Jay Giles (38 page)
She smiled. “Sure. They do keep it kind of chilly in here.” She stood up. “I’ll get you one from the supply closet.”
I started to follow her as she headed down the hall. We hadn’t gone more than three steps when a monitor sounded. She stopped, looked at me, and pointed down the hall. “They’re right around the corner. First door—marked ‘clean supplies.’ Take whatever you need,” she said quickly and left.
I found it easily enough. It was a walk-in storage room with floor-to-ceiling shelves stocked with supplies. Ice buckets. Scrubs. Bed pans. Rubber gloves. Sheets.
Sterile dressings. Scalpels. Syringes. And, yes, blankets. The place had virtually everything. I took a blanket off the shelf, tucked it under my arm, turned out the light, and returned to the hallway. As I closed the door, the nurse’s words—take whatever you need—ran through my mind. Wouldn’t hurt to have one other thing I’d seen in there. I quickly reopened the door, took one out of the box, put it in my pocket, and returned to my chair.
I settled back down, pulled the blanket up around my chin, closed my eyes. Fell into a fitful sleep. My head kept bobbing up and down. My limbs twitched. My ear throbbed. Deep sleep never came.
The ICU monitors were especially troubling. A deep beep, beep, beep or ping, ping, ping would shatter the quiet, jerking me awake.
I was almost asleep, when an odd, irritating high-pitched hum roused me. Wasn’t a monitor. Was a sound I knew. But from where?
I knew the answer at the same time that I felt tremendous pressure against my face.
D’Onifrio’s hearing aids.
With my hands, I grabbed for what was over my face. Felt an arm. Something soft. The texture of fabric. A pillow. Pulled at the arm. Pulled at the pillow. Tried to breathe. Couldn’t. The pressure continued. I pulled at the arm. Pushed at the corner of the pillow, trying to raise it up to get a breath. Couldn’t get it far enough. No air. My chest felt heavy, my head light. I knew I didn’t have long before I blacked out.
I tried to push the pillow away with my left hand, reached into my pants pocket with my right. My hand tightened on the scalpel I’d taken from the supply closet, wiggled it out.
I put everything I could muster into swinging the scalpel over my head. It struck something hard. The force of my jab caused the blade to skip along that hard surface until it buried itself in something soft.
An ear-splitting scream tore through the ICU. Instantly, the pressure on my face was gone. The scalpel was knocked from my hand. I couldn’t worry about it. I yanked the pillow away from my face, jumped up from my chair, gulping at the air.
D’Onifrio stood there, slightly hunched over, hands trying to stop the blood that flowed freely from a rip that started on his left cheek and continued up to his ruined left eye. He must have come with the two women. Seen them botch it. Seen me, half asleep. Thought he could eliminate me quickly and easily. Despite the pain, he stared at me with his good eye, face contorted in anger.
I looked around, didn’t see any sign of the two officers who were supposed to be protecting Tory. Nor did I see any nurses at the station. It was just the two of us.
He balled his hands up into fists. Took a step in my direction. “Wilder was right. I should have killed you before the old man,” he snarled, blood streaming down his face.
Even hurt, he was dangerous. He was bigger and stronger than I was. I kept backing away, thinking the pain would slow him, help would arrive.
He lunged, lashing out with his fists. A right caught me on the side of the face.
I backpedaled. I wasn’t a fighter; D’Onifrio was. He hit me in the face again. Where were the police? I backed up, bumped into the counter of the nurses’ station.
He saw he had me against the ropes, smiled wickedly, slowly closed the distance between us.
This was it. I got my hands up. Did the thing he’d least expect. Attacked.
I stepped forward, put my weight into a right to the face. He blocked it. I followed with a left, caught him on the ripped cheek. He growled. Swung a hard right at my head. I moved and the blow glanced off.
My right connected with his good eye. He retaliated with a flurry of blows, forcing me to cover my face with my hands. I didn’t know what to do. My back was against the counter; there was no escape. Again and again, he hit me. Jarring blows that hurt me, drained me, frightened me. Unless I did something, I was finished.
I used the counter as leverage, pushed forward, tried to bowl him over. It worked halfway. Got me away from the counter. But it allowed him to grab me in a bear hug. He tried to throw me to floor, slipped on his own blood, took us both down hard. I landed on my right shoulder, immediately felt burning pain. D’Onifrio landed on his back.
I was up first. Hit him with a hard right to the face as he struggled to get to his feet. He fell back. I went after him. Hit him with another hard right to the face. Hurt my hand. He tried to get up, again. I went after his injured eye. Hit him with a left. Another left. He yelled. The gash on his cheek spewed more blood. He turned his back to me, got to his feet.
We squared off again.
