She sat down beside him, leaning on his thigh. “You can take a break for a while, if you like.”
“I’m okay for now,” he said, slipping his fingers into her soft palm.
Hosiah must have heard their voices. He stirred and his eyes fluttered open.
“Hey, Champ,” Dawson said, smiling. He passed his hand gently back and forth over Hosiah’s hair, cut low just like his dad’s. The more the boy grew up, the more he resembled Dawson.
Hosiah’s eyes lingered on Dawson’s face first and then traveled to his mother’s and back to Dawson’s.
“How do you feel?” Dawson asked him.
“Good.” Hosiah gazed around the room for a moment as he again familiarized himself with his surroundings. General anesthesia played tricks on the mind and the memory. “Mama?”
Christine went to the other side of the bed to be closer to him. “What is it, sweetie?”
“I’m hungry.”
She exchanged a smile with Dawson. That was a good sign. She kissed Hosiah’s forehead. “They’re going to bring you something soon.”
“How hungry are you, Champ?” Dawson asked.
Through his sleepy haze, a smile played at the corners of Hosiah’s lips. He had a little game with his father. “I’m very, very, very, very hungry.”
“Hungry enough to eat twenty balls of kenkey?”
Kenkey, made from fermented corn, was a staple particularly among the Ga people.
Hosiah began to laugh, then winced. “Daddy, don’t make me laugh. It hurts.”
“Dark,” Christine said reproachfully.
“Sorry,” he apologized sheepishly.
Hosiah turned pensive. “Daddy, did they really fix the hole in my heart?”
“Yes, they did.”
“So, now I’ll be fine? I can play soccer and do everything?”
“If the operation went the way it was supposed to and you heal up well.”
“And how is my favorite patient?”
One of the nurses had arrived with Hosiah’s lunch on a tray. She smiled at him. “Are you ready to eat something?”
“He’s more than ready,” Dawson said.
Christine and Dawson helped Hosiah to sit up. Dawson watched the boy’s face to see how much discomfort he was having, but his son registered little. Over countless visits to the hospital, Dawson had observed just how tough sick children could be. Hosiah could take any injection or tolerate a large-bore intravenous catheter with barely a ripple of concern. Dawson, on the other hand, was afraid of needles.
The meal was light-two slices of tea bread with honey, and a bowl of Tom Brown, a popular cereal made from lightly toasted corn. Hosiah attacked it ferociously.
“Slow down,” Christine said, laughing. “Breathe in between mouthfuls.”
The boy took a rest. “When is Sly going to be here?”
“I’ll pick him up from school later and bring him to spend time with you,” Dawson said.
He had first met nine-year-old Sly on a previous case. For a while, the boy had disappeared, surfacing later as a homeless street kid. Neither Dawson nor Christine could leave him to that fate, especially after they’d learned that Sly did not even know who or where his parents were. They began adoption proceedings, and months later Sly was officially a Dawson. Two years older than Hosiah, he was protective of his younger brother and anxious to visit him in the hospital after school.
Dawson’s phone buzzed, and he went out to the corridor to take the call. It was his junior partner, Detective Sergeant Philip Chikata.
“Where you dey?” Chikata asked in fashionable pidgin.
“I’m at the hospital.”
“How is Hosiah?”
“Fine, so far. He’s a strong boy.”
“He is. Can I visit him tomorrow?”
“For sure, no problem. He’ll be happy to see you.”
“How long will they keep him?”
“They say he can go home on Tuesday.”
“Okay.” The sergeant paused. “Listen, my uncle will be calling you soon.”
Chikata was the nephew of Chief Superintendent Lartey, Dawson’s boss. Lartey doted on his nephew, who sometimes acted as a messenger between him and Dawson.
“What’s going on?” Dawson asked.
“He wants you back at work on Monday.”
Dawson’s eyebrows shot up. “But I’m on leave,” he protested, his voice sharpening.
“I know, but he says an urgent case has come up.”
“Do you know what it’s about?”
“Not exactly, but I know it’s in Takoradi.”
“Takoradi!”
“Yah. I wanted to let you know before he calls you, so you won’t be too shocked.”
Dawson heaved a sigh. “Okay. Thank you for warning me.”
He ended the call and returned to the ward. Hosiah had finished lunch and gone back to sleep. At his bedside, Christine looked up from her romance novel.
“You don’t look too happy. Who was that on the phone?”
Dawson sat down, reaching over to tilt her novel up so he could see the cover. “Honestly, what do these men have that I don’t?”
“You wouldn’t understand,” Christine said enigmatically. “So, who called you?”
“Chikata. He says Lartey wants me back at work on Monday.”
She stiffened visibly. “Why? For what?”
“A new case. In Tadi.”
“Takoradi!” She put the book down and dropped her voice to a sharp whisper. “No, you can’t do this. Hosiah needs us both right now.”
“I know.”
“Why does Lartey always do this?” She demanded furiosly. “What is wrong with that man?”
“You’re asking me?” Dawson said gloomily.
“He’s your boss, isn’t he?” She snapped.
“He could be my twin brother, and I still wouldn’t understand him.”
“You can’t go,” Christine said, shaking her head vigorously. “You simply cannot.”
She snatched up her novel. Dawson, sensing a looming crisis, said nothing. He was praying something would come up miraculously to change the chief superintendent’s mind. However, when Lartey called within half an hour, Dawson had a sinking feeling.
“Massa,” he answered in the colloquial but respectful manner of addressing a senior officer. “Good afternoon, massa.”
“Afternoon, Dawson. How is your boy doing?”
Dawson stood up again to go outside the ward. “He’s making a slow recovery, sir.” He didn’t want to give too glowing a report.
“Good. I need you to return to your duties on Monday.”
“You gave me ten days off-”
“You can make it up some other time,” Lartey interrupted briskly. “We have a petitioned case from Takoradi, and I’ve assigned you to take it.”
“Please, sir, it won’t be possible to leave Hosiah right now. He’s still quite sick, and he needs me to be around for at least-”
“You have a wife, don’t you? Now you listen to me, Dawson. Your solving that serial killer case last year doesn’t suddenly make you a VIP. Your rank is still inspector, and you are still a junior officer. If you’re planning to move up the ladder, may I remind you that you are up for chief inspector next year, and I will be one of the senior officers on the panel recommending your promotion?”
Dawson swallowed hard. Lartey had cut him down to size with a single swipe.
“If you’re refusing to go to Takoradi,” the chief superintendent continued crisply, “don’t expect me to endorse your promotion. Instead, I will initiate dismissal procedures for insubordination. Take your pick.”
Dawson shut his eyes for a moment and gritted his teeth. Promotion versus dismissal was hardly a dilemma. The chief was serious about his threats, and he had Dawson by the throat.
“Yes, sir,” he said lightly, as if an unpleasant exchange had not just occurred. “What’s the story, sir?”
“Do you remember about four months ago a fishing canoe was spotted from an oil rig off Cape Three Points floating around with two dead bodies inside, one of which was decapitated?”
“Yes. It was in the news for some time. The victims were a Mr. and Mrs. Smith-something, if I remember.”