Chapter Twenty-Four
"We’ll follow you to the hospital," Luke called out after the paramedics loaded Frankie into the ambulance. "We’ll be right behind you. Come on, Sylvester."
Luke and Sly ran back into Luke’s, and Luke skidded to a stop when he saw all of the bright guns lying on the floor. "Better put these out of sight first," he stated tensely as he bent down and quickly scooped up all eight guns into his arms and hastily deposited them on a shelf underneath the curved, wooden bar.
"Let’s go, Sly," he said breathlessly as he snatched up Frankie’s wallet and raced for the back door. Sly said nothing during this time, his extreme shock rendering him silent and unsure. This was almost like a bad dream, the kind where you think you’re awake, but all of these strange things happen, like people who appear to be someone you recognize, but who are in reality another person entirely.
Luke held a guiding hand to Sly’s shoulder as he locked the door to the club and opened up the garage that flanked the back alley. Both of them leaped into the car, and Luke fired up the pink Cadillac, squealing the tires as he floored the car while backing into the alley. He shifted gears, and the car roared off, leaving a cloud of exhaust in its wake.
~*~*~*~
"Uncle Luke?" Sly’s voice quivered. His eyes were full of tears, and he was sniffing like crazy. "Is he going to die?"
Luke turned sharply toward his nephew, but his gaze softened when he saw how upset Sly was. "I don’t know, Sly," he said calmly even though his heart was racing. "We called 911 quickly. They picked him up real soon. Let’s be positive and hope for the best." Luke patted Sly on the leg reassuringly.
"But it’s my fault that he collapsed. He was talking and then when I touched him he screamed so loudly," Sly protested between his tears. "I didn’t mean to hurt him."
"It wasn’t your fault, son," Luke explained. "I could tell that he was in pain when he showed up at the door. If anyone should feel guilty, it should be me, for yelling and cursing at him when he arrived. I’m real sorry about that." Luke’s face set as he tried to maintain his composure and drive his vehicle swiftly through the streets of Port Charles.
"What happened to him?" Sly asked curiously. "How did he get hurt? His face was all bruised like somebody hit him."
Luke flinched at the thought of his son being mistreated. "I don’t know. We’ll find out later," he said shortly.
"Is Frankie your son?" asked Sly with a hushed voice and big eyes.
"I think so," replied Luke as he whipped the car into the GH parking lot in front of Emergency. "We thought he was killed. Now it looks like he might have been kidnapped instead." Luke leaped from the car. "Let’s go see what’s happening."
~*~*~*~
Frankie was still unconscious when he was swiftly wheeled in on a gurney through the Emergency room doors. He was strapped down with a large bore IV running in his left arm and was wearing an oxygen mask. His face was turned to the side and was totally white and clammy. He was covered by a blanket to keep him warm and hold off the shock that was rapidly overtaking him. The paramedics wheeled him into the first empty exam room that was available and were joined by Dr. Chris Ramsey and several other medical personnel.
"This is the patient, Lucas Spencer, nicknamed Frankie, that we phoned in. Approximately 15 years old. He obviously has internal injuries, with a rigid, distended abdomen, positive loss of consciousness for twenty-five minutes, BP 80/40, respiration 35 and labored, pulse 140. He started coming to in the ambulance, but fell unconscious again. Suspected respiratory compromise. It’s unknown what the cause of his injuries is. He was wearing a bulletproof vest with dents all over it. His father was driving behind us and should be in the ER soon." The paramedics gently lifted Frankie to the exam table and removed his blanket. Two nurses began to strip him and looked grim when massive bruising was revealed over his hip and leg.
"Get a portable ultrasound in here," ordered Chris immediately. "And I need a trauma panel, CBC, Amylase, ABG, Urinalysis."
Frankie moaned softly and raised his hand to the oxygen mask. Chris removed the mask and said, "Frankie. I’m Dr. Chris Ramsey. You’re in the General Hospital Emergency Room. Can you hear me?" Frankie’s eyes fluttered open briefly and then tightly closed as his face screwed up with pain.
