Taylor made up his mind on the ride to Newport that FBI Agent Ronald Mackey was in no way to blame for his grandfather’s death. A flame of guilt burnt inside him, and Taylor sought to pin the full burden of blame on himself. If he’d only stuck around; he just couldn’t push the thought away.
“The ER desk said I’d find you up here,” Taylor said. “I always assumed the morgue was in the basement. Too many movies for me, I guess.” He forced a smile.
Mackey looked confused, then his face cleared with understanding. “Your grandfather isn’t here. His body was released to Mr. Callaghan at the scene. My deepest condolences, by the way.” Taylor nodded acceptance to the sentiment. Mackey offered his own nervous smile and gestured toward two armchairs at the end of the hall.
“In a case like this, with a conclusive cause of death, it isn’t customary to have an autopsy performed. If you feel differently, however, I think I could pull a string or two.” Mackey lowered himself smoothly into one of the chairs. Taylor remained standing, any excuse to punish himself.
“No. That’s not necessary.” Taylor turned around, looking down the hall back toward the elevator. He surveyed the ward, his mind working.
“Why are you up on eight, then? I’ve always heard this was the mental health floor.” Another half smile.
Mackey bowed his head. “You’re right. That’s exactly what it is.”
Taylor sensed something was about to hit him in the face. His short fuse burned ever so slightly, and he felt his grief simmering and changing. Anger stirred somewhere deep. It longed to make an appearance. Some form of outburst, some way of expressing all the pent up emotion – it’d be therapeutic to some degree, no?
“And you are clearly not telling me something, Mackey.”
“Again, you’re right.” Mackey stood. “Why don’t you sit down?”
Taylor took a quick first step toward Mackey and had the FBI man pinned against the wall before a defense could be mounted. Both men were surprised by the assault. “What is it?” Taylor seethed.
Mackey had no choice. He relayed the night’s events, including everything Taylor’s grandfather had said as he lay dying. Mackey concluded the report and as the color left his face, Taylor released his shirt front. He felt Mackey’s shoes make contact with the tile floor and only then realized that he’d had him off the ground an inch.
Taylor felt dizzy, shaken to the core. His father had shot and killed his grandfather.
His vision danced, shivered. Taylor saw his grandfather’s smile. He pictured the porch, the walkway, the front lawn. He shook his head and the image shifted. A chalk outline, partly on the stone walkway, partly in the lawn. The spot was soaked and pooled with blood.
Taylor inched away from Mackey and bumped into the other armchair, his momentum sitting him down. His head found his hands on its way to in between his knees. He squeezed his eyes shut.
He considered his father for just a moment. He thought of how his grandfather - his late grandfather – had described a younger version of Thomas Andrews that day at lunch.
Something snapped. Taylor stood slowly. His eyes were blurred, but this time tears were to blame.
“I want to see him.” The tone was dead, flat. His head felt clear now.
“Is that a good idea, under the…”
Taylor was already on the move.
* * *
Taylor hesitated at the doorway. Apprehension within fought anger, he was ashamed to admit. His face burned and Taylor realized he was clenching both his teeth and the muscles in his face, as if his frown was coupling with his rage and both planned on overtaking his will.
Taylor balled his fists as he crossed the threshold. He thought of how often his fists had balled themselves in the last thirty-six hours. His hands were no doubt unsure of themselves.
He sensed Mackey standing behind him, just outside the room.
And then he saw his father. Thomas Andrews lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. Taylor focused on the resemblance. His lips quaked and at that instant his mind was made up.
Taylor sprang forth, as he’d done to Mackey moments before. After a step-and-a-half and a blink of his eyes, Taylor let fly. His right hand reared back and delivered a vicious uppercut. At the same time his father lifted his head slightly and turned toward Taylor. The turn of the head played perfectly. It may have been a glancing blow otherwise.
Taylor’s fist made contact just below the left eye. Thomas Andrews head rocked back, his eyes rolled in his head and momentum carried him out of the bed on the far side.
Electronics sprang to life, their tinny alarms issuing warnings that monitors had dislodged, IV lines were compromised, and Taylor Andrews had just scored a first round knockout.
Mackey hadn’t expected Taylor’s reaction, though he should have. He dove forward, burying his right shoulder into the small of Taylor’s back and wrapped his arms like a middle linebacker. He let his legs go from under him, rolling to his left, and pulled Taylor hard to the white tile floor.
“What are you thinking?!” Mackey shouted. Given the father though, he could hardly fault the son. For all their similar physical features, it seemed that only Taylor had been blessed with backbone.
“Get the fuck off me!” Taylor was strong, and pissed, and he managed to get his feet under him. He wasn’t trained by the FBI, however, and Mackey regained control, using Taylor’s upward momentum and weight to spin him and toss him back into the room’s lone chair.
They were both breathing hard and Mackey said, “Get out of here.” He pointed to the doorway. “Get something to drink and try to calm down. Meet me in the main lobby in twenty minutes.” He spoke quietly, the calm in his voice was meant to bring Taylor back down as well.
Taylor glared at Mackey and wiped a bloodied lip on his sleeve. Momentarily and silently he obeyed. Taylor had been in the room for less than sixty seconds, but his point was made and now he was gone.
* * *
Was it the morphine playing tricks? Beyond the bullet wounds, Thomas Andrews had a sore back and a splitting headache. And this bed, Christ. Was it made of cement?
The haze of the drugs lifted and Thomas recalled the dream he’d been having. Five year old Taylor had towered over him, asked why Thomas had left his mother, and landed a jarring uppercut to Thomas’ cheek. You know, as he considered the dream, it wasn’t so much a headache he had. His cheek was throbbing.
“This fucking bed,” he cursed, trying to adjust his position. He came to and, rubbing his cheek with a hand, glanced up at the bottom of his hospital bed. “What the hell?” Had he actually said those two lines? Was his voice audible or part of his internal monologue? No idea.
From a distance, Thomas heard the grunts and scuffling of physical exertion, then electronic beeping, then footsteps. He shook his head and fought his muscles to obey the synapses of his brain and their electric orders. He managed to get to his knees and felt like he’d been hit by a truck.
Two men were leaving the room, just as two nurses rushed in. They were speaking to him, Thomas knew, but the words were as jumbled as the other noises had been. It was as if the nurses had their mouths submerged in water. The mer-nurses circled the bed and seized him by each elbow.
“Could I possibly get some Tylenol and a glass of water?”
The nurses paused. They stared at him a moment before resuming their hasty push toward the bed.
Thomas made out a word. One of the nurses had just said ‘son’, and she’d been asking a question.“My son, yes.” Thomas nodded vigorously. “He’s just a little boy.” The nurses eased him back onto the bed and hoisted the starched blanket up to Thomas’ midriff. He smiled and hoped the two nurses could understand him. He slowed his speech, trying not to sound condescending. “But even at this age, he has his mother’s temper.”
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