Monument to the Dead (20 page)

Detective Hrivnak had the grace to look chagrined. “I’m not saying I agree with you,
but okay, I can understand why you did what you did. But it might have been smart
to run it by someone, to cover your own asses.”

“We tried!” I shot back. “How is it that a bunch of women in the back office at a
cultural institution managed to figure it out, when nobody else could?” I slumped
back into my uncomfortable chair, my brief anger spent. “When can I get out of here?”

“Now, I guess. I’ve got nothing to hold you on—well, maybe illegal use of a handgun,
but I think there were extraordinary circumstances. Good shot, by the way. I didn’t
know you had it in you.”

Whatever else she might have said was cut off by the
sound of an argument in the hallway, and I was pretty sure I recognized Marty’s voice.
“You have no right,” she was yelling. Someone tried to placate her in a quieter tone,
but she was having none of it. “Where are you keeping her?”

They were outside the door now. It was snatched open, and Marty barged in. “Nell,
I . . .” She stopped dead when she got a good look at me; I had forgotten that I was
still covered with blood. Marty looked stricken, and she said in a gentler tone, “You’re
coming with me, Nell.”

I glanced at Hrivnak, who nodded, then I stood up and followed Marty.

She didn’t say anything as we navigated our way through the anonymous grey hallways
back to the parking lot, but she kept one hand on my elbow, in case I showed any signs
of running into a wall, which was a real possibility. Outside, I was startled to see
that it was still light. I stopped and drew in a deep breath, scented with bus exhaust.
“How is he?”

Marty didn’t answer immediately, as if weighing which answer would hurt the least.
I held her gaze until she answered reluctantly, “We don’t know. He lost a lot of blood—as
I suppose you know. They’re worried about cranial bleeding. He’s not conscious.” She
looked at my clothes. “What the hell did Nicholas stick him with, anyway?”

“The Bowie knife that belonged to Edwin Forrest.” I swallowed something between a
laugh and a sob.

“Damn,” Marty said. “A Bowie knife? In that case, Jimmy was lucky. It could have been
a lot worse, if Nicholas wasn’t such a klutz.”

“Can we go to the hospital now?” I asked. There was no way I was going anywhere else.

“All right.” Marty led me to her car and settled me in the passenger seat. I wondered
briefly if she’d mind some blood on it.

When she got in on the other side, I asked, “How did you plan to bust me out of there
if they’d arrested me?”

Marty started the car. “My brother’s former prep school roommate is the city attorney.
I made a couple of calls.”

“I figured it was something like that.” I leaned back against the seat. On the ride
over I filled her in on the bare bones of my reasons to suspect Nicholas, now amply
confirmed. It didn’t take long to reach Thomas Jefferson Hospital. Or at least, I
thought it didn’t—time was doing a weird accordion thing, speeding up and slowing
down erratically. This day had been going on forever, but I knew it wasn’t over yet.

Marty didn’t ask any questions when I was done talking, which was just as well, because
I wasn’t sure I could answer coherently. I’d spent all my coherence on Hrivnak. Of
course the detective was right: we should have handed our suspicions and evidence
over to some authority. Except we’d tried—or at least, James had—and the authorities
hadn’t wanted it. After the messy and very public confrontation at the Water Works,
maybe now someone would listen. Kind of late, though, wasn’t it?

Marty pulled into a No Parking zone on the street and came around to open my door.
Either I had forgotten how a door worked, or I’d completely run out of initiative.
“Come on, upsy-daisy.” She held out her hand.

“Upsy-daisy?” I said as I managed to stand up on the pavement.

“Follow me,” she said. I followed.

Inside, the hospital didn’t look much different from the police department, except
there were more people and most of them were wearing scrubs or white coats instead
of uniforms. But there was too much light and noise, too many hard edges. I stood
in the middle of the human stream, unable to decide which way to move, while Marty
conferred with someone sitting in front of a computer terminal behind a counter. Then
she came back. “He’s in the ICU. I think we could bull our way in, but you might want
to clean up first.”

I looked down at myself and tried to frame a question. “What . . . how?”

“I’ll snag you some scrubs. Meet you in the ladies’.” She pointed toward the restroom
and gave me a small shove in the right direction. I kept going.