"What happened to you?" Chris asked. Frankie blinked and disorientedly turned his head from side to side. "Shot," he gasped hoarsely as he twisted on the table. Frankie was unaware of where he was or what was going on, but he heard a voice raise with a question, and he instinctively answered.
"Shot where?" continued Chris. "All over," Frankie panted. Chris didn’t see any obvious bullet holes, so he assumed Frankie was talking about his bulletproof vest injuries, which left raised, round, bruised marks here and there over his torso.
"How did you get these bruises on your face?" Chris asked as he turned Frankie’s head.
"Stairs," Frankie gritted out as he gnashed his teeth. "Fell." Frankie cried out sharply and then gulped with anxiety and pain when Chris continued to examine his abdomen. Frankie tried to push his hands away. "Guns," he said breathily. "I wan’ my guns. Gimme…my guns." Chris ignored him and looked at his swollen flank. The nurse who inserted a foley catheter into the boy called out, "Dr. Ramsey, he’s hemorrhaging." The other nurse indicated that his vitals were not stable, and that his blood pressure was decreasing. "BP 70/30," she called out. "Pulse 150."
"Frankie, what happened to your kidney?" Chris questioned.
Frankie’s brow creased as his mind simultaneously tried to think and then fuzzed out on him. "Huh? Frank?" he asked with confusion. "Kicked…me," he mumbled softly. "I gotta…big mouth." Had he been thinking clearly, Frankie never would have answered so honestly.
"Who’s Frank?" questioned Chris. Chris was dealing with a minor and was responsible for reporting any suspected child abuse, and this patient was giving him an uneasy feeling. Frankie’s body was covered with scars from old gunshot and knife wounds as well as surgical incisions, plus there were sutures running down the length of his side.
"Dad," Frankie answered shakily. "Daddy," he called out weakly a second after he answered. "Dere’s blood. Too much blood. Dey’re after me." Frankie futilely tried to flail his arms at supposed attackers, but they fell limply to his sides, his right arm hanging off of the table and quivering with fear and weakness. A nurse moved over to Frankie and started talking to him gently, smoothing his cheek and holding down his left arm, which held the IV. Frankie relaxed some, but began to cry forlornly as he gasped for air. Chris placed the oxygen mask back over his face. "Let’s do the ultrasound," he said as the nurse handed him the equipment. After a few minutes, Chris said, "Dammit."
Frankie raised up slightly and coughed hard. The blood began trickling again from his mouth, curling up and pooling in the mask, and Chris looked alarmed. "Has the trauma surgeon been notified?" he asked a nurse tensely. "He’s due in the OR in ten minutes," the nurse answered. "Get the bloodwork - stat, and prepare the patient for preop," ordered Chris. "Good, the portable x-ray is here. Let’s get some films of his chest, quickly. The ultrasound already reveals free intraperitoneal fluid, but I think we have multiple traumas here."
The nurse that had been trying to calm Frankie reported, "He’s unconscious again." Frankie lay very still and was breathing with rapid, shallow breaths. "Where’s the NG tube?" Chris asked as he held out his hand irritatedly. "Let’s get him ready to transport to the OR. I need to talk to the father."
~*~*~*~
Luke sat straight up in his seat in the ER waiting room. He’d already tried to fend off the ER nurse, telling her that he had absolutely no insurance, medical history or drug allergy information for Frankie and no way to obtain it. He tensely waited to hear how his son was doing and tried to calm his nephew at the same time. Sly had become very upset as they sat in the waiting room, crying quite a bit, but not talking. His head was on Luke’s shoulder, and Luke held a gentle arm around Sly. Every once in awhile, he reached his hand out to stroke the boy’s hair. He’d started a monologue about his past fishing trips, feeling a need to talk, but at a loss for what to actually say. He figured maybe he’d settle down his nephew by boring him to death. Eventually, Sly’s eyes had closed, and although he wasn’t asleep, he relaxed against his uncle.
