The In Death Collection 06-10 (162 page)

“About before,” Peabody began.

“Look, I was out of line, and you were the closest target. I’m sorry about it.”

“No, that’s not what I mean. I figured it out. Took me a while,” she added. “What you did, telling her cold like that was because you had to see how she’d react. If she knew Draco was her father, well, it bumped up her motive. Either way, if she knew it before they . . . you know, or if she knew it after they got going, it went to her frame of mind.”

Eve watched a medi-van whip past. “She didn’t know.”

“I don’t think so either. If you’d eased her into it, it would’ve given her time to think, to figure out how best to react, what to say. I should’ve known that right off instead of working around to it an hour later.”

“I could have clued you in before we got there.” With a shake of her head, she turned around, started back. “I hadn’t settled myself into it yet.”

“It was a hard thing to do. I don’t think I’d’ve had the guts for it.”

“It has nothing to do with guts.”

“Yeah, it does.” Peabody stopped, waited for Eve to turn to face her. “If you didn’t have feelings, it wouldn’t have been hard. But you do. Guts can be the same thing as mean without compassion. It was hard, but you did
it anyway. A better cop would have realized that quicker.”

“I didn’t give you much of a chance since I was busy jumping down your throat. You worked it out, came around to it on your own. I must be doing something right with you. So, are we square now?”

“Yeah, all four corners.”

“Good, let’s get inside. I’m freezing my ass off.”

They went by to see Trueheart first. At Peabody’s insistence, they stopped off in the shopping mall for a get-well gift.

“It’ll take five minutes.”

“We’ve chipped in on the flowers already.” The forest of goods, the wide and winding trails that led to them, and the chirpy voices announcing the sales and specials caused Eve’s already abused stomach to execute a slow, anxious roll.

She’d rather have gone hand-to-hand with a three-hundred-pound violent tendency than be swallowed up in a consumer sea.

“That’s from everyone,” Peabody explained patiently. “This’ll be from us.”

Despite herself, Eve stopped at a display of dull green surgical scrubs brightly emblazoned with the hospital’s logo. For ten bucks extra, you could have one splattered with what appeared to be arterial blood.

“It’s a sick world. Just sick.”

“We’re not going for the souvenirs.” Though she thought the oversized anal probes were kind of a hoot. “When a guy’s in the hospital, he wants toys.”

“When a guy gets a splinter in his toe, he wants toys,” Eve complained but followed Peabody into a game shop and resigned herself to having her senses battered by the beeps, crashes, roars, and blasts.

Here, according to the flashing signs, you could choose from over ten thousand selections for your entertainment, leisure, or educational desires. From sports to quantum physics programs and everything in between, you had only to key in the topic of your interest and the animated map, or one of the fully trained and friendly game partners, would direct you to the correct area.

The store menu pumped out screaming yellow light. Eve felt her eyes cross.

The clear tubes of the sample booths were all loaded with people trying out demos. Others trolled the store proper, their faces bright with avarice or blank from sensory overload.

“Don’t these people have jobs?” Eve wondered.

“We hit lunch hour.”

“Well, lucky us.”

Peabody made a beeline for the combat section. “Hand-to-hand,” she decided. “It’ll make him feel in control. Wow, look! It’s the new Super Street Fighter. It’s supposed to be majorly mag.” She flipped the antitheft box over, winced a little at the price, then noted the manufacturer.

“Roarke Industries. We oughta get a discount or something. Oh well, it’s not so bad when you split it.” She headed toward the auto-express checkout, glanced back at Eve. “I guess Roarke’s got a whole factory full of these, huh?”

“Probably.” Eve pulled out her credit card, swiped it through the scanner, pressed her thumb to the identiplate.

Thank you for your purchase, Eve Dallas. One moment, please, while your credit is verified.

“I’ll give you my half on payday, okay?”

“Yeah, whatever. Why do these things take so long?”

Thank you for waiting, Eve Dallas. The cost of your selection, Super Street Fighter, PPC version, comes to one hundred and sixteen dollars and fifty-eight cents, including all applicable taxes. Due to Authorization One, your account will not be debited for this selection. Please enjoy your day.

