Fallen Angel by Chuck Logan

Author:Chuck Logan
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-62652-604-4
Publisher: Publish Green

Chapter Thirty-Eight

The day after Roger Torres’ visit, John’s blood pressure spiked and he complained about severe chest pains. Amanda thought it serious enough to bundle him into the chopper and fly him to the Hurley Medical Center in Flint, the nearest level-one trauma center. Upon his return from intensive care, and over his objections, Amanda confiscated his pipe and tobacco and called in a local carpenter to add a wheelchair ramp next to the porch steps. Then an outfit came in from Traverse City to install a stairway lift to ride him back and forth to his bedroom.

Now on a regimen of enforced bed rest John, maintains a stoic distaste for all the fuss and grumbles that, “You have to die of something.”

Given John’s medical issues, Morgon sees no need to burden him with Brian Cawker’s side assignment to determine whether Davis had support in the bureaucracy. Best to remain positive and give no hint that the Turmar tar baby may drop yet another sticky shoe. So he’s sitting on the veranda with his bare feet hoisted on a wicker ottoman, keeping it positive.

Through the screen door he can hear the muted whoosh of the kitchen-sink faucet, then the soft clatter of plates and glasses. The help has gone home, and Amanda is loading the dishwasher. Kelly is upstairs sitting vigil with John.

And Morgon’s musing: Just lookit this place, the way the freshly mowed acres stretch out in the humid evening like a golfer’s vision of peace. Amanda thinks he should take up the game. He has the hand and eye for it, along with a natural feel for ground and distance, and it would be useful for his future in the community.

Across the lake, the dark-veined clouds mushroom up on the horizon and, ever so slowly, blades of storm charge churn the air and spread an inky cool as Amanda pushes through the screen door. She’s wearing a short, sleeveless paisley shift and no shoes. Her bare throat, arms, thighs, and calves gleam dull olive in the fading light, and a moist lemon steam of dishwashing liquid and hot water clings to her. “Look at you,” Morgon says. “Talk about domestic.”

His playful comment sails right past her as she rolls her eyes back into the house and up the stairway.

“It’ll be fine; he’s a tough old bird,” Morgon says, coming forward in his chair.

“Don’t minimize and don’t baby me. He is a very ill old man,” she says. “You, on the other hand, are young, healthy as a horse, and have options . . .”

“I’m not going anywhere; regardless of what . . . happens,” Morgon protests, seeing where this is headed.

In the middle of composing her response, she cocks her head and watches him fold up the cuffs of his jeans. “What are you doing?” she asks.

“I’ve got an urge to walk barefoot on the grass. C’mon. With any luck we’ll get caught in the rain.”

Holding her hand, Morgon wanders across the lawn to the gazebo and his wall project.

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