A Treasure Deep (9 page)

Paramedics relieved him of his efforts, doing
the work with more practiced hands. Perry watched them load Dr.
Henri into the back of a wide, modular ambulance. The ambulance
might as well have been a tomb.

The police were full of questions, and Perry
obliged them for nearly forty-five minutes before they let him go
with a pat on the back and the words, “It’s a shame more citizens
aren’t like you.”

“A lot of good it did,” Perry muttered to
himself. He then asked to what hospital the ambulance had gone. He
thought about leaving it alone. He’d done all that he could do, and
it was late. The next day was packed from early morning until late
in the evening. He needed the rest. The victim was in the best
hands possible for now, if he was alive. Going home was the wisest
thing to do.

Perry pulled the car from the curb, made a
U-turn, and drove to the hospital. Beside him was the leather
satchel that had mattered so much to the old man. He’d picked it up
from the damp ground when the paramedics had arrived. At first he
was just moving it out of the way, but then noticed that he held it
tightly to his side. The police made no inquiries about it, and
Perry offered no explanations. One thing of which he was certain
was that whatever was in the case was more important to Henri than
his own life.

With the case resting on the front passenger
seat, Perry drove into a night that seemed far darker than it had a
few minutes before.

They had taken Henri to the closest hospital,
St. John’s Regional. The drive through the near-empty early morning
streets took only fifteen minutes. A quarter of an hour after he’d
left the crime scene, Perry was standing in the waiting area of the
hospital’s busy emergency room. Surrounding him were mothers with
sick children, a homeless man with gauze wrapped around a dirty
hand, and a host of others with ailments Perry couldn’t fathom. He
found the environment unsettling.

He approached a nurse who sat at a small desk
behind security glass. After identifying himself, he asked to be
informed of the patient’s condition. The nurse nodded and said,
“They’re working on him now. Are you family?”

“Friend.” He had endangered his life and
performed lifesaving techniques on the man. He also held a package
the old gent was willing to die to protect. As far as Perry was
concerned, that made them friends. He found an open corner of the
waiting room and settled into it. A television mounted to a sturdy
black wall bracket played quietly. On the screen was a well-dressed
young woman touting the millionaire potential of real estate
purchased with no money down. Perry tuned out the infomercial.

In his hand was the satchel. It was made of
leather that had seen a great many years. Initials had been carved
onto the wide flap that covered the opening. As yet, Perry had not
peered inside and wondered if he should. For all he knew, he could
be holding a package of heroin or counterfeit money. But he doubted
it. The man he had tried to save in the alley didn’t seem the type.
Still, he had to wonder. For what would a man sacrifice his life?
If it were mere money, he would have handed it over to the thief.
No, there was something else in there, something very
important.

Perry studied the bag some more. It weighed
maybe two pounds. The flap was held in place by a brass buckle. At
one time it must have been an expensive item. Perhaps it still was.
Perry certainly hadn’t seen anything like it. The style and
workmanship suggested that it had been made a lifetime before.
Perhaps it had been handed down from father to son.

He squeezed the case gently, and it gave
easily. There was nothing hard inside. Trying to appear subtle, he
gave it a little jiggle. Something inside moved but made no noise.
Perry guessed it held paper. That would make sense. A professor
with a bag of papers. Perhaps tests and homework from students?
What didn’t make sense was why he was so agitated when Perry
touched it. And why the attacker wanted it so badly.

All the questions could be answered by simply
opening the case, but Perry couldn’t bring himself to do it. The
man had entrusted him with it, and Perry would honor that. Of
course, it might be a moot point if the paramedics and doctors
hadn’t been able to get the old man’s heart kick-started again, and
if they couldn’t, what would he do then? He would be forced to turn
it over to the police or family, if he could find them.

The sliding glass door that led from the
hospital parking lot swooshed open, and a woman with tousled gray
hair hurried in. Her clothing was loose-fitting and disheveled.
Behind her followed another person, a young man Perry judged to be
in his early twenties. He moved with an odd gait: hands motionless
at his side, torso hunched over, head down. He shuffled more than
walked, and he followed no more than two feet behind the woman. He
wore a jogging suit and bedroom slippers.

