“That’s an odd question,” Carver said, “considering I was half conscious when you heard me tell it the first time and wouldn’t remember what I said.”
She grinned. “Testing you, Fred. Your gray matter’s still working OK.”
He told her the story as he recalled it. He didn’t remember calling her on the phone but he took her word for it, hoping it wasn’t another of her tests.
A stout, redheaded nurse came in with an ice pack and laid it gently on Carver’s forehead.
“Better?” she asked.
“I don’t need it,” Carver said.
The nurse removed the ice pack and set it on the green plastic tray on the table by the bed. Also on the tray were a green plastic water pitcher sweating with condensation and a small green plastic glass. Next to the tray was a box of white tissues, one erupting from it like a freeze-frame explosion.
“It’s right here if you change your mind,” the nurse said. She came around the bed and pinned the cord with the call button to the sheet where he could reach it easily. “I’ll be nearby if you need me.” Whenever she moved, her rubber-soled shoes yipped softly on the slick floor.
Another woman entered the room, dressed not in white like the nurse but wearing a surgical gown the same green as the water pitcher and glass. She was a dark-haired, attractive woman about forty, average height but slender, with shrewd, assessing eyes, gaunt cheeks, and lips that pouted crookedly as if she were thinking so hard she was making a face. The name tag on her gown said she was Dr. Woosman.
“How do you feel?” Dr. Woosman asked.
“OK if I don’t move,” Carver said.
“That’s to be expected.” She stared at him as if he were a cut of meat she was considering serving guests. “We’ll keep you here and monitor you for a while, Mr. Carver.”
“I want to leave in the morning.”
Dr. Woosman looked at Beth. Beth shrugged.
“It’s possible,” Dr. Woosman said. “We’ll see.” She shuffled some papers and looked at something on the clipboard she was carrying. “Your lowest right rib has a hairline fracture, so you’ll have to wear a support for a while. For the concussion, you need to rest, be observed, and take what I prescribe for you to alleviate pain. Don’t try to do anything the least bit violent. No exertion. No swimming or any other kind of exercise.”
“I’ll keep him still,” Beth said. The redheaded nurse, thinking no one was looking at her, grinned.
“Your head will let you know if you try to overdo. But don’t push it.” Dr. Woosman turned to face Beth. “Check his eyes from time to time. If they become dilated or one pupil is slightly smaller than the other, get him back in here.” She trained her shrewd brown eyes again on Carver. “The cuts on your head are only superficial,” she said, “and there are no skull fractures. The damage was done by the violent motion, the series of instantaneous reversals of direction when your head was struck or bounced off the wall. Each time, when your head stopped, your brain didn’t. It was bouncing back and forth off the inside of your cranium with considerable impact. That resulted in concussions. They’re to be taken seriously.”
“Feels serious,” Carver said.
“What happened to your rib?”
“I was kicked.”
“You didn’t mention that yesterday.”
“Didn’t seem I was kicked hard enough for anything to break, but then I wasn’t thinking too clearly.”
“It’s a wonder you were thinking at all.” She lifted the ice pack from the tray, as if about to place it on his forehead as the nurse had done. He shook his head no. Ouch! She put the ice pack back on the tray. “I’ll look in on you again,” she told him. “Tough guy, all right,” she said to Beth. Then she and the redheaded nurse left the room. He could hear the nurse’s shoes yipping a long way down the hall.
“You two have been talking about me,” he said to Beth.
“Uh-huh. Quite a lot, actually.”
Carver saw her eyes dart toward the door, and he braced for pain and slowly moved his head so he could look in that direction. The wide oak door was swinging open slowly.
It stopped when it was open about two feet, and McGregor poked his head around it. When he saw Carver, he smiled. Not the kind of smile to cheer an invalid.
“I wanted to make sure I had the right room,” he said. “Didn’t want to walk in on a nurse doing it with a doctor. That kinda thing goes on all the time in hospitals, you know. It’s all those empty beds. And the drugs.” He came all the way into the room. His brown suit was wrinkled, the coat unbuttoned to reveal a stained white shirt and the edge of his leather shoulder-holster strap. He glanced at Beth but didn’t otherwise acknowledge her presence.
“You two have met,” Carver said.
“Sure,” McGregor said. “Roberto Gomez’s widow.”
Carver saw Beth stiffen. She didn’t like to talk about her marriage to the late drug czar. It was a life she’d escaped with Carver’s help and would rather not revisit even in conversation. There were memories there she shared with no one. Not even Carver,
“So you got the shit beat out of you,” McGregor said. “There is some justice.”
“Did the hospital call and report I was here?” Carver asked.
McGregor nodded. “Violent crime and all that. Ordinarily I would’ve waited a while and sent a man over. Then, when I realized it was you got beat up, I thought I’d handle it myself. Especially since I was the one warned you to stay out of that business with Marla Cloy.” McGregor walked closer to the bed, picked up the ice pack, and pressed it to his forehead experimentally.
“Why don’t you swallow that?” Carver said. “I’d feel better.”
McGregor dropped the ice pack and smiled. The pink serpent of his tongue peeked out from the space between his yellow front teeth. Carver could feel the hostility emanating from Beth. McGregor didn’t seem to notice it, but Carver knew he was basking in it.
“Some people have mentioned you’d been around asking questions,” McGregor said.
“What people?”
“Woman named Willa Krull, for one. Says she thought you were a cop.”
“I didn’t tell her that,” Carver said. “She must have drawn her own conclusion.”
“Oh, no doubt,” McGregor said. “I made sure that was how it happened and you took care to cover your ass. If I ever nail you for impersonating a police officer it’ll be to the cross, and you’ll fucking die and rot up there.”
“Why did Willa Krull call the police?”
“She was checking on you. Didn’t think you smelled right. Then we got another call, this one from Marla Cloy herself.” McGregor’s tongue flicked again and his smile widened. “A dickhead like you is full of surprises. Here I was thinking you were working for her, and it turns out she never heard of you till you came around pestering her.”
“Well, that’s a conclusion you jumped to on your own. You and Willa Krull will do that kind of thing.”
“Turns out you’re actually working for Joel Brant. Working for the guy that’s stalking her! That’s fucking great! What are you doing, helping him set the Cloy bitch up for the kill?”
“I’m doing that like you’re working to prevent her from being killed.”
“Preventing ain’t my job. After they bleed and shit their last is when I move in.”
“A crime was committed against Fred Carver,” Beth pointed out. “Isn’t that what you’re here to investigate?”
McGregor glared at her. “Sure, officially.” He got out a notepad and pencil from an inside pocket of his wrinkled suit coat. ‘I’ll try to be objective here, do my job. Did you get a look at this guy I already regard as a friend?”
“Too good a look. He was big, taller than you, and maybe two-eighty. Muscular, Wore a leather vest, no shirt, dirty jeans, white sneakers, no socks. Had grease smudges on him like he might have been working on a car or some other kind of machinery. Pale blue eyes, filthy, smelled bad, looked as if he wasn’t too bright. If you had a big brother, this guy might be him.”
“I like him more and more.”