“Actually, he doesn’t look too good to me,” Sister said, peering through the glass. “And I notice he’s wearing a neck harness.”
“The harness is a precaution, I couldn’t find any cervical damage. As for the grim evidence elsewhere on his person, I think you’ll find most of it will wash off.”
“No major damage at all, then?”
“None that I was able to trace. I did a swift neuro-obs, but it didn’t turn up any aberrant brain activity and there’s no evidence of diminished response to stimuli. When they do a CAT scan they might turn up something I missed, but frankly I doubt it.”
“What’s the clinical picture, overall?” Sister asked, picking up a pen and notebook.
“Starting at the top, there’s a cluster of lacerations to the scalp, frontal and parietal. Substantial blood loss, as there usually is with scalp injuries. Nothing complicated there, the tissue parted cleanly, it should unite again with only basic surgical help. There’s a minor dislocation of the right shoulder with probable tearing of the teres minor and infraspinatus muscles — he was handcuffed to a policeman at the moment of impact, so the shoulder came under some uncommon traction in the hurly-burly of the crash.”
“The handcuff explains the tissue injury on the right wrist, I suppose.”
“Right. There’s also some damage to the deeper structures — a dislocation of the wrist with possible bruising of the scaphoid and triquetral bones. Moving down, the chest and abdomen appear to be sound. Both legs are badly bruised, again with probable tearing of muscle fiber.”
“Systemic shock?”
“At first, Sister, it seemed pretty extensive. When we got there the carotid pulse was weak, and my first thought was that we’d lose him if we didn’t act fast. I checked there was no hidden bleeding and got an airway in place double quick. But just about then his vital signs started to improve. All of them, and without any further help.”
Behind them in the office doorway DCI McKinnes shuffled his feet and cleared his throat. Dr. Moore spun around, startled.
“Pardon me, Doctor, Sister. I was eavesdropping; it’s an occupational vice and I’m too old to fight it. Am I to understand, from what you just said, that our man here is in the clear?”
“His head took a hell of a thumping,” Moore said, “but it seems to be an uncommonly strong head. He’s also got excellent neurological and biochemical backup. So, barring unforeseen relapses, I wouldn’t expect his condition to get any worse. He really does seem to have a marvelous constitution.”
McKinnes narrowed his eyes as he peered through the tinted glass into his cubicle. “The devil hardens his own. What’s that going in through the back of his hand?”
“Gelofusin,” Dr. Moore said. “It’s a plasma expander.”
McKinnes frowned at him.
“Nothing serious,” Moore assured him. “Where there’s the chance of shock due to a loss of blood volume, a plasma expander is used to put back some bulk. It improves cardiovascular function and helps the transport of oxygen.”
“Does that mean he might regain consciousness soon?”
“It’s likely. There’s no reason — none that I’m aware of — why he should stay unconscious for long.”
“Good, good.” McKinnes nodded absently for a few seconds, then he stepped out into the corridor. “It could all have been a lot worse,” he murmured, taking his leave with a tight smile and an abbreviated wave.
In another part of the hospital, sitting on the edge of a cot in the emergency cubicle, Larry Jackson sipped hot tea and examined his bandaged hand. He was pale, his skin yellowish and waxy under the fluorescent light. The hand holding the tea mug was trembling. A nurse had told him the pallor and the shakes were normal after an accident: she said he wasn’t to worry. He did not think he was particularly worried, but he was certainly depressed: the sleeves and front of his new jacket were streaked and stained with dark dried blood. It was a write-off.
He took a long gulp of the tea, not minding that it scalded his throat. His throbbing headache was beginning to lift, and now that the bandage had been put on his hand the cuts didn’t hurt any longer, although the hand felt three or four times heavier than normal. He was staring at it again when DI Shrapnel pushed the curtain aside and came in. He had several ugly-looking cuts on his cheeks and there was a row of neat stitches on his forehead. His right hand was bandaged.
“Bloody hell,” he growled, doing a swift visual check on Larry, “did you see the van driver’s head? It was like a squashed tomato. Completely squashed.”
“Shut up!” Larry demanded. He had caught one glimpse of the body lying on the road and had been trying to suppress the image ever since.
“Eddie Myers must have a concrete skull,” Shrapnel said. “Did you hear the bang? Christ, I thought I was a goner.”
“I almost was,” Larry said.
Shrapnel kept the curtain pulled back so he could watch the casualty traffic.
“The guy in the van,” he said, craning his neck to see the face on a stretcher going past, “he must have been trying to spring Myers.”
“Or kill him,” Larry said. He finished the tea, put down the mug and stood up. “How could he have known what was going on? I mean, how could he know we were going out, or where we’d be at a particular time...”
With that question hovering over them they left the cubicle and walked along toward the main entrance.
“Maybe it was an accident,” Larry said.
Shrapnel glared at him. “That was no bloody accident!”
No, Larry thought, it probably wasn’t. At the front door he told Shrapnel he wanted a word with one of the doctors. He said he would come straight to the station when he was through.
“Make sure you do. You’ll have to fill out a full accident report. You know how long that’ll take.”
When Shrapnel had gone Larry took the lift to the second floor. He waited half an hour in the corridor outside
Intensive Care until a nurse came and told him he could have a couple of minutes.
The Intensive Care cubicle was very dim, with only a small lamp switched on near the bed; green light from the screen of a monitor radiated eerily into the shadows. Von Joel lay very still, propped on a rigid angled support, his head bandaged and his arm in a sling. A sheet-draped cage protected his legs; drip lines fed into canulas on the backs of his hands. Larry leaned over the bed, listening to the quiet breathing.
“You awake?”
He drew up a chair and sat down. Von Joel’s lips moved.
“Close shave, huh?” he whispered. His eyes opened and he smiled weakly.
“My new jacket’s ruined,” Larry said. “Covered in your blood, mate.”
Von Joel swallowed and gently cleared his throat, a dry sound like crumpling paper.
“You’ve got to call Professor Wallard...”
“Who?”
“He’s my herbalist doctor. It’s important. See, my system is purified, I want to know what I need to take. He’ll give you a list of vitamins, some stuff for bruising, things like that. I won’t take the hospital painkillers or the antibiotics.” His eyes swiveled toward Larry. “Please...”
“Okay.” Larry shrugged. “But for Christ’s sake keep schtum about it.”
There was a tap on the door. The nurse pushed it open and waggled a finger at Larry, telling him it was time to go. Von Joel seized Larry’s hand suddenly and squeezed it. In the intensity of the moment Larry was able to say what he had come to say in the first place.
“Thanks, Eddie...”
The nurse closed the door behind him. She turned to the bed as Von Joel laughed softly. He appeared, suddenly, to be wide awake and highly alert.
“Can you do something for me, Jackie?” he said.
She blinked at him coyly, stepping closer to the bed.