The Book of Lies - Brad Meltzer [15]
“When he came in, I could touch his stomach and feel the bullet right under his skin,” Paulo points out. “But when I made the incision—and this is with no pain medication, just some anesthetic by the wound—but even as I tweezed it out, your dad grunted once, but never cried in pain.”
“All those years in prison. He’s lived through worse,” I say.
Roosevelt stares me down. So does the doctor. It’s so damn easy to judge. But as Paulo knows from his niece, no matter how much you want someone back in your life, sometimes it’s the letting-them-back-in part that hurts the most.
“So how long you keeping him for?” I ask.
“Keeping him?” Paulo asks. “You watch too many cop shows. I sliced it out, gave him his grand total of five stitches, and let him borrow some hospital scrubs so he wouldn’t have to wear his own blood home. You should be careful, though—he’s overweight, high blood pressure, and although he won’t admit to any chest pains, he’s got the beginnings of myocardial ischemia. Wherever he’s going next, he needs to watch his heart. Otherwise, he’s yours.”
Just behind the doctor’s shoulder, there’s a hushed electric whoosh. But it’s not until he steps aside that I spot the tall man with the grassy green eyes and the twisted Irish nose. Dressed in a fresh pair of blue hospital scrubs, my father climbs out of his required wheelchair ride. And shuffles directly toward us.
8
Roosevelt cuts in front of me and motions back to the yellow sheet in my hand. I stuff it back in my dad’s shoe and cover it up with his bloody silk shirt and pants.
Like kids watching fireworks, Roosevelt and I crane our necks up. My dad’s six foot two. In all the carrying and rushing from the ambulance, this is the first moment he looks it. He’s got a face that reminds me of an egg, made wider at the bottom by his gray-speckled beard, which is trimmed and neat. For a second, it looks like the pain in his side is too much. But when he sees us watching, he takes a deep breath, brushes his fine gray hair from his forehead, and squares his shoulders into a near perfect stance. No question, appearances still matter.
“Cal, I’m inside if you need anything,” Paulo says, and quickly excuses himself.
Roosevelt stays right where he is. By my side.
My father clears his throat, taking a long look at Roo-sevelt, but Roosevelt doesn’t take the hint. I expect my dad to get annoyed . . . maybe even lose his temper the way he used to. But all he does is glance back toward the emergency room and scratch his knuckles against his beard. By his side, his left hand is clenched in a tight fist. Whatever he’s holding in, he’s fighting hard with it.
“I’ll be fine,” I whisper to Roosevelt, motioning him inside. There’s no mentoring with this one.
“I . . . uh . . . I’ll be inside pretending to get coffee,” Roosevelt announces as he heads back through the sliding doors.
We stand silently outside the emergency room entrance. On both sides of the overhang, the rain continues its prickly tap dance. My father lowers himself onto a metal bench and looks my way. I’ve practiced this moment for years. How, depending on the mood I was in, I’d tell him off, or ask him questions, or even embrace him in the inevitable swell of tears and regret that would follow my ruthless verbal assault. But as I sit down next to him, the only thing I notice is the gold U.S. Navy military ring on his right hand. As far as I know, he was never in the military. And as much as I try to make eye contact, he won’t stop staring at the pile of designer clothes and shoes I’m still holding.
“Calvin—”
“Cal,” I correct him. “I go by Cal now.”
“Yeah . . . no . . . I . . . Here’s the thing, Cal—” He cuts himself off. “I’m glad you’re the one who found me.”
It’s a perfect line, delivered with as much polish and determination as my own preplanned speech. The only problem is, it doesn’t answer the only question that matters.
“Where the hell have