and
surprised.
“Hey, Talker.” The shrink was sitting patiently outside of the
shower in a folding chair, knitting.
“Do you make all those funky cardigans? I thought it would be
your wife or something?” Tate had a bag with his soiled clothes
under one arm, and was using his other hand to hold up the falling
waistband of the aqua-colored scrubs, and it should have been a
Talker’s Redemption | Amy Lane
52
bizarre question, but Dr. Sutherland must have really liked him, and
not just been saying that, because he smiled.
“My wife knits too.” He held out a foot encased in a VERY
brightly colored wool masterpiece. “She makes socks.” Sutherland
stuffed his needlework into the satchel at his side and then stood up
and started walking down the corridor with Talker.
“What are you doing here, Doc?” Tate asked, but he had to
admit that the man’s wide-legged, big-bellied gait was comforting in
the sterile white hallway. It would be easier to wait for news if he
was there.
“Brian’s aunt called me. I guess she found my number in your
wallet when you went to shower. She seemed to think you might
need some moral support.”
Talker squinted. He realized that the man’s hair wasn’t in its
usual queue, but hung to his shoulders in a snarled mess, and that
his cardigan (a handsome one in a dark gray color) was
misbuttoned. “You got here pretty fast. Jesus, how long was I in the
shower?”
“A long time,” Sutherland said gently. “But I only live about five
minutes away.”
There was a pause, and Talker had to swallow, because the
guy had to have been worried about him to come out in the… fuck.
Was it morning yet?
“I don’t want to talk about it again,” he said after a minute. “I got
it all out in the office, and then… tonight….” He shrugged. He was
pretty sure Lyndie must have told the doc all about it.
Suddenly the doctor was closer than he usually stood, and his
arm stretched up and looped around Tate’s shoulder. He smelled
like baby powder; the doc must have showered before he got called
out of bed to look after his two boys.
Talker’s Redemption | Amy Lane
53
“No worries, Talker. The detectives are going to have to
question you again in an hour or so, and we still need to wait for
news on Brian. You don’t have to say a word, okay? But Lyndie was
worried, and she seemed to feel you were worth the trouble, so
here I am.”
Tate nodded and blinked, hard. “All right,” he said hoarsely.
“Have you seen Brian yet?”
Dr. Sutherland’s careful breathing was his only giveaway when
they got to Brian’s room, but he was shocked, Tate could tell.
“The swelling’s pretty bad,” Lyndie said softly. She was sitting
quietly, working on her own yarn work, and Tate had a brief moment
of disconnect, imagining what Brian’s aunt and his shrink might say
to each other: “Yes, I prefer the hookie thingie, with the yarn that
has all the fuzzies on it!” “I’m a big fan of pointy sticks myself, and I
like my yarn plain, like all my sweaters.”
The noise in his head faded, though, and he got another look
at Brian’s face. It looked like another bandage had been added, and
he looked at Lyndie in confusion.
“They lanced the bruise by his cheekbone and the one over
his eye,” she said quietly, her hands growing white around her hook
and her yarn. “They said it looks worse than it is.”
Talker nodded and fought the quiver in his lip, and then he sat
at Brian’s bedside. Dr. Sutherland dropped the side rail for him, and
he just sat, holding Brian’s good hand in his own, in the fugue-like
silence that was punctuated only by the vital-sign monitors and
Brian’s deliberate breathing through his newly-broken nose. Talker
started dreaming a little as he sat there, exhausted, wired, and
frightened. They weren’t the bad dreams for once. It was like his
body had shut down the capacity for the bad dreams in this
surprised.
“Hey, Talker.” The shrink was sitting patiently outside of the
shower in a folding chair, knitting.
“Do you make all those funky cardigans? I thought it would be
your wife or something?” Tate had a bag with his soiled clothes
under one arm, and was using his other hand to hold up the falling
waistband of the aqua-colored scrubs, and it should have been a
Talker’s Redemption | Amy Lane
52
bizarre question, but Dr. Sutherland must have really liked him, and
not just been saying that, because he smiled.
“My wife knits too.” He held out a foot encased in a VERY
brightly colored wool masterpiece. “She makes socks.” Sutherland
stuffed his needlework into the satchel at his side and then stood up
and started walking down the corridor with Talker.
“What are you doing here, Doc?” Tate asked, but he had to
admit that the man’s wide-legged, big-bellied gait was comforting in
the sterile white hallway. It would be easier to wait for news if he
was there.
“Brian’s aunt called me. I guess she found my number in your
wallet when you went to shower. She seemed to think you might
need some moral support.”
Talker squinted. He realized that the man’s hair wasn’t in its
usual queue, but hung to his shoulders in a snarled mess, and that
his cardigan (a handsome one in a dark gray color) was
misbuttoned. “You got here pretty fast. Jesus, how long was I in the
shower?”
“A long time,” Sutherland said gently. “But I only live about five
minutes away.”
There was a pause, and Talker had to swallow, because the
guy had to have been worried about him to come out in the… fuck.
Was it morning yet?
“I don’t want to talk about it again,” he said after a minute. “I got
it all out in the office, and then… tonight….” He shrugged. He was
pretty sure Lyndie must have told the doc all about it.
Suddenly the doctor was closer than he usually stood, and his
arm stretched up and looped around Tate’s shoulder. He smelled
like baby powder; the doc must have showered before he got called
out of bed to look after his two boys.
Talker’s Redemption | Amy Lane
53
“No worries, Talker. The detectives are going to have to
question you again in an hour or so, and we still need to wait for
news on Brian. You don’t have to say a word, okay? But Lyndie was
worried, and she seemed to feel you were worth the trouble, so
here I am.”
Tate nodded and blinked, hard. “All right,” he said hoarsely.
“Have you seen Brian yet?”
Dr. Sutherland’s careful breathing was his only giveaway when
they got to Brian’s room, but he was shocked, Tate could tell.
“The swelling’s pretty bad,” Lyndie said softly. She was sitting
quietly, working on her own yarn work, and Tate had a brief moment
of disconnect, imagining what Brian’s aunt and his shrink might say
to each other: “Yes, I prefer the hookie thingie, with the yarn that
has all the fuzzies on it!” “I’m a big fan of pointy sticks myself, and I
like my yarn plain, like all my sweaters.”
The noise in his head faded, though, and he got another look
at Brian’s face. It looked like another bandage had been added, and
he looked at Lyndie in confusion.
“They lanced the bruise by his cheekbone and the one over
his eye,” she said quietly, her hands growing white around her hook
and her yarn. “They said it looks worse than it is.”
Talker nodded and fought the quiver in his lip, and then he sat
at Brian’s bedside. Dr. Sutherland dropped the side rail for him, and
he just sat, holding Brian’s good hand in his own, in the fugue-like
silence that was punctuated only by the vital-sign monitors and
Brian’s deliberate breathing through his newly-broken nose. Talker
started dreaming a little as he sat there, exhausted, wired, and
frightened. They weren’t the bad dreams for once. It was like his
body had shut down the capacity for the bad dreams in this
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