But her words were lost to me. Instead, I was focused on the medical tent at the edge of the screen. A man, clearly dazed, had been stretchered into the tent, and was being examined by a doc at the scene. His tattered left arm draped awkwardly off the side of the stretcher, and his clothes were singed black, but otherwise he appeared intact.
As his head lolled toward the camera, I had a flicker of recognition that confirmed what I'd been worried about since the scene first caught my eye.
"Christ," I said, "it's already begun."
"What, Sam?" Confusion twisted Kate's features into a scowl. "What's begun?"
"War."
24
"Get your things," I said. "We're going."
"Sam, what the hell are you talking about? Where, exactly, are we going?"
"There," I said, nodding toward the TV.
"Are you out of your mind? Set aside the fact that you just lost a lot of blood, and shouldn't be going anywhere but to bed — half the cops in the city are there!"
"Half the cops, sure, and every looky-loo in town. You really think they're gonna notice two more?"
I dragged my ass off of the couch and limped over to the TV set, clicking it off. My leg hurt like a motherfucker, and set my teeth on edge, but the bandages held. It'd get me where I needed to go.
"C'mon, Sam, you're in no shape-"
"This isn't a debate, Kate. We're going."
"But why?"
"Because we need answers, and there's someone there who just might be able to give them to us. Besides, it's not like we've got any other leads. It's this or nothing, Kate, and if we do nothing, it's just a matter of time before they catch up with us."
She nodded, and snatched her leather jacket up off of the floor. "You know you can't go out looking like that, right? I mean, you're gonna need some clothes."
She was right, of course. Thanks to the mess Kate made dressing my wound, my shirt was once more bloodied, and my pants I'd left in tatters on the floor. I hobbled toward the staircase in search of our unwitting host's bedroom. Kate ran to my side, a steadying hand on my elbow, but I shrugged her off. She retreated, just a step or two, and watched with trepidation as I gingerly scaled the stairs.
The bedroom wasn't any nicer than the living room, and a quarter the size — just enough room for the musty, unmade bed and a small dresser. A door on one wall opened to a small bath. I peeled my soiled shirt off and headed to the bathroom, splashing some water on my face and drinking from cupped hands, before returning to the bedroom in search of fresh clothes. In the middle drawer of the dresser I found a rumpled flannel shirt, and in the bottom drawer, a pair of baggy, paint-stained jeans. I dressed quickly, cinching the jeans tight with a belt left atop the dresser. I tucked the lone ceramic cat-shard into my shirt pocket, and then it was back down the stairs, toward Manhattan, and toward our fates.
I had to admit, she looked fantastic. The nausea that had plagued her in the early weeks of the trial had abated, and the color had returned to her cheeks. No longer just the pricks of red over a backdrop of gray that screamed "lunger" to anyone who saw them — they were now a warm golden hue that highlighted the dusting of freckles across her nose and reminded me why I'd fallen in love with her to begin with. And her appetite had improved as well; I watched with amazement as she plowed her way through a plate of ham and eggs, delivered to her bedside by one of the team of nurses that tended to the thirty-odd patients in the study. I had to hand it to Dumas — whatever they were giving her was working.
"Strep-toe-my-sin," she said when I had asked, enunciating each syllable as though she'd memorized them individually. "Not terribly catchy, is it? I mean, you think they'd call it Tubercu-Cure or some such, wouldn't you? But anyway, they seem to think it's working — they say another month of treatment, and I'll be cured, can you believe it? Cured!"
"That's fantastic, love," I said, but my thoughts were elsewhere, a fact that wasn't lost on Elizabeth.
"They did warn me, though, that there are side effects," she said.
"Yeah?" I said, barely hearing her.
"They say I may grow a trunk and hooves."
"Huh."
"Seriously, Sam, where are you today?"
"Nowhere — forget it."
"It's this new job of yours, isn't it?"
"What? No, of course not."
I was lying, of course. This past month, Dumas had run me ragged, calling at all hours of the night to tell me he had a package to deliver, a client to entertain, a customs agent who needed a little paying off. Between the insane hours and the knowledge of what I was doing, I couldn't eat, couldn't sleep, and there was no doubt the job was taking its toll on my marriage, as well — I'd been nothing but short-tempered and distant for weeks.
"Sure," Elizabeth said. "Fine. When's the last time you had something to eat? I could talk to the nurse, have her grab a plate for you as well."
"I'm not hungry."
"You've been saying that for weeks. Have you seen a mirror recently? You're skin and bones, Sam. You need to start taking better care of yourself; after all, I've got to have a husband left to come home to, don't I?"
"Just leave it be, would you? I said I wasn't hungry."
Elizabeth fell silent for a moment, surprised by the sudden venom in my tone. Then she put a hand on my forearm and gave it a squeeze. "You know, I've got half a mind to give this Dumas a call and quit for you right now."
"You'll do no such thing," I said, anger once more creeping into my voice.
"I know we need the money, Sam, but honestly, no job is worth this. I never see you anymore, and when I do, we always bicker. I just want you to be happy is all. I just want to have my husband back."
"You want your husband back? Damn it, Liz, can't you see I'm doing this for you? For us?"
"But what's the point, if there's barely an us left to do it for?"
"You don't know what you're talking about," I said.
"Maybe not," she said, "but I do know you. And I know that whatever's going on, it's eating you alive. Don't try to argue — it's written all over your face. So push me away all you like. I'm your wife — it's my job to worry about you. And right now, it's your job I'm worried about."
"Look, I just got to stick with it a little while longer, OK? When you come home, I promise I'll quit, and then maybe we'll start over someplace new."
"I wish I understood the hold this job has over you," she said. I said nothing.
Just then, a nurse came trotting over from the nurses' station, her flats clattering against the institutional tile floor. "Mr Thornton?" she asked. "I'm so sorry to interrupt your visit, but there's a Mr Dumas on the phone for you. He says it's urgent."
Elizabeth shot me a look I chose to ignore. "You should let him wait," she said.
"Damn it, Liz, you know I can't."
"I don't know any such thing," she said. And then, with a sigh: "Fine. Go. But first, a kiss."
She leaned toward me, expectant. I pecked her absently on the forehead and made for the nurses' station.
"Hey!" Elizabeth called.
"Yeah?"
"I love you!"
"Yeah. Me too. Listen, Liz, I gotta go — I really shouldn't keep him waiting."
I turned and left, then, leaving nothing but silence behind.