“No way. I don’t have any truck with magic.”
“Learning how to shield keeps magic from messing with you.”
He considered that and agreed that he would pray on the matter, maybe ask Hardy what he thought when he came back—“since,” he told her, “I don’t have a shiny track record for figuring out the rights and wrongs of things on my own.”
Could a brain-damaged man without any touch of magic understand how imperative it was for an empath to be able to shield? Even if Hardy did understand, what song could he sing to persuade Liddel to give it a try? “You do that. I’m leaving you my card. Call me if you want that contact I told you about. Call me if you remember anything, or if anything happens you think I should know. I need to be able to reach you, too.”
His grin was lopsided, given that he lacked two teeth. “Should be easy enough for the next couple three days. I’ll be in detox.”
Lily tracked down Denise in the break room, which gave her the chance to meet the infamous Dr. Plackett. Plackett—Dr. John L. Plackett, according to his name tag—was about five-five and puffier than the Pillsbury Doughboy. He didn’t even glance at Lily when she entered, too busy giving the nurse a dressing-down for having phoned in “a false alarm.”
Lily took some pleasure in identifying herself, correcting him, and commending Denise for having called her. Denise flashed her a grateful smile and escaped.
Lily and the Doughboy doctor then exchanged information. Plackett informed her there was nothing wrong with Mr. Liddel “aside from the ruination of his body and brain through excessive drinking,” and she informed him he was wrong. She had by then perfected a spiel to give physicians. She opened by speaking of “magically induced trauma with potentially serious medical repercussions,” made a suitably ominous reference to a potential state of emergency due to the number of victims, and concluded with the need to keep his patient hospitalized and avoid drawing media attention. Since most hospitals hated media attention, the last bit was usually easy for doctors to agree to.
A few were reluctant to agree to the first part, about admitting the patient. Everyone had a budget. That was when Lily told them about Barbara Lennox. Most doctors were too conscientious to risk releasing a patient who could lapse into a coma, and the rest were too worried about lawsuits.
Plackett proved to be the exception. “I assure you this patient is not on the verge of a coma.”
“If you know something about the spell that damaged these people that leads you to that assumption, you need to share that information. If you don’t, how can you assure me of any such thing?”
He smiled with such vast superiority that she was reminded of an elf she’d once known and hadn’t killed. “I am a board-certified emergency room physician with over eighteen years of experience. You may rely on my assurance.”
“I understand Mr. Liddel plans to go through detox.”
“Ah—yes.” Plackett pursed his lips. They were puffy, too. “I will, of course, make the proper referral, but we are not set up for that here.”
“It’s very important that I keep track of him. Please see that my office is informed of where you transfer him.” She handed him one of her cards. “While you’re looking for a spot for him, you’ll keep him here, of course. Given the possibility of coma, he must have ongoing medical supervision.”
Plackett took her card and huffed out a breath. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to get a bed at a detox facility for an indigent? There are waiting lists. Long waiting lists.”
“I understand that you are reluctant to admit him while you search for a bed, but—”
“Reluctant? I can’t keep him here. Medicaid won’t pay for it. Unless there’s a new diagnostic category I don’t know about—one for admission based on magically induced trauma with medical repercussions?”
“You’re pretty good at sarcasm. Not top of the line, but pretty good. Who has the authority to admit him, if you don’t?”
That chapped his ass. “I have the authority. That doesn’t mean I’m going to jump when you say jump. If the FBI wants Festus Liddel hospitalized, the FBI can pay for it. Or you could put him up at the Hilton with a private nurse. Or take him home with you. I don’t care. Keeping track of him is your problem, and I will not be bullied into making it mine.”
“He’s your patient. I’ve told you he’s at risk for coma, and that’s not your problem?” She shook her head. “If you have the authority but lack the willingness, I need to talk to your superior. Or maybe I should cut to the head of the line. I get to do that. Who’s the CEO here?”
“You are not going to wake up the CEO.”
“Be a shame if I had to do that, wouldn’t it? He might think one of his staff should’ve shown a little initiative so he could get in his eight hours without being pestered by rude federal agents.”
Plackett caved. He knew he was caving and hated it and hated her, but he agreed to admit Liddel until the man could be transferred to a detox facility. Then he stomped out of the break room.
Someone else entered. “You made an enemy there.”
With a sigh of relief Lily turned to face Rule. She’d wanted him with her for hours. “Yeah, I’m all torn up about that. What are you doing here?” Her throat tried to close up. “If you have news—”
“No, nothing like that.” He came to her and put his hands on her shoulders. “Julia is with Sam. We won’t hear from him for at least another twelve hours, probably longer. I came to get you.”
“I don’t need to be fetched, but if you want to go with me, I’m headed back to St. Margaret’s next.”
“It’s three thirty in the morning. You’re headed to bed.”
“Oh, that’s going to work—pop in and tell me what to do. I’ve got . . .” Her brain felt sluggish. Too sluggish for math. “Last time I checked, thirty-two possible cases had been reported to the Unit. I’ve confirmed fourteen of them—no, fifteen with Liddel—and eliminated two, which means—”
“That someone else will have to check out the other fifteen reports, plus however many more have come in.”
“Who?” she snapped. “Cullen is tending to Sam’s mysterious security measures. No one else can tell if magic was involved. The traces left by whatever happened are too weak.”
“But others can interview the victims and their families and make educated guesses, which you can confirm after you’ve slept. You can’t do it all yourself, Lily. If you try, you’ll make mistakes.”
Because she was too tired to think straight, he meant. Rule could go all night and into the next day with no real problem. Sometimes that was handy. Sometimes it irked the hell out of her. “You’re right, and while that is deeply annoying, I’m not as mad as I should be. Why is that?”
“Perhaps because you vented some of your spleen on the unfortunate doctor.”
“That was fun.” Reluctantly she started moving—toward the coffeepot, not the door. “I need to keep my brain working long enough to delegate intelligently.”
“I can’t believe you’re going to drink that.”
“It’s not quite thick enough to chew, so yes, I’ll drink it.” She poured a half cup. “Ruben’s still up. He’s like you.” Lupus, in other words, and not in need of sleep the way mere humans were . . . though he’d not arrived at that state in a way anyone could have expected. “With me having to run around to verify reports, he’s been coordinating things from D.C. I’ll check in with him and—shit, that reminds me.” She took a sip of sludge and grimaced. Nasty. “Are we private?” His ears would tell him more than hers could.