Once inside, I stopped in front of the first bank of mirrors and leaned heavily on
the counter. Then I looked at my reflection, and the sight of myself unnerved me.
I looked like I’d been butchering a steer with an axe. I looked away from my reflection
and turned on the water in the sink. One of those damned faucets that gave you thirty
seconds of water and turned itself off—at that rate, I’d be clean by next Tuesday.
I wadded up a paper towel to stop the drain and leaned on the water faucet until a
few inches of water accumulated in the sink. Then I pulled out a handful of paper
towels, added a liberal amount of soap from the stingy dispenser, and began scrubbing,
starting with my hands.

Marty appeared with an armful of colorful scrubs, which she dumped on the counter.
I pulled off my shirt and pants and stuffed them in the trash—no way was I ever going
to wear them again. The blood had soaked through to my underwear, but there wasn’t
a lot I could do about that. I stared at the scrubs, trying to guess what size I wanted,
until Marty lost patience, grabbed a shirt from the pile, and handed it to me. I put
it on; it hung on me like a curtain. Marty handed me unmatched pants, which were too
long, but I rolled up the waistband.

In the middle of the process, some unfortunate woman came in to use the facilities.
She took one look at me, half dressed, still covered with blotches of dried blood,
and backed away quickly and fled out the door. Marty gave a snort of laughter.

I scrubbed and scrubbed, but there was still blood crusted under my fingernails. “Good
enough?” I asked Marty.

“You’ll do.”

It felt good to be clean again, but it was only a small boost, and I was terrified
of what was coming. “Okay, now what?”

“Upstairs.”

Thank God she knew where she was going. I followed her through the hall and we stopped
at a bank of elevators. I laid a hand on her arm. “Marty, what can I expect?”

She looked at me with eyes as somber as I’d ever seen. “I won’t lie to you, it’s kind
of touch-and-go. They stitched him up—or maybe it’s all staples now—and gave him a
lot of blood, but he hasn’t regained consciousness, which has them worried.”

“Okay, got it,” I interrupted. I didn’t want to hear any more. The elevator arrived
and we boarded. No one else got on. Marty pushed a button.

“Will they let me in?”

Marty turned to face me squarely. “I’ll take care of the staff if they try to keep
you out. All I know is, it would kill Jimmy if he wakes up and you’re not there. So
if you turn tail and run now, you’d better keep going.”

“Marty, that’s not what I meant. Bottom line, I’m scared.”

“Of what?” Marty demanded.

I swallowed. “Of losing him.” Of watching him die. Or not wake up. Or wake up as a
vegetable. The possibilities were many, few of them good.

“Nell, he’s a strong man—you know that. He’ll pull through. You just saved his life,
and you had to shoot somebody to do it, which we’ll have to talk about later. You
think that’s not enough to prove your right to be here? You’re going to be there when
Jimmy wakes up, because he will want you there. Whatever you work out after he’s back
on his feet is your business, but you’re not going to bail on him now.”

“I didn’t plan to.” If I was honest with myself, I supposed I was trying to protect
myself from losing him. I didn’t know if I could handle that.

The elevator door finally opened, and Marty steered me down another hallway, to a
nurses’ station. Machines flashed and blinked from all sides, but there was little
human noise. Marty leaned on the counter and asked the nurse, “Any change?”

“Morrison? No. Is this his fiancée?”

She was looking at me. I managed to work out that using that label was probably the
only way I’d be allowed into his room, so I nodded silently.

“Only one person at a time. Don’t touch anything. And don’t get in anyone’s way,”
the nurse said crisply. “Understand?”

I nodded again. “Can I talk to him?”

“He’s unconscious.”

“I know that. But talking won’t mess up your machines?”

“Nope. Go right ahead. Just don’t expect him to answer.”

“Got it.” Marty set off down the hallway, and I followed more slowly.

At one doorway, she stopped and turned to me. “This is him. I’m going to go find some
coffee or something.” She turned abruptly and marched off without waiting for me to
answer.