Luke tensed when he saw Dr. Chris Ramsey walking toward him with a serious look on his face. "Doctor?" he asked quickly. "How is he? How is Frankie?" Sly moved away from Luke and sat rigidly in his chair, his face tense and his eyes welded to the doctor.
Chris sat down beside Luke and spoke in a low, calm voice. "Mr. Spencer," he began. "You son is being prepped for surgery right now. He appears to have significant abdominal injuries that are causing internal bleeding. Usually, we perform more diagnostics to determine specific organ involvement, but in his case, he isn’t stable and requires emergency exploratory surgery to locate and repair any bleeding." Chris paused and looked uncomfortable. "He was able to talk to me shortly while I was examining him. He appears to have a significant kidney injury and claims that his father kicked him."
"That would be Frank Smith," Luke said flatly. "My son was kidnapped as an infant. I just found out today that he’s alive when he showed up on my doorstep in that pitiful condition."
Chris nodded. "Okay," he stated. "I just wanted you to know that I am legally required to report suspected cases of child abuse to the proper authorities. He did mention the name Frank, so that’s what I’ll indicate. He also claims that he fell down some stairs and was shot." Luke’s face became paler and paler as Chris continued. Chris sighed. "He has many bruises, probably obtained from his fall, and a significant flesh wound on his side that has been sutured. He’s experienced some respiratory distress, so we took a chest x-ray." Chris paused again and rubbed his nose. "Apparently, your son has been shot. He has a bullet that entered between his ribs and lodged near his lung. The wound appears to be old, at least several days. It may be that the angle with which the bullet entered produced a flap of skin that effectively covered the hole. Then perhaps another bullet created the flesh wound. Whatever occurred, it wasn’t discovered or treated."
Luke rubbed his eyes and stared intently at Chris. "Dr. Ramsey, what’s the lowdown. Is he going to make it?"
"If he survives the surgery, he has a good chance of recovering," Chris stated. "It is a concern when there are multiple trauma wounds that require repair. And there are a few more details that you should know."
Luke swallowed hard, his mouth drying up and leaving him parched. "What?" he asked with a cracked voice.
"This child has suffered some grievous gunshot wounds in the past – at least five. His x-rays and ultrasound revealed that he’s missing his spleen and a significant portion of one lung. And, he has older knife wounds to his chest."
Sly nodded. "I’ve seen those. They’re scary looking."
Chris smiled at Sly. "Yes, they are," he admitted.
Luke turned business-like, his only defense at not cracking up in public. "Where do I sign on the dotted line?" he asked with his hands held out.
Chris handed him the clipboard with the parental consent for surgery, and Luke quickly signed. "Can I see my boy before he goes to surgery?" he asked quietly. Chris nodded. "They’re almost ready for him. You should have three or four minutes. He’s not awake."
Luke nodded and looked over at Sly. "Do you want to come with me or would you feel better if you stayed here in the waiting room?" Luke’s blue eyes stared at Sly’s face, trying to determine his nephew’s emotional strength.
"I’ll come," Sly said in a very small, quiet voice. "Frankie’s my friend."
~*~*~*~
When Luke and Sly walked into the ER exam room, Frankie was lying on the gurney, bundled up in a blanket with an IV piercing his arm, and his oxygen mask covering his face. It was obvious that he wasn’t awake, and his head tilted slightly to the right, making his hair hang over his closed eyes. Luke reached out and brushed the hair off of his face, jumping slightly when he noticed the lighter brown/blond roots of the boy’s hair. He stroked the hair, thinking, Lucky’s hair would have been that color after darkening over the years. Frankie’s chest rose and fell rapidly as he breathed shallowly. Luke looked closely at his son’s resting face. It was tense, as if he were in pain even while unconscious. Luke noted the full lips, just like baby Lucky had had and that his mother had obviously given him. He stroked Frankie's cheek. It was soft for a boy. Luke’s eyes trailed down his son’s bare chest to the white slashed scar that began at his collarbone and ran until it disappeared under the covering blanket. Luke lowered the blanket an inch and discovered what it felt like to have your stomach clench fiercely at the sight of your son’s gunshot wounds. Tears built in his eyes and he sniffed futilely. "Lucky," he said sadly. "What did they do to you?"
