Grissom (In the Company of Snipers #26)

Chapter Thirty

Grissom was so damned angry at his ex-wife that he wanted to kill her. Illegal or not. Smart or not. He wanted Pamela dead. What she’d done to the little boy she’d claimed to love more than Tanner was unforgivable. She’d poisoned Luke! With a bagful of ‘treats’ she’d known the greedy little three-year-old couldn’t resist. THC-laced gummies. Damn her!

Thankfully, the ER doctor had been pacing, primed and ready for Luke’s arrival. Doc Pratt had checked Luke’s vitals, then whisked his gurney down the hall, past the admissions desk, to the ER cubicle where Grissom now stood, stressed, and planning revenge. Pratt transferred Luke to a bed and ordered Grissom to: “Say your prayers. Your son’s heart rate’s still solid. We may have caught this crap in time. When did he get into your shit? How much did he eat? How long has it been since he ate them?”

Everything about this intense man declared: ‘How stupid are you?’

“About an hour ago, I think. But it’s not mine. I have no idea how much he ate,” Grissom explained. “I wasn’t home. My ex, she gave Luke a bag of THC-laced gummies. She did it to get back at me.”

Tossing a disbelieving glare over his shoulder, Pratt snarled, “If you say so.”

Turning back to Luke, he barked a string of medical orders into the mic clipped on the collar of his scrubs. As if waiting on standby, several men and women in scrubs hurried into the room and sprang into action. As if they knew precisely what to do. As if they’d done this before. Muscle action. That was what Grissom was watching, all because these folks had performed this exact same rescue too many times in the past. People really were too dumb to live, and he was one of them.

“Relax,” Eric murmured in his ear. “Pratt’s a good guy, and Luke’s in good hands. Don’t borrow trouble.”

Grissom stared up blankly at the men he’d forgotten had come with him on his run into the hospital. Eric was there. The medics who’d transported Luke waited in the hall. Alex stood at the foot of Luke’s bed, staring down at the little guy, his sharp blue eyes fastened on what the medical team was doing.

“What’s that even mean?” Tears filled Grissom’s damned eyes. “This is my fault. He’s my son. What if he—?”

“It means don’t get ahead of yourself and start planning a son-of-a-bitching funeral!” It was Eric’s firm hand on Grissom’s shoulder, but it was Alex who answered. “Your boy’s a fighter, Grissom. He’s your son, and your boys know how to fight. Give Luke some credit. He might be three, but it’s your blood in his veins, not his chicken shit mother’s. Don’t forget that.”

Ah, but it’s not my blood in his veins. He’s not biologically mine. He’s—

“And these guys know what they’re doing.” Alex turned on Grissom then, and damned if those icy blue bolts of lightning didn’t pierce Grissom’s heart. Fuck. Alex knew Luke wasn’t his biological son. How the hell?

But Luke is mine, damn it. In every way that mattered, Luke was Grissom’s son, and he’d fight to the death before he’d ever let anyone call his boy a bastard or try to take him away.

“Copy that,” Grissom whispered. “He’s mine and I’m keeping him.”

By then, a male nurse had stripped Luke down to his cartoon underwear, while another attached monitors on his little chest to track heart rate, oxygen saturation, and a bunch of other important stuff Grissom couldn’t recall at the moment. Placing a hand on Luke’s foot, he told his tiniest warrior, “I’m here, Short Stack. I’ve got your six, and Tanner’s waiting at home for you. Fight, baby boy.”

Doc Pratt pried Luke’s mouth open, tipped his head back to access a straight line to Luke’s gut, sprayed something into the tiny guy’s airway, and gastric suction began. Grissom cringed as the machine on wheels sucked stomach acid and a shit ton of whole gummies into the clear gray jug on its lower shelf. Whole gummies. Not partially chewed bits and pieces, but whole damned gummies.

His eyes brimmed. The greedy little boy of his hadn’t wasted time chewing. He’d guzzled Pam’s poisonous treats whole. Nothing else was coming out of his tummy, just thumb-nail-sized blobs of yellow, orange, and green mixed with bile and stomach acid. That had to be a good sign, didn’t it?

Splat. Hiss. Thunk. At last, only clear fluid trickled into the jug. Pratt inserted another tube down Luke’s throat. He was rinsing the inside of Luke’s tummy, going after every last bit of Pam’s ugly poison. He’s saving my boy, God, please bless him.

“There,” Pratt said, carefully easing both tubes out of Luke’s mouth. The man turned dark, stormy green eyes on Grissom. “You say your ex did this intentionally?” he asked warily, no doubt scrutinizing Grissom for a lie.