The door was open, and I walked into the room. James lay on his back, with assorted
tubes and wires connected to beeping machines. At least he seemed to be breathing
on his own—was that a good sign? Stubble, flecked with grey, stood out against his
pale skin. His left arm was wrapped with stained gauze. They’d shaved part of his
hair, and a line of . . . staples? arced across the bare patch.

I tiptoed around the bed to his other side and laid my hand on his. No response, but
at least it was warm.

Now what? Did I expect that my being here would fix everything, and he’d wake up and
smile? Maybe I didn’t expect that, but I sure as hell
wanted
that. “James?” I whispered. Nothing. I sighed.

Well, I was here, and I was staying, so I figured I should make myself as comfortable
as I could. There was a stiff chair upholstered in plastic in one corner, and a smaller
and even less appealing one closer to the door. I pulled the larger chair close to
the bed, away from all the wires and beeping blinking machines, then dragged the other
chair in front it. I slid down, put my feet up on the second chair, and settled in
to wait, watching James’s face.

Now I could face the terrors I’d stuffed deep inside me. My mind kept running a silent
loop of that stupid, stupid scene: the three of us, locked in confrontation at the
Water Works. I didn’t think Nicholas would have attacked me. Even James’s arrival
hadn’t spooked him, because he still thought he had everything under his control and
that he could walk away. I could see Nicholas calculating his next step when Phebe
had startled everybody and set off the cascade of disaster. Even then, Nicholas might
have held on to his composure—until James had made a stupid, chivalrous gesture trying
to protect me, and Nicholas had read that as a threat and overreacted. And James had
paid for his chivalry. He was here because he had been trying to keep me safe. He
could die because of some dumb primitive reaction. I’d hate him for it, but he’d still
be dead. And that idea set off some primal howling in me as well.
You can’t die! We’re not finished!

Eventually I slept, sort of, out of exhaustion, but it was
nearly impossible to sleep in a hospital because there were always nurses coming and
going, and monitors making startling noises. Now and then a nurse would glance over
at me, her expression giving nothing away, and I was afraid to ask any questions.
The chair wasn’t exactly ideal for sleeping, either—not only was it lacking in padding,
but the plastic was slippery, so I’d nod off and find myself sliding toward the floor.

After a while I gave up trying to sleep. Marty hadn’t come back—surprisingly tactful
of her—so here I was, alone with my thoughts, until James woke up. The perfect time
to face all the issues I’d been dancing around for months. When had I started deluding
myself about where he and I were going? How soon after James and I had first connected?

I’d been screwing up a lot lately, hadn’t I? Maybe I should start with when I’d hired
Nicholas and work forward from there. Sure, he looked great on paper, and he was good
at what he did. But if I was honest, I’d never liked him. He was a cold fish. Okay,
hindsight was all well and good, and I’d done everything I could to stifle my dislike.
But what I found most troubling about Nicholas was that he had no empathy, no warmth.
I knew you couldn’t put those requirements in the job description—“Must like other
people”?—but a few basic people skills sure made working somewhere a lot more pleasant
for everyone. It was small comfort that my instincts had been proved right. Was James
supposed to pay the price for my reluctance to go with my gut about Nicholas?

As a distraction, I decided to worry about what I should say to the press. What would
do the least damage to the Society? At the rate we were going, it wouldn’t be long
until some journalist labeled us “Philadelphia’s Murder Museum” or something equally
tacky. Or maybe pin a title on me. Pistol-Packing President? Nell Pratt, Crime Magnet?
Why did I keep finding myself in the middle of crimes? Now I’d graduated to shooting
someone—that had to be a first in our cultural community. No doubt the press would
eat that up.
Museum administrator shoots suspect.
Or to be more lurid,
Society Prez Blasts Employee.
I wondered if the newspapers had gotten hold of the story yet, and what they’d made
of it. Probably too late for today’s papers, although the local newscasters might
pick it up at eleven, especially since an FBI agent was involved. But no doubt everyone
would be all over it tomorrow.

Stop it, Nell
, my inner voice said sharply.
You’re sitting here watching the man you love struggling to stay alive—maybe you should
be thinking about that? How are you going to feel if he dies?
I had to shut my eyes at that. It hurt. A lot. To think that I’d had a hand in it
just made it worse.