Sly stirred by Luke’s side and took Frankie’s hand. "I’m sorry,’ he said to his friend. "I hope you get better soon." It was all that he could think to say.
"Time to go," the nurse said cheerily as she walked over to the gurney. Luke’s eyes never left his moving son until the gurney disappeared around the corner. He sighed, coughed and rubbed at the tears in his eyes. "Come on, nephew of mine," he said as he walked with Sly back to the waiting room. "We have lots of time on our hands."
~*~*~*~
"Luke?" Bobbie’s frantic voice called out yards away when she caught a glimpse of her older brother standing in the ER waiting room. Bobbie ran down the hallway and into Luke’s arms. "What happened?" she asked breathlessly as her heart gripped with fear. Ruby slowly walked up to brother and sister and waited for Luke to speak.
Luke swallowed and looked down at the floor. "He showed up on my doorstep," Luke explained with a high, tight voice. "He looked like crap – all beat up, clothes a mess, hair every which way. He said, ‘My dad died, my dad died.’ I yelled at him, told him good riddance to his papa." Luke choked up with tears, and Ruby held her steady hand on his arm. "He kept crying, and then he collapsed. He was out cold, so we called the paramedics." Luke paused and took in a deep breath, letting his lungs fill with oxygen and trying to calm himself. He ran a hand through his already mussed hair and looked at Ruby. Ruby stepped up to Luke, gave him a hug and said, "Let’s sit down."
Ruby leaned forward in her seat as she stared unwaveringly at Luke "Where is he now? Where’s Frankie?" she asked seriously. Luke broke Ruby’s gaze and folded his hands. "He’s in surgery," he said matter-of-factly. "The doc said he had some internal injuries, they’re not sure what, but that he wasn’t stable so they had to do emergency surgery." Tears filled Luke’s eyes, and he wiped them away angrily. "He also has a gunshot wound to the chest. It’s near his lung. Doc said if he pulls through surgery, he has a chance at recovery."
Bobbie sat back in her seat, stunned. "We’ve been watching the newscast and checking on the Internet since last night. Luke, did you know that there was some kind of coup or revolution on the Smith estate? Lot’s of people were killed, and the FBI arrested over 100 people. The news said that Frank Smith’s teenaged son was missing and now presumed dead. I wonder if he’s still in danger?"
"I don’t know, Barbara Jean," Luke replied. "He’s been admitted under his real name, so he’s probably safe for now. But I want a guard or some type of police protection for that boy until we figure out what’s going on. I don’t want him to be kidnapped again," he stated firmly. Luke reached into his pocket and pulled out Frank’s wallet, handing it to Ruby. "Look what I found on him," he said.
Ruby opened the wallet and scowled when she saw Frank’s driver’s license. "That bastard," she said in a low voice.
"Leaf through the photos," Luke instructed. "See anything familiar?"
Ruby gasped when she turned to the photo of baby Lucky. "Luke, I told you he was your son," she said plainly.
Luke nodded. "Yeah, yeah, I should always listen to my Aunt Ruby. She’s the one with the sixth sense about the Spencer family." He chuckled. "You were right." Luke’s face turned serious. "Turn over that photo of Lucky," he said softly. Ruby turned over the photo and shook her head. She handed it to Bobbie. "My God," stated Bobbie. "Do you think Frankie has seen this?"
Luke shrugged. "I have no idea. He did say that Frank told him to come to me. That was strange – unless the old bastard finally saw the light as he was heading for the tunnel," he added meanly. "Maybe he finally figured out that it’s not right to steal a man’s son."
