“We’re out of time. If we don’t find a match soon we’ll have no choice, but to resort to cord blood.”
Grant struggled to remain seated and absorb each blow the Doctor’s words represented when what he really wanted to do was punch a wall, but Emma’s cancer lacked a physical force he could defeat. His first day on the job, he took an oath to protect and serve. How could he protect his daughter from an invisible killer?
No matter how much he inhaled, oxygen eluded his lungs. His fingers cramped from his balled up fist. Swallowing twice, he croaked out, “she’s only three.” And grimaced over how weak his voice sounded. He’d learned to take a hit and he’d experienced taking a bullet. But no one taught a class on how to protect your child from suffering.
Rhythmically, the doctor bounced his wire-rim glasses against his open palm as though impatient to end this discussion. “Let’s intensify the search. We’ve checked your nieces in Oklahoma. Any other children in your wife’s family we’ve overlooked?”
For some reason the stethoscope dangling from the white lab coat pocket caught Grant’s focus. The silver amplifier swung back and forth as the doctor waited for his answer, reminding Grant of the pair of elephants on the wall behind him.
“Cynthia had an adopted nephew.” Grant forced himself to answer. “At the time of her death we were separated. Her family hasn’t been in contact since.”
“Check with them.”
Easy for him to say. He wasn’t the one required to rut in the cesspool of his failed marriage.
When Grant didn’t respond the doctor rose to his feet indicated the meeting was at an end, but not without the last bit of chastisement. “Get back to me. If we can find a donor in time, there’s a good chance of Emma’s recovery.”
Grant stood, lumbering to his feet, fighting against the heaviness of his body. Strapping on an extra two-hundred pounds would be easier than overcoming the very life being sucked out of him.
“Enjoy Christmas,” the doctor said. “We’ll see you back here in two weeks.”
Enjoy Christmas. Watching his daughter spiral downward. Grant caught his breath, not allowing the sorrow that bubbled up from his gut to surface. Nothing helped. Not sorrow. Not crying. Not prayer. His life had been reduced to waiting and keeping his fingers crossed.
Maybe it was time to take family leave. He’d put it off as long as he could. Any savings he’d squirreled away had gone for medical expenses. He couldn’t afford to be without a paycheck. He had no more time off due him. Every vacation day he’d taken had been spent at the hospital. Lieutenant Franklin championed him within the Police department. Partial days hadn’t been counted against him. But Franklin didn’t control the budget, the city did.
Emma giggled from her position on the floor, drawing Grant’s attention. On the television a hyperactive tiger hopped all over the screen, springing on mechanical legs. Clapping her hands in delight, Emma grabbed Mr. Sniffles by the scruff of his neck and bounced him around in imitation. The stuffed pug dog was her current favorite, which meant he got out of the toy box more often, but with Emma the price of love included some physical abuse. Mr. Sniffles had a perpetual wink with one eye missing and Grant suspected hearing loss from a mangled ear due to an unfortunate tricycle collision.
“You ready to go?” Grant bent down to pick her up.
Her blue eyes teased him. His arms encased her small body as he rubbed his nose against hers. She squealed in delight and clasped his face to keep his head from moving. Despite her happy laughter, her flushed cheeks and watery eyes told a truer story.
His cell phone rang. Grant fumbled in his pocket, juggling his daughter on his hip. He glanced at the screen and groaned. There was only one reason why his partner, Yale would be calling. Work summoned. So much for his day off.
Yale’s message was short. “Franklin’s called a meeting on the Moncleef case. You want me to drive?”
“Yeah. Thirty minutes. I’m at the doctor’s office.” He hung up the phone and pushed an artificial grin to his lips.
“Let’s go, pumpkin.”
On the last Saturday before Christmas the bumper-to-bumper traffic crawled at a snail’s pace like the other drivers had never before seen rain. This was Portland. It rains for nine months a year here. Grant gritted his teeth as he maneuvered. No matter which lane he chose, the other moved faster.
“Dammit to hell.”
“Danitel.” A little voice mimicked from the backseat. Perfect. Her first legible words would be curse words. Nice parenting.
Glancing in the rear view mirror, he almost burst out laughing as his daughter scowled at the other cars on the street.
“Do you want to watch a movie when we get home?” he asked, hoping to distract her.
Emma talked constantly. Grant rarely understood a word she said, but he found the pleasant rhythm of her voice soothed him and offered him comfort when little else did.
Once home, Grant changed shirts and pulled his jacket over the shoulder harness, hiding the gun without creating a bulge.
Propping one leg on the bed frame, he strapped the ankle holster in place and slipped his badge into his pocket.
Emma snuggled on the massive bed secure in a nest of peacock feathers made of opulent fabrics and overstuffed pillows, pillows and more pillows. How many pillows did one bed need? The saving grace of Cynthia’s effusive decorating scheme was to imprison his active daughter and keep her from rolling off the side.
Real frankly the only thing he liked in this room wore hot pink overalls with SpongeBob SquarePants emblazoned on her chest.
Grant picked up his daughter and swung her into the air, delighting in the sounds of her excited squeal. “I’ve got to go, love. Much as I’d like to stay home and play with you, I can’t.” He kissed Emma again. “Someone tastes like chocolate.” He searched the bed to find a crumpled foil wrapper and a few chocolate smears.
