The Song of David(74)

“What are the odds?”

“That it’s cancer?”

“Yes.”

“I would be lying if I told you I believed it was benign.”

“Have you ever seen a tumor in the brain that wasn’t cancer?”

“Not personally. No”

No. No. No. No. There was an odd echoing in my ears and I couldn’t sit still.

I stood and headed for the door.

“Tag?”

“I need to think, Doc.”

“Please. Please don’t think too long, Mr. Taggert. You have my number.”

I jerked my head in a semblance of a nod and pushed out of his office and into the long, sterile hallway beyond.

I don’t remember walking out of the hospital. I don’t remember walking across the grounds or whether the sun was shining or whether rain fell. I remember pulling my seatbelt on and staring at the buckle in my hand and clicking it home carefully, as if it would protect me from the news I’d just received. I stuck the key in the ignition and backed out of the lot as my phone rang. I couldn’t talk. I wouldn’t be able to hide my agitation, but I clicked the speaker anyway almost desperate to avoid myself. I didn’t look at the display, didn’t know who was calling, but it delayed what came next.

“This is Tag,” I barked, and then winced at the volume of my voice. The echoing remained and I rubbed at my temple as if I could adjust the reverb in my head.

“Tag. It’s Moses.” With his voice on speaker it was like he was sitting beside me in my truck. I wished he was and was grateful he wasn’t.

“‘Sup, man?” I shot back and winced once more, this time because I was such a fake.

“You okay?” It was an I-demand-to-know question, not a polite how-are-you, and it shook me. It made me defensive too. How the hell did he know I wasn’t okay?

“Yeah. Yeah. Why you askin’?” I pushed back.

“I saw Molly.” Moses sucked at polite conversation.

My mind tripped over itself again.

“What?”

“I haven’t seen Molly in years . . . not since Montlake. Last night I ended up painting a mural of David and Goliath, like something from a Sunday School story, instead of painting the picture I’d been commissioned to paint. Now I’m behind. And I blame you.”

“Me?” I was only half listening as I backed out of the parking lot and began to drive. I didn’t know where I was going.

“Yeah. You. The David in my mural looks suspiciously like you. So your dead sister is obviously trying to tell me something. That, or she doesn’t like your chosen profession.”

“David kicked Goliath’s ass, remember? Nothing to worry about.” I was conducting the conversation from a very mechanical, detached side of my brain, and I observed myself talking to Moses even as my thoughts were bouncing in a million different directions.

“I don’t think Goliath’s ass was involved,” Moses growled. “If I remember right, it was his head. Goliath took a blow between the eyes.”

“Yeah . . . right. That must be it. I got cracked between the eyes with a bottle of beer last night.” Was it just last night? “Guy laid my head open. I have a few stitches. I’m impressed, Mo. So now you’re a psychic too?”

“You okay?” There it was again. The demand to tell him everything.

“Yeah. All stitched up. Doesn’t even hurt.” I wasn’t lying. It didn’t hurt. But I was skirting the truth. I wasn’t okay. Not at all.

“Well, that’s not surprising. You have the hardest head of anyone I know. What happened?”

“Just someone heckling Millie while she was dancing. I grabbed him to throw him out, and he nailed me in the head.” I didn’t want Mo saying I told you so. He’d never liked Morgan. So I left Morgan’s name out of it.

“Millie?” he asked.

“Millie,” I answered.

He was quiet for a heartbeat, and I waited, wondering what he was stewing over.

“You there yet, Tag?” he asked.

“Where?”

A huge sigh seeped through the phone’s speaker.

“Are you there yet?” he said again, louder, slower, so damn pushy.

“Yeah. I’m there. I love her. Is that what you want me to say?” My hands started to shake, and suddenly I couldn’t see the road. A horn blared behind me, and I realized I had drifted out of my lane.