The Sacred Knife, page 7
Wilson added, “Also, no drugs or alcohol were detected in either Wayne’s or Susan’s preliminary autopsy results. The police have not located either the vehicle or its driver.”
Richard pinched the bridge of his nose as he assimilated this new information. “Dr. Patterson, I can understand why the police want to talk to Jason, but after all he’s been through, is that a good idea? I am concerned as to what police questioning will do to him.”
“It could actually be beneficial, if handled properly,” replied Patterson. “I would wait a couple of days, though. And I think he should know about his parents before he’s questioned by the police.”
“Alright. When should I tell him about his parents?”
Patterson shrugged his shoulders. “That’s a tough call. You’ll have to play that one by ear, perhaps maybe take advantage of an opportunity if it presents itself. When breaking bad news to family, in my experience sooner rather than later is best, but each situation is different, especially with children.”
Richard stood. “I guess it’s time to meet my nephew.”
Chapter 9
The boy tensed as another wave of pain washed over him.
This one was not as bad as the previous ones, and it didn’t last long. The drugs or whatever they are giving me must be working, he thought. He didn’t like the drugs; they helped ease the pain, but they also made him feel slightly sick. He ached all over, the right side of his body was burning, but the worst was the red-hot spike that kept jabbing into his right knee.
He tried to remember things but didn’t know if what he was remembering was actually a memory or just a dream. He remembered lights—lots of bright lights. He remembered his mum leaning over the car seat and saying something about what a wonderful performance he gave. Performance? A dark shadow reaching towards his father. . . that was part of the dream—or was it a memory?
He remembered there was terrible pain, and from somewhere far away a voice was yelling, “We’ve got him. He’s free!”
Or was that a dream?
There were different coloured lights, then darkness, and then light again. More pain, but not as bad. There was a bright white light, then he was with his parents, and they were saying goodbye. He couldn’t come with them where they were going. Was that also a dream?
Someone had yelled, “No! We’re not giving up,” and then there was a sharp pain in his chest, with more lights and more darkness. After that, everything was mixed together, a series of sights and sounds and smells. People talked, but he would drift off again before he could make any sense of what was being said.
Slowly, a semblance of order crept into his consciousness. He recognized that he was in a bed and judging by the wires and beeping machines he was hooked to, it had to be a hospital. He could not remember how he got there, or why. He must have been in some kind of accident—but then, where were his parents? They would never leave his side if he had been hurt. A memory was almost there, and then it was gone. It was like trying to grasp a wisp of smoke. What was it that he couldn’t remember?
“Jason,” said a voice close to his ear. He slowly turned towards the voice and recognized it as the man who was a doctor. “Can you hear me?”
Jason nodded very slowly and whispered, “Yes.”
“There is someone here who you should meet.” The doctor stepped back and another man took his place. This man looked vaguely familiar, but Jason couldn’t remember who he was. “Jason, this is your uncle Richard from Canada.”
Jason blinked as he tried to place the name. Uncle? Then he recalled that his father had a brother, and that he had seen him on the computer back when he was a little kid. He didn’t remember his father saying anything about his uncle coming to visit. Why would his uncle be here? His dad didn’t like his brother. They weren’t even talking to each other.
How long had he been here? Where were his parents? He tried to get up, but in his drugged condition he only managed some clumsy squirming.
“Relax, Jason.” It was a stranger’s voice, not loud but commanding all the same.
Jason focused on the stranger, his uncle, who was standing over him, hands on his shoulders. He struggled to push himself up but had no strength. He was held firmly yet gently. Finally, he quit struggling and lay quietly, giving himself up to the drug-induced darkness once again.
Richard straightened up and looked down at the small figure. He knew Jason was eleven, but he seemed even smaller and younger.
“I think I scared him,” said Richard to Patterson. “He really started to panic when he saw me.”
Patterson shook his head. “No, it wasn’t you. It’s not uncommon in head injuries for the patient to experience memory loss and disorientation. I suspect his reaction is due more to confusion and memory loss than anything else. Hopefully over the next few days his level of anxiety will diminish as his memories return.”
“So, I guess the sooner I tell him about his parents, the better?” Do I really want to be the one to tell him?
Patterson nodded in agreement. “Yes, it’s even possible that deep inside he already knows but isn’t ready to face that memory.”
“Is it okay if I wait here until he wakes up?” asked Richard. He frowned wondering why he asked to stay. He couldn’t do anything for the boy, so there was no logic in waiting.
Patterson replied, “Yes, although it will be a couple of hours. At this point it’s important he gets as much rest as possible to allow his body to heal.”
“Any idea how long he will have to stay in the hospital?” asked Richard.
“I’ll be able to give you a better idea tomorrow, but I’m guessing he could be here a few months at least. We don’t know yet just how—or even if—his head injury has impaired his mobility and cognitive abilities. He may need physiotherapy to address those issues, and he definitely will for his leg, in addition to counselling to help him deal with the emotional trauma. A lot will depend on the course of treatment recommended by the orthopaedic surgeon.”