He didn’t act as strong now, wasn’t as aggressive, wasn’t as steady on his feet. My right arm was useless. Pain ran from my shoulder to my hand. He threw a clumsy right at me. I easily avoided it. That gave me confidence. He was weakening. Even with the useless right arm, I was stronger.
I kicked him in the side of the knee. He bent over in pain. I followed with a left hand to the face. Caught him on the cheek. He went down on all fours, breathing heavily.
“You’re finished, D’Onifrio. Give it up.” I wheezed.
“Not until you’re dead.”
I kicked as hard as I could. The blow caught him in the face. He went over on his back, lay still.
The only sounds in the ICU were my gasps for air and the irritating hum of his hearing aids.
“What happened?” A surprised Dr. Kline asked the next morning.
I’m sure I was a sight. My right arm was in a sling for a dislocated shoulder. My right hand was in a cast for three broken knuckles, two broken fingers. Cuts on my face had required nine stitches. Bruising was developing in various shades of purple.
“Fell asleep and fell off that chair you found for me.” I tried not to smile. It hurt.
I saw a twinkle in her eye. “Try and help someone and look what happens. How’s your lady friend?”
“They say she should wake this morning. Nothing, so far.”
“Some people take longer. Has Dr. Guardio been by?”
“I haven’t seen him. But I wasn’t here for awhile. I was with the police.”
That surprised her. “Police?”
“Investigating my chair fall.”
An I’ve-been-had look appeared on her face. “I’ll see if I can find you one with a seat belt for tonight.” She smiled. “I’m on all day. Let one of the nurses know if you need me.”
“Thanks. I appreciate your looking in on me.”
Tory didn’t wake that morning. She didn’t wake that afternoon. Or that evening. I lived by her bedside, leaving only to get something to eat, use the phone, or go to the bathroom. By nightfall, the jubilation I’d experienced at surviving D’Onifrio’s attack had worn off and Tory’s condition had me depressed and discouraged.
That evening, Ellsworth stopped by. “Thought you’d like a progress report,” he said as we walked to the cafeteria to get coffee.
“I am kind of curious.”
We got our drinks, settled into seats. “D’Onifrio’s still here in the hospital—”
I choked on a sip of mine.
“Under armed guard,” he added quickly. “They operated but couldn’t save his eye. He also has a broken nose, some internal injuries—none of them serious. His lawyers are already trying to spin this, say he was attacked, get him released. Armstrong’s not having any of that. He’s going after him for murder.”
“Why the change of heart?”
“Twice now they’ve planned to use graves in abandoned properties owned by Shore as a way of disposing of bodies. Looks like a pattern. We got a search order, started looking in other abandoned properties, found something that had recently been covered over. When it’s excavated, we think we’ll find Raines, Enrico, the nephews, maybe others.
“What happens if there aren’t any bodies there?”
“We’ll keep looking. A pattern this strong usually leads to something.”
“Will they let him out on bail?”
Ellworth finished a sip of coffee, shook his head. “No. They know he’ll leave the country. Remember, I told you Armstrong’s political?”
I nodded.
“He knows he’s got a juicy case. Lots of publicity. Could go national. He’ll make sure this one is locked up tight.”
I liked hearing the locked up tight part. Ellsworth talked a few minutes more, looked at his watch, said he had to go.
On my way back to the ICU, I stopped in the waiting room, used the phone, called Dr. Swarthmore.
“How are you, Matt?” she asked when she heard my voice.
I chuckled. “A lot has happened since I talked to you last night.”
“Tell me.”
I did. I thought she’d be freaked out, but she wasn’t.
When I finished, she said, “While I know last night wasn’t pleasant, it did give you closure. You no longer have the threat of this man hanging over your head. The fact that it happened so quickly is also beneficial. You no longer have two major concerns vying for your attention. One area of worry has been eliminated. You can now focus on Tory. What are the doctors telling you?”
“I haven’t seen them.”
Even over the telephone, I sensed her disapproval. “Until you talk to her doctors, you have no real sense of her condition. Find out when they make rounds, make sure you talk to them at length. Let me know what they have to say. In the meantime, stay positive. Don’t dwell on the negatives; don’t allow yourself to be pulled into depression.”
“Thanks, Adelle.” I replaced the receiver. She’d been a little curt at the end, but I felt buoyed by talking with her, much the way I had the night before. I needed that as I settled into my chair for my second night’s vigil.
That night, I slept surprisingly well. I woke feeling that it was a going to be a good day, a feeling that lasted until I saw that Tory hadn’t moved.
At nine-thirty that morning, Dr. Guardio, the neurosurgeon, and Dr. Henry, a consulting neurologist, came to look at her. The two of them examined her, talked mumbo-jumbo to each other, dictated some notes, turned to go.
“Doctor, there are a couple of things it would help me to know.”