Ruby looked around the room. "Luke?" she asked puzzledly. "Where’s Sly?"
~*~*~*~
Sly walked slowly through the hallways of General Hospital. He had no destination in mind. He’d stood in the background when his Aunt Bobbie and Aunt Ruby ran to Luke, but wandered off after a few minutes when a sharp feeling of uneasiness had overtaken him. He dragged his feet and chewed on his thumbnail while the tears built up in his eyes. He’d walked for about fifteen minutes without considering where he was going, and he suddenly stopped in the middle of the hallway, looking around him fearfully. There was a sign on the wall that pointed forward with the words "Surgery" block printed below it. Sly blinked away his tears and walked over to a potted palm tree that was placed next to a quietly rolling and tumbling water fountain. No one was in the area, and he sat by himself in a loveseat by a wide window overlooking a picnic area.
Sly raised one foot up on the loveseat and sat hugging his knee. He stared out of the window at the trees, birds and squirrels. A series of words and phrases rushed through his mind. "… little Frank Smith, Junior … somebody finally offed your papa? well, good riddance… it’s been a long time coming… dey killed my dad … Frank told me to come here…we thought he was killed… looks like he might have been kidnapped instead…his name is Lucas Lorenzo Spencer, Junior…"
Sly sank down into the tan loveseat until his head disappeared from view, and anyone walking by wouldn’t have noticed that someone was sitting there. His lips trembled as his racing thoughts took him to places that he definitely did not want to go. His fine, longish blond hair splayed against the back of the loveseat in disarray, and he scratched his head. Frank Smith killed my family, he thought. Sly’s heart skipped a beat. I wonder if Frankie knows about my dad being killed? He had to know, didn’t he? How can I be friends with someone who killed my father? When Sly breathed in, a sob escaped his throat, and he slid over on the loveseat, laying the side of his face against the rough upholstery of hospital waiting room furniture, the cushions full of the smell of disinfectant – and death. Bad memories of a time that happened only two years ago made him cry even harder.
*** Sly had been waiting and waiting in a darkened house. His dad had never been this late before. Sly was a latchkey kid, used to being on his own after school for long periods of time. His father Bill had moved them to Port Charles recently to start a new import/export business with Sly’s aunt and uncle. Bill had recently discovered his half brother Luke Spencer, and Sly had met him briefly on two separate occasions. He’d been amazed at the close resemblance between his father and uncle –they were like twins separated at birth, only Bill wore a beard and glasses and seemed much more serious.
Eventually, Sly turned on a lamp in the living room, but the artificial light did nothing to take away the dark chill that he felt inside. He wondered what he should do. He’d already phoned Bill’s office about 100 times, and no one answered at his aunt and uncle’s house either. Sly didn’t know Luke well enough to have his phone number handy or to feel comfortable calling him. Bill kept to himself, so there were no family friends or neighbors to call. Sly had heated up some soup to eat an hour earlier. Bill was strict about not allowing Sly to touch the stove while he was home alone, but he was allowed to use the microwave if he promised to be careful and clean up after himself. Sly had rummaged through the refrigerator, finding only an old apple and two cold hot dogs. Bill usually picked up some take-out for supper on his way home from work, so there weren’t a lot of supplies in the kitchen. Sly remembered that they were supposed to go grocery shopping that night after they’d finished their dinners. His stomach rumbled again, and he wished that there were some crackers in the cupboard.
Sly paced in the living room and paused to open the curtains with one finger as he peered out into the night. He glanced at the clock hanging on the wall in the dining room. It read 9:30. Sly usually went to bed at ten, but he wondered what he should do. He sat still in a chair by the front window and dangled his feet, kicking them distractedly against the furniture. An idle thought crossed his mind. Maybe he should grab the phone book and try to find one of his teacher’s numbers. Maybe they could help. But which one wouldn’t mind him calling? And it was too late to call someone anyway. Bill had told him never to call anyone after 9PM. Sly’s eyes filled with tears, and his legs started jiggling nervously. He bit down on his thumbnail and held his breath, then let it out. Bill had never left him alone this long. He was coming back, wasn’t he? Sly jerked, and his legs shot out when he heard the firm knocking at the front door. Who could that be? Sly smiled. Maybe his dad had forgotten his key.