Patterson paused before continuing, “His knee is bad. The surgeon might consider repairing the knee, but it will be challenging given the damage. A knee replacement is a possibility, but since Jason is so young it will likely mean a series of operations as he grows older.”
After a longer pause, Patterson added, “Amputation above the knee is also being considered.”
“Amputation?” repeated Richard. He looked at the boy and shook his head. His parents were gone, and the doctors were considering adding amputation into the bag of trauma the boy was facing.
Richard looked at the doctor and said, “They can’t do that to him.”
Patterson shrugged. “We’ll know more tomorrow after the specialist sees him. As his guardian, the final decision will be up to you.”
After Patterson left, Richard stretched out in a chair in the corner of the room. He regarded the sleeping boy and wondered just what the hell he was supposed to do. He was the boy’s guardian, so he was responsible for making decisions regarding his welfare, at least until he was eighteen—or was it twenty-one? What about school? Where should the boy live?
Richard resented having this responsibility forced on him. His head began to ache, and he wondered if he had made a mistake signing those documents years ago. Was it too late to back out? What would happen to Jason if he could abdicate his responsibilities? Did he really care?
Yes, I care. That admission both surprised and unsettled him.
***
Three hours later, Jason woke up. The pain seemed to be a little worse, but his mind was clearer. Sunlight filtered through the slats of the window blind. He looked around, noticing his was the only bed in the room.
An IV was hooked into his left arm, wires were attached to fingers on his left hand, and others led from his chest to machines behind him that he couldn’t see. He slowly moved his right hand and felt the top of his head, which was wrapped in bandages. His right side was sore, and he was unable to move his right leg.
Someone moved in the chair that was located in the corner of the room. Jason regarded the figure: a tall, lean man wearing blue jeans, cardigan sweater, and a grey-coloured sports jacket with patches on the elbows. He was sprawled uncomfortably across the chair, snoring softly. It took Jason a few seconds to recognize the man as his uncle who had come to visit him.
Why was he still here? Why weren’t his parents here?
His stomach knotted as a thought came to him, even though he tried to ignore it. That elusive memory he had tried to recall earlier was coming back, except now he didn’t want to remember. His parents weren’t here, because they couldn’t be. A whimper escaped from his lips, and not one of pain—at least, not physical pain.
The sound must have been louder than he thought, as it woke his uncle who stood up and stretched his limbs. “Hi again, Jason.”
Jason stared at this uncle. The man would not be here unless something terrible had happened. That sick feeling in the pit of his stomach deepened and panic gripped him.
“No! No!” he cried.
Richard took hold of his nephew’s hand, but the boy shook it loose, closing his eyes and shaking his head. “No! Go away! I want Mum and Dad! Dad doesn’t like you!” he shouted. Jason opened his eyes and stared intently at his uncle, pleading, “Please.”
Words seldom escaped Richard, but he did not know how to tell this young boy that his parents were dead. Hell, did anyone even have such words?
The boy became still and silent. Then he softly said, “They’re dead, aren’t they?” Jason meant it as a question, but it came out more of a statement of fact. His uncle’s silence gave him the answer, dispelling any hope that this was all just a terrible dream. Despite his attempts to control himself, a deep sob escaped him, and tears ran uncontrollably down his cheeks.
Richard placed his hand on Jason’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered.
Jason screamed, “Go away! I hate you!”
The boy became agitated, and Richard stepped back as a nurse rushed in and injected a sedative into the IV in Jason’s arm. Richard nodded “okay,” and quietly left his nephew to his grief. There was nothing more he could do.
Out in the hall, he encountered Patterson, who was in the process of checking up on his patients. Richard leaned against the wall and sighed sarcastically, “That went well.”
“I gather that you told him about his parents,” said Patterson.
“Actually, he guessed it without me telling him. Didn’t make it any easier for him or me, though.” Richard told Patterson about Jason’s reaction to the realization that his parents were dead.
“I think his reaction is normal, especially for a child his age. With the death of a loved one, denial and anger are phases people go through. He’s directing that anger at you rather than at himself, which is a good thing, although you might not think so. Also, the fact he came to the realization on his own is positive—it means that his cognitive abilities likely haven’t been permanently damaged.” Patterson smiled and placed a hand on Richard’s shoulder. “Don’t be too concerned about what he said. He doesn’t really hate you.”
Richard merely nodded. Recalling the intensity of the look in the boy’s eyes, he wasn’t so sure.
Chapter 10
The next day, Richard sat in Wilson’s office with Jason’s grandparents, who had driven down from Coventry earlier that morning.
Richard had stopped by the hospital to check on his nephew, but the boy was sleeping so he didn’t disturb him. Patterson informed him that Jason had slept through the night, thanks to the sedative he had been given. He had awoken earlier in the morning but had drifted off to sleep before Richard arrived. Patterson explained that Jason would likely sleep most of the day, a side effect of the pain medication.