“Yes, she’s—”

“She’s in police custody, Dr. Pratt. In my jail,” a gruff male voice stated loudly from the hall beyond Luke’s cubicle. “And she’s talking, make that screaming her fool head off. Pamela McCoy hasn’t shut her damned mouth since I dragged her out of Grissom’s house and sat her ass in my patrol car. She’s proud of what she did, Pratt. Says Grissom made her do it.”

Howie Prince, the local Chief Deputy Sheriff, personally patrolled Alex’s gated community. Tall, dark-haired, and strong as an ox, he was every bit as lethal as any TEAM agent. He’d served in Somalia years ago, part of the USMC leg of a joint op that had netted the latest tribal lord. That guy had been an insane dictator who’d killed his enemies with impunity, his own people by starvation.

Sergeant Presley Forsythe stood behind Chief Prince, her shiny black hair pulled tight in a bun, the brim of her deputy ballcap pulled so low Grissom couldn’t see her amazing tropical-blue eyes. Was she judging him? Was that why she didn’t want to look at him? Was she condemning him like Pratt had?

“I wasn’t there,” Grissom confessed his most grievous sin without thinking. Everything was his fault. He was worse than his dad. He’d never been around when his boys had needed him most.

“Of course, you weren’t there,” Howie growled, politely shoving his way into the crowded cubicle. “You were with Alex looking for your lady friend, the one Pam McCoy has already admitted she bludgeoned with a brick, then dragged into the trees behind your place and strung up in a tree. She claims that was the only way to get you away from your boys, long enough to snatch your youngest.”

Pratt acknowledged Chief Prince with a chin lift. “Good to see you, Howie. All the evidence you’ll need is in the jar. Yours for the taking. Only wish you could send that woman to hell.”

“All I’ll need’s your signed statement, Gary, but thanks for the offer,” Howie replied.

Grissom glanced at the stern police officer. “Thanks for your quick response, sir. Without you—”

“My response, nothing. You and Alex are the heroes today.” Chief Prince slapped Grissom’s back. “Take care of that little guy, and if you need anything, anything at all, you call me, hear?”

“Yes, sir, I will.”

Everyone except Pratt and a nurse stepped out of the cubicle. Doctor Gary Pratt leaned his butt against the counter alongside Luke’s bed. The nurse cleaned Luke’s mouth, wiped a damp cloth over his face, and then dressed him in the tiniest hospital gown Grissom had ever seen. The sight of his baby boy in that great big bed, alone, without Tanner to squabble with, choked Grissom’s heart. He’d almost lost his sons today. His babies.

God, where’s Tuesday? No man should have to face his sins by himself. Once again, she’d rescued his boys because he couldn’t. He needed her, damn it. To hold him up and tell him everything was going to be okay. With her by his side, he could believe. Might even be able to forgive himself. Grissom dashed a hand over his face before his eyes betrayed him.

But Jesus, where is she?

“We see a lot of THC poisoning these days,” Doc Pratt said quietly. “Too much. People are careless. Their kids watch them take this crap, then they leave it laying around and joke like it’s Mommy’s or Daddy’s favorite candy. Kids think all gummies are candy. Why shouldn’t they? They look like gummies in candy aisles at any grocery store, and they come in clever, colorful bags. But I’ve never heard of anyone trying to kill their kid with gummies before.”

“She’s sick and she’s damned mean,” Grissom answered. “But it’s my fault. I wasn’t there. I should’ve been.”

“Let me guess, messy divorce?”

“No divorce. Not yet. I was told she died in a plane crash last month. That’s what the Costa Rican Coast Guard said. Didn’t think I’d need to divorce a corpse.”

Doc Pratt adjusted the wire spectacles Grissom hadn’t noticed were perched on his nose until then. “They didn’t demand DNA to confirm the body?”

“Guess not. Hell, I was recovering from a motorcycle crash. Barely convinced my boss to let me travel.”

Pratt cocked his head. “She took your son—?”

Grissom held up two fingers. “Sons. She took Tanner and Luke out of the country without my permission. But once she got there, she and her boyfriend decided they had no use for them. Especially Luke’s big brother. Pam always hated Tanner and made sure he knew it. Poor kid’s got PTSD worse than me.” And I’m going to have a full-blown panic attack if you don’t get out of here real soon.

Doc Pratt must’ve noticed Grissom was close to coming undone. “How’d you get them back?” he asked more kindly.

“A woman, an American woman… Tuesday Smart…” God, I miss her . “She witnessed Pam’s boyfriend abusing Tanner. Bastard was dangling him off a third-story balcony. If he wasn’t already dead, I’d… I’d kill him! B-but right away, Tuesday ran up those three flights. She didn’t have to, but she saved Tanner, and… and Luke and…” Beads of sweat dripped from Grissom’s hair, down his forehead and temples at how close he’d come to losing his boys that day. Both of them. If not for Tuesday…

Where is she?

