CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Haddie jumped up. The room seemed silent, the storm outside just a murmur. “Rock?” she asked of the figure.

She didn’t recognize the doctor, an older man with white, close-trimmed sideburns and gray hair. He had a mask hanging at his neck and a white apron over a white coat. A long smear of red blood stretched along his waist.

“He’s safe. He’ll be fine.”

Haddie sucked in a breath and sobbed it out. Her father laid a glove on her shoulder and she curled into him. Rock had survived her mistake. Tears streamed hot down her cheeks. At what point would she start taking suggestions?

“I want to see him,” she croaked. Her eyes felt glued shut from tears and sleeplessness.

“Give him a few hours to get out of the anesthesia. You’re welcome to stay here — with your friend.” The doctor turned around and opened the door, flooding the waiting room with bright light from a short hall.

Dad still had on the gaiter and glasses, as if ready to go. However, he maneuvered her to the chairs. “Lie down; use my lap for your head.”

Exhausted, she sat down in the middle of the row. “I want to see Rock.”

“You will. He’s okay. Sleep. I’ll be here.” He sat on her right side at the end and tugged her shoulder. “Sleep is the best thing for you.”

“Just going to rest my head.” She lifted her legs up, wincing as she protected her bandaged arm, and rested her head against his leather pants. He smelled like rain, grease, and gunpowder. What had he been up to? She would need to ask — later.

Rock being safe was all that mattered. She’d let Sam know — soon. So much had happened tonight. Her breath snorted out as she remembered the attack at the park. The knives, and the bulging-eyed man’s intensity as they attacked. The woman screaming and Jeff, the pudgy, middle-aged man who couldn’t manage her saddlebag key. Detective Cooper — always there, sneaky and arrogant, and always digging. It all melded into a swirl. Liz trying to put on her sunglasses in the storm at night. Black clouds and rain.

She woke and found Dad answering his phone.

“Yeah?” His chin looked wrong — splotchy. He needed a shave. “No, just find out where they’re holed up. Thanks, Trig.”

The ringing of his phone must have awakened her. The storm poured outside. The thunder had stopped. Nothing but grayness.

“What time is it?” She lifted her head up, grimacing as her bad arm shifted. Her head felt like it weighed a hundred pounds.

Dad frowned and tucked his phone into his jacket. “Sleep. It’s not even one.”

His glasses and gaiter were around his neck, and she could see his face, marked up with dark splotches randomly dotting chin, jaw, and even lips. He looked like he had a rash of tiny bruises.

“What happened to your face?” she asked. Her hip complained about her makeshift bed.

“Nothing. Go back to sleep.” He turned away toward the light over the counter so that his markings became more evident.

Foggy, she raised her eyebrows trying to remember something familiar. Had he looked like this before, when she was a child? Was Dad sick? “Dad, tell me. What’s wrong?”

He stood, pulling up his gaiter to hide his face and pulled on his riding glasses. “Maybe we should just head over to the garage. Get you settled in your own room for the night. You’re not going back to your apartment.”

“No. I’m waiting to see Rock.” She didn’t intend to go back to her apartment, not yet. It depended a lot on what Detective Cooper did. She didn’t intend to leave at all right now. Rock wouldn’t be ready to leave right away.

“Hours from now. You need a good sleep.”

“No. I need to know what’s going on with you, and to be here when Rock wakes up.” Haddie resisted reaching up and pulling down his gaiter. Why did he always have to hide things from her?

“Where are you going to stay now? You can’t stay at your apartment, not until this is resolved.” He wore his full gloves, with the metal caps on his knuckles. He’d come back from a fight once with those on.

“What happened? What was Detective Cooper asking you about?” Louis Mattes’ residence. “Did you find the muggers?”

Dad shook his head. “Nope. Just some scumbags. They didn’t get me any closer to them.”

“What were you going to do?”

He frowned and tightened his lips, pacing to the front door to stare into the gray night. Dad had a rough reputation with some of the tougher bikers, and they respected him. She’d never seen him do anything too bad. Clocked a man at the garage once, and come back a couple nights with torn clothes and bruises — mostly on his knuckles. But she’d never seen the splotches. Had she?

She’d learned impossible things about him. How could she not know her own dad?

“Dad?”

He spoke quietly to the glass. “I don’t know what I was going to do.” He shrugged, flexing his fingers at his side. “Stop them.”

“Show me your face.” She stepped forward.

Dad didn’t move for a moment, then he turned and stared into her eyes. “Let it go, Haddie.”

“Show me your face,” she repeated. When he didn’t react, she reached up and tugged at the side of his gaiter. The light from the counter clearly lit his face. His jaw had a purplish spot and another splotch hid along his cheekbone near his ear. Familiar. “What is this? Have you had this before?”

“You wouldn’t remember.” He sighed and pulled the gaiter down to his neck, and with two hands stretched out the band on his glasses and dropped them down. “They’re called Purpura. It happens when your capillaries shatter under the skin.”

Blood. The purplish bruises dotted across his face. The one by his nose had not been considerable. However, now that she could see them all, they disturbed her. She’d seen this lately. On the British man, Harold Holmes, at Mark Coleman’s office. He’d been cute, except for these marks. She flushed, feeling petty.

“What causes this?” She pointed to his gloves. “Hands too?”

Odd that she had never seen this condition before, and now twice in the past couple of days. Her dad never got sick. A fact she found curious now, especially considering what she’d learned about him lately.

“It’s not something we’re going to want to talk about. You still have other aspects of my — life that you need to accept.” He didn’t remove his gloves.

She tensed and her jaw tightened. He did not get to keep all these secrets. “Tell me, Dad.”

There was more. A panic inside, an old fear, and old painful memory in her childhood. These marks were familiar. More than Harold Holmes. What couldn’t she remember?

“What causes it, Dad?”

He sighed. “If we’re going to continue this conversation, I’d like a drink. It’s been a long night. I didn’t sleep much the night before.”

“Just tell me.” Haddie took in a deep breath, holding her ground.

“A drink. Bars are open until 2 or 2:30 here. We’ve got time.” He put his hand on the door and swung out, inviting the storm in. “You can’t say you handle what I tell you very well. A drink is a small price to ask.”

She wanted to argue. He couldn’t expect what he told her to go over well. But, she had been childish, scared. Would she handle this better? I can’t know that until he tells me. She needed to know — before she mentioned Harold Holmes.

Haddie huffed, tucked her bandaged arm under her sweatshirt against her stomach, and stepped into the storm.