much“going on“that I don’t really remember
everything she said.”

”Sir, we have been conducting an investigation into the incident, and we find
that Ms. Archer reported the sequence of events entirely accurately. The
perpetrator’s bullet would have struck a police officer if Mr. Nicholas Fallin
had not intervened.”

”Yes,” Burton said. “I remember now.”

”Sir, that officer has a wife and four children.” Officer Thompson took a deep
breath and seemed to unbend a little.”Mr. Fallin, that officer is also my
brother-in-law. My sister still has a husband and her kids still have a father
because of what your son did today. I asked for this duty, but I had
competition. Everybody wanted it. The whole Pittsburgh police force owes
Nicholas Fallin big time. We won’t forget this.”

Burton sighed and stared out the car window, then shook his head. There just
didn’t seem to be anything to say. A special person. And how. Now he saves a
cop’s life, too. Nicholas. Nicholas. If I want to keep my composure I’d
better find something else to talk about, and fast. Something the Archer girl
had said came back to him. “What about the...ah...perpetrator?”

”He’s under psychiatric observation. We’ll need a statement from your son
about what he and the perpetrator said and did before we can get this all
figured out, but I gather it’ll have to wait.”

”What do we know about this-Sherwood—that’s the name, anyway?”

”Just that his wife got an order of protection a day or two ago and was going to
file“she felt threatened, she says. Sherwood felt threatened, too,
apparently that’s why he was carrying. Keeps saying he didn’t want to lose
his wife and kids.”

I know how that feels, Burton thought. Even years later even with all that had
happened in the previous twelve hours—he could still feel the hurt of his
wife’s infidelities, the realization that he had to leave the marriage to keep
what remained of his self-respect. Losing custody of Nicholas, then the breach
between them created by Anne’s death there was another pain that had never
gone away. And I almost lost him again today, he reflected. I can’t think
about that too much or I can say goodbye to what’s left of my sanity. Better
keep on with this.

”Well, Officer Thompson, I’m sure my son didn’t think he was doing anything
unusual, but he’ll appreciate your kind thoughts. When I see him next I’ll
tell him.”

”I would be grateful for that, sir. Can we do anything else right now?”

”I think his car is still over at the Legal Services building—a silver BMW,”
Burton said.

”We’ll have somebody see to it. Bring it over to your house?”

”I appreciate it,” Burton said. “The hospital gave me some of his things.
Here’re his car keys.”

Thompson took one hand off the wheel and took the keys. “Give us a day or two,”
he said as he pocketed them. “But don’t worry there isn’t a cop in
Pittsburgh who’ll ticket that car.”

”That’s good to know,” Burton said.

The next minutes of the drive to Burton’s home passed in silence. At last, the
police car and the Cadillac turned into Burton’s driveway. Officer Thompson
used the electronic garage door opener and pulled into the garage. 
 
“Officer Thompson, thank you,” Burton said. “I really wasn’t in the best frame 
of mind to drive tonight.”

”Chief Daniels said the Pittsburgh Police Department can only deal with one
Fallin in the hospital at a time,” Thompson said, allowing what had been a poker
face to relax briefly into a grin. He turned sober again. “Mr. Fallin try not
to worry about your son. He’ll be fine. Honest. I’ve known cops go in there
in worse shape and walk out whistling. That trauma unit really is the best place
he could be.”

”You ought to know,” Burton said. “Thanks again, Officer Thompson. Good night.”
He went into the house as Thompson got into the front seat of the cruiser and
the vehicle drove away.

After a day like this, Burton thought, I could use a drink. He poured himself a
scotch from his living room liquor cabinet, took one sip and walked into the
kitchen and spat the whisky into the sink. No, he didn’t need a drink. He
dumped the rest. His first cigarette since 10 a.m., and it was now past
midnight, tasted foul as well and he stubbed it out after two hasty drags. Well,
maybe hanging around that hospital won’t be such a bad thing. If I can cut
down on a few vices I might just be able to set a good example for once.

That nice nurse, Maureen Dykstra, had given him the CCRU nurses’ station number
and before turning in he called to check on Nick. He learned that his son was
still sleeping and that all the numbers continued to look good. 
 
“Wherever you took him tonight, he’s really happy to be there,” the nurse said. 
“If we could give that kind of therapy to all our patients we’d be out of business, not
that that would be so terrible.”

Burton felt his eyes filling again. “I think the last time I sang him to sleep
he was three or four,” he said. “I just well, I’m glad it’s having the
desired effect.”

”Yes, very much so,” the nurse said. “Dr. Agnello and the rest of the trauma
team will confer about his condition, and if he continues to improve we should
be able to move him to the step-down unit in a day or two. It’s like the
standard Intensive Care Unit, and you’ll be able to see him for half an hour
at a time four times a day. They don’t maintain total asepsis either in
plain English that means you can maintain a little more physical contact;
that’s good for the patient, too. And Mr. Fallin”

”Yes?”

”I meant to mention this earlier, but you and I both were occupied...we have a
staff psychiatrist here who works with families...the other victims, we call
them. Please consider talking to him. You may think you’ve got this under
control, but Nick has had the blessing...yes, the blessing...of unconsciousness.
You’ve had to be awake and aware through it all, and it’s a lot to have to
deal with. You need to be able to give your strength to your son and you can’t
do that if you’re hurting over this yourself.”

”That’s a very persuasive argument, Ms. Dykstra. If you ever get tired of what
you’re doing, consider going into law.” Burton and the nurse both laughed a
little and Burton was astonished to discover how good laughter felt. “Thank you
for everything and good night. I’ll call again tomorrow.”

He headed up the stairs and paused at the door of what had been his son’s
childhood bedroom. Nick didn’t know it yet, but this was where he was going to
be staying after he got out of the hospital. I don’t care what you have to say
about it, Nicholas. There is no room for argument here. You’re not going back
to Shadyside by yourself, not for a while anyway. I’m going to look after you
properly, whether you like it or not.

”Nick?” That must be Dr....Dr. Agnello? Yes. Hello, Doc. “We’ve been
decreasing your Pavulon doses over the past 24 hours or so. We think you can
breathe on your own now. We’re going to sit you up and remove the tube in your
throat. It may be a little scary at first, but we won’t let anything happen.
Breathe out...hard. Okay? Ready, Maureen? Go.”

Nick half expected to hear a pop as the tube was withdrawn, but nothing
happened except that he suddenly gasped hard. 
 
“Attaboy. Take a deep one. Fine.” He took another breath and felt air filling 
his lungs. 
 
“If you want to cough and bring up some of the stuff that likes to puddle in 
there when you’re flat on your back, that’s fine” He did. “Beautiful. Nick, you’re a terrific patient.
We’re just going to put this oxygen cannula—these two little prong
things—in your nose so we can be sure you’re getting enough air. Don’t try
to talk yet—that tube went down between your vocal cords and you’ll have a
little bit of a sore throat for a while. Yes, we’ll keep you sitting up.” For
the first time, Nick found himself able to take some notice of his surroundings. 


It felt good to sit up—he was tired of looking at ceilings, he realized. A
nurse, still in mask and scrubs was watching a collection of monitors and gauges
that wouldn’t be out of place on the command deck of the Starship Enterprise,
all of which seemed to be attached to various parts of him. Another nurse, the
one who had helped pull the tube out of his throat, wrote something on a piece
of paper and leaned over to tape it to the wall at the head of his bed. She
smiled from behind her mask at him. 
 
“It says, ‘I am awake and can hear everything you say’,” she explained. “That 
way we make sure that you’re aware of everything that’s going on around you without having to wonder what
people are saying. You heal faster if you have confidence in us, and we don’t
betray that confidence. And what I’m now going to write in your chart is
’Patient successfully extubated’—that’s what we call it when we take one
of these tubes out. You’ll probably doze off again, though, and that’s all
right. Healing can be hard work and we allow for that.”
 

The step-down unit looked like its CCRU counterpart but with a little less
monitoring equipment, Burton thought as he was ushered into the glass-walled
cubicle occupied by his son’s hospital bed and a visitor’s chair. His brief
time with a barely conscious Nick in the CCRU had been an exception to a rule
that though seemingly harsh was imposed to protect the patient, Dr. Agnello had
explained when he had called the hospital the next morning, and that meant there
could be no other visits until Nick could be moved to an environment that did
not require such stringent controls. Burton understood the reasoning
intellectually, but the upshot was that he hadn’t seen his son, who had
remained listed in critical condition, for the greater part of two days, most of
which he had spent trying not to make a nuisance of himself with phone calls to
the Trauma Unit. Finally, to what he was sure was the unbounded relief of
everyone at Fallin and Associates, he had learned that Nicholas had been moved
to the step-down unit, where visits were permitted four times a day for half an
hour at a time.

Burton went straight to Nick’s bedside, where he rested his crossed arms on
the bed rail and his chin on his arms and devoted several minutes to quietly
taking in the sight of his only child.

Nick was sleeping. A number of plastic bags and bottles each containing some
clear liquid were suspended from IV poles to combine in one plastic line that
ran down to the inside of his left elbow, where it was covered by a bandage and
taped in place. Wires snaked out from under the white and faded green print
hospital gown Nick wore to another monitor where three separate lines traced
across a screen. Burton was happy to see that his son no longer breathed with
the help of a respirator, although one of those two-pronged affairs was still
feeding oxygen into his nostrils. Nick looked paler than his father had ever
seen him and there was a drawn, tired look around his eyes that went to
Burton’s heart. This battle wasn’t over yet.

Burton leaned over the railing and kissed his son on the forehead, something he
hadn’t done for at least the past 25 years and which he wouldn’t attempt
with Nick awake—not yet, anyway, he reflected. He finally settled into the
chair, never taking his eyes off Nick’s face. 
 
After a few minutes Nick stirred and woke. “Dad?”

”I’m here, son.” God, it’s good to hear your voice again.

”Missed the conference. Sorry.”

”Oh, Nicholas,” Burton murmured, getting up and leaning over the bed rail, He
touched Nick’s cheek gently, then stroked his son’s hair. “It’s all right,
baby.” He almost dies and he’s worried about the damn conference. Gotta get
some priorities straight here. “You just work on getting well. That’s all that
matters.”

”Dad—what happened was—an—accident. He...the guy...didn’t mean to do it.”

”Sure, son.”

”He was just—upset. Tell the cops.”

”All right.”

”Are—Lulu—the woman...the kids...okay?”

”Yes, son. They’re all fine. You kept them safe.”

A faint smile appeared on Nick’s lips. “Good.”

A nurse appeared. “Mr. Fallin, I’m sorry but your time is up. You’ll have to
come back later.”

”Oh, nuts,” Burton briefly considered trying to argue but thought better of
it—the nurse looked as if she made a career of ejecting visitors from the unit
all the time and thoroughly enjoyed it.”Son, they’re throwing me out of here
for now. I’ll be back. Meantime, I’ll see Alvin and tell Lulu you’re glad
she’s okay, all right?”

”Uh-huh.” Nick closed his eyes and slept. Burton kissed his son again and left.
Well, that’s a good start, he thought. It’s ten-thirty now? Three and a half
hours and I can see him again.

Glaziers had repaired the shattered window but the carpeting in the LSoP
conference room still had not been removed, Lulu, who had just come in, saw as
she went into Alvin’s office. The head of LSoP was sitting at his desk,
leaning back in his chair. 
 
“Burton called,” Alvin said without preamble. ”Nick’s been moved to the 
step-down unit, whatever that is.”  

”Yes, I know,” Lulu said. “I talked to Brian...he’ll be on duty until Friday
night If Nick keeps improving they’ll put him in a private room in a couple of
days.”

”Burton didn’t mention that, so maybe they didn’t tell him. The cops are
going to be coming in later and I told him; he wants to be here.” He smiled at
Lulu. “Maybe you should plan to be in court, Lu...it could get noisy.”

”That wouldn’t surprise me. The man almost lost his only child, and the cops
seem to be more at fault than Ray Sherwood,” Lulu said. “Brian told me that for
about a minute when they brought him in Nick was clinically dead—his heart had
stopped and it took two or three tries before they could get it started again.
That bullet took out a good part of a very vital organ. Liver repairs are some
of the hardest procedures to do...like trying to sew jell-O, Brian said. It was
anyone’s guess whether he’d even get out of the OR alive. And if the cops
didn’t decide to come running in, Nick might not have been shot at all.”

”Good morning Alvin, Ms. Archer,” Burton Fallin said. “Alvin, you said the
police would be here today, so here I am. No one seems to be around in your
reception area, so I just walked in. I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

”Oh, my God,” Lulu said. “Mr. Fallin, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for you to
hear that.”

”Don’t apologize,” Burton said. “Anyone who walks in on someone else’s
conversations can expect to hear something...hard to accept. The surgeon who
operated on Nicholas told me some of what you just said, so it wasn’t a total
surprise. “

”Burton, please sit down,” Alvin said. “I expect the police will be here any
minute and I know you want to talk to them as much as I do.”

”Thank you, Alvin,” Burton complied. “Yes, I do. And Ms. Archer, Nicholas asked
me to tell you how glad he is you and the Sherwood woman and the children are
all right.”

”He did?” Lulu asked. “Then he’s awake and talking?”

”A little of both,” Burton said.

”Mr. Fallin, I’ll tell Mrs. Sherwood,” Lulu said. “And please tell Nick I...”
she stopped. “I—I’ll follow up on her for him.” What can I say? Tell him I
said thank you for saving my life? Words are so inadequate.

”It’s what now, 11:15? I can get back in to see him at two and I’ll let him
know that,” Burton said. If he’s able to take it in. I could see how much
effort it took for him to tell me what he did.

Burton rose as Lulu left, then sat down again.

”So Nick’s awake and talking?” Alvin said. “That’s certainly good news.”

The elevator bell sounded and several police officers came into the LSoP
reception area and went into the conference room. A police captain whose name
badge said “Walters” walked into Alvin’s office.