Sly cautiously peered out of the peephole in the front door. There were two policemen standing outside the door! A man and a woman. Sly’s heart raced with fear. The man lifted his hand and knocked on the door again. Sly thought that he could run and hide. Maybe they would go away. But, they kept knocking. Sly left the chain on the door and opened it slightly. "Who is it?" he asked suspiciously. "Port Charles Police Department," the man answered. "We need to talk to you. Can we come in?"
Sly started shaking. "I…I don’t know," he said shakily. "I’m not supposed to let anyone in."
"That’s good, son," the policeman praised. "Always ask for identification first. Here’s my police badge. Do you want to look at it?" The policeman held his badge to the door, and Sly hesitantly accepted it. He stood at the door and looked over the official looking badge, running his fingers over the metallic numbers. "What do you want?" he asked as he handed back the badge, sliding it through the crack in the door.
"We’re here to talk to you about your dad," the man answered. He motioned to the woman to talk to Sly. "Will you open the door so we can talk to you?" she asked gently.
Sly unlatched the chain and opened the door, his small, gangly frame silhouetted by the light pouring from the lamp beside him. His face was sad, worried and serious at all once. He didn’t like where this conversation seemed to be heading.
"There’s been an accident," the policewoman explained. "Your father is at the hospital. He was able to mention your name, so we’ve come to bring you to the hospital."
Sly’s lips trembled, and his eyes pooled with tears. "Dad?" he whispered.
.
.
.
Sly sat stiffly on a waiting room loveseat with the policewoman seated beside him. She had her hand on his back, but he didn’t notice. All he could do was stare at the blue and gray squares on the carpet at his feet. The policeman had gone to check on his father’s status and would return soon. In the car on the way over, they had told him that his aunt and uncle were killed. His father had been injured, but was still alive when they reached him.
The policeman walked up to them with a grim look on his face. He spoke no words, but shook his head at the policewoman, who sighed and made a noise. She patted Sly on the back, and said, "I’m sorry, honey. Your dad didn’t make it. He died." She reached out her arms and hugged Sly, but he didn’t feel it. He was too numb. This wasn’t real. It wasn’t happening to him. It was all a bad dream and soon he’s wake up to the smell of his dad cooking pancakes.
The policewoman was trying to talk to him. She kept asking about relatives and friends, but Sly didn’t answer. Everything was all confused in his mind. "My dad doesn’t have any friends," Sly mumbled. The policewoman continued to work with him. Taking him to a foster home in the middle of the night was not what she wanted for this young man who had so recently experienced a major tragedy. "Do you have any grandparents?" she asked. Sly shook his head no and laid it on the arm of the loveseat, hiding his face from her. "Where is your mother?" she questioned. "She’s dead," Sly replied with a squeak.
Disappointment and concern washed over the policewoman’s face as she questioned the boy. "Does your father have a brother?" she finally asked. Sly paused. He slowly nodded his head. "Uncle Luke," he said softly.
.
.
.
Sly stood shyly at the doorway to Luke’s club, flanked on either side by a policeman and policewoman. Music thundered and thumped out of the club at 11:30 at night. The policeman entered into Luke’s to find its owner and explain the situation to him. Finally, Luke appeared at the doorway, his flushed face concerned and upset at the news of his half-brother’s death. He down looked at the sad, quiet boy standing in front of him and asked, "Sylvester?" ***
Sly continued to cry, but the sound of the waterfall beside him masked any noises. His tears soaked the fabric of the cushion underneath his face and made him uncomfortable. With a great sigh, he rolled over and faced the back of the loveseat. After taking in several deep breaths, he closed his eyes and felt his muscles relax one by one. His foot twitched, and his leg jerked slightly as he fell to sleep.