“What the hell are you talking about? What’s Authorization One?”

Authorization One, Roarke Industries. This level entitles you to select any items under this manufacturer’s brand at no cost.

“Wow. We can clean house.” Peabody turned her dazzled eyes to the shelves crammed with delights. “Can I get one of these?”

“Shut up, Peabody. Look, I’m paying for this,” she told the machine. “So just bypass Authorization One and debit my account.”

Unable to comply. Would you care to make another selection?

“Damn it.” She shoved the game at Peabody. “He’s not getting away with this.”

Peabody had the wit to run the box through security release, then jogged to catch up with Eve. “Listen, since we’re here anyway, couldn’t I just have one—”

“No.”

“But—”

“No.” Eve gave the glide one quick, bad-tempered kick, then got on to ride to medical level.

“Most women would be happy if their husbands gave them blank shopping credit.”

“I’m not most women.”

Peabody rolled her eyes. “You’re telling me.”

Peabody might have sulked over the loss of her own imaginary game collection, but Trueheart’s pleasure in the gift outweighed greed.

“This is great. It just came out.”

He turned the box over in his good hand. His other arm was cased in a plasti-cast to knit the bone that had snapped in his fall.

There was a collar of the same material around his neck, an IV drip in his wrist, and a brutal bruise that crept over his shoulder and showed purple and black against the sagging neck of his hospital shift. His left leg was slightly elevated, and Eve remembered how his blood had pumped out of the gash there and onto her hands.

Machines hummed around him.

All Eve could think was if she were in his place, she wouldn’t be so damn cheerful.

She left the small talk and conversation to Peabody. She never knew what to say to hospital patients.

“I don’t remember much after I took the hit.” He shifted his eyes to Eve. “Commander Whitney said we got him.”

“Yeah.” This, at least, was her element.
“You
got him. He’s down on the next patient level. We’ll be questioning him after we leave here. You did the job, Trueheart. He might have gotten by us if you hadn’t reacted fast and taken him down.”

“The commander said you put me up for a commendation.”

“Like I said, you did the job.”

“I didn’t do much.” He shifted, trying to find a more comfortable position. “I would have taken him down clean if that trigger-happy asshole transit jerk hadn’t blasted off.”

“That’s the spirit. The trigger-happy asshole and his moronic superior are going to get kicked around plenty.”

“Wouldn’t have happened if they’d listened to you. You had it under control.”

“If I’d had it under control, you wouldn’t be here. You took a mean hit and a bad fall. If you’re feeling shaky over it, you should see the department counselor.”

“I’m feeling okay about it. I want to get back in uniform, back on the job. I was hoping, when you close the case, you’d let me know the details.”

“Sure.”

“Ah, Lieutenant, I know you’ve got to get going, but I just wanted to say . . . I know you saw my mother the other night.”

“Yeah, we ran into each other. She’s a nice woman.”

“Isn’t she great?” His face lit up. “She’s the best. My old man ditched us when I was a kid, so we’ve always, you know, taken care of each other. Anyway, she told me how you hung around, waited until I was out of surgery and all.”

“You went down under my watch.”
Your blood was on my hands,
she thought.

“Well, it meant a lot to her that you were here. I just wanted to tell you that. So thanks.”

“Just stay out of laser streams,” she advised.

Down on the next level, Kenneth Stiles stirred in his bed, glanced toward the nurse who checked his monitors. “I want to confess.”

She turned to him, smile bright and professional. “So, you’re awake, Mr. Stiles. You should take some nutrition now.”

He’d been awake for a considerable amount of time. And thinking. “I want to confess,” he repeated.

She walked to the side of the bed to pat his hand. “Do you want a priest?”

“No.” He turned his hand over, gripped hers with a strength she wasn’t expecting. “Dallas. Lieutenant Dallas. Tell her I confess.”

“You don’t want to get overexcited.”

“Find Lieutenant Dallas, and tell her.”

“All right, don’t worry. But in the meantime, you should rest. You took a nasty fall.”

She smoothed his sheets, satisfied when he settled, closed his eyes. “I’ll go see about your nutrition requirements.”

