“ ‘Fraid not, J. J. No offense. Just doctor’s orders.”
“Time you looked after yourself a little better. You been here how long now? Thirty years?”
“Coming up on thirty-six. Sometimes I feel like the only way I’m ever going to leave is if they carry me out of here feet first.”
Jacklin moved closer to Fitzgerald, letting their shoulders brush. “There are other ways for a man of your accomplishment to end his career.”
Fitzgerald stopped and drew himself up to his full height of six feet four inches tall, effectively dwarfing the smaller man. “Is that an offer to join General Lamar King as one of your counselors?”
“We pay a helluva lot better than the taxpayer. Salary’s good, but equity’s the real kick in the pants. Turn around a company like Triton, find the right buyer…” Jacklin raised an eyebrow, saying nothing and everything.
Fitzgerald continued down the passage. “I’m flattered, but you can’t teach an old dog new tricks.”
“Nothing new to teach,” said Jacklin. “You already know how to use that pen. Just a question of finding one with black ink instead of red. Tell me you’ll think about it. You’ll find lots of your old friends over at our place.”
“More than I’d care to admit, I imagine. A regular revolving door, we’re made to understand.”
“Ah, Fitz, don’t be so damned hard on yourself.”
Reaching the door, the two shook hands. Jacklin covered Fitzgerald’s with his own and stepped closer to the bigger man, so the two were chest-to-chest. “Tell you what. We’re having a little dinner party this evening for a few of our better clients. Eight o’clock at my place, White Rose Ridge. Frances Tavistock has agreed to speak to us.”
Hugh Fitzgerald’s face dropped. “Don’t tell me, she’s signed on, too?”
Jacklin raised his eyebrows. The announcement that the former British prime minister had joined Jefferson Partners as a “counselor at large” was to crown the evening’s festivities. “You’ll be in good company, Hugh. It’s a regular pantheon these days. Time the nation paid you back. God knows… we owe you.”
Fitzgerald appeared to savor the words. “Eight o’clock?”
37
“You again?” the doctor said.
Jenny lifted her head from the gurney. “Hello, Dr. Patel.”
The young Indian yanked the curtain closed and consulted the chart log. “I told you I did good work, but this is going a bit far.”
“What are you still doing here?”
“Me? I’m an intern. I live here morning, noon, and night. You’re lucky. I just had a nap. Very slim chance of malpractice. But you never know.” Gingerly, he pulled back the bandage covering her shoulder. “Let’s have a look, shall we?”
“I was shot,” said Jenny.
“So I see. I imagine they’ve already told you that you were incredibly lucky.”
Jenny nodded. She’d come to in the ambulance, where an emergency medical technician had treated and bandaged the wound en route to the hospital. The bullet had struck the corner of her shoulder and passed through her upper arm, carving a shallow trench out of her skin. There was surprisingly little blood, and she decided it looked worse than it felt. “More stitches?”
“Nothing to stitch. We’ll let it heal naturally. If it looks too nasty afterward, then we’ll send you to my older brother. He is a plastic surgeon. Good hands run in the family.” He picked up her arm and spread her fingers across his palm. “Move your fingers one at a time. Make a fist. Lift.”
Jenny did each exercise in turn.
“You’re getting good at this,” Patel said.
“A real pro.” It was only when Jenny lifted her arm that she felt anything different. A sudden stiffness as if she’d been lifting weights strenuously, followed by a white-hot pinprick that made her wince.
Nonetheless, Patel appeared pleased. “No nerve damage. The bullet didn’t touch anything but flesh.” Laying her arm by her side, he stepped to the counter and began preparing an antiseptic rinse. “How’s the pain?”
“Right now, it just aches.”
“I’ll give you something to take care of it.”
“Will it make me sleepy?”
“A little.”
“Then I don’t want it.”
Dr. Patel looked over his shoulder. “Why is that?”
“I just… just don’t,” she stammered. “I need to be with it. I can’t afford to be woozy or drowsy.”
“Are you planning on operating some heavy machinery this afternoon? Forklift? Backhoe?”
“No,” she said, all too seriously.
Patel put down the gauze bandages he was folding. “Jennifer, I am going to rinse out the wound with saline solution, apply a topical anesthetic, and then, my dear, I am going to have to cut away a little of your skin. We call it debridement. Bullets are famous for carrying all sorts of nasty bacteria. We can’t leave any of that behind, or we’re risking infection. I’m going to give you some Vicodin. You’ll feel a little woozy, but nothing more. At most, you’ll want to take a nap, which given everything you’ve been through today, is a good thing.”
“No,” Jenny said more forcefully. She sat up too quickly, and the blood rushed from her head. Gasping for breath, she lowered herself to the table. “I mean, thank you, but no thank you. I don’t want any of that stuff. I’m not staying.”
Dr. Patel folded his arms over his chest, narrowing his eyes. “I can’t demand an explanation, but I’d appreciate one. It isn’t a coincidence that you’re here twice in one day, is it?”
Jenny regarded the doctor, with his deep brown eyes and sympathetic smile. She sighed. “No, it isn’t. To put it in a nutshell, the men who shot at me are the same ones who slashed open my arm last night. They kidnapped my boyfriend, and when he managed to get away, they tried to kill him. Except that they missed, and hit me. Only I’m not so sure whether they really did miss.”
She’d expected a skeptical smile, but Patel’s expression was dead serious. “Are you saying that these men might have followed you to the hospital?” he asked.
“Exactly.”
“And that they might wish to harm you while you convalesce?”
“You got it.”
Patel left the examining room without a word. He returned two minutes later. “I had a talk with security. All inquiries about you will be turned down, unless you care to give me a list of people you’d like to speak with. The admitting nurse has been informed. Any parties asking about you will be directed to security or to me.”
“Thank you,” said Jenny.
“Don’t thank me. It’s purely selfish. If they miss you next time, they might hit me.” Smiling, he took off his lab coat and folded up his shirtsleeves to the midforearm. Reaching toward the counter, he picked up a bottle of saline and began to rinse the wound. “How many weeks are you, anyway?”
Jenny turned her head away. “Almost eight.”
“Are you still feeling poorly?”
“Miserable. But just in the mornings. By noon, it’s all gone.”
“Boy or girl? Any preference?”
“Just healthy,” she said, though she was sure she had a baby boy inside her. She placed a hand on her stomach. She could feel him there. Not kicking or moving. He was still much too small for that. But she could feel him growing. In the mornings, his demands on her system left her sapped and nauseated. The nights were a different story. Every evening at six on the dot, she experienced a rush of well-being she could only term euphoric. And she kept feeling good until she went to sleep.
“Does he know?” asked Dr. Patel.
“Tom? I wanted to tell him this morning, but then… events got in the way.”
“I’m sure he will be thrilled.”
“I’m sure, too… kind of.”
Patel applied a film of topical anesthetic. Jenny felt it tingle and her shoulder grow numb. Patel picked up a forceps and began to peel away the top layers of the wound. “The good news,” he said, “is that this is nothing compared to childbirth.”