Beckett doesn’t say anything for a few minutes, graciously allowing me time to get it all out. When I’m reduced to sniffles, he hands me a tissue and quietly continues, “Sergeant Armstrong has a moderate to severe concussion. That, along with the amount of alcohol and painkillers in his system, is what caused his extended LOC.”
At my watery look of confusion, he shakes his head and says, “Sorry. That means loss of consciousness.”
“But he’s okay now?” My heart is hammering so hard I’m afraid it might break through the cage of my ribs and fall onto the floor. I guess the good news is, if it does, I’m in a hospital. They can put it back where it belongs, right?
“Well, like I said, he’s suffering from a concussion. And that on top of his…uh…condition isn’t ideal. But, yes, he’s okay. He seems to have his faculties about him. I’m having him transferred to the VA, where I can keep an eye on him over the next couple of days.”
“Good.” I nod. “Okay.” I’m flooded with so much relief I almost forget to ask the question that’s been plaguing me since I found Cash bloodied and unconscious. “Did he say who did this to him?”
“He claims it was his father.”
“No.” I jerk my chin side to side. “Richard Armstrong is in jail.”
“It’s not unusual for a person who’s suffered a blow to the head to get things confused,” Beckett says with a frown. “Once Sergeant Armstrong is settled in at the VA he can give his statement to the police. We’ll have to leave it to them to find out what actually happened. In the meantime, why don’t you go on home and get some rest?”
You look like a can of smashed buttholes.
He doesn’t say this last part. But I hear it hanging in the air between us.
“I’m going with you and Cash to the VA,” I tell him, bringing back my rotting-donkey-balls expression.
His smile is kind when he nods. “Okay. I need to finish filling out some paperwork here and then we’ll be on our way.”
He presses a reassuring hand against my shoulder on his way from the room, and then I’m left alone to stare out the window again. The weatherman was right. A soft drizzle is falling against the single pane of glass, sliding in haphazard rivulets that join and diverge.
Cash’s father? Is it possible?
I know one person who would know.
Pulling Cash’s phone from my back pocket, I hold it up and watch it automatically unlock. After realizing I’d need to rely on his phone as my only means of communication—and in between orderlies wheeling him from the room for various scans and tests—I used his face to unlock the phone, get into his settings, and reset the face ID so his phone recognizes me. It was then I remembered that I could have simply used the emergency option on his phone this morning instead of struggling with the face ID. Apparently, I’m not very calm or coherent in a crisis. But I suppose all’s well that ends well.
Now I open his contacts and search for Leon Broussard. When I find him, my finger hovers over the call icon.
It’s a holiday. No doubt Broussard is taking time off. Still, it won’t hurt to leave a message.
To my surprise, however, Broussard picks up on the third ring.
“I didn’t expect you to be working today,” I blurt. Then, “Sorry. What I meant to say is happy New Year, sir.”
“Same to you.” His tone is curt. “Whoever you are.”
“Oh.” I flush. “Right. This is Maggie Carter.” And then, like a penitent to a confessor, I launch into the story of finding Cash bleeding and unconscious, stumbling over my words in my rush to get them out. I finish with, “And Dr. Beckett said when Cash came to, he accused his father of being the one to attack him. But Rick’s in jail, isn’t he?”
“He made bail last night,” Broussard says.
I blink. Then I blink some more. The cogs in my brain are grinding without the oil of sleep. Finally, I manage, “What?”
“Richard Armstrong got out on bail last night. Are you telling me the first thing he did was attack his son?”
“I—” For some reason, the words strangle in my throat. “I don’t know. The doctor told me people who’ve suffered the kind of injury Cash has can get confused. Maybe he thinks it was his dad since anytime he was hurt before, it wasRick’s fault.”
“You said Cash is being transferred to the VA hospital on Canal Street?”
I nod and then realize he can’t see me.Stupid rusty brain cogs.“Yes.”
“I’ll meet you there in an hour.”
He signs off without so much as a by-your-leave, and I pull the phone away from my face, staring down at it blankly. I try to corral my thoughts, but they’re like the wild boars of the bayou. Whenever I get close to one, it squeals and runs off.