Burton turned in his chair, gave the officer a long and direct look, and then
turned back to Alvin. “Yes, Alvin,” he said. “It’s good news.”

”Captain Walters,” Alvin said. “We met during the...incident...I believe you
were the commanding officer on the scene. This is Burton Fallin, Nick Fallin’s
father.”

”Oh, yes,” Walters said. “Mr. Fallin, I extend the thanks of a grateful
department for what your son did to save that officer and the civilians. How is
your son?”

”Somewhat improved,” Burton said.

”I’m very glad to hear that,” Walters said. He sat in the other chair in
Alvin’s office, which had recently been vacated by Lulu, without waiting for
an invitation.

”Captain,” Alvin said, “I have to admit I’m a little...puzzled...by what
happened. I thought that standard procedure in these situations was to keep
everything low key as long as possible.”

”It’s the judgment of the commanding officer on the scene to move in or hold
back,” Walters said.

”Mr. Masterson and I understand that,” Burton said. “What I’d appreciate
hearing is what factors entered into your decision to move in when you did.”

”Well, sir—“ Walters said, looking uncomfortable.

”Look, Walters, no one is going to sue you or the department,” Alvin said. Speak
for yourself, Alvin, Burton thought. “We just want to know if the way these
situations are handled has changed substantially. I get the Ray Sherwoods in
here all the time. These people come in here desperate--scared shitless, some
of them. They’re gonna lose their mate, their kids, their house, their
jobs...whatever. Sherwood was the first one to fire a gun in this office, and I
hope he’ll be the last, but I know better than to bank on it. And the man who
got shot is not only someone who does some of the most significant work around
here; he’s also a friend. I’m getting the very strong impression that this
could have been handled a lot differently.”

”Let me say that I’m in complete agreement with that,” Burton said, realizing
Alvin had given him an opening. “I don’t think I can trust myself to go near
what for me are the real issues here. I will only say that two days ago I spent
the worst ten hours of my entire life in a hospital waiting room wondering if I
would still have a living child at the end of the day. And that’s nothing
compared to what my son went through—is going through.” He paused to collect
himself. “I really want to know what...inspired...Ray Sherwood to fire that
gun.”

”Sherwood is undergoing psychiatric evaluation.” Walters said.

”I know he is,” Burton said. “That’s not the point. From what I’ve heard
from Ms. Archer, an eyewitness, everything was under control until your SWAT
team officers got here. Isn’t it policy for the hostage rescue team to try to
talk their way through first?”

”Yes,” Alvin said. “Nobody from hostage rescue even announced their presence,
much less tried to talk to Sherwood or Nick...Mr. Fallin. Sherwood and Nick are
talking, nothing is happening, everything starts to calm down, and then all of a
sudden your SWAT commandos are making like Spider-Man. What happened?”

Walters shifted in his seat. “As commanding officer on the scene, it was my
judgment that waiting for the hostage rescue team to open negotiations would
further endanger the hostage...Mr. Fallin. You have to be very careful about the
timing in these things...wait too long and 99 percent of the time your perp goes
ahead and acts. I didn’t want that to happen.”

”Was Sherwood your typical hostage taker?” Burton asked.

Walters’ eyes shifted away from his two questioners. “Our information was
limited. We had to proceed on what we had.”

Burton and Alvin exchanged glances. “In other words,” Burton said, “you didn’t
know anything about Sherwood’s mental state. Nor did you have any idea how
close my son was to resolving the situation. You just went charging in there.”
You’re raising your voice, Burton, he told himself. Calm down.

”That’s unfair,” Walters said. “If I say yes, I admit to exercising bad
judgment. If I say no I’m trying to put across something that didn’t
happen. Yes, we went...charging... in there, as you say. We like to think we
rescued a hostage.”

”Who makes the judgment as to whether the hostage actually needs rescuing?”
Burton asked. 
 
“I do,” Walters said.


”On almost no information and without taking time...time that you seem to have
had plenty of...to assess the situation.”


”In my opinion, a hostage’s life was in danger,” Walters said. “In my opinion,
we effected a rescue. It’s unfortunate the rescue had unexpected results.”


A police officer knocked at the open door. “Excuse me, Captain?” he said.
”We’re all through here.”


”Okay, Dave,” Walters said. “So am I, I guess, unless Mr. Fallin or Mr.
Masterson have anything further.”


Burton and Alvin exchanged glances again. “No, we know everything we’re going
to know at this point,” Alvin said. Burton nodded in agreement. “There’s
nothing else right now,” he said.


The other officer had left and Walters stood up. “Look, Mr. Fallin, I know how
you feel...” he started.


”No, you don’t, Walters,” Burton cut in, feeling anger start to rise inside of
him again. “My son almost died because you did something—injudicious—and
possibly against your own department policy. Have you ever lost a child?”


Walters shook his head. “Then you can’t possibly know how I feel. I hope you
never do know. I expected a little more from what’s supposed to be a team of
professionals. All I can say is, I hope everyone learns something from this
fiasco because if it happens again...to someone with the last name Fallin or to
anyone else...I will personally see to it that the person responsible never
leads another such operation...ever!”


”I can’t say that’s unreasonable,” Walters said. “Mr. Masterson, you’ll
get a copy of our report...I know you’ll need it. Mr. Fallin, all I can say
is, I’m sorry. A police officer and four civilians are alive because of your
son. I would appreciate it if you could convey that to him.” Burton nodded and
Walters left.


Burton exhaled. “I wonder if I’ve ever been as angry as I am right now,” he
said.


”You’ve got a right to be angry, Burton. Those cops screwed up royally.” Alvin
said. “Isn’t it wonderful? Your tax dollars at work. We’ve had a couple of
hostage situations...not here, in homes, like that. Nick helped with
one...mother was holding an infant, turned out the kid was dead already. One of
her brothers fed her a jawbreaker because she got hungry while Mom was out
getting high or laid or both, maybe, and she choked to death.” His features
showed brief anger at the loss. “I’ve never known the cops to go galloping in
like they did this time. Maybe this Walters wanted to prove something to
somebody, I don’t know. Maybe it’s my fault, too...we’ve got an alarm at
the receptionist’s desk that’s supposed to go right to police dispatching
but nobody’s had the time to test it. We just got so busy I forgot. We don’t
have time to breathe around here. Frankly, if it wasn’t for Nick I’d have to
decline more cases than I already do. And I’ve only got him for what, the next
year and a half or so.”


”Truthfully, Alvin, given the situation I don’t think an alarm would have made
much difference,” Burton said. “What would have happened? The cops get here five
minutes sooner, that’s all. As for Nicholas, yes, I guess he’ll be coming
back to working with me full-time when his probation’s up—now that it looks
like he’ll be coming back, period. Alvin, I was never so terrified in my
life...not even the night he got busted, not even...oh hell. You know how it is,
or maybe you don’t. You and your wife never had children, did you?”


”No. Maybe that’s why I went into children’s legal services...figured I’d
do for others what I couldn’t do for the ones I didn’t have.”


”Nicholas is my whole world, Alvin. I know it doesn’t often seem that way—we
haven’t really connected with each other since the divorce and then when his
mother died...but there hasn’t been a day of his life when I haven’t thought
about him, planned for him, hoped he’d join me at F&A. I talked him into
coming back to Pittsburgh five, six years ago and I thought we’d start mending
some fences, but it only got worse. We were farther apart when he was right
there in the same office than when he was in New York. Then he got run in for
drugs. Even then, with him looking at hard time, which he didn’t know--I’m
 not sure he realizes the full implications even now--I knew I could call in
some markers; keep him out of the biggest mess. And I have to tell you, Alvin,
working here has done something for him. He’s a different person, more caring,
more involved. He knows there’s something out there beyond the bottom line,
and that’s mainly your doing.


”And then this happened. Nick insisted to me that this wasn’t Sherwood’s
fault, but it damn well is somebody’s. If that asshole Walters had just
managed to sit on his impulses for five or ten more minutes I could have been
bitching at Nicholas for being late that afternoon. It would have been just
another day at the office.” He stopped. “God, listen to me. Well, if I learned
one thing from this it’s that I will never again take my son for granted. I
came close...so close—to losing him and I couldn’t do one single damn thing
about it.” Burton paused and drew a breath. “When I think about what could have
happened...what almost happened...oh, God. That first night, when they let me
see him in the CCRU, they wouldn’t even let me touch him...risk of infection,
they said. That was the hardest part, I think.”

”It’s different in the step-down unit, isn’t it?”

”A little. They restrict visits to half an hour four times a day, though, and I
gather he’s still not all the way out of the woods yet...at least he doesn’t
look it.”

”It’s gonna take a while,” Alvin said. “But they wouldn’t have moved him if
they thought he wasn’t ready so he’s obviously doing fine. By the
way...it’s really none of my business, but has Nick ever heard any of what you
just said?”

”I said it where you could hear it...I guess that gives you the standing you
need to ask. He’s heard some of it, not all. Now is as good a time as any to
make sure he hears the rest. Thanks, Alvin.”


”Maybe something positive can come out of this for all of us. All right, Burton,
get out of here. You’ve got a busy day.”


A tall, dark man left the elevator and crossed the LSoP reception area as Burton
left Alvin Masterson’s office. Lulu, coming out of her own room at the same
time, saw the newcomer and moved to intercept him. “James, I’m glad you’re
here,” she said. “Mr. Fallin, this is James Mooney...I mentioned him when I
spoke to the police. James, this is Nick’s father.”


”Yes, I remember,” Burton said. He put out his hand. “Mr. Mooney, I’m very
glad to meet you. I understand you did a great deal to help.”


”I only wish I could have done more,” James said as he shook Burton’s hand.
”If Nick had given me the signal, I would have been willing to try to jump the
guy.”


”Well, I don’t know,” Burton said. “From what I’ve heard, I think if you had
rushed him, at least one of the two of you would have been hit.”


”That’s the chance you take,” James said. “We all owe Nick, though...because
he took that slug...sorry, Mr. Fallin...one of us didn’t have to. And I
don’t know about anyone else, but I sure appreciated the chance to go home to
my nephew that night.”


”I know Nicholas was glad you had the chance, too,” Burton said. Everyone within
earshot said goodbye as Burton entered the elevator and the doors closed.



 
”Hey, there, Nicholas,” a voice with a pronounced Irish brogue said. Nick turned
his head slightly and beheld another nurse whom he did not recognize at his
bedside. “I’m Sandy Kelly. I’m a CRNA...a certified registered nurse
anaesthetist—and I’m going to introduce you to patient-controlled analgesia.”



”What’s-what’s that?”

Kelly gestured to a new addition to Nick’s IV pole—a clear plastic box near
the top. The box held something that looked like a pinwheel inside. “This is a
PCA pump,” she said. “You see the top part here...this clear liquid...that’s
your pain medication. I’m going to connect this tubing here to your IV
line...this one.” 
 
Nick saw for the first time a clear plastic tube that ran from
a bag on top of another pole down to a needle taped to the inside of his left
elbow. 
 
“That’s what’s been feeding you and keeping you hydrated...that
reminds me-would you like some water?” He nodded and she poured some from a
pitcher on an overbed table that he had not noticed before into a plastic glass,
put in a bendable straw and held it to his lips. He took a deep drink. “More?”


”No...no, thanks.”


”Okay.” She put the glass down. “ Now, with the pump, you’ve got pain meds
running into your IV line. But you’re the one who decides if you want them.
This button on the end of this thing here controls the pump.” She put what
looked like a fat fountain pen with a button in the top in his hand. “Every time
you press the button the pump will send a dose of pain medication into your IV
line. We’ve set the pump so you won’t give yourself too much...it will only
dispense a certain number of doses an hour. You can hold the pump control in
your hand or it can live in this pocket here on your gown, as you choose, all
right?” Nick nodded.

Dr. Agnello came into the room and up to Nick’s bed as Kelly was finishing the
demonstration. “Hello, Nick,” she said. “I see Sandy here’s been introducing
you to the PCA pump. Good.”

”Th..thanks, but I-I feel okay,” Nick said.


”Yes, I’ll bet you do,” the doctor said. “That’s because we’ve been
putting pain meds in your IV line for the past two and a half days...we started
when you were still coming out of the anaesthesia, in fact. The last dose is
going to wear off in about half an hour, and when it does, believe me, you’ll
know it. I’ll be honest with you, Nick...that’s something you can be sure
of, by the way. We in this unit tell the truth to our patients. You got shot in
a bad place. You’re going to recover because I’m an excellent surgeon and
you’re in pretty good shape for somebody your age with a relatively sedentary
lifestyle, but you’re really lucky to be here. Pain will retard your recovery.
If you want to spend a month in this hospital instead of...oh, two weeks, tops,
if everything goes all right...go ahead and be stubborn about this thing, but
you’re only hurting yourself. I know what you told the paramedics because they
told me. I don’t know if you remember what I said when you first came out of
the anaesthesia, but I’ll tell you again...I’ve never gotten a patient
hooked on anything and I’m not about to start with you. And I’ll tell you
something else...patients who administer their own pain meds use less of them.
You like to be in control, so here’s your chance.”


”I-I remember,” Nick said, surprising himself by realizing that he did. “Okay.”


”How do you feel now?” Dr. Agnello asked.


”Tired...just tired.”


”That’s understandable. You will for a while. All right, Nick, get some
rest...and use that pump. Nobody’s keeping tabs on how many times you push
that button.” She left. After making sure that the pump and its connections were
in order, so did Kelly.


Left to himself, Nick felt himself drifting off toward sleep again. I’d push
the damn button, but I’m just too tired, he thought. He did remember the
doctor telling him about the pain medication, he realized. Other memories of the
day that had begun in the LSoP conference room began to come back as well, one
in particular. Is it real? Was I dreaming? he wondered. It comforted and
frightened him at the same time and he let it drift away. Instead, he let
another memory occupy his thoughts...the look in his father’s eyes, the sound
of his father’s voice. That was really neat. Thanks, Dad.