Perry watched as they approached the nurse at
her glass-barricaded station. The young man stopped behind her and
leaned his head on her right shoulder.

Her voice carried as she spoke. “Yes, I’m . .
. I’m Mrs. Henri . . . Claire Henri. Someone called and said my
husband was here.”

The nurse said something Perry couldn’t
hear.

Yes,” the woman said. “It’s spelled like
Henry but an i at the end instead of a y.”

Perry started forward.

“May I see him? How is he?”

He stepped next to the distraught woman.

“Just a moment,” the nurse said. “I’ll
check.” She rose from her chair and disappeared into the back.

“Mrs. Henri?” Perry said softly.

She turned at looked at him. “Yes?” There was
anticipation and fear in her voice. She looked him in the eye then
let her eyes drift down.

“My name is Perry Sachs,” he began. “I’m the
one . . .” How did he describe what happened? I’m the one who
rescued your husband? I’m the one who beat up the attacker? Some
rescue if the man was dead. “I’m the one who called the
ambulance.”

“What happen—” Her eyes fell to the satchel.
“Where did you get that?” she asked, eyes wide.

“It was with your husband,” Perry answered.
His tone was quiet and smooth. “I didn’t think it should be left in
the alley.”

“Have you opened it?”

Perry shook his head. “It didn’t seem
appropriate—”

“Mrs. Henri.” The nurse had returned. “The
doctor said you can come back. Your friend can come with you.”

“My friend?”

The nurse cut her eyes to Perry. “It might be
good if he came along.”

Perry didn’t like the sound of that.

“Through those doors,” the nurse said,
pointing to her right.

Reaching for the metal handle, Perry pulled
the door open and stepped to the side to allow Claire Henri and the
tailgating young man to pass. Perry followed a few steps
behind.

The inside of the ER was unnaturally bright,
belying the fact that it was now well after three in the morning.
The overhead fluorescents could expel the dark of night but not the
abysmal gloom of fear. That gloom seemed to hover over the woman
before him, and she seemed to age a decade with each step.

The room was large, with a ring of beds
lining the wall, and was separated from the neighbors by a curtain
that seemed all too thin. At least half of the beds were filled.
Sounds and smells assaulted the senses. This was as foreign a world
to Perry as it must have been to any other except doctors and
nurses. Here a special language was spoken, medical shorthand that
took years to fully understand. Here, people came with everything
from cuts to gunshots. Beleaguered and weary looking physicians
moved from the beds to a U-shaped set of counters behind which sat
several nurses doing paperwork and fiddling with computers.

Claire stopped, clearly uncertain where to
look. She raised a tremulous hand to her mouth. Perry placed a
gentle hand on her arm. “This way,” he said and led her to the
nurse’s station.

Several eternal moments passed before one of
the nurses looked up. She looked as tired as Perry felt. Perry
initiated the conversation. “This is Mrs. Henri. Her husband is
here. We were told to come back. May we see the doctor who—”

“I’ve got it, nurse,” a man said. The nurse
said nothing and quickly went back to writing something on a
clipboard. “I’m Dr. Reddy,” he said. His skin was dark, and he
peered back through large eyes. He spoke with an accent that Perry
recognized as Indian. In his hand was a metal clipboard, and a
stethoscope hung around his neck. Both looked well-used. “I’ve been
treating your husband. Let’s step over here.”

“Can I see him?”

“In a moment,” the doctor said. He led them
to one of the empty beds. “Can I get you anything?” he asked.

“Just tell me about my husband.”

“Of course,” Dr. Reddy said. “Your husband
was brought in about an hour ago suffering from a severe coronary
event and a gunshot wound to the leg.”

“Gunshot?” Claire gasped.

“Yes. The wound has been cleaned and treated.
It missed the bone and passed through the muscle cleanly. It should
present no problems. It’s his heart that concerns me most. The
attack was critical.”

“But he’s alive?”

