* 93 *

Mrs. Kelly was too tired to have to make introductions. "I'm Michele Knight."

"Oh, yes, Barbara mentioned you," Mrs. Kelly said.

"I have a lot of respect for Barbara," I said, not sure that I should ask in what context Barbara had mentioned me.

"Thank you. Would you mind if I impose on you for a few minutes?" she asked.

"No, not at all."

"I've got to make a few phone calls and I hate to leave the kids."

"No problem. Take your time. Get some coffee if you want." Give me some outlet for my guilt.

She got up and headed for wherever the phones were. Patrick and Cissy stared at me, another strange adult in days now filled with strange adults. There was an awkward silence, at least on my part; I doubted that they cared. If I were a kid, how would I want an adult to treat me in a situation like this? What I had hated most, when my father died, were the lies and evasions, the "protection of the child." I realized the best thing I could do was tell Patrick and Cissy the truth. It was their mother lying on that hospital bed.

"I'm a private detective," I started out. "And I was working for the police doing an investigation of Jambalaya."

"Why?" Patrick wanted to know.

"They're smuggling drugs." Their expressions didn't change.

At this point, they were probably too numb for anything. "Your mom helped me get some information for the police. But we got caught."

"And they shot her," Patrick said. Kids don't bother with polite evasions. "And beat you up."

"Yeah," I said, fingering my bruised jaw.

"How come they didn't shoot you, too?" Cissy asked.

"I got away," I said and told them about my adventures in the coal chute.

"Did you see my mom get shot?" Patrick asked.

"No." I shook my head. I was glad I didn't have to tell him what it looked like. If I had seen it, I would have told him what happened. He wanted to know. He, they both, wanted to know any and everything that could explain why their mother was in a coma.

"I really like your mom," I said.

"Yeah, Mom's neat," Patrick answered, a high accolade from an * 94 *

eleven-year-old boy. Cissy was starting to cry. I put my arms around her and hugged her close.

"It's been real hard on Cissy," Patrick said, the epitome of a strong, big brother. "Dad just left us when she was four." (And he was six, I noted.) "Took all the money. Mom and Grandma have been taking care of us ever since. Cissy and I both have paper routes to try and help out."

I had to say something or I'd start sniffling.

"The Times-Picayune? I carried that when I was about your age."

"Yeah," he said. We had a point in common.

"It's hard on you, too," I said.

"I'm older. I can take care of myself," he replied. "I'm just tired of people telling us they know how we feel. They don't unless..." He trailed off, still a young kid himself.

Of course, it took an eleven-year-old boy to point out to me why I was identifying so strongly with this boy and this girl.

"You're right," I said. "No one ever knows exactly how you feel.

People often can't imagine pain so they try to remember it."

Patrick looked puzzled.

I wasn't explaining myself clearly to these kids, perhaps not even to myself. I started again. "When I was five, my mother left. I don't know why. I've never seen her since. When I was ten...my dad was killed. It's not the same thing that happened to you, but..."

"But it's pretty close," Patrick finished for me.

"Yes, so I kind of know how you feel, but not exactly."

"Yeah, you're one of us," Patrick said and he smiled at me. He had Barbara's smile, warm and wide.

"How did your dad die?" Cissy asked, looking up at me.

I couldn't think of what to say, how to explain something that I tried my best never to think about. "He died in a fire," I finally said, leaving it as simple as I could.

"Did you see it?" Patrick asked, with the simple innocence of a child trying to understand death and dying because he had to.

"Yes," I answered, staring at the green wall.

"I'm sorry," said Cissy.

Mrs. Kelly came back. She was carrying a cup of coffee and a can of soda for Patrick and Cissy to share.

"I'm sorry I was gone so long," she apologized for an offense she hadn't committed.

* 95 *

A nurse stuck her head in.

"Mrs. Kelly? You and the kids can sit with her for twenty minutes, if you want," the nurse said.

"Oh, thank you," she replied to the nurse. "I'm sorry, Miss Knight."

"Go sit with your daughter," I answered.

They got up and started to leave. I wrote down my name and phone number twice and gave one copy to Patrick and one to Cissy. I told them to call me if they needed to.

"Thank you, Miss Knight," Mrs. Kelly said, a polite and indomitable Southern woman.