Burton found he had time to grab a quick lunch in the hospital cafeteria before
heading toward the step-down unit for the start of the two o’clock visiting
period. Who set up that schedule anyway...and why? he wondered. I’m seeing my
son for a grand total of two hours out of twenty-four. The sudden realization
hit him. That’s probably more than we’ve seen each other outside of the
office for one hell of a long time up to now. You just may have yourself
something here very few people ever get in this life, Burton...a second chance.
Just make damn sure you do it right this time.


Dr. Agnello and a nurse whose nametag said “S. Kelly” greeted him as he entered
the step-down unit and briefed him on the PCA pump and he noted the new piece of
equipment when he approached Nick’s bedside. Though that drawn, tired look was
still there, Nick was sleeping again, which pleased his father...lately his son
had seemed to be running on raw nerves. Well, you didn’t expect him to be all
better in three and a half hours, did you? This is a hell of way to get yourself
a rest, Nicholas, but I must say you deserve one, he thought. As he had before,
he kissed Nick lightly on the forehead. Nick’s eyes opened.


”Did I wake you?” Burton said. “Go back to sleep.”


”It’s okay.”


”How do you feel?”


”The doctor asked, too. All right. Tired.”


”That’s not surprising. You went through a lot.”


”Guess so.”


Burton sighed. Those idiot cops don’t deserve this, he thought. And God and
Nicholas forgive me for bringing it up. “Son, do you remember anything about
what happened?”


”Some.”


”Well, besides the women and kids, you kept a cop from getting shot.” You took a
bullet that was meant for him. I don’t think I can tell you that right now.
This is hard enough.


”Oh, yeah. He wasn’t hurt?”


”No, he’s fine, too.”


Nick smiled. “Great.”


Burton looked at the PCA pump. “They told me about this thing. Are you using it?
You’re supposed to, you know.”


”Yeah, they told me. I guess I’m just too tired.”


”Want me to do it?”


”Okay.”


Burton took the pump control from Nick’s hand and pushed the button on its
top. The pump made a brief whirring noise and rotated in its housing. “Looks
like one of those...what were they...Wankel rotary engines,” Burton said. “ They
were supposed to be the hottest thing in cars since internal combustion. They
went over like a lead balloon.” He put the pump control back in Nick’s hand
and closed his son’s fingers over it. “Nicholas, you really have to use this
thing,” he said gently. “That nice doctor, Dr. Agnello, told me she wants you
to...it’ll help you get better faster.”


Nick stirred restlessly. “I know.”


Burton recognized the signs: he was pushing and Nick was resisting, or starting
to. He changed the subject. “I saw Alvin and Lulu Archer. Ms. Archer said
she’ll follow up on the Sherwood woman for you. And your other friend,
James...Mooney, that’s the name?...says hello.”


”James is a good guy,” Nick said. “I’m glad everyone’s all right. And
Dad...I meant that. Sherwood didn’t mean to...to fire. “


”I know, son. I’ll see what I can do about it.”


Nick visibly relaxed. “Thanks.”


Burton took Nick’s hand and father and son remained in companionable silence
for several minutes. I’ll settle for this, Burton thought. Just knowing you
want me to be here is enough.


Burton looked across the room and then at his watch. “Here comes that nurse
again,” he said. “I never knew half an hour could go by so fast. I’ll be back
in about two hours, son.”


”Don’t you have to go to the office?”


”Office can take care of itself,” Burton said. “Right now, you’re all that
matters. And you are not to waste energy worrying about it, either, hear me?
That conference with Ridenauer, Hamilton and the SEC can wait.”


”Not for long,” Nick said, briefly looking more animated than he had for at
least the previous day and a half.


”Well, then, use that pain-killer dispenser so you can get out of here and get
to work on it,” Burton said, smiling.


Nick sighed. “Walked into that one, didn’t I? Okay, okay. I won’t promise
not to think about it, though.”


”Can’t stop you thinking,” Burton said. “Get some rest in the meantime. Do you
want another belt of that stuff?”


”Maybe in a while,” Nick said. The conversation had tired him, he realized, and
he felt his eyes closing. “See ya, Dad.”


”All right, son.” Burton murmured as Nick drifted off. He stroked his son’s
hair and laid his cheek against Nick’s forehead for a moment before
reluctantly leaving his bedside. I don’t ever want to be this close to losing
you again, Nicholas. Ever.


A doctor he didn’t recognize approached as he passed the nurses’ station.


”Mr. Fallin?”


”Yes?” Burton responded.


”I’m Dwayne Burke. Maya Agnello and I worked on your son. It was really close,
but we’re very pleased with the progress he’s making. I think we can put
this one in the...win...column.”


”Dr. Agnello mentioned your name when we first talked...that was when
Nicholas...my son...first got out of surgery,” Burton said. “She said something
about how close it was, too, so I guess there’s reason to be hopeful. But
he...he looks so...so exhausted. Just now I asked him if he wanted me to operate
the...what is it—the PCA pump for him and he didn’t give me an argument.
Usually he never lets anyone do anything for him that he can do himself.”


”The initial insult...the gunshot wound...is a shock to the system. Just being
under general anaesthesia for five or six hours puts a lot of stress on the body
as well. Add in five hours of surgery, and that’s why he doesn’t look
exactly the picture of health right now. He’s been fighting a long, hard
battle. But we’ve won, Mr. Fallin. We’ve won. He’s healing. You will be
able to take him home. If things keep going the way they are now by the end of
this week we’ll be able to remove the drain we have in the incision to make
sure nothing’s acting up again and he won’t need so much monitoring. We’ll
be able to move him into a private room. From there it’ll be just about
another two weeks and we can write discharge orders.”


”I...’thanks’ doesn’t begin to cover it,” Burton said.


”That’s what we’re here for,” Burke responded. “And a lot of the progress
that’s been made has to do with you, Mr. Fallin. Maya told me the first night
was a significant step forward. Whatever you did...and it’s not on the
chart...made a huge difference. Keep it up...the patients who recover fastest
are those who have family and friends pulling for them.”


”I’ll make sure he knows I’m here for him,” Burton said. “When he gets
better, though, he’ll probably give you people a hard time...in this kind of a
situation he always does.”


”We can handle that...we’re used to it,” Burke said. “This sort of trauma
requires some dealing with psychologically as well and we’ll make that part of
his treatment plan. That usually helps bring about a more positive attitude. By
the way...I know Maureen Dykstra mentioned this to you, but have you thought
about seeing our staff person about the effect this is having on you? Your son
isn’t the only one who underwent a traumatic experience here.”


”I’ve been too busy for the past day or two,” Burton said. “That’s not an
attempt to be evasive...its...s the truth. But Miss Dykstra did come up with
some substantive arguments in favor of the idea and the more I think about it,
the better I like it. The implications of what happened are a
little...overwhelming.”


”Good. If you want to ask me anything or if there’s something else I can do,
here’s my number.” He handed Burton a card.


Burton drove from Allegheny General Hospital to Ellsworth Avenue and let himself
into Nick’s town house with his son’s keys. Nick would be in the hospital
for at least two weeks, and he’d feel more comfortable in his own pajamas,
Burton had been told. Also, one of the nurses had said, the clothes Nick had
worn that morning were beyond any kind of help, so he’d need something to go
home in when he was discharged.
 
“I’m not even going to show them to you, Mr. Fallin,” the nurse had said. 
“Believe me, you don’t want to see them.” Burton
had accepted her judgment.


The message light in the answering machine unit on the telephone table in the
lower hallway was blinking and the unit was beeping. Burton looked at it and
wondered if he should play the machine back. No. I’ve always respected his
privacy and I’m not going to violate it now. Besides, I have enough to do
answering all the messages I’ve been getting about him myself. God bless
Sheila...she gets a nice bonus this Christmas. And so does Jake Straka. Talk
about above and beyond.


Burton climbed the curving staircase to his son’s bedroom and looked around.
Where did you get this passion for neatness, Nicholas? Your mother was always
tidy and I’m not exactly a slob, but this is extreme. Do you live here, or is
this where you hide? The bedroom, like the rest of the house, was so perfect it
could have been a stage set. The bed was made; slippers were out of sight under
the edge of the bedspread and the whole room looked as if no one lived in it.
Either Nick’s cleaning service was extraordinarily competent or Nick had
received special training in being unnaturally neat at his prep school. Burton
shook his head.


The closet was the logical place to look for a suitcase and Burton found an
overnight bag in the one in Nick’s bedroom. Into it he placed the usual items
a young man might be expected to take on an overnight trip, including a pair of
casual slacks and a short-sleeved shirt. He found a pair of Top-Siders in the
closet and decided on them over sneakers—informal and offering insufficient
support—and a pair of Nick’s ankle boots.  Nicholas, why on earth are you so
partial to these things? Well, perhaps now I’ll have a chance to ask you. I
might even change your opinion about something. Now, that will be a first.


A hook on the back of the bathroom door held a blue foulard silk dressing gown,
the one item that looked even slightly casual in this room, Burton thought as he
folded the garment carefully and put it in the soft-sided bag. He found his
son’s Dopp kit and put Nick’s electric razor, toothbrush and other toiletry
and grooming items into it as well. Someone at the hospital was dealing with his
son’s personal needs at the moment and Burton felt a brief flash of jealousy.
He’s my son and I want to take care of him! How Nicholas would probably react
was another matter. I don’t think he’d take that, even from Anne, Burton
thought. But damn it, it would sure be nice if he’d let me. Well, at least I
can do something. What was it that doctor, Dwayne Burke, said—the patients who
recover fastest are those who know they have someone pulling for them? I sure
am, Nicholas. I never realized until now what a privilege it is.


A last look around and then he’d be finished. As he left the room, Burton’s
gaze fell on the nightstand at the head of the bed. He wasn’t surprised to
see a photograph of Nick’s mother, but then he looked closer and saw that a
snapshot of himself had been tucked carefully into the inside edge of the frame.
His picture almost completely obscured Anne’s face. Well.


Burton went downstairs and out of the town house, setting the alarm and locking
the door carefully behind him. He put the suitcase in the trunk of the Cadillac
and looked at his watch. He would just be in time to make the start of the five
o’clock visiting period. He drove away, finding himself suddenly feeling a
good deal lighter in spirit than he had when the morning began.


The End of Part 2


--+--
 
 
Hostage to Fortune, Part 3





”There’s another flower delivery for the patient in 04,” the ward secretary
told Ellen Benedict, R.N. day shift head nurse at Allegheny General Hospital’s
Unit 6C. “That makes eight, and the patient isn’t even here yet.”


”He must be something special,” Cheryl Wymura, the charge nurse, who would be
directly responsible for the patient’s care, remarked. “ Who is this one,
anyway?”


”He’s coming from Trauma,” Benedict, or “Bennie” as she was known to her team,
said. “His chart isn’t here yet, either, but Laura Varner in the step-down
unit told me they kept him there an extra day—they wanted to watch him a
little after they pulled the IV and the Foley catheter and his drain—Cheryl,
you’ll want to keep an eye on the site. As for who he is, he’s a 32-year-old
white male who just lost his spleen and part of his liver to a gunshot wound
sustained in a hostage situation. His name’s Fallin—Nicholas Fallin.”


”Oh, I know who he is,” a licensed practical nurse named Judy Thornton said.
”He’s that lawyer who’s been all over the papers and the TV news—here, did
you see the Post-Gazette?” She handed a copy of the paper to the head nurse.


”Oh, that Nicholas Fallin,” Bennie said. “I never get a chance to look at a
paper, but now I remember. No wonder that room has so many arrangements—a lot
of people are calling him a hero.”


The elevator doors opened and two nurses from the Trauma unit walked onto the
sixth floor. They were followed by a wheel chair pushed by a member of the
hospital’s patient transport department. It was occupied by a young man with
slightly tousled brown hair touched with gold highlights who wore a dark blue
dressing gown and light blue pajamas. Alongside walked an older man with white
hair thinning on top and a dark moustache and eyebrows. In his left hand he
carried a soft-sided overnight bag and with his right hand he clasped the hand
of the patient in the chair. The procession went into room 04.


”Who’s that with him?” Wymura asked.


”That’s the father,” the ward secretary, whose name was Patricia Michaud,
said. “Ginny Haller on Trauma said they should have admitted him along with the
patient—they’d have had less trouble.”


One of the trauma unit nurses left the patient’s room and crossed the hall to
the nurses’ station in time to catch the last few words of the conversation.
Her nametag said Deanna Whitman. “That’s for sure,” she said. “We’ve had
concerned family members before, but this one takes it a step or two further.
His name’s Burton Fallin.”


Bennie and Wymura had been looking over Nick’s chart. “The patient was pretty
sick for a while. You did a fine job, but he’s lucky to be here,” Bennie said.


”You can expect a parent—even of an adult—to overreact a little in that
case.”


”A little? Talk to me at the end of your shift—you’ll have a whole new
definition of the word.”


”What’s the actual patient like?” Wymura asked. She would be giving the most
direct care until her shift ended at 7 p.m. that night and thought she was
entitled to ask.


”He’s a nice guy and a pretty good patient. Likes to do for himself when he
can, which is good,” Whitman said. “We’ve let him shave and do some other
self-care for the past two days and he did a little walking. You’ve got to
watch him, though—he can try too hard.”


”What’s the story here, anyway?” Wymura asked. “All we do is put in a ten-hour
shift down here. If you guys in Trauma get a celebrity we’re lucky we hear
about it before whoever it is goes home.”


”Young Mr. Fallin is a stouthearted lad who followed his dad into the legal
profession,” Whitman said. “He’s working part-time at some outfit called Legal
Services of Pittsburgh—poor people’s legal work, he’s doing it gratis.
Anyway, a distraught husband came into this Legal Services place waving a
gun—this was this past Monday morning, four days ago—took his wife, two
kids, Fallin and another lawyer, a woman, hostage. Somehow Fallin talked him
into releasing the women and kids; he stayed with the husband. He and the
husband are talking, the cops come in and young Fallin catches a
nine-millimeter. Lacerated spleen, liver—cardiac arrest, lots of delicate
surgery—the chart has it all.”


