Frisco's Kid. Suzanne Brockmann
Читать онлайн книгу.
bottle on the bedside table with about a half an inch of amber liquid still inside. He reached for it, but stopped. No way was he going to take a slug of that. Hell, that was what his old man used to do. He’d start the day off with a shot—and end it sprawled, drunk, on the living room couch.
“I need your help,” Sharon said. “I need a favor. The VA hospital said you were released and I just couldn’t believe how lucky my timing was.”
“How big a favor?” Frisco mumbled. She was asking for money. It wasn’t the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last. His older sister Sharon was as big a drunk as their father had been. She couldn’t hold a job, couldn’t pay her rent, couldn’t support her five-year-old daughter, Natasha.
Frisco shook his head. He’d been there when Tasha was born, brought into the world, the offspring of an unknown father and an irresponsible mother. As much as Frisco loved his sister, he knew damn well that Sharon was irresponsible. She floated through life, drifting from job to job, from town to town, from man to man. Having a baby daughter hadn’t rooted Sharon in any one place.
Five years ago, back when Natasha was born, back before his leg had damn near been blown off, Frisco had been an optimist. But even he hadn’t been able to imagine much happiness in the baby’s future. Unless Sharon owned up to the fact that she had a drinking problem, unless she got help, sought counseling and finally settled down, he’d known that little Natasha’s life would be filled with chaos and disruption and endless change.
He’d been right about that.
For the past five years, Frisco had sent his sister money every month, hoping to hell that she used it to pay her rent, hoping Natasha had a roof over her head and food to fill her stomach.
Sharon had visited him only occasionally while he was in the VA hospital. She only came when she needed money, and she never brought Natasha with her—the one person in the world Frisco would truly have wanted to see.
“This one’s a major favor,” Sharon said. Her voice broke. “Look, I’m a couple of blocks away. I’m gonna come over, okay? Meet me in the courtyard in about three minutes. I broke my foot, and I’m on crutches. I can’t handle the stairs.”
She hung up before giving Frisco a chance to answer. Sharon broke her foot. Perfect. Why was it that people with hard luck just kept getting more and more of the same? Frisco rolled over, dropped the receiver back onto the phone, grabbed his cane and staggered into the bathroom.
Three minutes. It wasn’t enough time to shower, but man, he needed a shower badly. Frisco turned on the cold water in the bathroom sink and then put his head under the faucet, both drinking and letting the water flow over his face.
Damn, he hadn’t meant to kill that entire bottle of whiskey last night. During the more than five years he’d been in and out of the hospital and housed in rehabilitation centers, he’d never had more than an occasional drink or two. Even before his injury, he was careful not to drink too much. Some of the guys went out at night and slammed home quantities of beer and whiskey—enough to float a ship. But Frisco rarely did. He didn’t want to be like his father and his sister, and he knew enough about it to know that alcoholism could be hereditary.
And last night? He’d meant to have one more drink. That was all. Just one more to round down the edges. One more to soften the harsh slap of his release from the therapy center. But one drink had turned into two.
Then he’d started thinking about Mia Summerton, separated from him by only one very thin wall, and two had become three. He could hear the sound of her stereo. She was listening to Bonnie Raitt. Every so often, Mia would sing along, her voice a clear soprano over Bonnie’s smoky alto. And after three drinks, Frisco had lost count.
He kept hearing Mia’s laughter, echoing in his head, the way she’d laughed at him right before she’d gone into her own condo. It had been laughter loaded with meaning. It had been “a cold day in hell” kind of laughter, as in, it would be a cold day in hell before she’d even deign to so much as think about him again.
That was good. That was exactly what he wanted. Wasn’t it?
Yes. Frisco splashed more water on his face, trying to convince himself that that was true. He didn’t want some neighbor lady hanging around, giving him those goddamned pitying looks as he hobbled up and down the stairs. He didn’t need suggestions about moving to a lousy ground-floor condo as if he were some kind of cripple. He didn’t need self-righteous soapbox speeches about how war is not healthy for children and other living things. If anyone should know that, he sure as hell should.
He’d been in places where bombs were falling. And, yes, the bombs had military targets. But that didn’t mean if a bomb accidentally went off track, it would fail to explode. Even if it hit a house or a church or a school, it was gonna go off. Bombs had no conscience, no remorse. They fell. They exploded. They destroyed and killed. And no matter how hard the people who aimed those bombs tried, civilians ended up dead.
But if a team of SEALs was sent in before air strikes became necessary, those SEALs could conceivably achieve more with fewer casualties. A seven-man team of SEALs such as the Alpha Squad could go in and totally foul up the enemy’s communication system. Or they could kidnap the enemy’s military leader, ensuring chaos and possibly reopening negotiations and peace talks.
But more often than not, because the top brass failed to realize the SEALs’ full potential, they weren’t utilized until it was too late.
And then people died. Children died.
Frisco brushed his teeth, then drank more water. He dried his face and limped back into his bedroom. He searched for his sunglasses to no avail, uncovered his checkbook, pulled on a clean T-shirt and, wincing at the bright sunlight, he headed outside.
* * *
The woman in the courtyard burst into tears.
Startled, Mia looked up from her garden. She’d seen this woman walk in—a battered, worn-out-looking blonde on crutches, awkwardly carrying a suitcase, followed by a very little, very frightened red-haired girl.
Mia followed the weeping woman’s gaze and saw Lieutenant Francisco painfully making his way down the stairs. Wow, he looked awful. His skin had a grayish cast, and he was squinting as if the brilliant blue California sky and bright sunshine were the devil’s evil doing. He hadn’t shaved, and the stubble on his face made him look as if he’d just been rolled from a park bench. His T-shirt looked clean, but his shorts were the same ones he’d had on last night. Clearly he’d slept in them.
He’d obviously had “another” drink last night, and quite probably more than that afterward.
Fabulous. Mia forced her attention back to the flowers she was weeding. She had been convinced beyond a shadow of a doubt that Lt. Alan Francisco was not the kind of man she even wanted to have for a friend. He was rude and unhappy and quite possibly dangerous. And now she knew that he drank way too much, too.
No, she was going to ignore condo 2C from now on. She would pretend that the owner was still out of town.
The blond woman dropped her crutches and wrapped her arms around Francisco’s neck. “I’m sorry,” she kept saying, “I’m sorry.”
The SEAL led the blonde to the bench directly across from Mia’s garden plot. His voice carried clearly across the courtyard—she couldn’t help but overhear, even though she tried desperately to mind her own business.
“Start at the beginning,” he said, holding the woman’s hands. “Sharon, tell me what happened. From the beginning.”
“I totaled my car,” the blonde—Sharon—said, and began to cry again.
“When?” Francisco asked patiently.
“Day before yesterday.”
“That was when you broke your foot?”
She nodded. Yes.
“Was anyone else hurt?”
Her voice