“Yes, but he’s not conscious. I understand
that someone gave him CPR at the scene. That kept him alive. The
paramedics kept up the efforts from the scene here. We were able to
get his heart going again, and it seems fairly stable for now.
However, I’m sure there has been serious damage—how serious I can’t
say until further tests are run. Those will be run by a
cardiologist.”

“What is the prog–prognosis?” asked Claire.
Perry could tell she was fighting back tears, and he couldn’t blame
her. She had just heard horrible news.

“Unknown right now, Mrs. Henri. There are
many things to consider, and many enemies to overcome.”

“Enemies?”

“Blood clots, renal failure, another heart
attack.”

“I want to see him.”

“Of course, but I need to tell you one more
thing first. Your husband is not breathing on his own. We’ve had to
put him on a breathing machine. When you see him, there will be a
tube down his throat.”

“So he won’t be able to talk,” Claire
said.

“That’s true, but for now he won’t even
recognize you. We have sedated him. It’s often called twilight
sleep. He’s not fully out, but he can’t respond. Feel free to speak
to him. Let him know you’re there, but don’t expect him to respond
in any way.” The doctor paused and looked at the young man standing
inches from Claire’s right shoulder. “Is this your son?”

“Yes,” Claire said.

“Developmentally disabled?” Reddy
inquired.

Claire nodded. “He’ll be all right. He shows
very little emotion.”

“Okay, this way, please.” Reddy turned and
led them to the back corner of the ER and pulled back the curtain.
He entered first, followed by Claire and her son. Perry entered
last, the satchel still in his hands.

When Perry had first seen Henri, he had been
lying on the wet pavement, looking up through terrified eyes at a
gunman. With the attacker gone, Perry had approached and found a
man in vicious pain. He’d looked as bad as anyone Perry had ever
seen.

Here in the hospital, Dr. Jamison Henri
looked worse.

Machines surrounded the bed, beeping and
whooshing. A chrome metal stand held several plastic IV bags. A
clear tube, held in place by a thin piece of white medical tape,
ran from a high-tech looking machine into Henri’s throat. A
catheter, used to empty the bladder, ran from beneath the covers to
a bag that was hanging at the bottom of the bed. A heart monitor
kept track of the heart rhythms. Taken as a whole, it reminded
Perry of some absurd scene from an old science fiction movie.

Claire inhaled deeply and took a step forward
to hold her husband’s hand. He remained motionless.

“I’ll let you have some time with him. We’ll
be moving him to ICU in about fifteen minutes. You can visit up
there as well.” Dr. Reddy left, closing the curtain behind him.

Claire turned to Perry. “You’re the one who
did CPR?”

“Yes,” Perry said. “I happened along at the
right time.”

“I see,” Claire said. She moved closer to
Henri’s head, leaned over, and kissed his forehead. It moved Perry
to his core.

She said to her husband, “The satchel is
here.”

THERE WAS A pounding. Perry tried to ignore it, but
it repeated itself, worming its way through his sleep. It took a
moment, but he realized that someone was knocking on his door and
knocking hard. He sat up, turned, and set his bare feet on the thin
carpet, then attempted to shake the cobwebs loose.

The banging returned.

“Who is it?”

The only answer was more knocking. He rose on
wobbly legs and peered through eyes still bleary from sleep. The
clock said he had been napping for only forty minutes. Before lying
down, he’d laid out the work clothes he planned to wear when he
returned to the site. Certain that no one wanted to see him in his
underwear, he slipped on his jeans and donned a brown long-sleeved
work shirt. The shirt he left unbuttoned.

More knocking.

Perry gritted his teeth, took two long
strides to the motel room door, and snapped it open. “What?”

Not a gracious greeting, but the incessant
pounding coupled with his groggy mind drowned his normal genteel
attitude. Before him stood a pleasant looking woman with short,
blond hair and a determined look on her face. The determination
gave way to surprise as the door sprang open, and she took a step
back, treading on the toes of a brown-haired man. Both looked to be
in their late thirties. The man released a yelp of pain and backed
up a step too.

“Um,” the woman began. Perry could see she
was trying to regain the intensity she had had moments before. “Are
you Mr. Sachs?”