Guardio nodded.
“Is there brain damage?” I asked the worst question first.
Guardio, a big hairy bear of a man with a soft voice, shook his head. “We don’t believe so. There was significant internal bleeding and the back of the brain was bruised, but preliminary indications are that there should be no long-term debilitation.”
“All the nurses have said she should be awake by now. Why isn’t she?”
“Normally, yes, she should have regained consciousness by now.” He frowned. “However, comas caused by severe traumas such as the one she suffered often last for an extended period of time. The bruising of the brain may be the key here. She’ll return to consciousness once the brain has had a chance to heal sufficiently.”
“Are we talking days, months, years? Help me understand.”
Henry, slight, stooped, with thick glasses, fielded his one. “Impossible to say for sure. In most severe trauma cases, we’re talking in the range of five to seven days on the low end, twenty to thirty days on the high end.”
“We’ve ordered some additional scans that may give us a better idea,” Guardio said. “The fact that she hasn’t responded quickly concerns me although the injuries don’t indicate the coma will last for an extended period. The additional tests should prove valuable.”
That was all I got out of them. At eleven a.m., two orderlies came to wheel her bed to x-ray.
“How long will this take?” I asked one.
He checked his paperwork. “Doc’s ordered four scans—two regular, two with contrast. That’s gonna take awhile.”
I was torn. I wanted to stay with her, but I needed to get organized, too. I couldn’t continue to live here like a homeless person. I opted for organized. If she was going to be gone and they didn’t expect her to wake today, it was the time for me to be gone, too.
I followed them as they wheeled her bed down the corridor to the elevators, rode down in the same elevator. They exited on the second level for x-ray. I stayed to the ground level, feeling guilty for leaving her.
I walked through the main lobby and out into the sunshine. It must have rained during the night. There were still big puddles on the ground. But that blindingly intense Florida sun was out. I used my hand to shield my eyes, looked for a cab. I spotted one, waved my good arm, and it pulled over.
“Where to?”
I had him take me to my condo. The ride seemed long and slow. When we finally made it to the Watergate, I paid him, rode the elevator up to my floor, unlocked my condo door.
As I walked in, I had the feeling I’d been gone forever. It was replaced by a feeling of panic. All my family photos were in that police van. I went to the phone, dialed Ellsworth’s number. I got one of his assistants, Officer Tuttle.
“We did find the van,” he drawled. “I know there were belongings in the back. Suitcases, I believe. We have them here. If you want I can check, make sure we have everything.”
I thanked him, told him what I had. He went to check.
“All here,” he said when he came back.
“Good, I’ll be over to pick it up.” I thanked him again.
That finished, I headed to the bathroom, stripped off my clothes, jumped in the shower. God, did that feel good! I shaved, washed my hair, put on clean clothes—shorts and a polo shirt. I packed as much as I could get in a carry bag, took the bag into the living room, and left it by the door. Next, phone calls.
First call was to the Saab dealership. I arranged for my car to be brought to the condo.
Second call was to Saul Badgett, my stockbroker friend who worked at Salomon Smith Barney, a bright kid, lost in their big organization. We’d talked about his joining my brokerage before. Now was the time to bring someone in. I knew just how to do it—equity.
The phone at the Badgett house rang twice before a woman answered. I asked for Saul, and the woman—his wife, I assumed—went to get him.
“Yeah,” he answered, “this is Saul.”
“Saul, Matt Seattle. I’ve got a crazy idea I want to bounce off you. Got a minute?”
He not only had a minute, he didn’t think the idea of starting work for me the next day was crazy at all. It probably wasn’t, at the salary level we agreed upon. What clinched the deal was my offer of a 15% equity position after the first year. Even for a bright future star like Saul, those offers don’t come along every day.
An agreement reached, I top-lined my situation for him, explained I’d be working off site, gave him my phone numbers, told him I’d drop off a key to the office that afternoon.
“I’ll do you proud, Matt,” he assured me before he rang off.
I was sure he would. In fact, I only had one reservation about Saul. He was already a better golfer than I was.
My third call was to Rosemary. I got their machine, left a message reinforcing that she should take some time off, however long she needed, that Saul would be starting with us tomorrow.
I would have done a fax alert to the clients, but my computer was with my belongings at the police station. Not a big deal; I could swing by the office, send it out on my way back to the hospital.
I grabbed a couple of books from the study, gathered up my carry bag, went down to the lobby to wait. I wasn’t there long. My Saab pulled up with a new black top.
My first stop was Saul’s, where I dropped off keys. Second was the police station. They loaded the luggage in the Saab’s trunk and back seat. Third was the office. I faxed an announcement about our new associate. At my fourth and final stop, I picked up something I wanted to have—just in case—and returned to the hospital.