”Lots of times when that happens, they leave in a body bag,” Bennie said.


”This one came close to it. He was lucky. Agnello and Burke were the surgeons.”
Wymura put the chart down. “And Dykstra and Kelly and you and Nancy Macaluso
were the nursing team, so he was lucky on all counts. What was that the father
was carrying, the patient’s effects?”


”Yes—the deal was we pulled everything and he could put on his own pajamas.
They closed the drain site and the wound’s healing well, so there’s no
reason he shouldn’t.”


The nurse who had gone into room 04 with the Fallins walked out and waved to the
group at the nurses’ station, then headed toward the elevator. “Guess that’s
it. See ya,” Whitman said.


”Okay,” Bennie said. “I guess Cheryl and I can officially welcome him to 6C.
Here we go.”


 
”All the flowers make it look like somebody’s funeral,” Nick said. He saw the
look that flitted briefly across his father’s face. Dumb-ass! he told himself.
”Sorry, Dad. It’s just—I think that’s the last time I saw so darned many
in one place.”


”Well, maybe some of the other patients might like a few of them. I can ask,”
Burton said. “And you can write some thank-you notes. I’ll pick up some
stationery when I get a chance.”


”Okay,” Nick said. “It’ll give me something to do.”


There came a knock at the open door to Room 04 and two nurses entered. “Mr.
Nicholas Fallin?” one asked. The younger man on the bed, who had the sheet up to
his waist, nodded. She noticed that the older man had moved almost imperceptibly
closer to the bedside. “I’m Ellen Benedict, better known as—Bennie,-- head
nurse on the day shift. Welcome to 6C. Cheryl Wymura here will be taking care of
you.”


”Hi,” Nick responded. “Call me Nick. My father, Burton Fallin.”


”Ladies,” Burton said.


”Hi,” Wymura said. “Nick, if it’s okay with you, I’d like to look at your
incision so I can establish a baseline for your progress.”


”Sure,” Nick said.


Wymura took a pair of disposable gloves out of the glove box that was part of
the equipment of every patient room in the hospital and put them on; Bennie
followed suit. They came back to the bed and Bennie lifted the edge of the
pajama top.


Diagonally across the right side of Nick’s torso, four inches above the top
edge of his pajama bottoms, was a rectangle of yellow gauze held in place with
the tape that had come into widespread use in hospitals everywhere, which did 
not damage skin on its removal. Bennie peeled it back—without causing Nicholas any
discomfort, Burton noted—and Wymura lifted the gauze.


Half-inch long strips of tape crossed a pinkish-red line, looking like half a
set of railroad tracks. Black suture material showed through a few of the pieces
of tape. A raised area redder than the rest of the healing scar had held the
drain tube until a day ago.


”That looks good,” Bennie commented and Wymura nodded. She shot a quick look at
Burton Fallin—some hovering family members took one look at the cause of all
the ruckus and passed out cold. This one was made of sterner stuff
apparently—he hung in there.


Burton met her gaze. “I’ve seen it a few times before,” he said.


”Dissolvable sutures are one of modern medicine’s greatest inventions,” Wymura
commented. “You don’t have to worry about seeing your doctor to have the
stitches removed, it generally results in less scarring and it’s one less
thing to worry about.”


”I’m all for that,” Nick said.


”And now we’ve completed the most important thing we had to do here, and
its’s almost time for lunch,” Bennie said. “Mr. Fallin, visiting hours on this
unit are 1 to 8:30 p.m. Would you like us to tell Dietary to bring lunch and
dinner for you for as long as Nick is here?”


”Yes, please,” Burton, said. The nurses left.


”When did you see the—incision?” Nick asked his father.


”Couple of times when you were asleep and they came in to do something or
other,” Burton said. And the first time I almost lost it right then and there.
If I needed any reminders of how lucky I am—how lucky we both are“


Nick shot a quick look at his father and decided to change the subject. “Any
idea where my cell phone is?”


”In my desk, along with some of your other things. I’ll bring them in
tomorrow. I don’t know if you can have a cell phone in here, though. We’ll
find out.”


”Thanks. Wonder what happened to what I had on, anyway.”


”I asked and a nurse told me I didn’t want to know.”


”Oh.” Something else we won’t talk about.


After a few minutes a woman in a uniform Nick now recognized as that of a
dietary worker came in with two trays. One she put on his over-bed table and the
other on a bedside stand next to the visitor’s chair Burton occupied.


”Nicholas Fallin?” she said, “You’re on soft foods/regular diet. Burton Fallin,
we give visitors house regular. You can make your choices for tomorrow from the
menus we’ve put on your trays. Just leave them there and we’ll pick them
up.”


”Thanks,” Nick replied. The dietary aide left and both Fallins investigated
their respective lunches. Nick, to Burton’s immense satisfaction, made some
inroads into his—inactivity and the lingering effects of anaesthesia and pain
medication had markedly diminished his son’s appetite, raising his father’s
concern. Nick noticed the look.


”Well, it’s better than that strained broth they give you in the Trauma unit,”
he said. “And I don’t know how much more Jell-O I can stand.”


”I think they give you that for the protein,” Burton said. “That and the ice
cream. Actually, for hospital food, this isn’t bad.”


”No. People must have complained—that does work sometimes. Dad, I really think
I’ve had about all of this I can take in for now.”


”All right, son.” We won’t push it, but when I get you home we’re going to
work on this. I don’t have to put you on a scale to know you’ve lost about
20 pounds and that’s just too damn much.


The aide took the trays away. Nick vouchsafed the opinion that a brief walk to
familiarize himself with his new quarters might be in order and Burton agreed.
The nurses’ station was almost directly across from Nick’s room and seemed
a logical objective. Bennie, the head nurse looked up as Nick and Burton
approached. “Hey! Way to go, Nick,” she said. “Keep it up, guy.”


Nick grinned at her and Bennie saw for the first time just what a looker this
patient was. Every nurse on every shift will be fighting to take care of this
one, she thought. Can’t say I blame them, either.


”Thanks, Bennie,” he said.


”Is that enough for now, Nicholas?” Burton asked. It was more of a statement
than a question.


”I guess so,” Nick replied, and turned and headed back. Wymura and Thornton,
both of whom had been standing at the nurses’ station, aimed significant looks
at the head nurse and followed Nick and his father.


Bennie watched for a few moments before returning to signing off on some charts.
Wymura and Thornton came out of Nick’s room and went to the nurses’ station.
Cheryl took the loose-leaf binder that was Nicholas Fallin’s chart out of its
place in the chart rack and noted that the patient had been walking for the
first time since coming onto 6C.”Well, he got back and settled in all right,”
she said.


”I can see father is going to be a real pain in the ass,” Thornton said, being
careful to lower her voice.


”Not necessarily,” Bennie said. “You have to enlist their cooperation—make
them feel they’re part of the team. They back off after a while.”


”Yes, well, it may take a little longer with this one,” Wymura said. “Judy, did
you read the chart? This was one sick individual. He was really lucky and father
knows it.”


”Is he—the patient—talking to anybody about it?” Thornton asked.


”Yes, Trauma assigned some guy from Psych—Pritchard, I think—who’s seen
him a couple of times. Should be in today.”


”Let’s give him a heads-up—he may want to come in after father leaves,”
Bennie said.


”Well, then, he’s gonna be here late---father obviously intends to stay until
we throw him and everyone else out at 8:30 tonight,” Wymura said. “Judy,
you’re right—father is going to be a pain in somebody’s ass, not
necessarily ours.”


In his room and in bed again, Nick leaned back against his pillows. With new
surroundings some new thoughts were coming to him. “I suppose I’ll have to
tell what happened to the cops some time,” he said.


”Yes, probably before you leave here,” his father said. “I’m not sure you’re
ready yet, though—you just came off that PCA pump yesterday and you’re still
taking pain medication.”


”Yes, you’re right—but I have to get it over with sometime.”


”Sometime, Nicholas. Not right away.”


”Okay. Not right way.” I’m not up to arguing about it. Dad’s right. Let it
go, at least for now.


Another walk a little farther, again with his father in attendance, occupied
some time before dinner. Nick had noticed that his bedside table held a
telephone and decided that the following morning he would call several people,
including Alvin Masterson and Jake Straka, both of whom were likely to be in
their respective offices on Saturday. Although his probation officer probably
knew what had happened by now, a call to him would be both courteous and prudent
as well. As the effects of anesthesia and sedation began to ebb and forced
inactivity started to chafe, Nick realized he was eager to start reconnecting
with the rest of the world again.


At 8:30 p.m. the hospital public address system announced the end of visiting
hours and Burton got up. “All right, son, I’ll be back tomorrow.” He bent over
Nick and kissed his son as he had on earlier occasions when Nick was in the
step-down unit. Nick, now fully conscious, was always thankful afterward that he
did not resist. “Sorry,” Burton said. “I—just did it.”


”It’s okay,” Nick said, finding to his surprise that he meant it. “Just—try
not to do it in public, huh?”


”I’ll try,” Burton said. “Can’t promise, though.”


”Now, where did I hear that phrase before? Hoist on my own petard, as they say.”


They both laughed a little.


”Does it hurt to laugh?” Burton asked, seeing a faint flicker of discomfort
cross Nick’s face.


”Not as much as I thought it might. Good night, Dad.”


”Good night, Nicholas.” Burton left after giving a final gentle squeeze to
Nick’s shoulder.


Left to himself, Nick stared at the ceiling, then turned on the television,
flipped through several channels and decided that there was nothing he cared
enough about to watch. He wasn’t quite ready to go to sleep yet, even though
this had been a long day, starting from the time the nurse Maureen Dykstra had
come into the step-down unit to tell him he was going to be moved. He could take
another walk, he supposed. Dad won’t like it if he finds out I got out of bed
without him being here, but I can’t help that, he thought. If I have to get up
and take a leak or something, well, that’s the way it is.


A knock came at the door and Mark Pritchard, the staff psychiatrist with whom
Nick had spoken during the previous two days in the step-down unit came in. 
 
“Hi, Nick,” he said. “I heard they moved you, but this is the first chance I’ve 
had
all day to get in here. Hope it’s not too late.”
 
”Maybe by hospital standards, but I don’t think so,” Nick said.


”How’s it feel to get a little closer to the outside world?” Pritchard settled
himself into a chair.


”As far as I can tell, the outside world is still there. I’m glad to see
I’ve got a phone—there are some people I really need to get in touch with.
You know, Dr. Pritchard—“


”Mark.”


”Okay, Mark, I’m really glad you came in here tonight. I never talked to a
shr—a psychiatrist before—never thought I needed to---but I think there’s
something going on here that I need help with.”


”That’s what I’m here for, as that tiresome cliche says.”


”Well—I’m part of a criminal investigation—I mean, the guy who—who shot
me was going to shoot a cop. The cops probably have wanted to talk to me for as
long as I’ve been in here. I think—I think maybe my father has been the one
keeping them out.”


”So how do you feel about that?”


Nick sighed. “Conflicted—isn’t that the word? I like having him here, but I
think I should be able to handle this.”


”So you resent his taking over.”


”No. Wait—that’s not true. Yes, I do, a little.”


”Do you think you’re ready to talk to the police now?”


”Yeah. I do.”


Pritchard nodded. “Okay. You know, Nick, I’m betting there are other people
that have been itching to talk to you as well—reporters and the like. I
imagine your father’s been keeping them out, too.”


Nick just nodded, but looked uncomfortable.


”Do you think you’ll want to talk to someone from the media sometime?”


Nick moved restlessly. “I—I’m not sure.”


”You don’t think so?


”I guess so. I gather some people think I did something special.”


”Don’t you?”


”No, I don’t. Look—I have to be at LSoP, so I go in there and I do my job.”


”Saving the lives of two women and two children and a cop and getting shot doing
it could be considered a little way outside of the job description.”


”I suppose. I still think of it as part of the day’s work. Anyway, something
else that’s surprised me is that my father’s been in to see me so much.”


”By—so much—you mean whenever they let him?”


”I guess so. I mean, he does have a law firm to run. And it’s not like he
didn’t have anything else to do.”


”So how do you feel about him being here as much as he is?”


”I’m not sure. I like having him here, but I’m not a kid. He doesn’t need
to be hovering around all the time. I mean, I—I love him, which until not long
ago I didn’t ever think I could tell myself, let alone him, and I told him
so—not in person, over the phone, but I told him. And I know he loves me, but
sometimes it’s hard to get to that because of all the other stuff.”


Pritchard nodded—in two previous visits with Nick Fallin he had learned a
little family history and had done some research on Allegheny General
Hospital’s most famous patient. “It can be hard to tell someone how you really
feel, especially a parent,” he said.


”Yeah. Anyway, besides the fact that he’s kind of monopolizing me, I, well—“
Nick felt himself blush. “This is—this is—“


”I’m a shrink, remember?” Pritchard said. “See all, hear all, reveal nothing.
Aside from the fact that I’d hate to have a lawyer-as-a-patient sue me for
malpractice, they’d throw me out of the shrink fraternity if I ever revealed a
confidence. And I can’t be embarrassed—I’ve heard it all.”


”That’s nice to know—‘cause I promise I’ll sue you if you tell anybody
this. I think today was the first time I was conscious enough to know it—my
father—kissed me. I don’t think he’s done that since I was—God, I
don’t know—practically a baby. And that’s something else—when I was in
the step-down unit I think I heard him call me that—baby. Not slang or
kidding, but like he meant it literally.”


”That makes you uncomfortable?”


”Yeah. I—well, I don’t know how I should react—want to react. And I
don’t know why he’s going overboard like this. Was I that bad?”


Pritchard looked at Nick. “Nobody’s told you much, have they?