~*~*~*~
"He’s not in any of the nearby restrooms," Luke announced tensely. "What are we going to do?" he asked his aunt and sister. "What if someone hurts him or kidnaps him? Where did he go?" Luke’s statements reflected his general emotional upset, and he was unable to be his usual logical, straightforward self. Ruby stepped into that role quickly. "I’m going to notify security so they can help us look for him," she stated. "Bobbie, you start down that way, Luke, head in that direction to look for the boy. We’ll meet back here in twenty minutes. Okay?"
~*~*~*~
Twenty-five minutes later, Luke was pacing in the ER waiting room with his equally concerned sister. Luke looked up sharply at the approach of Ruby, a security guard and a disheveled looking Sly whose hair was in disarray with red, puffy eyes and a downturned mouth. "We found him sleeping in a loveseat near the surgical waiting room," Ruby explained. She placed a hand on Sly’s shoulder. "Bobbie, why don’t you see if you can find out how Frankie’s surgery is progressing, and I’ll head down to the cafeteria with Sly. We’ll buy ourselves something to drink."
Luke placed a hand under Sly’s chin and lifted it to meet his eyes. "Sylvester?" he asked. "Why did you run off?" Luke was concerned at Sly’s behavior and demeanor. It had taken him years of hard work to pull Sly from his shy, standoffishness, and the boy standing in front of him seemed so similar to the twelve-year-old that had shown up at his door two years ago.
Sly shrugged. "Needed some air," he said simply as he looked down at the floor.
"Tell us where you’re going next time," Luke reprimanded. "You scared us to death. I don’t want anything to happen to you, nephew of mine," Luke said affectionately as he ruffled the boy’s hair and playfully punched him in the shoulder.
"We’ll be back with loads of coffee," Ruby said as she directed Sly with a guiding hand.
"Let me go nose around and see what I can find out," Bobbie offered softly. Luke nodded and sat down in a chair with a plop and a groan.
~*~*~*~
Ruby and Sly carried two colas and four coffees over to the cafeteria table and set them down carefully as Ruby loaded them one by one into a paper bag to carry back to the waiting room. She sat down in a chair, and Sly looked at her in surprise. "Won’t these drinks get cold?" he asked. Ruby shook her head. "Sit down, fella," she directed with an index finger. "The coffee will keep. Now why don’t you tell me what’s bothering you?"
A shadow of pain crossed Sly’s features, and he started nibbling on his lower lip. "I hate hospitals," he said. "They remind me of my dad dying. That’s where I found out."
Ruby nodded. "I know how that feels," she agreed. "What’s bothering you about this Frankie situation?"
Sly looked away, and his face set. "They killed my dad," he whispered. "Frank Smith’s organization. Frankie’s father. It makes me feel funny, upset or something. I don’t know." Sly reached for a cola, uncapped it and drank a long gulp. "And it’s the baby Lucky thing. It’s too weird."
"It is a shock," Ruby conceded. "Why don’t we take things one step at a time, not let our minds and emotions get ahead of us? First let’s see how Frankie is doing and make sure that he’s going to be all right. He’s your friend, and you’re worried about him, aren’t you?"
Sly nodded reluctantly. "He looked so sick, and when he screamed and passed out like that – it scared me, real bad," he said tearfully. "Uncle Luke seems scared, too." Sly wiped away a few tears and sniffed.
"Let’s go deliver this coffee," Ruby said as she patted Sly on the hand. "We’ll make it through this, honey," she said sympathetically.
~*~*~*~
Luke looked up, and his face dropped when he saw Bobbie’s serious face. "He’s still in surgery," she said gently.
"What?" asked Luke. "It’s been over three hours."
