warned them, "We had to relieve the pressure on Sarah's brain, so don't be alarmed when you see her. There is a sort of release valve on the crown of her head, connected to a plastic tube. That part is nothing to worry about. You can see her now." She held the door open for the Carters. Dr. Winslow added, "I'll tell the nurses you will be staying all night."
Tim held the door for Daphne, then wheeled in behind her. He wore his prosthetics; he'd been trying to get used to them since their talk at dinner a few days ago. Daphne helped him to his feet. They stood together, looking down at their little girl.
The same girl who used to ask Tim to tie a ribbon in her hair when she'd swing in the back yard. She liked to see it trailing out behind her.
Now Sarah's hair was largely missing, having been shaved upon arrival. Her face and neck were one large glob of purple. Her arms were poked with needles, and also quite bruised. Her eyelids were nearly black. Both legs were in casts and the feet that poked out of them were red and swollen. They couldn't see it beneath her covers but Sarah's pelvis was also in a cast to keep it in place until surgery could be performed.
Tim moved to the end of the bed and eased the blanket over Sarah's feet. The ventilator hissed and hummed, another monitor beeped. Tim gave Daphne a look that said, "Did I just mess something up?" She wasn't paying attention to him. Daphne's eyes were fixed on Sarah and the multitude of wires and tubes running from her body to an array of medical equipment.
Daphne wondered how this could be the same girl who used to beg her for ice cream at the mall. The one who, when they were potty training her, would make her dad give her a piggy-back ride to the bathroom or she'd refuse to go. The girl that couldn't sleep well when sick unless Daphne was in the room with her. And the teenager for whom she had bought a new Jaguar two years ago when she'd turned sixteen. But this was that girl, her Sarah Bear, lying in a hospital bed on the brink of never saying, "Love you, mom" again.
A tear slipped from Daphne Carter's eye, fell from her cheek, glistened a moment in the dim light above the bed, and landed on Sarah's hand. It rolled down her slender fingers.
*****
Detective Leon Pushkin of Las Vegas Metro stood in the parking garage at Camelot. It'd been two hours since the accident and the blood on the concrete was turning brown.
He didn't have a lot to go on: some blood, tire marks that still smelled, and security footage he had yet to see. The nerds had already come, done their job, and scurried back to their labs.
Pushkin went to the front desk. He spoke with a nice looking woman who showed him to the security office. In the office he met Leonard Murdock, head of security. Murdock was in a foul mood because he'd recently discovered there was no footage from the parking garage cameras at the time of the accident. Pushkin ran a hand through his salt and pepper hair and adjusted his tweed coat.
"I don't understand it," Murdock said. "The cameras are working fine... fine... fine... then nothing. How does that happen?" Murdock was a tall, slightly balding, man. He sported a bushy mustache the same grey color as his suit.
"Bad luck," Pushkin said with a shrug.
Two years prior Pushkin had been lead detective on the Fremont Slasher case, a string of murders that occurred not too far north of the Strip. The attention he'd received during that time had never left his head.
"Wonder if the system was reset, since the cameras came back up on their own," Murdock thought aloud.
"Could be," Pushkin said.
"Hang here a minute," Murdock said. He picked up a nearby phone and punched some numbers.
Pushkin only heard Murdock's half of the conversation. "Hello, Dennis, Leonard Murdock here. I'm head of security at Camelot."
Murdock's cheeks took on a ruby hue. He barked, "Yes, I'm sure! What is this?"
"Are you goddamned kidding me?" Murdock was shouting now, "Put me through to your
Tim held the door for Daphne, then wheeled in behind her. He wore his prosthetics; he'd been trying to get used to them since their talk at dinner a few days ago. Daphne helped him to his feet. They stood together, looking down at their little girl.
The same girl who used to ask Tim to tie a ribbon in her hair when she'd swing in the back yard. She liked to see it trailing out behind her.
Now Sarah's hair was largely missing, having been shaved upon arrival. Her face and neck were one large glob of purple. Her arms were poked with needles, and also quite bruised. Her eyelids were nearly black. Both legs were in casts and the feet that poked out of them were red and swollen. They couldn't see it beneath her covers but Sarah's pelvis was also in a cast to keep it in place until surgery could be performed.
Tim moved to the end of the bed and eased the blanket over Sarah's feet. The ventilator hissed and hummed, another monitor beeped. Tim gave Daphne a look that said, "Did I just mess something up?" She wasn't paying attention to him. Daphne's eyes were fixed on Sarah and the multitude of wires and tubes running from her body to an array of medical equipment.
Daphne wondered how this could be the same girl who used to beg her for ice cream at the mall. The one who, when they were potty training her, would make her dad give her a piggy-back ride to the bathroom or she'd refuse to go. The girl that couldn't sleep well when sick unless Daphne was in the room with her. And the teenager for whom she had bought a new Jaguar two years ago when she'd turned sixteen. But this was that girl, her Sarah Bear, lying in a hospital bed on the brink of never saying, "Love you, mom" again.
A tear slipped from Daphne Carter's eye, fell from her cheek, glistened a moment in the dim light above the bed, and landed on Sarah's hand. It rolled down her slender fingers.
*****
Detective Leon Pushkin of Las Vegas Metro stood in the parking garage at Camelot. It'd been two hours since the accident and the blood on the concrete was turning brown.
He didn't have a lot to go on: some blood, tire marks that still smelled, and security footage he had yet to see. The nerds had already come, done their job, and scurried back to their labs.
Pushkin went to the front desk. He spoke with a nice looking woman who showed him to the security office. In the office he met Leonard Murdock, head of security. Murdock was in a foul mood because he'd recently discovered there was no footage from the parking garage cameras at the time of the accident. Pushkin ran a hand through his salt and pepper hair and adjusted his tweed coat.
"I don't understand it," Murdock said. "The cameras are working fine... fine... fine... then nothing. How does that happen?" Murdock was a tall, slightly balding, man. He sported a bushy mustache the same grey color as his suit.
"Bad luck," Pushkin said with a shrug.
Two years prior Pushkin had been lead detective on the Fremont Slasher case, a string of murders that occurred not too far north of the Strip. The attention he'd received during that time had never left his head.
"Wonder if the system was reset, since the cameras came back up on their own," Murdock thought aloud.
"Could be," Pushkin said.
"Hang here a minute," Murdock said. He picked up a nearby phone and punched some numbers.
Pushkin only heard Murdock's half of the conversation. "Hello, Dennis, Leonard Murdock here. I'm head of security at Camelot."
Murdock's cheeks took on a ruby hue. He barked, "Yes, I'm sure! What is this?"
"Are you goddamned kidding me?" Murdock was shouting now, "Put me through to your
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