”About what happened? No. The women and the kids are safe, my father told me,
and he said something about a cop, and I guess I remember that, but nobody’s
told me anything else. I asked my father once and he changed the subject. That
was one time I felt like a little kid asking about sex or something—got a lot
of evasions and nothing specific.”


”What do you remember about the shooting?”


”Not much—it all happened so fast. I remember pushing the
shooter—Sherwood’s—gun hand and then I think—yeah, I think I remember
getting shot—cause it hurt and I—I remember I told that one paramedic about
being in recovery and—that’s about it.”


”Uh-huh. Anything else?”


”I don’t know. I think I had a weird kind of a dream or something, but I
don’t know when.”


”Has anybody told you anything about what kind of injury you had?”


”No. Agnello and Burke said it was a bad place to get shot, but that’s all.”


”It was. You pushed his gun hand, you say?”


Nick nodded. “I think Sherwood was aiming at the—the cop and I didn’t want
him to shoot the cop and get in more trouble, so I pushed his hand down.”


”That made him aim straight at you. The bullet tore up your spleen, which
you’re now missing, and got part of your liver and the artery that feeds blood
to it. The spleen and the liver are two organs that really bleed like crazy if
they get the chance. Throw in a lacerated artery and the fact that you bleed
pretty freely just because that’s your particular physiology, and that adds up
to: you lost most of your blood volume by the time they got you to the ER.”


”What’s that mean?”


”Your heart is a pump, which you already knew. What happens to a pump with no
fluid going through it?”


”It stops?”


”It stops, and so did your heart. There’s no other way to put this, Nick—for
about a minute, a minute and ten seconds, you had no heartbeat and no pulse.”


Nick was very still for a moment. “That means I was—I was—dead, doesn’t
it?”


”We don’t officially pronounce until we’re sure there’s no brain activity,
but you were very, very close to it.”


”That explains it,” Nick said.


”Explains the dream you say you had?”


”Yeah. I—I don’t want to talk about it right now.”


”Okay. You don’t have to. Anyway, after they got your heart started again it
was on to the next problem, the one Agnello and Burke—the two best surgeons in
this hospital, if not the state—worked on for the next five hours—sewing
your liver back together. Then it was still up in the air if your liver function
was going to come back. You can’t live without a functioning liver and it took
another eight or nine hours to see if your blood chemistry numbers—the only
way they could tell—were going to get to normal or near it.”


Nick shook his head. “I don’t remember any of this.”


”Be thankful—you aren’t supposed to.”


”I remember waking up in the—what, the CCRU? My father was there—he had one
of those surgical masks over his face, but I recognized him—his eyes, his
voice.” And I’m really not ready to talk about what happened—what I think
happened—when I first woke up. “I remember Agnello talking to me, too. She
sounded pretty happy.”


”Then you must have turned a corner. They let civilians in there only if
somebody’s in extremis or if they think there’s a real chance they’re
going to make it and if Maya Agnello is happy about a patient, it’s because
she has a very good reason.”


Nick looked at the psychiatrist. “While they were working on me, do you know
where my father was?”


”From what I’ve heard, first he was in the ER waiting room, where one of your
co-workers, a woman named Archer, gave the cops a statement and your father
heard it. I think that was the first time he learned just what had happened.
Then somebody took him and some other lawyer—Masterson?--to the Trauma Unit
waiting room where he spent another five hours until Agnello came down to tell
him that it would still be another eight or nine hours before they knew whether
you’d make it or not.”


Nick put his hands behind his head and looked at the ceiling. “Dad must have
been going through—going through—“ He couldn’t finish.


”It didn’t end there,” Pritchard said. “The CCRU was the last he saw of you
for the next two days. They keep that unit as sterile as an operating room, so
they whisked him in and out and then he didn’t see you again until you got to
the step-down unit. That was about two days later, and that’s a lot of time to
have to wait to see someone you love, especially if you’re not sure you’ll
ever see them alive again—no matter what they tell a patient’s family,
there’s always room to be pessimistic.”


Nick just shook his head, biting his lower lip. “This is—overwhelming,” he
said, unaware that his sentiments echoed those of his father.


”What’s overwhelming—what happened to you or how he’s reacting?”


”Both.”


”Let’s take his reaction first. Nick, I know this can be hard to put up
with—you want to get better and get out of here and take on the world again
and that’s great—but remember, your father almost lost his only child. You
say you love him, and I don’t doubt you do, but speaking as a parent myself,
there’s no way to describe how he loves you. There’s no way to describe just
how devastating losing you would be. Yes, he’d eventually come to terms with
it, but he wouldn’t get over it. So if he wants to do a little reverting as
far as you’re concerned, let him. If he starts now, he’ll get over it that
much faster.”


Nick smiled ruefully. “I just hope he can keep it under control when we’re
around other people.”


”Like I said, he’ll get over it. It just may take awhile. As for what happened
to you, well, that’s going to take a little longer and you may have to work a
little harder. I really think you and I should talk more about it. Do you want
to?”


Nick touched his lips with his tented fingers. “Like I said, I’ve never talked
to a psychiatrist before.”


”Doesn’t mean you’re crazy. And don’t worry about saying the wrong thing
and getting fed through the bars for the rest of your life—I’m not a cop and
I don’t have to make a quota of committed patients. The kind of experience
you’ve had can generate a lot of serious thoughts about some serious subjects.
I try to make that a little easier is all.”


”Well, then—yeah, some of what’s been going on needs to be talked about, I
guess. And I’m talking to my father more than I used to and I think I like it,
but there are some things I—well, I don’t think he’d want to hear them any
more than I’d want to tell him about them. Yes, I’d like for you and me to
talk.”


Pritchard looked at his watch. “Okay, then, but to quote a professor—way back
when I was a freshman in college, --Well, I see our time is up.’ I’ll be in
again tomorrow.”


Nick managed a grin. “Better make it before one o’clock. I think Dad’s gonna
do just what he did today—come in and stay the whole time.”


”Okay, Nick. See you tomorrow.”


Pritchard left and Nick stared at the wall. How am I supposed to handle this? I
almost died—I think maybe I did. I guess I really need to talk to Pritchard or
somebody or I’ll go over the edge for sure. And Dad—oh, God, Dad. Dad must
have gone through hell. How can I throw more of this at him? Well, there’s at
least one thing I can do.


He reached for the telephone. Reading the directions superimposed on the dial
pad, he noted that the cost of a local call would be added to the hospital room
bill. Fine, since I don’t have my wallet and can’t use a phone card. He
dialed his father’s home number.
 
 “Hi, Dad,” he said when Burton answered.  ”Just wanted to see if the phone 
worked and say good night.”


”Well, it works, all right,” Burton said. It’s wonderful to answer the phone
and not have to dread what might be on the other end. “Nicholas, why aren’t
you asleep?”


”I’m getting there,” Nick replied. “Here comes one of those nice nurses with
something that looks like a sleeping pill in one of those little paper cup
things. Good night, Dad. I love you.”


”I love you, too, son,” Burton replied. “Good night, sweetheart. Sleep well.”


Nick put the phone down and swallowed the capsule. Sweetheart, huh? Well, what
was it Pritchard said, let him get it out of his system? Anyway who cares, as
long as it’s just between him and me? It’s nobody’s business but ours.


The End of Part 3


--+--


Hostage To Fortune, Part 4

Alvin Masterson was alone in the LSoP office on the Saturday of a
very eventful week. Although there was plenty of work to do, the
budget didn't allow for paying anyone the extra hours. Alvin, being
the director and on a flat salary therefore came in to do what he
could himself. He made a note in a file–one that Nick Fallin had been
working on until the previous Monday morning–and sighed. Whatever
else, Nick was one damn good lawyer and LSoP needed him. Besides,
Alvin reflected, I like him, cold fish that he sometimes is. The
phone rang. Alvin shook his head and picked it up. "Legal Services,"
he said.

"Alvin?"

"My God–Nick! What–where–how ya doing? You had us worried for awhile,
there, buddy."

"They finally put me in a room with a phone. Here's the number–"
Nick gave it. "How'm I doing? Well, I feel all right, but I'm missing
a part here and there, they tell me–nothing I can't get along
without, though. How are all you guys? My father told me Lulu and the
Sherwood woman and the kids are okay."

"Yeah, they're all okay–because of you. I hope you know that, Nick–
that was one hell of a thing you did."

"I dunno. Somebody had to."

"Well, not everybody did."

"Uh-huh. Listen, Alvin–I heard something about you waiting with my
father for some of the time on Monday. Thanks."
"That's okay. I guess I kinda felt responsible–you were working for
me when it happened."

"Well, I'm working for you because of something I did, so the only
one who's responsible is me. Anyway, what's going on over there?"

"Not an awful lot. There's a stack of stuff but not many people
around to do it. I'm sorry, Nick–I didn't want to dump my problems on
you."

"Well, since I'm the cause of about half of them–." Alvin
snorted. "Listen, Alvin–I'm supposed to be working with you, but
right now I obviously can't come into the office."

"Well, no."

"So why don't you and Lulu and James and whoever else is involved
with things come in here this coming Monday morning about 9 a.m.? By
then I'll be finished with what they call breakfast around here and
we can go over who's appearing in front of what judge and talk
tactics and so forth."

"Well, I don't know–isn't that outside visiting hours?"

"Yeah, but you can work around them without too much trouble, I've
noticed. If I tell the nurses you have to see me and you can't be
here any other time I can probably work on their sympathies–they seem
to like me."

"Not surprising. You're a good-lookin' guy and they respond to that.
And you know, the cops in this town like you and lots of nurses like
cops and by extension the people cops like."

"I guess. Seems I let myself catch a bullet in place of a cop."

"Yeah," Alvin said. "And the reason you got shot in the first place
was because those idiot SWAT team cops screwed up. Your father and I
had quite a session with the SWAT team commander about that. They
just about admitted that they didn't really know what was going on
before they went in–that's why everything came apart."

"I didn't know any of that."

"Oh. Well, don't let your dad know I told you, okay? I think he
probably wants to tell you himself."


"You got it. Anyway, this whole thing was about trying to keep
Sherwood from shooting a cop," Nick said. "Did you hear anything
about him? I hope he's okay."

"Who, the cop? Or Sherwood?"

"Sherwood. Dad said the cop was fine."

"Sherwood's undergoing psychiatric evaluation, last I heard,"Alvin
said.

"So am I, I guess–I've had a shrink talking with me about what
happened."

"How's that going?"

"Okay. I have a lot of thinking to do about this and it helps to have
a sounding board. It also helps to have something else to think
about. Can you guys make it in here Monday morning? "

"Sure, but you don't have to do that."

"Oh, why not? Alvin, I'm going crazy from all this forced inactivity
and I've gotta get back in the groove sometime. I just talked to Jake
Straka at F and A and I'm going to sneak some of their stuff in here
and get back to work. If I'm going to do it for them, I can darn well
do it for you."

"Well, God knows we can use your talent. Okay. we'll see you then."
Well. Now we've got seminars scheduled with the resident legal
genius who apparently not only wants to do the job he was mandated to
do, but wants to help us do ours better. Whattaya know?

Nick rang off. Okay, there's an ulterior motive here, he thought.
Yes, I want that 1,500 hours of community service over with. But I
really get into what I'm doing there, too. Guess I like the
challenge. And I might as well try to do something for the rest of
the world as long as I'm gonna spend more time on the planet. What
did Dad say about this, `You put your soul into it'? Until that
moment I wasn't sure I had one. First time for everything. Dad. I
have a feeling the less Dad knows about this, the better. And it was
the SWAT team that screwed up? That's interesting. Wonder why Dad
hasn't mentioned that so far.

A call to his probation officer elicited more surprising
information. "Hey, man," Kurt Stinich said, "From what I've been
hearing, you could run over the mayor and park on the City Hall steps
and nobody would say word number one."

"Yeah?" Nick replied. "Geez, Kurt, all I did was try to keep some
people from getting hurt. I don't think I did anything all that
special."

"Are you serious? That cop has a wife and four kids, and they have
him instead of memories of a funeral because of you."

"C'mon, Kurt–anybody else would've done the same thing."

"Well, not everybody did–you did."

"Yeah. How many violations did I pile up, being in the some room with
somebody with a gun and all that, anyway?"

"Cut the crap, Fallin–you know and I know this one's a freebie for
you."

"If you say so. What I wanted to talk to you about was, I'm gonna be
in here for at least another week, maybe two, and I wondered what you
wanted to do about visits and tests and so forth."

"Are you really worried about that? I know where to find you.
Besides, you've probably got so much stuff in you that's medically
necessary that any kind of a test would be a joke."

"Yeah. This one doctor–the surgeon who put me back together–said she
was gonna use something that wasn't addictive–said she never got a
patient hooked and wasn't gonna start with me."

"They can do that now. I think it's great. Listen, Nick–I'd like to
drop in sometime if I can, just to talk."

"Sure–I'm not going anywhere. Could you make it before one? Official
visiting hours are from one to eight-thirty and I think my father is
sort of reserving that for himself–at least that's the impression I'm
getting."

"I can see where he's coming from," Stinich said. "Be surprising if
he didn't. No problem. I'll be talking to you." He rang off, thinking
about the meeting with a certain judge and the district attorney he
had been bidden to attend later that day. He had a feeling some
surprising developments were in store for Nicholas Fallin.

At the hospital, Mark Pritchard, the staff psychiatrist working with
Nick, came by for a visit and Nick shared some of the morning's
developments with him. Other assorted physicians, nurses and staff
dropped in to draw blood, take his temperature or otherwise complete
the requirements of the morning routine, and so it was perhaps 15
minutes before one o'clock when Nick decided on a constitutional
around the unit. He took things slowly and stopped to talk to some of
the nurses and look at the view out several corridor windows, so it
was slightly after one p.m. when he got back to room 04.

"Nicholas, where in the hell have you been?!" Burton demanded as Nick
came in.

