Chosen for Death (16 page)

"Andre," I said, gripping his hand, "persuade my parents not to come. I don't want them to see me like this. They've had too much trouble already. Call them. Say I'm fine, or something. Anything. Say you will." The last came out as a whisper. I was too tired even to speak. Rotten as I felt, and though I desperately wanted to be taken care of, Mom's kind of care, complete with sighs and lectures, was something I couldn't handle. Dad alone was a different story. Dad's great when you're sick. But not Mom. Her hand is gentle and her soup is ambrosia, but she's a fretful presence. Not conducive to good health.

"I'll try, Thea," he said. He raised the bed and stuck the straw between my lips. The ginger ale went down better than the water, and I was asleep before the straw left my lips.

Chapter 12

It's not the first day after an injury that's bad, it's the second. That's the day you first feel well enough to notice how awful you feel. At least, that's how it was for me.

I woke up on Monday hungry and crabby and totally miserable. My nose had bled during the night, leaving the pillow and my cheek stiff and nasty. My side ached and my head hurt. I could now see a little better with both eyes, which I suppose was a sign of progress. I woke determined to get to the bathroom on my own. No more sessions with that revolting bedpan. The effort it took to get to my feet almost changed my mind, and the floor rocked alarmingly, but I shuffled across the room to the sanctuary of that ceramic cubicle without further mishap.

I couldn't resist a peek in the mirror. I was surprised it didn't crack. I had honestly never looked worse. It took all the good humor in my nature not to lose it completely. I hoped Andre had been able to persuade my mother not to come. She'd have a hard time, seeing me like this. I drank some water and tried to clean up my face, but the effort was exhausting and only partially successful. I gave up and shuffled back to my bed. I found a nurse staring anxiously at my pillow.

"Oh, there you are," she said.

"Right," I said, collapsing back onto the mattress. "I was just out jogging." She looked at me suspiciously for a minute before she decided I was joking. If she believed that, even for a second, I wasn't sure I was in safe hands, but she got me cleaned up and the bed changed very efficiently, and recorded my vital signs. All the evidence suggested I was still alive. "Do you feel like something to eat this morning?" she asked cheerfully.

"Three cheeseburgers, a large salad, some fries, and a chocolate milkshake," I said. My voice lacked its usual animation. It still hurt to move my face.

"Well, we'll just see what the dietitian has ordered for you today, dear, shall we?" She left, leaving me hungry and uncomfortable, waiting for the dietary mysteries to be revealed. It was some time before revelation. I passed the time recalling my evening with Charlie, wondering whether I'd learned anything from it. My head felt awful, but at least today it worked. I could remember what had happened. I even had a vague memory of being carried to a car. The conversation I didn't understand must have been Charlie sending Kevin to find my car.

I knew he couldn't be trusted, but Charlie's ignorance about Carrie's death seemed genuine. I hated to think he hadn't done it; it would have given me great pleasure to see him put away for life. The man was a walking time bomb. If he hadn't killed this time, sooner or later he would. If he hadn't killed her, I was back at square one. As soon as I was more mobile I'd have to find Lorna again, and ask her about other guys in Carrie's life. She'd mentioned others, hadn't she? She hadn't been forthcoming about Charlie, so probably there was more she'd decided not to tell me. If she'd even speak to me. By now Andre might have paid her another visit. If so, she probably wouldn't talk to me at all.

Then there were those notes they'd found in Carrie's car. What did
C
mean, if not Charlie? Had she gone to the park to meet someone else whose name began with C? How did that connect to
certificates
and
mother?
Were they birth certificates or marriage certificates or some other kind of certificate? Was I just trying to make logical connections among a bunch of unrelated things on a list? It seemed to me that there were three possible sources for her killer—a boyfriend, which was what the police assumed, someone she'd found through her search who didn't want to be found, or a random stranger.

What if she had gone to meet someone connected with her search? Someone perhaps pretending to be a source? How could we ever find that person? Maybe the notes I'd found in her raincoat pocket would help me. If she was still searching for her birth parents, the answer to what had happened to her could be connected to that search. Why else was she supposed to bring her notes and birth certificate? What else could
mother
mean? Andre hadn't seemed terribly interested in the things I'd told him about Carrie and her obsession with finding her real parents, but then, he never knew Carrie.

Breakfast finally arrived, delivered by a twinkling gray-haired lady whose volunteer name tag identified her as Ida Weeks. Mrs. Weeks set the tray on a mobile table, raised the bed, and lifted the covers on the dishes. I was the lucky recipient of a bowl of wallpaper paste, a cold poached egg on sodden toast, and pale yellow orange juice. No coffee. Too stimulating. I made a face. "How far to the nearest McDonald's?"

She pretended not to hear. "Can you manage by yourself, or would you like some help?"

"I don't know," I said, which was the truth. I was a little worried about cutting the toast, soggy as it was. That twisting motion threatened my ribs. Mrs. Weeks didn't dawdle. She picked up my knife and fork, cut the egg, and spread my napkin over my chest. "I know it doesn't look great, dear," she said, "but you'd better eat it. It will help you get well." She departed to deliver culinary delights to the other captives.

I was a good girl and ate my egg and all the wallpaper paste. I was hungry enough to have eaten four breakfasts, but the effort of transporting food to my mouth exhausted me. By the time I set down the juice glass, I was ready for a nap. I didn't know which was more tiring, my lousy physical condition or all the energy I was using up fretting about it.

Hospitals, however, are not designed for the well-being of patients. They are run to fit the schedules of the staff. I had just pushed the tray away and wiggled down under the covers, looking forward to sleep, when the door opened and a man wearing a white coat and stethoscope came in, accompanied by the slightly dim nurse. Reluctantly, I abandoned sleep and gave him my best smile. At least my teeth weren't broken. "Ah," I said, "I see by your outfit that you are a cowboy."