Please, James, don’t die.
I wanted to see what we could have; I wanted to make it happen a lot faster than
it had so far. He was a good and decent man; he was a smart and competent agent; he
was funny and caring, and, yes, I loved him. I wanted more than a casual date when
our schedules allowed. I was pretty sure that he did, too, even though he hadn’t pushed
too hard.

Exhaustion took over. Eventually when I opened my eyes again, the sun seemed to be
coming up somewhere outside. I checked my watch and found that it was shortly after
six a.m. I looked James over by daylight. Well, he was still breathing, and none of
the alarms attached to him had gone off that I was aware of—all good. Any more sleep
for me was probably out of the question now, so I scooted my chair closer to the bed
and took his hand.

Which moved, this time, sending my heart into overdrive. James’s body shifted, and
then his grip tightened on my hand when he realized, consciously or unconsciously,
that it hurt to move. I didn’t let go. I was all but holding my breath.

His eyes opened, focused on the ceiling, then his head turned to me. “Nell?” he croaked.
“What the hell happened?”

I smiled through sudden tears. “Nicholas attacked you with a knife at the Water Works.
Do you remember anything?”

“Kind of. Wait—did you take my gun?”

“I did. I had to stop Nicholas.”

His brow wrinkled. “You shot him? Is he dead?”

“Nope. I got him in the leg. The police are holding on to him.”

“You never mentioned you knew how to shoot.”

“You never asked.” That was a conversation for later.

“What’s the damage?” His gaze wandered to the machines tracking his every breath and
twitch.

“Nicholas came at you with a Bowie knife. It is now in police custody as evidence.
He got you in the arm and it bled a lot. Then you kind of tripped over me and hit
your head on the steps. How do you feel?”

“Like crap, but at least I’m alive. And so are you. I’m sorry I screwed up.”

“
You
screwed up? James, neither of us had any reason to believe that Nicholas would turn
violent. We have no evidence that he had ever physically attacked anyone before. So
we were both wrong. Look, while the doctors here were sewing you back together last
night, I was spilling the whole story to Detective Hrivnak at police headquarters,
so the Philadelphia police now know as much as we do.”

A nurse I hadn’t seen before chose that moment to bustle in, and I retreated to a
corner to give her room to work. “Good morning, Mr. Morrison, nice to see you awake.”
She looked at various readouts and made notes on her clipboard. “How are you feeling?”

“My head hurts. My arm hurts. When can I leave?”

“The doctor will be making rounds later. She’ll talk with you then.”

I sat down again when the nurse left. “James, you’re in no shape to go anywhere.”

He didn’t look convinced. “So what did Hrivnak say when you talked with her?”

“You might have let the FBI know first,” said a tall greying man in a smart suit,
standing in the doorway. I didn’t recognize him. “I’m Randall Cooper, Special Agent
in Charge of the Philadelphia office. You, I take it, are Eleanor Pratt?”

I stood up, but hung on to James’s hand. I was done playing nice. “I am. And as I
understand it, James brought this case to you and you passed. You’re damned lucky
that nobody else died. Although James could have.”

Cooper eyed me neutrally, but I wasn’t about to back down. He glanced briefly at James,
who met his glance. Finally Cooper said, “It seems I was wrong. I will be happy to
hear what information you have collected, as soon as you are able, Agent Morrison.
Ms. Pratt.”

My God, was that actually an apology? “Who has custody of Nicholas Naylor?” I asked.

“I understand that the Philadelphia police are holding him based on yesterday’s incident
at the Water Works. We’ll decide who gets to claim him once we’ve gone over your information.”
He held my eyes for a few seconds, then looked at James. “Morrison, I’m sorry. The
doctors tell me you’ll be fine, but don’t push yourself. Tell me when you’re ready
to talk. Naylor will stay in custody. Nice to meet you, Ms. Pratt.” He left as quietly
as he had come.

I looked at James. “What was that about?”

He had a faint smile on his face. “You heard him—he actually apologized. I think it’s
a department first. We were right, and he just admitted it. I’d celebrate, but since
my head feels ready to explode I think we’ll have to postpone that.”

“Whenever you’re ready.”