The Bad Daughter(9)

Robin stared at her cell phone, trying to make sense of what he was saying. “I’m sorry. I haven’t checked my messages. I took some Valium and I’m still a little loopy.”

“You took Valium? Who gave you Valium?”

“It’s a long story. Can we talk about it later?”

“I don’t know. Can we?”

“Of course.”

“What’s going on, Robin?”

The phone started making crackling noises.

“My father…He’s been shot.”

More crackling noises, louder this time.

“What? I didn’t hear you. You’re breaking up. Did you say something about your father?”

“I said he’s…”

“Hello? Hello, Robin? Are you there?”

Robin followed her sister as she turned down a hall leading to the east wing. “Blake? Can you hear me now?”

“Yes, that’s better.”

“We’re not supposed to use our cell phones.”

“What? Why not?”

“This way,” Melanie directed, leading Robin past another nurses’ station, where two policemen were conferring with a bald, heavyset man wearing a beige uniform. “That’s Sheriff Prescott,” she said, acknowledging him with a nod.

“What’s that about a sheriff?” Blake asked.

Robin gave Blake a quick recap of everything she knew. “We’re at the hospital now.”

“This is it,” Melanie said, stopping outside the closed door to room 124.

“Holy shit. Are you all right?” Blake asked.

“I don’t know,” Robin replied honestly.

“You need to turn that off now,” her sister said.

“Look. This really isn’t a good time. Can I call you back later?”

“I’m in meetings all day. I’ll have to call you.”

“Okay.”

“You’ll answer your phone?”

“I’ll answer.”

“You won’t take any more Valium?”

“I don’t have any more,” Robin said, her voice a whine.

Blake chuckled. “Good. You’re strong. You don’t need it.”

I’m not strong, Robin thought. I need you.

“Robin,” Melanie said again. “Are you coming?”

“I have to go.” Robin disconnected the call before Blake could say goodbye and returned the phone to her pocket.

“Ready?” Melanie opened the door to their father’s room and stepped inside.

Robin took a deep breath, feeling it waver as she released it.

“Robin?” her sister said again.

Robin forced one reluctant foot in front of the other, crossing the threshold and closing the door behind her.

Her father was lying in a narrow bed in the middle of the small private room, his heavily bandaged head elevated by two pillows. Myriad wires and tubes connected him to life, a monitor registering his every breath and heartbeat. Amazingly, he still managed to look imposing. Or maybe that wasn’t so surprising. At sixty-two, he was still relatively young and in excellent shape. He exercised regularly and often boasted of never having been sick a day in his life. His skin was tanned, his arms muscular beneath the short sleeves of his hospital gown. “I can’t believe how good he looks,” Robin stammered.

“He’s a handsome devil, all right.”

Hooray! Something we agree on.

Robin approached the bed, staring down at the man under the stiff white sheets. Who did this to you? she asked silently, running her fingers along the bed’s railing and fighting the urge to cover her father’s fingers with her own.

“Are you crying?” Melanie asked.

Robin wiped the tears from her eyes. Truthfully, she was as astounded as her sister by their sudden appearance. Their father was a bastard. There was no other word for it. Oh, wait…there were actually a bunch of other words: prick, cad, asshole. How about jerk, scoundrel, son of a bitch? In fact, there was no shortage of words she could use to describe her father, almost none of them complimentary.

She heard the sound of a door opening behind her and turned to see Sheriff Prescott step into the room. He was a big man, at least six and a half feet tall, with a barrel chest that strained against the buttons of his khaki shirt, his sheriff’s badge—a seven-pointed star framing a picture of a bull, the words “County of Tehama” scrawled above the bull’s head, the single word “Sheriff” below—proudly on display. His hard stomach protruded over his belt, and his khaki pants were too short, revealing scuffed brown leather cowboy boots. His eyes were small and close together, his hands large, his head bald and shiny, as if he’d just waxed it. A large-brimmed cowboy hat dangled between his thick fingers. A casting director’s dream sheriff, Robin couldn’t help thinking.

“Sheriff Prescott,” Melanie acknowledged.

“Melanie,” he said in return.

There was no warmth in either of their voices.

“This is my sister, Robin.”

“Sheriff,” Robin said.

Sheriff Prescott nodded. “I was wondering if we could have a few words. When you have a minute…”

“Certainly.” I have nothing but minutes.