"Down the hall. Come on, Dad–I'm supposed to be walking around,
remember?" Nick sat on the edge of his bed, eased his slippers off
and let himself recline. He had found that he was more comfortable
when the head of the bed was nearly upright, and so didn't have far
to lean back.

His father took a deep breath. "I wish you'd wait for me. I don't
think you should be doing something that strenuous by yourself."

"Well, `by myself'–Dad, there are nurses and aides and whoever all
over the place. And what's so strenuous about walking–slowly?" This
is what Pritchard was talking about last night, as if I didn't know.
I'd better be careful about getting some work done–we could have a
real problem here. "Okay, okay. I'll wait for you next time–that's a
promise."

Father and son settled themselves and lunch was brought in. Mollified
by the fact that Nick seemed able to put away more of what was on his
tray, Burton unbent a little. "I'm sorry, Nicholas–I overreacted."

"It's okay." Nick grinned at his father. "I'm kinda used to it."

"Ah–" Burton reached and squeezed Nick's hand. "It's just–if I don't
know where you are and what you're doing I get–anxious. And since
Monday I feel that way a lot more intensely." He dropped the
subject. "You wanted your cell phone and some other things. I brought
them." He put the sealed bag the nurse had given him that first day
in the Emergency Department waiting room on Nick's over-bed table and
Nick looked through its contents. "I have your car keys–they're at
home," Burton said. "The police offered to move the BMW and I told
them to put it in the garage. Fits right next to the Cadillac. "

"That's good," Nick said. "I did wonder how many tickets I'd
collected by now."

"None at all," Burton said. "I was told, `There isn't a cop in
Pittsburgh who'll ticket that car'. As for the cell phone–I don't
think they like you to use it in here–there's just too much equipment
it could interfere with."

"Well, there's always the old fashioned way–this thing." Nick patted
the "land line" phone, which sat on his over-bed table.

"Yes. Just make sure you don't over-use it."

"Yes, Dad."

"Uh-huh. I've heard that before. It means you're going to humor me
and then do exactly what you want to."


Nick hoped he didn't look as guilty as he suddenly felt. My God, is
he reading my mind? "Why no tickets on the car?"


"The cops said to tell you they appreciate what you did." He paused
abruptly.


"What?" Nick said, catching sight of the look on his father's face.


"What you did was let yourself get shot," Burton said in the very
quiet voice that his son recognized as the precursor to serious
trouble.


"I suppose."


"Suppose, nothing. That's exactly what happened. Nicholas, why did
you decide to stay in that room with that man and that gun?"


"Dad, I honestly don't remember deciding anything. Lulu and the other
woman and the kids were there and my first thought was: get them out.
The only way to do that was to let Sherwood think he was running
things, and the only way to do that was to let him point that thing
at me. He didn't act with intent–I'm sure of that."


"His intent is not the issue–yours is." Burton appeared to be
thinking out loud more than conversing. "Alvin has an ex-wife he's
still at least peripherally connected to. The Archer woman is
married, Mooney said something about a nephew. All of them have
someone who depends on them for financial or emotional support." He
looked at Nick. "Is that why you did this, Nicholas, because you
thought you were expendable?"


"Expendable? Dad, I really don't know what you're talking about."


Burton took a deep breath. "Damn it, Nicholas, I'm aware that this
hasn't been any picnic for you. But I spent the worst ten or twelve–I
don't even know how many–hours on Monday waiting to hear if you were
going to make it or not. All I could think of was how much I need you–
not just at the firm, either. Nicholas, I don't even want to think
how–empty–my life would be without you."


Nick met his father's gaze. "Dad–"


" I'm your father, and I love you." Burton rested his forehead on one
hand. "Losing you is too horrible to contemplate–and it nearly almost
happened. And I want to know why. What put you across a table from a
loaded gun–a gun that went off?"


One of us has to stay calm here. "Dad, I've been talking to a staff
shrink–a Dr. Pritchard–since Wednesday. I think if I were suicidal
he'd have picked up on it by now. I don't think I can give you an
answer–besides the one I just did–I felt responsible for the safety
of those other people." Nick took a breath. "I can't tell you why I
felt the way I did or why I made the decisions I did, except that I
didn't want Ray Sherwood to get in more trouble for shooting a cop. I
pushed his gun hand down so he wouldn't aim at the cop–or me. If I
hadn't got halfway out of that chair I think when he fired he would
have hit the wall or the floor. All those cops coming in startled me
as much as they did him and I think that's why I started to stand up
and that's why I got hit. It sure wasn't intentional–on my part or
Sherwood's."


"That brings it back to the cops," Burton said grimly. "That idiot
Walters–"


"Who?"


"The SWAT team commanding officer–he's the one who decided to go
charging in there without knowing what the situation was."


"Oh, I–heard–I thought that might be it."


"Why is that?" Burton asked.


Oops. Better watch it–guess I'm not as alert as I thought. "I've just
been going over it a little now and then. I've been going over a lot
of things. Dad, all I can tell you is–I'm still here. Why am I still
here? I don't know. That wasn't a conscious decision on my part,
either." He put his hands behind his head and looked pensively at
the ceiling. "Maybe it was somebody else's. Do you know anything
about–about–near-death experiences?"


"Just things I've read," Burton replied. I watched you go through one
and I don't want to do it again. "Something about bright lights and
seeing people you–knew. Things like that. Truthfully, Nicholas, I
never really thought much about it."


"I never did either–until now."


"Oh?"


"I've been thinking about the day I–was shot." Nick turned his head
and looked at his father. who, he saw, had winced "Look, if you don't
want to talk about this--"


Burton found the locking mechanism that kept the bed rail up and
released it, then sat on the edge of the bed, putting his left hand
next to Nick's right side and propping himself on his left arm. "Son,
if there's one thing I've learned over the course of the past week
it's that being able to talk to someone you love is a privilege, no
matter what the subject of the conversation may be. Tell me."


Nick sighed. "I'm having trouble trying to get it all arranged–you
know, what went on when."


"Things got confused for awhile, from what I hear."


"I guess. Anyway, I think I was still in the emergency room–I don't
know how I know that. I think so, but I'm not sure."


"Doesn't matter too much," Burton put up a hand and pulled gently at
his mustache.


"No, it doesn't," Nick agreed. "Anyway, I've been reading some things
about what people say happens, and I think I–came close." I don't
think you can handle the news that I was without a heartbeat for a
minute and ten seconds. Just how close is something I don't think I'm
going to tell you. Not now, maybe not ever.


"Yes."


"It was pretty much like the books say–there's a lot of white light
and it feels good, peaceful." He paused "This is the hard part, Dad.
I saw–Mom.


"I guess that's to be expected," Burton said. "Anyway, you're
reporting the facts as you know them. What happened?"


"I started–moving toward her." Nick said slowly. "I don't remember
walking, but I was moving toward her. She held up her hand–like
this." He held up his left hand. "I could see her wedding ring–I was
that close to her."


Burton moved closer to Nick, although neither he nor his son
noticed. "And?" he said in what he hoped was an encouraging voice.
Her wedding ring? Oh, my God. This was real. It really happened. My
baby is telling me about what happened when he really almost died.


"She held up her hand and then she–she said–she said, `Go back,
Nicky. Daddy needs you.' I–I don't know if I was moving or she was
but then she got farther and farther away and–I–I don't remember
anything else until I woke up and you were there."


Burton smiled, aware of the effort it cost him. "I do need you,
Nicky. She got that one right." He turned serious. "I didn't know if
I'd ever have to mention this to you, Nicholas, but I didn't let you
see your mother after she was–laid out–because I didn't want you to
remember her that way. I wanted you to think of her the way she was
when she was living. You had already watched her die, so I thought
you deserved to remember her alive." He shook his head. "Maybe it
wasn't the best way to handle it, but that's what I thought at the
time. Anyway, when your mother knew she was–not going to recover–she
asked me to plan her funeral with her." He looked at Nick. "We talked
about it when you were in school; we didn't want to upset you more.
One of the things she asked me to do was make sure she'd be buried
wearing her wedding band. She took it off after the divorce, but she
still had it. I still have mine."


Nick sat up straighter and Burton took him in his arms. "There was no
way you could have known that," Burton continued in an anguished
whisper as Nick put his arms around his father and laid his head on
his shoulder. 
 
"Yes, Nicholas, I think you had a near-death experience. I think you were just 
about to join your mother. And I
think–your mother–gave you back to me. She gave you to me once when
you were born and now she gave you back to me again." And maybe she
just gave me permission to tell you some of the other things I've
never let you know about. Not now–this is as much as both of us can
handle right now--but someday. Someday soon. 
 
"Are you–have you talked  about this with this Dr. Pritchard?" Burton asked as 
he slowly
loosened his embrace and let Nick back down onto his pillows.


Nick too let his hands slowly slip back along his father's arms and
then onto the bed. "No. Like I said, I've talked about some other
things with him, though."


"Well, it's up to you. You know, I've been talking to one of their
people, too. Seems they have a program for families. It helps.
Judging by the way I was acting a little while ago, I need to spend
more time in–session–they call it."


Nick looked amused. "That's something Pritchard and I talked about.
All I can do is let you work through this."


"Is that so?" Burton's smile matched his son's. "That means I can get
away with a lot more than I thought."


"Aw, Dad–." They hugged again. "Whatever happens, Dad, I love you."
Nick said.


"Oh, baby," Burton murmured somewhere near Nick's left ear, "I love
you, too. So much."


"But– " Nick said as his father released him, "I thought about this
and I didn't do it because I was trying to–prove something–or
anything else like that. I just saw a need and I responded."


"Well," Burton said after a moment, "that being the case, I think I
have tomorrow morning planned."


"How?" Nick asked. "Wait a minute–tomorrow's Sunday, isn't it?


"Sure is."


"You're not going in to the office, are you?"


"Might accomplish a lot if I did–no telephones, nobody running in
screaming about the sky is falling–just peace and quiet. No,
Nicholas, I'm going to do something I haven't done in a very long
time, and that's go to church. All things considered, one of us
should."


"I guess so," Nick said. "I–I haven't been for an awfully long time
myself. Maybe after–all this–I should."


"Well, you aren't going to be in a position to for a while," Burton
said. "But I think I definitely ought to." He looked at his son. "I
have to say, Nicholas, every prayer I've ever prayed for you, about
you–"


"Because of me–" Nick interjected.


"Be that as it may– has been answered. Not always in the way I
thought or hoped or expected, but they've been answered."


Nick shook his head. "Well, I've sometimes wondered if mine got heard
at all, but put that way, I guess they were–on both counts."


By Wednesday of his second week in Room 6C-04, Nick thought he could
feel pleased with his accomplishments–the ones his father knew about
and the ones he didn't. In the "What Dad Knows About" column were
several interviews with police and investigators assigned to the
District Attorney's office and a press conference, all of which had
been conducted with his father present. The press conference had been
perhaps the most outstanding example of his father's skills as a
puppet master Nick had ever seen. He knew that Burton Fallin knew
several people in corner offices at Pittsburgh newspapers and
broadcast media outlets, but he had never imagined that a question-
and-answer period could be conducted like a cross-examination. No
member of the Pittsburgh press corps had asked questions to which
they didn't already know the answers. If I ever wanted any indication
of how he wants to run interference for me, this is one fine example,
Nick had thought. This isn't a press conference, it's a parade of
zombies. Scary.


As for the things his father didn't know about, well, some were
interesting, to say the least, Nick reflected. His phone call to Jake
Straka the Saturday after he had been moved to Unit 6C had resulted
in a stream of briefs, memos and phone conversations and some deals
that were rapidly approaching completion. What might happen when his
father found out the circumstances of their having been completed
was a subject of some speculation between Nick and Jake, but Nick was
not overly concerned, nor was his colleague–Burton Fallin respected
success. Besides, Nick said after hearing of Jake's part in the
events of that fateful Monday morning, Jake had definitely exceeded
the provisions of his job description.


"I think I wrecked the engine on his car–you'd have thought I
was at the Daytona Speedway or something getting there," Jake had
said.


"You drove him? Jake, I didn't know that. Thanks, man–that's beyond
the call," Nick said.


"Well, we heard most of it in my office–"


"Hold it. I haven't heard any of this. How did you hear what was
happening? One of the last things I remember thinking about is the
reaming out I was going to get for being late."


"Yeah, we were in your dad's office and he was fuming–you know how he
does."


"Boy, do I." They both laughed.


"That guy at Legal Services, Masterson, called and the first thing I
knew your dad turned pale and said some nut at Legal Services had a
gun pointed at you. Masterson hung up, and we went in my office and
heard the rest over the scanner. Your dad wanted to go over to Legal
Services, but I talked him out of it–"


"And a good thing too–that would've complicated the situation even
more."


"That's what I figured. Anyway, we heard them charging in and I think
we heard the gun go off. Somebody said something abut `hostage down,
hostage wounded' and then we heard they were taking you to the Trauma
unit at AGH, so I grabbed his car keys and we headed on over there.
Did your dad tell you about the cop?"


"No, what cop?"


"I was hoping I'd get stopped–I wanted a police escort if I could get
one. Well, this cop stopped us after I ran a light and so help me,
asked `Where's the fire?' and I told him what was going on and who I
was driving and he escorted us to the hospital."


"Salt of the earth, cops–sometimes. Nice work, Jake. Thanks. Thanks
for driving him, thanks for being there–thanks for everything."


"Glad to do it, man. And I–I'm real glad you're gonna get back here.
We miss you."


Jake is a good friend, Nick reflected. I'm lucky in more respects
than one.


From what Alvin Masterson had said–and Burton's own comments–
Nick surmised that his father did not particularly respect or admire
the Pittsburgh Police Department SWAT team. After one Captain Vernon
Walters of the SWAT team paid Nick a short, formal visit, Nick found
himself thinking that his father's opinion had some merit. Although
a wounded hostage meant that the exercise could not be considered an
unqualified victory, Walters maintained he had brought about a
successful conclusion to the episode.


