Guardian Knight

Chapter 8

Dr. Wesley entered the room where Michael was sitting on an exam table, skimming some charts.

"Well?"

"By your standards, almost nothing. You have a bruised shoulder, a small gash along your side that required only four stitches, and a twisted ankle. Keep the leg elevated as much as possible over the next couple of days. And no jogging." The doctor paused, and then added, "I understand congratulations are in order."

"For what?" Michael was perplexed.

"It's a girl."

Michael laughed. "So you've heard about Melissa being my ward."

"Yes, and we'll need to discuss her medical treatment. She's a minor, and you're her legal guardian. You'll have to sign off."

"How about Melissa and I come by around eight tomorrow morning. I can tag along for her nine o'clock PT, too."

"That works. And remember: Keep that leg elevated."

Michael grinned at the doctor, then hopped off the exam table. He went outside, where Kitt was waiting for him.

"Miss Knight is at the pool. You will drive there, not walk."

Melissa lay on a lounge chair, reading a book. Same as when he had first met her. She heard Kitt drive up and waved to them. Michael walked over to her and sat on another lounge chair. He removed his jacket, folded it up, and then used it to prop up his leg.

"Well," she asked excitedly, "how'd it turn out?"

"Bruised shoulder, four stitches, and a twisted ankle I'm supposed to keep elevated." Michael gestured to his leg.

"No, no, no. I mean with the Warwicks. I came back from morning PT, and Uncle Devon was gone. He'd taken Lisa and Timmy with him. But no one could tell me where they'd gone or anything."

"Hey, don't you care about my injuries?" Michael protested.

"Well, um . . . I mean . . . Dr. Wesley wouldn't . . ." And then he noticed the corners of her mouth twitching suspiciously before she shrugged. "Besides, I still have Uncle Devon. And I know what to expect from him."

Kitt chimed in. "Miss Knight, I have found Michael to be quite trainable. Of course, it does take patience and repetition. A lot of repetition. But if you use simple words and short sentences, he does learn. Eventually."

"Thank you, Kitt. I will definitely keep that in mind."

"You two do know I can hear you, right?"

"You started it," Melissa pointed out.

"Yes, Michael, you did. And, as usual, you came ill-equipped for a battle of wits."

Michael shook his head in mock aggrievement. But in truth, he was pleased Melissa was comfortable enough being teased by him and teasing him back. Though he wasn't sure how he felt about Kitt piling in on her side.

"Back to the case. David Warwick turned out to have a very serious cold." Melissa was puzzled. "The coughing fit landed him in the FBI offices, along with some very incriminating files on Kendall and Faro Services. He knows Timmy isn't his son and loves him anyway. Devon is still at the FBI offices, helping arrange for David to go into protective custody . . . with Timmy. And not with Lisa, who was working with Kendall."

"You've filled in all the blanks!"

"Yes. And thanks for the timely warning. Kitt let me know that was your doing."

"You're welcome." She looked at him critically. "You're doing that all wrong. Stand up." He looked at her and she added, "Trust me. Stand up."

So, of course, he stood up. Melissa adjusted the lounge chair so that back was at its lowest setting. Then she refolded the jacket. "Head there, on the jacket as a pillow. Legs at that end, elevated."

Michael did as he was told. "This is much better."

They each lay on their respective lounge chairs in comfortable silence. After a few minutes, Michael decided this was as good a time as any for that serious conversation he wanted to have with Melissa about Garthe. No one else was around, and the pool seemed like neutral ground.

As mildly as he could, he said, "I know growing up with Garthe was unpleasant for you. Are you willing to tell me about it? And before you answer that, you can tell me as much or as little as you feel comfortable sharing. If you don't want to talk about it now, you can tell me to wait. Or tell me to ask Devon. You can even tell me you don't want me to know at all. You decide."

He lay there, eyes closed, waiting for her response. He had cleared startled her with his question, as evidence by her interrupted breathing. But as she considered how to respond, her breathing became more regular. Which he took as a good sign.

"We have a house up in the hills. At least, I assume we – I – still have it. We'd go up there in the summer, when it was too hot here. Once, we went up in the winter, when there was snow. Dad and Uncle Devon took me sledding. The house is on a slope, so the front is higher up than the back. They took turns sledding down the hill with me and then pulling the sled – with me still on it – back up the hill."

