Sea Swept Read Free Page B

been on staff, and then when she’d been in treatment for the thing that killed her.
    He walked in now, punchy and panicked, and asked for Raymond Quinn at the admission’s desk.
    “He’s in Intensive Care. Family only.”
    “I’m his son.” Cameron turned away and headed for the elevator. He didn’t have to be told what floor. He knew too well.
    He saw Phillip the moment the doors opened onto ICU. “How bad?”
    Phillip handed over one of the two cups of coffee he held. His face was pale with fatigue, his normally well-groomed tawny hair tousled by his hands. His long, somewhat angelic face was roughened by stubble, and his eyes, a pale golden brown, shadowed with exhaustion.
    “I wasn’t sure you’d make it. It’s bad, Cam. Christ, I’ve got to sit down a minute.”
    He stepped into a small waiting area, and dropped into a chair. The can of Coke in the pocket of his tailored suit clunked. For a moment he stared blindly at the morning show running brightly on the TV screen.
    “What happened?” Cam demanded. “Where is he? What do the doctors say?”
    “He was heading home from Baltimore. At least Ethan thinks he’d gone to Baltimore. For something. He hit a telephone pole. Dead on.” He pressed the heel of his hand to his heart because it ached every time he pictured it. “They say maybe he had a heart attack or a stroke and lost control, but they’re not sure yet. He was driving fast. Too fast.”
    He had to close his eyes because his stomach kept trying to jump into his throat. “Too fast,” he repeated. “It took them nearly an hour to cut him out of the wreck. Nearly an hour. The paramedics said he was conscious on and off. It was just a couple miles from here.”
    He remembered the Coke in his pocket, opened the can, and drank. He kept trying to block the image out of his head, to concentrate on the now, and the what happened next. “They got ahold of Ethan pretty quick,” Phillip continued. “When he got here Dad was in surgery. He’s in a coma now.” He looked up, met his brother’s eyes. “They don’t expect him to come out of it.”
    “That’s bullshit. He’s strong as an ox.”
    “They said . . .” Phillip closed his eyes again. His head felt empty, and he had to search for every thought. “Massive trauma. Brain damage. Internal injuries. He’s on life support. The surgeon . . . he . . . Dad’s a registered organ donor.”
    “Fuck that.” Cam’s voice was low and furious.
    “Do you think I want to consider it?” Phillip rose now, a tall, rangy man in a wrinkled thousand-dollar suit. “They said it’s a matter of hours at most. The machines are keeping him breathing. Goddamn it, Cam, you know how Mom and Dad talked about this when she got sick. No extreme measures. They made living wills, and we’re ignoring his because . . . because we can’t stand not to.”
    “You want to pull the plug?” Cam reached out, grabbed Phillip by the lapels. “You want to pull the goddamn plug on him?”
    Weary and sick at heart, Phillip shook his head. “I’d rather cut my hand off. I don’t want to lose him any more than you do. You’d better see for yourself.”
    He turned, led the way down the corridor, where the scent was hopelessness not quite masked by antiseptics. They moved through double doors, past a nurse’s station, past small glass-fronted rooms where machines beeped and hope hung stubbornly on.
    Ethan was sitting in a chair by the bed when they walked in. His big, calloused hand was through the guard and covering Ray’s. His tall, wiry body was bent over, as if he’d been talking to the unconscious man in the bed beside him. He stood up slowly and, with eyes bruised from lack of sleep, studied Cam.
    “So, you decided to put in an appearance. Strike up the band.”
    “I got here as soon as I could.” He didn’t want to admit it, didn’t want to believe it. The man, the old, terrifyingly frail man, lying in the narrow bed, was his father. Ray Quinn