“No eating in bed.”
Emma hung her head liked a shamed puppy as her father frisked her pockets for other hidden contraband. He had no idea where she found it, but she attracted chocolate like a convenience store attracted break-ins. Except she was a lot cuter.
Unable to resist, he lowered his head, and avoiding the bandages that housed the perpetual Hickman catheter in her chest, blew loud raspberries on her round tummy. Emma rewarded him with gales of laughter.
“No chocolate here,” he said.
Betty raised her head. “Good morning.” She pulled the hose out of the faucet and rinsed the gritty detergent down the drain.
“Want something to drink?” Grant asked Emma, nodding toward the refrigerator hidden behind a ream of crayon masterpieces.
Emma shook her head and tightened her grasp around his neck. Betty removed the yellow rubber gloves and re-gathered her long gray hair at the nape of her neck before reaching out for his little girl.
“How’re you feeling?” Betty took Emma and laid a palm across the child’s forehead. “Not too good today?”
Emma didn’t protest leaving her father’s arm, but her sorrowful big-eyed look made Grant’s heart ache. He gave her one last kiss on the forehead. The little girl smell he cherished was now overpowered by the odor of Comet and Pine Sol.
“I’ll be home as soon as I can,” he promised, turning his back on the person he loved more than life, and hurried out the door.
The crisp December air greeted him as he walked down the sidewalk to the waiting car at the curb. Grant could make out Yale Carson’s dark hair through the sunlit glare of the windshield of the flashy red Mustang.
Yale gunned the engine as Grant slid in the front seat. “Jeez, Grant, you missed a spot for more lights. At least three square inches aren’t covered.” He pointed to the decorated house.
“Good morning to you, too, sunshine.” Grant cranked his head to peer at the roof as Yale peeled away from the curb. “You ought to see them lit up. Landing strips pale by comparison.” Pure masculine satisfaction filled his voice.
His partner grunted. Emma liked lights and movement. For that reason alone, Grant decorated as much as possible. His electrical use this season could keep a small town powered up. Not only was his entire house outlined in flashing lights, an animated village dominated his yard. Reindeer bobbed, Frosty’s pipe bubbled, and Santa bowed. A train loaded with packages chugged along playing a merry tune. And if the rhododendrons hadn’t prohibited it, he would have added two towering nutcracker guards to his doorway.
It was the gaudiest, most overdone present he could have given his young daughter. The fact she loved it made the effort and expense worthwhile.
What if this is her last Christmas?
The thought gripped him out of the blue and held him paralyzed. The hunt for a bone marrow donor had gone on for weeks. Any chance for her recovery rested on finding an acceptable donor. Each Monday the doctors reported the same dismal conclusion.
Not yet.
Work usually gave him something to occupy his mind instead of the wait-and-see game he played with Emma’s illness. Today, it irritated him.
“What’s up with this emergency meeting?”
Yale turned the corner. His house was no longer visible.
“We’re setting up a sting on Moncleef.”
“How?” Grant contained his delight until he heard the details. At least if he was being called into work, it was for a good reason.
Rafe Moncleef had eluded police investigation through his cleverness, an extensive security force and an army of expensive lawyers. If half the things Grant suspected were true, the man needed topnotch protection.
The recent rash of burglaries pointed in one direction. The department suspected Yakima Northwest Imports, Moncleef’s principal business, was a front for fenced goods. Rumor had it the middleman had been eliminated when Moncleef set up his own theft operation. No slack production either. One robbery after another kept the Property Crimes Division hopping. But rumor wasn’t enough to put Moncleef behind bars.
Yale merged onto the freeway. “Moncleef’s throwing a party tonight.”
“And?” Grant prompted.
“The caterers, bless their precious hides need bartenders. With Christmas on Monday, most of their staff has already left town.”
“And they asked for us?”
Yale chuckled. “Almost. Scagway’s wife works sporadically for them. Once Ralph heard the party was at Moncleef’s place, he fell all over himself getting to the phone to volunteer.”
Grant laughed, imagining the short, stubby detective moving quickly. Then he groaned. “This means another late night.”
“Hot date?”
The overwhelming rush to deck his partner took him by surprise, but Grant forced his voice to remain normal, refusing to let his emotions win. The work schedule wasn’t Yale’s fault. “Yeah, with Emma.”
“Decorating the tree?”
The eight-foot tree in his living room would have appalled both his fashion-conscious partner and Grant’s former wife. Every ornament and tinsel hung by Emma.
“We’ve had our tree up for weeks.” Grant grinned, adding just to annoy Yale, “and except for a few lights, not a single decoration is above three feet high.”
Yale shook his head in disgust. “Man, when was the last time you were with a woman? My dad at sixty-five has more fun than you at thirty-four.”
“Women aren’t on my radar right now. Besides I’m a single father, not prime dating material.”
The last thing Grant wanted was the complication of a woman in his life. A year was a long time for a child to be ill with no end in sight. Yale wasn’t the only officer who’d encouraged Grant to get on with his life, but Yale restrained himself more than most.
None meant it cruelly, but no one understood: Without Emma, he didn’t have a life.