From her tone, this was clearly a treasured memory. Michael was touched she would share it with him. He smiled at the image of two powerhouses of industry spending the afternoon sledding with a child. Even if that child was the daughter of one and the goddaughter of the other. Most businessmen rarely spent time with their children.

"The last time I was there, I was 10. Dad and Uncle Devon were both out of town on business. That rarely happened. Looking back on it, they must have been making sure at least one of them was always there, to protect me from Garthe. Since my mother wouldn't. He's her golden boy, who can do no wrong."

Melissa sounded more wry than bitter. Michael could well imagine Elizabeth making excuses – or outright ignoring – Garthe harassing his little sister.

Melissa's tone went flat. "There's a room on the first floor, in back. Too small for anything but a playroom for me, according to Dad. I liked to look out the window at the stream, with the willow trees. I was in there, playing quietly, when Garthe came in. He stood for a while watching me, not saying anything. I was hoping he would just leave. He almost did. But then, at the last minute, he turned back. Real casual, he told me I was a failure. My mother only had me to strengthen her relationship with Dad. Which hadn't happened. And that was all my fault."

Michael couldn't fathom how anyone – even Garthe – could tell a 10-year-old that she was responsible for keeping her parents together.

"I should have ignored him. But . . . have you ever said something only to realize – just a little too late – it was absolutely the wrong thing to say? I said he was older, so he should be the one to take care of it. Even as I was saying it, I knew – knew – I had just made the biggest mistake of my life. I couldn't imagine what he would do to me. I just knew it would be horrible. I didn't even try to apologize or explain; I just sat there, waiting."

Michael figured it wouldn't have mattered. Whether she had ignored Garthe or responded, he would have taken offense. And then taken his anger out on his kid sister.

"I don't remember sounds, only sights. I'm sure Garthe said – yelled – something. I'm sure the window cracked when I hit it. I'm sure I screamed when I hit the ground, fracturing my hip. But I do remember the glass shards around me catching the sunlight. And I remember the willow trees swaying in the wind. And I remember him standing at the window, watching me fall with as much interest as you might watch a leaf fall to the ground. Less, even." Her tone was matter of fact, a dry recital of events. Which somehow made it so much worse.

Now it was Michael's turn for labored breathing. He wasn't sure what he had been expecting. But this wasn't it. He knew Garthe had been a bully. But to throw a child through a window . . . No, Michael corrected himself, to try to kill his little sister.

Melissa continued in that same expressionless tone. "Eventually, the sounds came back. The gardener yelling for my mother. My mother calling for the driver. My mother telling Garthe to get me. The glass shards crunching under his shoes. We drove to the hospital. My mother told them that it was an accident, that I had fallen out an open window. She may have believed it herself. Or at least convinced herself that's what had happened. Not sure anyone at the hospital believed her. But she was Elizabeth Knight. And so . . . Anyway, I was home from the hospital before Dad or Uncle Devon got back from their business trips. My mother hadn't seen any reason to call them."

Michael couldn't lay there any longer. He went over to Melissa said, "Stand up," with a gentle smile. When she gave him a puzzled look, he added, "Trust me. Stand up."

With a wry smile at having her own words parroted back at her, she did so. Michael embraced her. Not the rib-crushing bear hug he wanted to give her but a loose embrace she could easily break. Melissa stiffened in his arms, and he began counting silently to himself. At four, she relaxed against him. At seven, she turned her head, so her cheek pressed against his chest. And at twelve, her arms came up to hug him back. He stopped counting.

"If I had known what I was asking, I wouldn't have," he said softly. "And thank you for telling me. That couldn't have been easy for you."

"You need to know – to understand – what Garthe is capable of."

"Garthe is dead. He went over a cliff. I saw it myself."

"And he was put in prison in another country. And then in prison here. When he turns up again, I'm going to say I told you so."

"If that happens, I will punch Garthe for you . . . twice."

Melissa laughed and pulled back far enough to look up at him. "Deal. And thanks for the nice hug."

"Nice? Nice? I give amazing hugs." He pulled her back against him. And this time, it was a bear hug.