"I don't really remember all that much of what happened, although one
thing that stands out in my mind is my being surprised at how many
officers were there," Nick said.


"It was my belief that the numbers of officers were called for. I saw
a classic hostage situation," Walters said. "I won't argue that it
could have ended better. I'm just glad you're recovering and we'll
try to make this a part of our training procedures."


"I would agree that from that viewpoint the episode had its uses,"
Nick said. "I appreciate your coming by, Walters. Please convey my
appreciation of their efforts to your people."


Walters left and Nick reclined and stared at the ceiling.


"What's going on?" Mark Pritchard asked. Nick realized he hadn't
heard his attending psychiatrist come in, so intense had been his
thoughts.


"I just had a conversation with a person who played a pivotal role in
recent events," Nick said.


"Who was that?"


"Vernon Walters–captain in the Pittsburgh Police Department, SWAT
team commander and according to various people–including Walters
himself– the guy who ordered that small army of cops to crash the
kaffeeklatsch I was having with Ray Sherwood."


"And?"


"And–I don't know, Mark. I was listening to this guy try to explain
why he thought a battalion of cops was necessary and I don't know any
more now than I did when we started. He said he saw a `classic
hostage situation'. I never did ask him what he defines as a `classic
hostage situation'–maybe I should have, but I never expected to find
myself at the mercy of someone whose zeal exceeded his judgement by
this wide a margin."


"That's what you think happened?"


"I'm beginning to think so. Look, I read the papers. I know how these
things are supposed to go down. If the cops were going to get
involved, I'd have thought they'd move in a lot more cautiously than
they did. That's the way it's supposed to be done–evaluate the
situation, set up the communications, establish rapport with the
hostage-taker. None of this happened this time. Walters said he'd
make this part of the training procedures, but that doesn't make me
feel too much better." 
"So how do you feel?"


"Resentful. And scared. Remember I mentioned I had a weird kind of a
dream that I didn't want to talk about?"


"Yes."


"Well, I talked about it with my father. I won't go into the details,
but Mark, I really had a near-death experience and it scared the hell
out of me. They're supposed to be comforting and calming and all that
good stuff and this one was, but when I start thinking about what it
really meant, I realize I was awfully close to dying right then.
That's a pretty sobering thought."


"Sure is."


"I don't regret being the one who stayed in that room with
Ray Sherwood and I don't regret keeping him from killing that cop,
but I sure do regret what my father had to go through because Vernon
Walters apparently can't think worth a damn. What Dad said to me was
that on that Monday he spent he didn't know how many hours wondering
if I was going to make it and they were the worst ones of his entire
life."


Nick paused and Pritchard saw him reach for a tissue. The
psychiatrist took a few minutes to look out the window.


"I mean–I think I've put my father through enough for one lifetime.
He didn't need this. And we're not talking rocket science here–
there's a set of procedures in place for this sort of thing and the
reason they exist is because they work. Walters didn't follow them
and that's why I almost died. I never regarded myself as being all
that important in the scheme of things, but I'd like to think that
when I die it'll be for a better reason than someone's ineptitude."


"Do you want anything to happen to Walters?"
"
What is there that could happen? The man's a captain–if he made it
this far he's probably got some kind of insurance–people in high
enough places–to insulate him long enough for him to grab himself a
couple more promotions before he retires and becomes a security
consultant or a private investigator. I don't know of too many cases
where cops were sued for unintentionally harming a victim in the
course of performing their duties–and as much as I hate to think of
that word `victim' in connection with myself, it applies. I've
concluded, reluctantly, that there are other things to think about."


"Do you suppose anyone else–like your father–is thinking about going
after Walters?"


"If he is, he sure hasn't told me about it. And I don't think he
would if I asked him. Mark, back when we talked the first night I
moved into this room I said I thought he'd been keeping the cops and
the reporters away from me and it sure felt like it. And when I did
talk to them–especially the press–it was really obvious he was–
orchestrating–everything."


"How do you react to that?"


"It's a little scary. I guess what I'm wondering is: if he can
control people–complete strangers–like that, what does he have in
store for me?"


"What do you think he has in store for you?"


"Well–I've been thinking about this, too–Mark some day I'm going to
get out of here, I know that. And I know they aren't going to let me
go home unescorted. And I know that my father is the logical person
for that. And I think it's a safe bet I'll be going to his house, not
mine."


"The house where you grew up?"


"When I was there at all, not in school or college or whatever."


"So what do you think is going to happen?"


Unconsciously imitating his father Nick looked at his clasped
hands. "I–well, I have a really strong suspicion that it's gong to be
a long time before he lets me off the leash."


"We talked about that a little, didn't we?"


"Yes, and I remember what we said, but I think it's gone a little
beyond that. The day I talked about that near-death experience with
him was the first full day I was here on this unit. I took a walk
around the floor and I got back in here a couple of minutes after he
arrived for visiting hours. He had a fit because I wasn't here when
he walked in. He said as much–if he doesn't know where I am or what
I'm doing, he gets antsy, and he said it's a lot more intense since I
got shot. Hell, it wasn't like that when I was 15 or 16."


"Nick, remember what I said about how he feels about you and how you
can't really understand it?"


"Yeah."


"I still maintain that, but–maybe I should have brought this up at
the time–there's something here you have to consider: Nick, what if
it had been him?"


"What?"


"What if it had been him? What if some nut walked into–what's your
outfit's name–Fallin and Associates–and put a nine-millimeter slug in
him? How do you think you would have reacted?"


Nick became very still while his face reflected a struggle among
several very powerful emotions. "Touché," he said quietly.
"
He almost lost you–you keep quoting him saying that, you keep saying
that. Your very existence is a gift he very well may have thought he
had no right to expect."


"A gift," Nick said. "If I've learned anything in the past two weeks
it's that life is a gift." He sat up straighter. "Mark, can I keep
seeing you after I leave the hospital?"


"As a senior resident I'm supposed to establish some short-term
therapy with selected patients. You can be one of them."


Nick grinned. "That'll get me off the leash a little." He
sobered. "That's not why I asked, though. I really think some things
need working on a little more."


"Great minds think alike–so do I."


Some of those other things arose about 40 minutes before one o'clock
the next day when, deep in a brief Lulu had left after the daily
seminar with the LSoP contingent, he did not notice that two people
were standing in his room until Judge Carolyn Handley cleared her
throat. 
"Man, when you concentrate, you really concentrate," Kurt
Stinich, who was standing next to the jurist, said. "We could have
had a night court session in here and you wouldn't have noticed."


"Sorry," Nick said. "I've been trying to catch up with things at
LSoP. Your Honor, Kurt, please sit down; sorry I can't stand up. They
still like it if I have some medical supervision when I do."


"Court's not in session yet, counselor, so relax," Handley
said. "This is informal. The District Attorney wanted to be here but
couldn't make it, so he sent–" Stinich presented a large florist's
box. 
"Oh," Nick said absently. "That's very kind of him. All the cops
in Pittsburgh and a lot of other people have been sending flowers, I
think. Kurt, if I could ask a favor, would you ask the nurses if
someone else might like them?"


"Not so fast, sport," Stinich said, grinning. "He put the box on
Nick's over-bed table and opened it. Inside were six wrapped
cheeseburgers and three milkshakes. "Fresh from The Incline, courtesy
of the DA," Handley said. "The opinion was you must be getting tired
of hospital food by now."


"Please tell the DA that he has at least one vote whenever he wants
to run for anything," Nick said. "You'll join me, I hope?"


"It's a little early–no, it's not," Handley said. "What's your
pleasure for the shakes–vanilla or chocolate?"


"Chocolate, please," Nick said. For a few minutes Nick, the judge who
had taken over his case when Richard Stanton died and his probation
officer indulged in the guilty pleasures of contraband junk food. At
last Judge Handley wadded up her sandwich wrapping and napkin and
shot them expertly into the wastebasket. Now we get to it, Nick
thought. You didn't waltz in here just to slip me a cheeseburger and
a shake.


"As you probably know, you're a pretty hot topic of conversation
around town right now," she said. "You saved four lives directly and
inadvertently kept a cop alive just by being where you were." 
Nickwas sure he looked as abashed as he felt. "Well–" he began.


"Why did you do it, Nick?" Handley asked. "I've been reading a lot of
statements, including yours, but I want to hear it from you."


"I wish people would stop calling it a hostage situation," Nick
said. "I wasn't any hostage. Nobody was holding me. I could get up
and leave whenever I wanted to. That's the first mistake everybody's
been making about this. Second, I wasn't any hero. Somebody had to
take the responsibility for the safety of those women and kids, and I
was the logical candidate. I wasn't being heroic–that's a load of–I
beg your pardon, Judge. I was the one who was there. Anybody else
would have done the same thing. As for that officer, well, I just
don't approve of cops getting shot–not if I can do something about
it. I'm glad it didn't hit him–he has a lot more people depending on
him than I do--but I don't think I was heroic." Nick paused. "I just
wish someone would tell me what's going on with Sherwood. "


"The man who shot you?"


"There was no intent on his part, I'm sure of that. That SWAT team
officer just surprised him. What happened next was reflex action."


"I don't know," Stinich mused. "You said yourself in that statement
you made to the DA's investigators that he was aiming over your
shoulder at that cop. That's why you moved the gun, wasn't it?"


"I just didn't want the poor bas–sorry, Judge–the poor guy to get in
more trouble. He wasn't thinking too clearly so I had to think for
him, that's all."


"That's all?" Handley said. "Playing brother's keeper almost got you
killed."


"That's been mentioned. I don't know about the `brother's keeper'
bit, either. Somebody had to do what I did; I was there to do it. I
feel responsible for Sherwood–after all, the guy was telling me his
troubles and I was trying to find a solution for him when it–
happened."


"Yes. The official opinion about what went down is that the SWAT team
officer appearing at the window was what startled Sherwood and led to
his shooting you, thereby putting you in immediate and deadly peril.
Thoughts?"


"If you want to be completely logical, I'm working at LSoP pro bono
because of what I did. Nobody else is responsible for my being there
but me. All right–Sherwood had the gun and he was the one who fired
it, and the SWAT team coming in led to his firing it, but if anybody
is responsible for my being in a place where I could get shot, I am. "


"And Sherwood?"


"They guy was plainly distraught. You could make a case for his not
being in his right mind from the very start. I personally don't think
he should be punished at all, but if somebody wants to give him
community service and anger management classes, that sounds like a
workable solution."


The judge and the probation officer looked at each other. "So, then,
if you were wearing a black nightshirt, that's what you'd do?"
Handley asked.


"Subject to what the law allows under the circumstances, yes."


"And it's your contention that your actions were simply a matter of
routine?"


"I don't know about routine–I was making up a lot of it as I went
along–but if you mean did I consider what I did to be nothing out of
the ordinary, the answer is yes."


"I see." Handley and Stinich looked at each other, then back at Nick.
Carolyn Handley was renowned among her colleagues and those who
appeared before her for her "judicial" face–the expression that
someone had only half-jokingly once said could turn a burlesque house
into the Supreme Court. She wore it now and suddenly Room 6C-04 at
Allegheny General Hospital was a courtroom.


"Nicholas Fallin," she said. "As you know, you pleaded guilty to a
misdemeanor charge of possession of a controlled substance. You were
sentenced by the late Richard Stanton to a fine of $10,000, three
years' probation and 1,500 hours of community service as a child
advocate. Since I took over the supervision of your case, I note that
you paid the fine, you have completed approximately 14 months of the
term of probation and at last count have put in slightly over one-
third of the hours of community service levied upon you.


"Some two weeks ago in the course of performing that community
service you placed yourself in harm's way to ensure the safety and
well-being of five other individuals, one a police officer, two of
them minor children–very nearly at the cost of your own life. You
have made an eloquent and obviously quite sincere argument for
leniency to be exercised in the case of the man who committed assault
with a deadly weapon upon your person.


"It is, therefore, the opinion of this court, an opinion with which
the District Attorney of Allegheny County, the Probation Department
and the Pittsburgh Police Department concur, that the maturity and
responsibility–to use one of your favorite words–shown by you in this
incident indicate that you have learned the lesson which the sentence
originally imposed upon you was meant to convey. This court therefore
finds that you have satisfactorily completed the terms of your
probation and, subject to your agreement, releases you from any
further supervision and obligations."


Handley leaned forward. "In other words, Nick, all you have to do is
say yes and that's it–it's over. You're too smart to get in any more
trouble. You can go back to being a corporate hotshot and put all
this behind you."


Except for when I look at the surgery scars and have an occasional
bad dream. But they'll fade, too, at least that's what they tell me.
I just say okay and that's it. No more piss in a cup every day, no
more meetings, no more LSoP, no more nuthin'. Six months ago I would
have jumped at this.


"Your Honor," Nick found his voice. "Does Alvin Masterson know about
this?"


"No."
"Does my father know about this?"


"No."


"I see." The ball's in my court. What about it?


Nick took a deep breath. "Your Honor, I am more deeply honored than I
can say by your opinion of my actions and the motives behind them.
That opinion, quite frankly, means more to me than anything else that
has been discussed here today. In response, I can only say that I am
thankful that I had an opportunity to be of service.


"As to the matter which you have discussed, I am compelled to say
that I feel such action on the part of the court would be
inappropriate at this time." For the first time, Nick allowed himself
a small smile. "I'm sure Kurt here is sick of the sight of me, and I
can't say I blame him, but I just don't think right here, right now
is the moment to end this probation. Besides, I still have work to do
at LSoP." And if I agree to this now, it's a win by default. It is
not a victory.


"You realize what you're saying?" Judge Handley asked.


"Yes, ma'am. This is my choice and I make it of my own free will,
fully aware of the ramifications. And speaking of ramifications, I
think this would set an extremely dangerous precedent."


"What precedent? This stays in the family–all the people who should
know about it do know about it and it doesn't go further."


