He apparently did not possess the courage to act.
Deborah went to the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet. She picked up the prescription bottle, turned it in her fingers.
Yes, she had to do something very soon.
30
Cliffside Care Facility, 2:20 p.m.
Barton clasped the bag in his hand and forced his feet to walk, not run, down the corridor.
Two more doors and he was there.
He walked into the room and closed the door that stayed open when no visitors or facility staff were present.
For a moment he could only lean against the door, his heart pounding harder with each breath.
Was he making a mistake to bring this up?
It wasn’t like he would gain anything.
But he had to do it. He could keep this misery to himself no longer.
Barton moved away from the door. The television, he noticed, was muted.
In the long narrow hospital bed, his father lay, the covers tucked neatly around him, his frail eyes staring at the images on the television screen.
Barton moved past the foot of his father’s bed. Those faded blue eyes followed him around to the side of the bed. Barton lowered himself into the chair he always selected when he visited. For a long time he simply sat there, unsure how to approach what he needed to say.
Finally, when he could bear the tremendous pressure no longer, he leaned forward and peered into his father’s watery eyes.
“Why did you do it?”
Thin lids blinked.
Barton didn’t know why he bothered to demand an answer. His father hadn’t been able to speak in twelve years. He’d lain in this very bed since his stroke. Unable to move even a finger or to utter the slightest sound. Whether or not he could hear or understand was unclear. He was kept alive with a feeding tube and intravenous fluids.
Would he never die?
The thought filled Barton’s eyes with tears. How could he be so heartless? He loved his father. Had always loved him. But after the stroke, this ... this god-awful thing had become Barton’s personal burden.
His father was eighty years old. Living on sheer willpower.
What could they do to him?
Nothing.
He was a mere fragile shell of a human with only a glimmer left of the man who once was trapped inside.
But what would they do to Barton for concealing evidence?
How could he protect his family?
He reached out and clutched his father’s cold, feeble hand. “What am I going to do?”
Closing his eyes, Barton fought the overwhelming emotions.
Today at four the profiler from Quantico wanted to see him.