Panic spiked. Talk never accomplished a damned thing. Especially now, when Grissom was back at square one. When he’d come close to losing one of his sons again. Jesus, what kind of father am I? Why’s this shit keep happening to me? To us?

“Go on,” Pratt prodded.

The soothing tone in his voice snapped Grissom back to the here and now. “Yeah. Right. I, ahh…” Where was I? Oh, yeah. “Tuesday just happened to be there that day. She confronted the bastard. Just ran up the stairs and ordered him to let Tanner go. That she’d kill him if he dropped my boy. My wife got pissed. They had a screaming match…” Which undoubtedly was Pam screaming more than Tuesday. “…and Tuesday… and she…” Anyway. “Pam told her to take my boys, that she didn’t want them. Tuesday never hesitated, just assumed the care and feeding of my sons from that moment. She loves them. But Doc. I… I don’t know where she is.”

Grissom looked around the tiny cubicle, more aware than ever that the woman he craved most in his life wasn’t at his side. Worse, he had no idea where she’d gone; if she was injured or hurt or just mad that he’d put his boys in danger again. A panic attack was imminent, its ghostly fingers tiptoeing up the back of his neck, waiting to strangle him. To unman him.

“I’m keeping Luke overnight, maybe two days tops, but just for observation,” Pratt continued, motioning toward the little guy in that great big bed. “We dodged a bullet here, Mr.—”

“Grissom. Grissom McCoy.” Luke’s shitty old man. Mom was right. I’m just like my dad. Good for nothing.

“Grissom.” Pratt bobbed his head respectfully. “You need to understand that Luke’s not out of the woods yet. THC poisoning is risky with children, more so when they’re under ten. I’ll send everything in that jar to our lab to be sure, but most edibles contain more than the recommended dose for adults. Ten to fifteen milligrams of THC instead of two point five. More than half the calls to poison control centers these days involve THC edibles, and most of those calls involve children between the ages of three to five. Those kids are the most at risk, and I hate to tell you, but your son chugged more than a handful.”

“What should I watch for?” Because I’m not going anywhere.

“No need to worry. We’ll monitor him until you take him home. Seizures, low blood pressure, hallucinations, nausea and vomiting, trouble breathing, heart arrhythmias, weakness, and poor coordination are just a few warning signs. In a couple minutes, our trauma team will transfer him to ICU. You’re welcome to stay with him. Do you have any questions? Any concerns? Anything I can help with?”

Grissom licked the side of his mouth. Concerns? He had a ton, but where to begin? Which one to ask first? Every last nerve in his body was standing on end, and he had nothing with him to combat the monster he was about to morph into. He needed Tuesday, damn it. How could she do this to him? Just leave without a word? She, more than anyone, knew how much he and his boys loved her. What was wrong with her, to up and walk away like she did?

Pratt’s eyes were still on him. The man’s mouth was moving. He was talking, but Grissom had disconnected from reality like he had back in the damned looney bin, the name he still couldn’t remember.

Just as his throat tightened, just as panic sealed his fate and dumped a shitload of more stress down his gullet, a heavy hand slapped his shoulder. “We need to talk,” Alex barked.

“Not before I get an answer from Mr. McCoy,” Pratt interrupted quietly.

“Answer to what?” Grissom had to ask because he’d been lost in his stupid head and once again, not present, like he should’ve been. But with Alex’s firm hold—a hold that told Grissom again that the world’s best sniper had his six, his reeling brain came back online. It was right then reminding Grissom the truth about Tuesday and her genuine love for his boys and, by default, him. Her instant kindness for people in need, like Persia that evening in his kitchen. Her smile. The way she blushed when they’d talked about sex. Her lack of experience. Her virginity. Her inner beauty.

“I asked if you’re going to track down the woman who saved your son and marry her?” Pratt asked. “Because I sure would.”

“We gotta go, Grissom.” Alex’s palm and fingers were now hard on the back of Grissom’s neck. “There’s something you need to hear.”

Grissom maintained eye contact with Pratt, as he backed out of the cubicle into the hall with his boss. “Absolutely, Doc. I’m going to marry Tuesday, and I’ll invite you to our wedding.”

Pratt nodded as if he’d gotten the answer he wanted. For a moment, Grissom felt relief. Until Alex bit out, “Pam has an accomplice. Are you staying here or are you coming with me to locate your woman?”

“What?” Grissom damned shrieked. “An accomplice? Who?”

His angst nearly drowned him again. What do I do? Stay or go?