Mack gave me an odd, troubled look and moved away.
That Tomlinson was on a respirator was bad enough. But worse was the uneven, broken shape of his head and face. Even through the bandages, I could tell that all the delicate bonework of chin and cheeks had been pounded askew. Also, his face and head had been shaved for the emergency surgery the doctors had already done . . . and for the surgery they had yet to do.
Janet came up and slipped under my arm, hugging herself to me. "He's got a chance," she sniffed. "When the doctor comes, I bet that's what he tells us. Have you talked to anybody?"
"The doctor, you mean? Not yet—she'll be up in a little bit." I patted Janet's shoulder. "It's not as bad as it looks. Tomlinson can't feel anything; doesn't have any pain at all." I pointed through the Plexiglas. "Notice his hands?"
Tomlinson's hands were folded across his stomach. Janet was confused. "What about his hands, Doc?"
"No broken fingers. No swelling. Do you understand the implications of that?" I smiled at her. "No defensive wounds. He made no attempt to defend himself. See? Tomlinson preached passive resistance all his life." The blank expression on Janet's face told me that she still didn't get it. "This is the way he wanted it." I pressed. "Don't you understand? He wanted to end up like a slab of meat on a table. It was his choice! That's why he wouldn't fight back."
Janet had me by both arms, looking up into my face. "Are you okay, Doc? Maybe you need to sit down."
I waved her away. "I'm fine, Janet. You worry too much."
"Doc . . . ?"
"Yes, Janet?"
"I think you need to go home and get some sleep. I'll be over in the morning to take care of the tarpon, okay? I'll feed them, then start the procedure. You just sleep in."
I smiled at Janet and nodded agreeably . . . which, for some reason, caused her to break down in tears.
More people were in the little room now . . . people I had never seen before. Mostly men and a few women. The men wore T-shirts and ball caps; the women wore plain-looking blouses, inexpensive slacks. Couldn't figure out what all these strangers were doing in the room, until I finally recognized one of the men: Tootsie Cribbs, who ran a small fish house in Curlew on Sulphur Wells. Hadn't seen him since high school. Went over and shook hands. Listened to Tootsie tell me that he hoped we didn't mind, but he and his church group had driven over in a caravan to see if they could help. "I only met Tommy a couple days ago," he said, "but he struck me as being . . . well, a nice fella. Different, but nice. Honestly interested in what we are going through with this net ban business, and . . ." Tootsie shrugged. "Truth is, I feel sick about it, Doc. We all do. We've got good people on our island. We work hard, raise our kids the right way. But we also got a few bad ones. Scum, that's all they are . . . anybody who'd—" He glanced through the Plexiglas at Tomlinson. "Anybody who'd beat a person like Tommy so bad, that's what they are. Just scum."
Tootsie, I decided, could be an interesting source of information. I began to ask a few questions. The tourist who had found Tomlinson, Tootsie told me, was on his way back to a Sulphur Wells mobile home park when he saw, in his headlights, what he thought was a big animal crawling along beside the road. The animal turned out to be Tomlinson, who kept right on crawling despite the pleas of the tourist to stop. When an ambulance finally arrived, the EMT's first guess was that Tomlinson had been hit by a car—he was that badly hurt. But then after they cut Tomlinson's clothes off him, sponged off the wounds, they found the word SPY sliced into his forehead.
"Spy?" I said—at least they hadn't cut his nose off. "I didn't know that, Tootsie. No way to tell with all those bandages on his head." Then I added, in an offhand, disinterested way, "Any idea who did it?"
Tootsie was silent for a time, looking at the floor, before he said, "Everything I know, anyone I suspect, I'll tell the cops. You can be sure of that. Hannah Smith's down talking to the detective now, and when she's done, I'll volunteer everything I've got. After that, my group is gonna hold a prayer meeting in the hospital chapel. You're welcome to come."
"Come on, Tootsie," I said easily, "just for my own information."
Tootsie was shaking his head. "I'm not like the others, Doc. I knew you ... I knew you before you moved away; went off to do whatever it is you did. I'd like to tell you, but I won't." Then he added, "I've seen that look in your eyes before."
The doctor's name was Maria Corales. I found her name heartening because I know how smart and tough Hispanic-American professionals tend to be. She used phrases such as "bad head injury" and "lung problems" until I demonstrated enough familiarity with human physiology to force her into specifics.
She said, "Okay, Mr. Ford, it's like this. The ER people did a good job-with him. They got enough Ringer's lactate into him, fed him enough antibiotics empirically, enough Ancef to get him stabilized. But he was still having respiratory problems, and the routine blood tests showed his electrolytes were way down. He was comatose by that time—obviously had a severe concussion—so they got him prepped for a CAT scan and had him all ready by the time I arrived."
Dr. Corales paused—she had the bedrock steadiness but slightly distracted, haunted look I have come to associate with neurosurgeons. Said, "Are you still with me?"
"What did the CAT scan show?" I asked.
"It wasn't good. Intraabdominal injuries, some signs of hemopneu-mothorax—bleeding in the chest cavity because of a broken rib—and some obvious swelling of the brain. I decided we had to go right in and have a look. I found a severe subdural hematoma. Again, not good. I did what I could, but I want my full team with me before I go back in and try to do any more. Also, we're still having trouble getting his electrolytes stabilized. For now, we're hyperventilating him, trying to lower the C02; get the brain swelling down. A general surgeon will be in to look after the internal injuries—they're all manageable. Actually, they're rather minor in comparison. The head injury is the real problem. I want to keep him under close observation. But if things don't improve very quickly, we'll have to go back in. Before the weekend, probably."
"The prognosis?" I asked.
Dr. Corales hesitated before answering. "Are you related to Mr. Tomlinson?"
"A close friend," I said. "A very old, close friend."
"Do you know if Mr. Tomlinson has family living in the area?"
"No, he doesn't. He has a daughter in Boston, but she's very young. The girl's mother is a friend of Tomlinson's—I can notify her. Tomlinson's mother passed away many years ago, but he still stays in touch with his father . . . and a brother, too."
"Was he ever married to the mother of his daughter?"
"No."
"Would you know how we can contact either the father or the brother?"
I didn't like the sound of that. I said, "The father is a paleontologist. I think he's doing fieldwork somewhere in Bolivia. But he's way back in; been living in the bush for years. He and Tomlinson stayed in touch through the mail. But only occasionally. Like once or twice a year."
"Do you have an address?"
"I can try to find one. The brother, he'll be difficult to contact as well. He lives in Burma. In Rangoon, I believe. I'm sure I can find an address, but it's my understanding that he's ... a heroin addict."
Dr. Corales's expression remained bland. Physicians have to work hard at being nonjudgmental. I said, "You were about to tell me the prognosis, Doctor."
The woman looked at the clipboard in her hand, looked at me, then hunched her shoulders into a long, weary sigh. "I'm afraid I just did, Mr. Ford. But we'll do what we can."