I watched them disappear down the corridor. I took a long ragged breath. I wasn't going to cry. Those kids didn't need it. I stood for several moments, staring out the window at a nondescript gray building. At some point, I noticed a white-coated figure off in my peripheral vision, watching me. d.a.m.n, this was a hospital. You would think a woman with a bruise on her face was a fairly common sight.

"I thought it was you," the figure said. I turned to face whoever it was. Cordelia Holloway, just the person I wanted to see.

"Small world," I replied.

"What happened to your jaw?" she asked.

"Doorway."

"Male or female?"

I could see what she was thinking. That I was the kind of girl who got involved with people who hit other people.

"Neither," was the only reply I could come up with. "What are you doing here?"

"I work here. You?" she asked.

"Visiting a friend."

"You didn't put her here, did you?"

"No!" I almost yelled. "Don't you have any lives that need saving?"

"Ah, Micky, winning friends and influencing people, as usual."

Sergeant Ranson had arrived on the scene and was standing in the doorway. Just the sort of cavalry I needed. She came in and handed me a plastic bag. I a.s.sumed that it contained the clothes and purse I had left in my favorite bas.e.m.e.nt. She and Cordelia nodded to each other in * 96 *

greeting. I tossed the bag over onto the couch. It landed with a heavier clunk than I thought a dress would make.

"Don't do that. It's loaded," Ranson informed me. As in loaded gun. We all looked at each other. How do you make polite conversation about loaded guns?

"Excuse me, Joanne," Cordelia finally said, "But are you really giving a loaded gun to someone with suicidal tendencies?" she asked.

Ranson and I both looked at her and then at each other. Did somebody know something that I didn't?

"Care to explain those?" Cordelia clarified, pointing to my bandaged wrists.

"Rope burn," Ranson replied for me.

I started laughing. It wasn't that funny, but it was too absurd for my present state of mind.

"Let me see," Cordelia said. I offered one of my wrists, still laughing. She unwrapped the bandage, examined my wrist for a minute, then wrapped it back up. "Sorry, my mistake."

"Don't worry about it. Better people than you have thought Micky Knight to be crazy," Ranson charitably explained.

"I've got to go," Cordelia said. She left, shaking her head.

"How do you two know each other?" I asked Ranson.

"Danny introduced us a while back," she answered. "Anything new on Barbara Selby?" It was my turn to shake my head no.

"I'm posting a guard. There are people who would prefer she never come out of that coma," Ranson said.

I shuddered. It wasn't a pleasant thought.

"Ballistics has cleared you. Turner with a .38. Barbara with a .22."

"Did you come all the way down here just to tell me that?" I asked.

"No, I came here to check on Barbara Selby and to give you your gun and to tell you to carry it."

"What a nice idea."

"At all times. It wouldn't be a bad idea for you to take a vacation.

Someplace like Nepal would be perfect."

"Paid?" I asked. She ignored the question.

"What I'm saying, Micky, is be careful."

* 97 *

"Gosh, thanks, Joanne. It's nice to know you care," I replied. "You had me fooled with that efficient, no-nonsense, businesslike exterior, but underneath, a heart of, golly, purest gold."

She looked at me for a long time, then finally spoke, "Right. I do care. I don't like hospital vigils. I don't want to do one for you." Ranson turned on her heel and walked out, leaving me no chance to reply.

Not that I could think of anything to say. I'm not real good at being serious. So in the unlikely event that someone should tell me that they care about me or that they really worry about me or that they love me, like Danny did a long summer ago, I'm not very good at replying.

The last person I said "I love you" to was my dad and I was ten at the time. "You're nice, I like you" is about as far as I go. It's not something I'm proud of. Someday maybe I'll be able to afford a shrink and find out why.

I decided that it was Ranson's job to be concerned about people she worked with. She was a good cop because she really cared, but I wasn't more important than anyone else.

It was time to get out of this hospital. If I stayed here much longer I would probably run into both Cordelia and Aunt Greta. Together, no doubt. Besides that, I had a cat that was, by this point, keeping the whole neighborhood awake with her famished cries.

* 98 *

CHAPTER 13.

Fortunately, my keys were in the canvas bag that Ranson had returned. I let myself in and slowly trudged up the three flights.