He didn't crack a smile, and I filed him under slightly dim, too. "Well, Theadora, how are you today?" he asked. "I'm Dr. Tabor." Dr. Tabor had wispy blond hair, a wispy mustache to match, and aviator glasses.

"Mrs. Kozak," I said.

"Excuse me," he said, looking puzzled.

"Mrs. Kozak," I repeated. "If you are Dr. Tabor, I am Mrs. Kozak, not Theadora."

"Oh, yes. All right, Mrs. Kozak," he said, twitching with irritation. "I'm glad to see you're feeling better." The nurse handed him my chart, which he scrutinized briefly. Then he did some eye tests with a little flashlight, peered into my nostrils and my ears, and generally poked and prodded me in a wonderfully impersonal manner. I felt like a roast meeting the USDA meat inspector until his probing fingers hit a particularly tender spot and the roast revealed her humanity by gasping.

He rose up to his full five eight, rocked back on his heels, and considered me. "Tell me about the pain," he said.

I wondered what the right answer was. I wanted to tell him that what I knew about pain was that it hurt, but I'd already established that he had no sense of humor. I settled for description. "It's not as bad as yesterday," I said. "Still bad, but different. Yesterday my whole side was on fire and my head was unbearable. Today it all just aches, unless I try to move, and then my ribs catch fire again. When can I get out of here?"

"She's a real charmer, isn't she, Bob?" asked a voice behind him. I turned my head too quickly, trying to see who was there, and was rewarded with a wave of nausea. I closed my eyes and waited for it to pass. "Going to spring her today, or are you keeping her a little longer?" I didn't have to open my eyes. I recognized Andre's voice.

"I can let her go today if there is someone to look after her. Otherwise no. She needs someone to take care of her." What an awful thought. I was a very bad patient. I couldn't stand being in bed, or being unwell. But I needed to be somewhere where I could get something to eat. I'd die of hunger here, or lack of rest. Hospitals hate to let you sleep. It offends their sense that they should be doing something to help you get well, so they wake you and treat you.

"It's OK, Bob. She's being picked up today and returned to Massachusetts, if she can travel that far."

I opened my eyes. Dr. Bob was shaking his head. "She's young and strong. She could take it, but another day of rest would do her good. Why don't you take her home for twenty-four hours? She couldn't do the stairs, but you could carry her. You and Beezer could really dish out the TLC between you." I felt like a roast again.

Andre laughed out loud. "I tried, Bob. I offered my heart, my life, and my undying devotion, but she said she preferred to sleep alone and went out and drove into a tree."

That brought me up off the pillow in a hurry. "You bastard," I said, "I told you. I didn't drive into any tree..." That was as far as I got in my protest before the pain took my breath away.

"I'm going to have to ask you to leave, Detective. You're upsetting my patient," Dr. Tabor said.

"Why don't you both leave," I whispered. I hated them both passionately and I couldn't even yell, much less stalk out. I hated being helpless. I closed my eyes and waited for them to go. When I finally opened my eyes, they were gone. My body desperately wanted a nap, so I deferred my plan of getting up and leaving immediately. It would have been hard to carry out anyway, since I didn't have any clothes, and the cute little hospital gown had no back.

What woke me was the sound of the door shutting, followed by footsteps. If it was Andre or Dr. Bob, I decided, I was going to throw the water pitcher at him. I opened my eyes warily. Suzanne's anxious face was just inches from mine. "Thea. You poor thing. Are you awake?"

"Suzanne. Please say you're here to rescue me. I couldn't stand another day of this." Some of the anxiety left her face. I must have sounded like my old self. "I hope you brought clothes."

"Of course I did," she said. "You aren't beginning to doubt your partner's competence, are you?"

"I never doubt your competence, Suzanne. I'm just so overwhelmed with gratitude I'm not thinking clearly. How did you know... to come, I mean?"

"Your mother called to say you wouldn't be at work today. Very brisk and efficient. You know your mother. So I asked her what was wrong. She said a little accident. Said she was coming up today to get you. I was trying to get some details when she broke down and had to put your father on the phone. You know, Thea, your mother never breaks down." I did know. Mom prides herself on her control. "So I told your dad I'd be glad to come and get you myself, and he jumped at the offer. Said your mom really wasn't up to it, and he'd have a hard time getting away. So I just hopped in the car and came."

My rescuing angel didn't look like she'd just jumped in her car and gone anywhere. Her gorgeous, naturally straight, naturally blond hair was impeccably coiffed, and she had a tweedy raw linen fitted suit over a pale peach blouse. She looked competent, efficient, and delicious. I knew she'd chosen her outfit carefully to create exactly that impression. I could imagine her analysis. Small local hospital. Not completely familiar or comfortable with professional women. She needed to look both professional and feminine. Just the right simple gold accessories. Nothing large; nothing that clanked or rattled. Unobtrusive heels. A briefcase instead of a purse. "I can't bear to look at you," I said. "You look too nice."

"Thanks," she said. "I wish I could say the same for you. Are you sure you want to leave the hospital so soon? You do look terrible." She seemed doubtful. I couldn't let her leave me here. I had to get out. Another day of Andre's disbelief, Dr. Bob's snide prodding, and trays of pabulum and I'd need a transfer to the mental ward.

"Truth?" I asked.

"What else?" she said.

"OK, the truth is that I feel every bit as bad as I look, but I'm on the road to recovery. And this place is beginning to have a detrimental effect on my health. They don't feed me, they just poke and pry. If you don't get me out of here soon, I'm going to murder the doctor. The jerk treats me like a piece of meat."