Nick shook his head. "I beg to differ. Come on, Judge, Kurt–you know
there's no better way to spread something around than whisper it in a
dark corner in a courthouse. Besides, do this and you'll have every
idiot like me running around putting himself in front of a gun to try
for a sentence reduction. The health care system couldn't handle it."


Judge Handley shook her head. "I have to admit you're right. All the
same, can you believe this, Kurt? We take this guy up to the top of
the mountain, show him the kingdoms of the earth, and he tells us
they're toxic waste dump sites. What're you gonna do?" She turned her
attention back to Nick. "Look, Nick, I'll want to talk to you about
this, say six months from now. Keep your calendar open, okay? In the
meantime, Kurt, what seems to you workable?"


"I can drop in on him. We'll waive the meetings and the drug tests
until he's out and around again and then we'll talk about it. And no,
Nick, I'm not tired of meeting with you–frankly, considering some of
what I have to deal with, you're one of the brighter lights of my day–
even though you can be a pain in the butt sometimes." Stinich
grinned. He turned to the judge. "Boss lady, we've got to skedaddle–
Papa Bear is probably pulling into the parking garage right now."


"Excuse me," Nick said. "Does `Papa Bear' mean who I think it does?"


"Uh-huh," Judge Handley said. "That's been his PD code name for about
two weeks now."


"I'm not sure I want to know this, but I'll ask anyway," Nick
said. "What do they call me?" If it's `Baby Bear' so help me, I'm
gonna jump right out that window.


Judge Handley looked him directly in the eye. "I am not kidding about
this," she said. "Two weeks ago the Pittsburgh Police Department
officially code-named you `Galahad'–as one who is noble, pure and
unselfish. It fits." She stood up and collected her purse. "Court's
adjourned," she said.. She and Stinich left.


Galahad, huh? Nick leaned back against his pillows. I just wish I
measured up to that half as much as Handley and Stinich think I do.
It's nice to know they think so, though A hospital housekeeping aide
came in and to Nick's relief, emptied the waste basket. If, as
Stinich surmised, Burton Fallin was on the way in, the evidence of
the cheeseburger wrappers and milkshake containers would not have to
be explained. Good–I don't have to tell Dad about this just yet. I
think I just made a real, no-shit, mature, adult decision, and I'm
going to have to do some serious thinking about it. Better not
mention that `Papa Bear' business just yet, either. He smiled. Papa
Bear. Oh, my.


Nick decided to defer discussing Judge Handley's visit with his
father for a number of reasons, one of which was his absorption in
the deals he was working on with some Fallin and Associates clients.
What happened the following day, a Friday, was, he later supposed,
inevitable. That afternoon he had been deep in a conversation with a
Fallin and Associates client–so deep he did not notice his father had
come into the room until the receiver suddenly was smoothly drawn out
of his hand.


"He'll call you back in about a month," Burton said into it. He hung
up, folded his arms and looked at his son. "Just how long has this
been going on?"


"For about a week."


"Call this recuperating?"


"Dad–I got shot in the liver, not in the brain."


"The only part of that sentence I heard is the first three words."


"Look–I know you want me to take it easy, but there's a limit to how
much `easy' I can take. Dad, I've got to get back to work–it's who I
am."


"How many times do we have to go over this? I almost lost you and I'm
not going to risk it again. And I decided the first night you were in
here and this confirms it–when you get out of here you're not going
back to Ellsworth Avenue–not right away. And you're not going back to
the firm or to Legal Services until you're ready."


"You mean until you decide I'm ready."


"Yes."


"How much input into that decision do I get?"


"At this moment, very little."


"Dad–I can understand your feelings, but I think you're not being
very reasonable." It's gonna be like this, huh? Come on, Dad–give me
a break–and do it some time before I'm ready for Social Security.
Sheesh.


"Neither do I. Reasonable has nothing whatever to do with this."


"All right. How long can I expect to be sequestered in Castle
Fallin?" Might as well get it all out on the table.


"That's something else that remains to be seen." Burton relaxed
slightly. "Castle Fallin? Now that has possibilities."


A knock at the door, followed by Dr. Agnello, interrupted the
conversation.


"Oh, good–you're here, Mr. Fallin. I wanted to make sure I discussed
this with you and Nick both. Frankly, Nick, you're progressing faster
than I had expected."


"I'm full of surprises, I guess."


"Yes. Well, I think I have one for you. If everything keeps going all
right, you can expect to go home Saturday."


"No fooling?"


"I never kid about a patient's condition or a discharge date. Unless
something goes very wrong–and I don't expect it to–you're out of here
tomorrow."


"Who do we have to talk to so we can nominate you for the Nobel Prize
in medicine?" Burton asked.


"Nick is a pretty good substitute. You lawyers don't look for a prize
when you win a case–winning is prize enough. When a patient comes in
here in the shape Nick was and walks out I know I'm good at what I
do. That's all the prize I need."


"Glad I could help boost your self-esteem," Nick said.


"Well, do me a favor and don't have an encore, okay?"


"Agreed–once was enough."


Dr. Agnello smiled. "Nick, I'm going to miss occasionally dropping in
on those morning confabs with your LSoP colleagues. I enjoyed meeting
some of the people you work with."


"Interesting, were they?" Burton asked.


Agnello and Nick looked at each other. "Oops," she said.


"I'm already in trouble for pulling off a couple of hot ones at
Fallin and Associates," Nick told his surgeon. "This isn't going to
make much difference."


"Mr. Fallin, before you get hot under the collar about this, you
should be aware that Nick hasn't shown any ill effects," Maya
Agnello said. "As a matter of fact, I think this is something that's
facilitated his recovery."


"There are other issues here, and Nicholas knows what they are,"
Burton said. "But I'd rather concentrate on the fact that he's going
home. Will you or the nurses give us his discharge instructions
tomorrow?"


"I think you already know some of them–no heavy lifting, don't
overdo. Nick, it would probably be a good idea if you didn't drive
for a couple of weeks, too. Given where your incision is, it just
won't be too comfortable. And I'd stay away from alcohol for a while.
Your liver is regenerating and repairing itself, but I wouldn't put
any undue stress on it. And I never discussed this with you before,
Nick, but you lost a spleen, and that's an organ that plays a
significant role in fighting off infections. You don't have to live
in a bubble–"


"Dad, don't look so disappointed," Nick said.


"–but you need to be reasonably careful. And you're going to find
yourself resting a lot–it's partly due to the injury, partly due to
the surgery and partly due to the anaesthesia. So don't try to put in
full days just yet. But going back to work will help you recover
faster, so definitely put it on your agenda. " She smiled at both
Fallins. "I'll be a little sorry to see you leave, Nick–we don't
often have patients as distinguished as you around here."


"I don't think I did anything special," Nick said.


"A lot of other people would argue that," his surgeon told him. "But
I'm also impressed with your strength of character. Do you remember
what you told that paramedic?"


Nick flushed briefly. "Yes."


"You were going into shock when you did. Fighting off that kind of
overwhelming systemic reaction isn't something everyone can
consciously decide to do."


"Like this whole thing–it had to be done so I did it."


"Well, you definitely added something to this hospital." She
rose. "I'll try to stop by tomorrow. Meantime, you can start
packing." Dr. Agnello left.


Burton folded his arms. "Morning confabs with the LSoP crowd, hm?"


"Don't get mad at Alvin, Dad. It was my idea."


"You seem to have had a lot of ideas. It would be nice if you let me
in on a few of them every now and then."


"Funny–I was thinking the same thing about you. Are you going to go
after Walters?"


"I haven't decided yet. Don't sidetrack."


"We were discussing this before Agnello came in, weren't we? Dad, I'm
going to have to walk into that conference room at LSoP sometime.
Having the crew in here made it a lot easier to think about."


"Uh-huh. What about the work for the firm?"


"Like I said, they didn't remove my brain, just my spleen. Don't tell
me you're unhappy about the fact that I'm adding to F and A billable
hours."


Burton looked at his hands. "I'm unhappy that you seem to be exerting
yourself when you should be taking it easy. And I'm really unhappy
that you feel you have to hide things from me. Nicholas, I want us
to do more than work together. That's what you once said, too, isn't
it?"
"I seem to remember that, yes."


"I've seen you more in the past three weeks than I have since–my God,
I don't know, maybe since you were in elementary school. I want to
keep that up. I can't match this level once you're home, I know that,
but I want to come close to it. And I'm not ready to share you with
anyone else just yet. I told Alvin Masterson that a day or two ago
and he understands. I just hope you do."


"Yes, I do," Nick said. "But Dad–you're going to have to share me
with Alvin and the LSoP gang, for awhile, anyway."


"I know that."


"You don't know about some other visitors. One of them was Vernon
Walters–please don't get mad–"


Burton took some deep breaths. "What was it Jay Gould or somebody
said? I won't sue him–it takes too long. I'll just destroy him."


"He'll probably do that himself–he's a complete jerk. No, Dad, I just
told you about him because you said you don't want me to hide things
from you. Okay, that's a start."


"Yes, it is."


"The other visitors were Kurt Stinich, my probation officer–"


"I know."


"–And Carolyn Handley."


"Oh?"


"They wanted to know why I–did it."


"What did you tell them?"


"The same thing I've been telling you and everyone else–I don't
really know. I saw a need and I met it."


Burton had been sitting in the visitor's chair. Now he moved to
Nick's bed and lowered the railing and sat on the edge, as he had
when Nick told him about his near-death experience. "That wasn't all,
was it?" he asked.


"No." Nick said. Here it comes. God, don't let me mess this up. Don't
let him be too angry. "Handley made me an offer."


"That you couldn't refuse?"


"No, one that I could–that I felt I had to refuse."


"I think I know what it was," Burton said.


"I was right," Nick said. "You can read my mind."


"Not entirely. We both just regard certain subjects as being of
particular importance."


Nick lowered his gaze. Burton put his hand under his son's chin and
gently lifted Nick's face. Their eyes met. "Tell me, baby," Burton
said softly.


"She–she said she thought my actions demonstrated I had learned what
Stanton wanted me to learn from this. She said I was too smart to get
in any more trouble. She said all I had to do was say `yes' and that
would be the end of the probation, the community service–everything.
The whole thing would be over."


"I think I know what you told her," Burton said. He put both arms
around his son and held him.


"I've been thinking about this since I talked with her," Nick said
from his father's left shoulder. "I–Dad, I don't really know why I
told her `no.' I gave her some reasons, one of them being I thought
it would set a dangerous precedent and there would be no way to keep
it quiet, but that was–surficial."


Burton tightened his hold. "What's the real reason, then?"


"It just–didn't feel right." He pulled back slightly so he could look
at his father. "It's a win by default. That's not a real win. I want
to win this one all the way. I can't do that if I just walk away from
it now." Nick went back into his father's arms. All right, this is
the best I can do. If you don't want to accept my reasoning, well,
that's something I have to live with.


Burton tightened his embrace. "Nicholas, Nicholas," he murmured. "You
can make me so proud of you–and at the same time–" He moved one hand
to stroke Nick's hair. "I don't want you in a place where things like
this can happen. I don't want you away from me, away from the firm.
And even more than I want what you do for the firm I need you because
you're you. I guess what I'm saying is, no matter how old you get, no
matter what you do, you'll always be my little boy. Parents feel like
that about their children." He smiled at Nick, even while knowing
tears were beginning to form and fall. "And –well, what you did–even
more than stopping that bullet–what you told Handley–that was the act
of someone with honor and integrity. You are the person I hoped you
would become."


Nick sighed and let himself settle into his father's shoulder. "Okay.
Now all I have to do is figure out who is the person I hoped I would
become."


"We can work on it. Nicholas–telling me what you told Handley–that
took courage, and don't think I don't know it. You're making a pretty
good start." He let his hold on his son relax–reluctantly, as he
always did. "Turning to practical things–what do we do with all the
arrangements in here?"


"They keep on coming," Nick said. "Let's do what we've been doing–
give them to other patients. There's no point in taking them home."


"All right. Alvin gave me your briefcase and I suppose I should bring
it in–there are probably some things that logically belong in it."


"Ah–yeah," Nick said. "Don't worry, Dad–I didn't close that many
deals."


"No? Well, I won't ask who helped you with them–I know you wouldn't
tell me, anyway. Some people are getting nice bonuses, no matter what
happens. Can I ask what you talked about with your friends from LSoP?"


"Sure. Business, mostly–who was appearing in front of what judge,
what approach to use. I wasn't quite sure what Lulu Archer was trying
to tell me once–I think it was `thank you for saving my life,'
something like that. She didn't have to–I would have done the same
thing for anyone else."


"Well, you did it for her–that's probably what made it special from
her standpoint. She and her husband were very helpful the first day
you were–in here."


"Her husband? How did you meet Brian?"


"Alvin tapped him for information–nobody wanted to tell me anything
and he helped a little. He didn't tell me everything, though."


Nick, who had been sorting through the drawer in the bedside table,
had stopped abruptly on hearing what his father had just said. He
relaxed a little. "That's good."


"What's this about?"


"Dad, I don't think–" Nick thought carefully about where this was
going. "I–look, I asked Pritchard if I could keep seeing him after I
went home and he said yes. I think I'd feel better about telling you
what Brian didn't let you know about if I did it in a session with
you and him. It's kind of–intense."


"Oh."


"I will tell you, though–that's a new resolution I just made. I'll
never not tell you something, but sometimes I need to be the one to
pick the time."


"Well, let's see how it goes."


"Okay." Nick went back to the contents of the drawer, realizing as he
did so that he had made another decision. Letting his father fuss
over him without comment was another gift Nick was, he realized, in a
unique position to give. Yes, I'm gonna grit my teeth sometimes, but
he'll never see me do it. And when you think about it, that's not so
much to ask, Nick thought. Like Pritchard said, what would I do if it
had been Dad? That's something to keep in mind.


The End of Part 4