Richard scrutinized Wilson’s office, and it was evident that Wilson’s law firm was successful; an elaborate oak desk occupied a spot in front of a large window, oak panelling covered the walls, and a decorative chandelier hung from the ceiling. In the centre of the room were two leather armchairs and a leather sofa, all positioned around a coffee table so that people sitting would be forced to face one another.
George and Hilda were sitting on the sofa while Richard and Wilson sat in the armchairs. Richard guessed that Wilson preferred this arrangement, because the desk could be seen as a barrier between him and his clients. Instead, one of the firm’s stenographers was sitting in Wilson’s chair at the desk, prepared to record the proceedings.
This was the first time that Richard had met Susan’s parents, and he liked them immediately. They were down to earth, not pretentious, and if Susan was anything like them, he could understand why Wayne had fallen in love with her.
They were in their late seventies and seemed to be in good health despite their age, although it was obvious they were in a state of shock over the sudden death of their only child.
It was an awkward moment, as once again Richard found himself uncharacteristically at a loss for words. It was George who spoke first.
“I understand that you told Jason about his parents.”
Richard nodded. “He had actually figured it out himself.” The vision of Jason’s grief-stricken face when he realized his parents were dead was permanently etched in Richard’s memory.
George looked steadily into Richard’s eyes, “It could not have been easy.”
“No,” said Richard shaking his head. “It upset him, to say the least. I’m definitely not on his favourite uncles list.”
Hilda came over and hugged Richard, which caught him off-guard, but he found it strangely comforting. “Jason is a kind, sweet boy,” she said. “Give him time.”
Wilson cleared his throat to get their attention. “For the record, the purpose of this meeting,” he began, “is to read the last will and testament of Wayne and Susan Carver.” They all knew why they were present, each having been given a copy of the will upon arriving, but formalities needed to be adhered to. Hilda tried unsuccessfully to stifle a sob.
“A parent should never outlive their children, no matter what their age,” she said dabbing tears from her eyes.
Wilson nodded sympathetically then continued, “You each have a copy of the will. For now, I will just touch upon the highlights, but once you’ve had time to read the document, I am available to answer any questions you may have.”
He glanced down at his notes, although Richard was sure he had all the pertinent facts memorized. “The two main areas I will address concern arrangements for Jason’s care and disbursement of the estate.
“First, with regards to Jason, the will stipulates that his uncle, Richard Carver, be awarded custody and guardianship until Jason turns twenty-one.”
Wilson looked directly at Richard. “Mr. Carver, are you willing to accept the responsibility for the minor child, Jason Carver, until he reaches his twenty-first birthday?”
I know nothing about raising a child, and don’t need the complication, Richard thought. Besides, the kid hates me, and would be happy if I was out of the picture. Say “no.”
“Yes, I am.” Was that him who responded? I’m a bloody Idiot!
Satisfied with Richard’s reply, Wilson looked over at George and Hilda, an unspoken question evident on his face.
Hilda spoke. “David,” she said, “we love our grandson more than we can express with words. George and I talked about this on the way down this morning. Would we like to have him? Yes, definitely. But both of us will be eighty next year, and we must be realistic. We will not contest Mr. Carver’s guardianship.”
Richard was relieved, although he didn’t know why. This was totally insane; he knew nothing about kids. “Can I still rely on you for advice?” he asked.
“Definitely,” replied George emphatically.
Wilson was also relieved, although it didn’t show. He knew that Susan’s parents doted on the boy, and thus he had been concerned that they might harbour a desire to contest the guardianship provisions. The fact that Richard had made it clear that they would continue to be part of the boy’s life made those provisions more acceptable.
“With regards to the assets,” continued Wilson, “there is a cash payment to be made and two trust funds will be established and administered by this law firm. The cash payment is to George and Hilda Simmonds in the amount of 250 thousand pounds.”
There was a gasp from the sofa, and Wilson glanced up to confirm that neither grandparent was going into cardiac arrest. That sum would enable them to live comfortably for the rest of their lives.
Wilson continued, “The first trust fund is in the amount of one million pounds, for the University of London, and the interest is to be used as an art scholarship fund.”
Again, Wilson paused for questions. Seeing none, he continued, “All remaining assets will be held in trust in Jason’s name until he reaches his twenty-first birthday. Those assets include the residence at the Regal Arms, Carver Enterprises located across from Berkley Square Gardens, London, all the art and antiquities currently owned by said Carver Enterprises, and all cash reserves. Those assets are currently valued at 176 million pounds.”
Even Richard was stunned at the value of the estate. He had sensed that Wayne and Susan were successful, but he had not seen anything to suggest just how successful they really had been. They hadn’t flaunted their wealth, which would have been typical of Wayne; Richard had forgotten just how alike he and his brother had been.
Wilson spoke to Richard, “According to the terms of the will, you are entitled to access whatever funds you believe are required to care for Jason.”
Richard shook his head and replied, “I have sufficient funds to look after the boy. I don’t see a need to draw from his inheritance.” Richard was very wealthy as well, but he kept the extent of his wealth—and how he earned it—a closely guarded secret.
George and Hilda were obviously somewhat bewildered with their sudden windfall but given its source it gave them no joy.