"It takes time," Bobbie reminded. "They’ve had some trouble with hemorrhaging, but they’ve tranfused him with platelets, and he seems to be tolerating the surgery now. They removed the bullet from his chest cavity. It did puncture the lining to his lungs, and actually grazed the lung. That’s why he kept bleeding from the mouth and coughing." Bobbie sighed. "His kidney was ruptured. They’re repairing it now. He should be out of surgery within the next hour."
"Good, good," Luke said shortly. "Should we go down to the surgical waiting room?" he asked. Bobbie nodded. "They’ll give us updates down there, and then the surgeon will be out to talk to us when he’s finished."
Luke changed the subject. "Barbara Jean, I’m worried about Sly. Are you willing to take him home with you? He isn’t doing well in this environment, and with all this stress and chaos. I want him to take a breather." Bobbie nodded. "We can go back to the Brownstone. Lucas will keep him distracted. Call me when you find out about Frankie, though." Bobbie paused and looked quizzical. "Luke," she began slowly. "What about Laura? Are you going to call her?"
Luke looked uncomfortable. "I thought I should wait on phone calls until he’s out of surgery and we find out what’s going on. I really dread calling Laura, though. She’s just had a baby. I’m sure she doesn’t need this stress. Laura is not the most emotionally, oh, stable person in the world. I’m not sure I’m up to the hysterics."
Bobbie tittered. "I know," she said ruefully. "But, she needs to be told, Luke," Bobbie asserted.
"All right, Barbara Jean, I know," Luke moaned as he tiredly rubbed a hand over his face. "I need to call Alexis, too, but let’s wait and see."
~*~*~*~
Luke and Ruby tensed when the surgeon walked toward them. The surgeon held his hand out. "I’m Dr. John Warner," he said. He looked over at Luke. "Your son is out of surgery. He’s still in the recovery room. You can see him when they set him up in a room, which should be within half an hour. I removed one bullet from his chest cavity with only minimal trauma to major veins or arteries. It should heal nicely over time. His lung was damaged, however, and with his previous injuries to the area, it will need to be monitored closely. His kidney appears to have originally suffered a laceration and then when he later received a second blunt trauma to the area, it ruptured. It caused major abdominal hemorrhaging into his retroperitoneal cavity. We should be able to save the kidney. He’ll need to be catheterized for several days. He also has significant swelling and bruising over the area of his hip and femur, but no fractures. He’s on a respirator now, but we’ll begin weaning him off of it by tomorrow morning. He’s still being transfused, which is a concern. His bloodwork showed some abnormalities, and another physician will discuss that with you tomorrow."
Luke’s face was numb with shock and information overload. "Okay," he said slowly. "I can ask if I have any questions later?" The surgeon nodded and left Luke and Ruby to process the information.
Ruby grasped Luke’s hand tightly. "He came through the surgery," she said positively. "He’s going to make it. He’s a fighter."
~*~*~*~
Luke and Ruby stepped off of the elevator and walked through the pediatric ICU area. Luke entered ICU 5 with some trepidation. Luke wanted to reach out and touch Frankie, but he wasn’t sure if he could touch his son without hurting him. Frankie was on a respirator, and his scarred chest rose and fell with the regular pace of the machine. He was lightly draped with a sheet, and Luke noted the two IV’s, and multiple tubes leading from the boy’s chest and abdomen. His eyes fixed on the units of red blood that dripped into his son and wondered if he should volunteer to donate blood. But, he wasn’t even sure what his son’s blood type was – not after fourteen long years had lapsed since Lucky’s supposed "death."
Luke walked up to the bed and settled for stroking Frankie’s right hand. He picked up the limp hand and turned it over to look at the lines on the palm, lifelines, reflecting the years of use. He noted his son’s long, slender fingers and how graceful they looked. He should play the piano, Luke thought. However, he seems more comfortable gripping a gun, he reflected wryly. Luke gently ran his index finger over Frankie’s elegant, arched eyebrows and laughed lightly when his son’s forehead creased lightly in subconscious irritation at being touched. Good, you’re still in there. Up and at ‘em, boy. We have a lifetime to catch up on.