Tribute

lot to me. Are you volunteering today?”
    “Actually, we’re here to see our goddaughter. She had a baby.”
    “That’s nice. Well . . .” Cilla looked back toward the doors.
    “Would you like me to go up with you first?” Cathy offered.
    “No, no, I’m fine. It’s just . . . Steve’s mother’s probably up there. She harbors extreme dislike for me. It makes it pretty tight in that room with both of us in there.”
    “I can fix that.” Cathy held up a finger. “Why don’t I go up, lure her away for fifteen or twenty minutes.”
    “How?”
    “Volunteer mode. I’ll buy her a cup of coffee, lend a shoulder. It’ll give her a break and give you a few minutes alone with your friend.”
    “She can do it,” Tom said with a shake of his head. “Nobody resists Cathy.”
    “I’d be so grateful.”
    “Nothing to it. Tom, keep Cilla company for a few minutes. Five should do it.” With a cheery wave, Cathy strode into the hospital.
    “She’s great.”
    “Best there is,” Tom agreed. “Let’s sit down over here, give her that head start. I was sorry to hear about your friend.”
    “Thank you.” Three days, she thought. Three days in a coma.
    “Do the police have any idea how it happened?”
    “Not really. I guess we’re all hoping Steve can tell us if . . . when,” she corrected, “he wakes up.”
    She caught a glimpse of a white van crossing the parking lot and, with a shudder, looked away.
    “I hope that’s soon.” Tom gave her hand an encouraging pat. “How’s Brian doing on your place?”
    “It’s shaping up. He does good work. You must be proud of him.”
    “Every day. It’s an ambitious project you’ve taken on. The grounds, the house. A lot of time, money and sweat. Word gets around,” he added.
    “It’ll be worth it. You should drop by sometime, look at the progress.”
    “I was hoping you’d ask.” He winked at her.
    “Anytime, Mr. Morrow.”
    “Tom.”
    “Anytime,” Cilla repeated, and pushed to her feet. “I’m going to sneak up, see if Cathy had any success.”
    “You can take it to the bank. I’ll say a prayer for your friend.”
    “Thanks.”
    And this, Cilla thought as she crossed the lobby to the elevators, was the reason to make this home. People like the Morrows, and like Dee and Vicki and Mike, the ICU nurses she saw every day. People who cared, who took time.
    People like Ford.
    Hell, even people like cranky, dyspeptic Buddy.
    She stepped off the elevator and spotted Mike at the nurses’ station. “How’s he doing?”
    “Holding steady. Kidney functions are normal. That’s an improvement. ”
    “Yeah, it is. Is anyone with him?”
    Mike wiggled his eyebrows. “Mrs. Morrow breezed in and took Mrs. Chensky down for coffee. You got a clear road.”
    “Hallelujah.”
    Bruises still covered his face, but they were turning yellow at the edges. Thick stubble masked his jawline and pricked her when she leaned over to kiss him. “I’m back. It’s hot out this afternoon. Strip-it-off weather.”
    She tuned out the machines, started to turn to the window to describe the view for him before she relayed construction progress. And she saw the sketch taped to the glass wall.
    “What have we got here? Con the Immortal?” She glanced back at Steve. “Did you see this? Striking resemblance.”
    Ford had drawn it. Cilla didn’t need to see the signature looped in the bottom corner to know it. Steve stood, wearing what she supposed was a loincloth, with thick black straps crossing over his chest, and knee boots. His hair flew out as if in a strong wind, and his face was set in a fierce, fuck-you grin. His hands rested on the hilt of a sword, with its point planted between his spread feet.
    “Big sword, obvious symbolism. You’d love that. And the biceps bulging over the armbands, the tats, the necklace of fangs. Con the Immortal. He’s got you pegged, doesn’t he?”
    Tears rose hot in her throat, were ruthlessly swallowed down. “You’ve really got to see this, okay?” She crossed back to take Steve’s hand. “You’ve got to wake up and see this. It’s been long enough now, Steve, I mean it. Goddamn it. This bullshit’s gone on long enough, so stop screwing around and . . . oh God.”
    Had his hand moved? Had it moved in hers or had she imagined it? She let her breath out slowly, stared down at the fingers she held in hers. “Don’t make me yell at you again. You know if I cut loose I can out-bitch your mother. Who’s going to come back