She notated his chart and slipped out. She paused by the uniformed guard at the door. “He’s awake.”

From her uniform pocket, she took out her memo pad and informed Nutrition that Patient K. Stiles, Room 6503, required his midday meal. When the guard started to speak, the nurse held up a hand.

“Just a minute. I want to get this in so they get it up here before midnight. Nutrition’s been running behind all week.” Since the patient had neglected to fill in his lunch choices from the authorized menu, she ordered him a grilled chicken breast, mixed rice with steamed broccoli, a whole wheat roll with one pat of butter substitute, skim milk, and blueberry Jell-O.

“That should be up within the hour.”

“Whoever brings it has to be cleared,” the guard told her.

She gave a little huff of annoyance, took the memo out again, and made the necessary notation. “Oh, Patient Stiles was asking for someone named Dallas. Does that mean anything?”

The guard nodded, pulled out his communicator.

“He’s got cop juice for blood,” Peabody commented as they walked down the corridor.

“The juice is still green, but it’ll ripen.” When her communicator beeped, she dug it out of her pocket. “Dallas.”

“Lieutenant. Officer Clark on guard duty, Kenneth Stiles. The suspect is awake and asking for you.”

“I’m one level up and on my way.”

“That’s good timing.” Peabody punched for the elevator, then sighed and followed Eve to the exit door. “I guess we’re walking.”

“It’s one patient level.”

“One level equals three flights.”

“You’ll work off the cookies.”

“They’re only a fond memory. You figure Stiles is ready to give us some straight talk?”

“I figure he’s ready for something.” She pushed through the doors to the next level, headed left. “He doesn’t know we found Carvell or that we’ve identified Draco as Carly’s father. We’ll see how he plays it before we clue him in.”

She stopped at the door. “Clark.”

“Yes, sir.”

“He have any visitors?”

“Not a soul. He was sleeping it off until a few minutes ago. The nurse reported he was awake and asking for you.”

“Okay, take a fifteen-minute break.”

“Thanks. I can use it.”

Eve reached for the door, pushed it open. Then, with a curse, leaped inside. She grabbed Stiles’s legs, hauled up and took his weight. “Get him down!”

Peabody was already scrambling onto the bed, fighting with the knot. Clark pounded in behind her.

“I’ve got him, Lieutenant.” He moved in with his wide shoulders and took Stiles’s dangling body up another three inches.

He’d hanged himself with a noose fashioned from his own bedsheets.

“He’s not breathing,” Clark announced when the body collapsed on him. “I don’t think he’s breathing.”

“Get a doctor.” Face fierce, Eve straddled Stiles, pressed the heels of her hands to his heart and began to pump. “Come on, you son of a bitch. You
will
breathe.” She lowered her mouth to his, forced in air. Pumped.

“Oh my God. Oh my God. Kenneth!” At the doorway, Areena Mansfield scattered the armload of flowers she carried at her feet.

“Keep back! Come on, come on.” Sweat began to
pour down Eve’s face. She heard the sound of running feet, of alarms shrilling.

“Move aside. Move aside please.”

She slid away, pushed to her feet, and watched the medical team work on him.

No pulse. Flat line.

Come back,
Eve ordered.
Goddamn you, come back.

She watched the slim pressure hypo of adrenline jab against his chest.

No response.

Small disks were slicked with gel. There were orders to set, to clear, then Stiles’s body bucked when the discs shocked his system. The heart line on the monitor stayed blue and blank.

For a second time the disks slapped against him, a second time his body jerked, fell. And now a low beep sounded, and the blue line wavered and went red.

Sinus rhythm. We have a pulse.

At the door, Areena covered her face with her hands.

“Give me his condition.”

“He’s alive.” The doctor, a cool-eyed man with saffron skin, continued to make notes. “There was oxygen deprivation, and some minimal brain damage as a result. If we keep him alive, it’s correctable.”

“Are you going to keep him alive?”

“That’s why we’re here.” He slipped his memo pad back into the pocket of his lab coat. “His chances are good. Another few minutes dangling there, he wouldn’t have had any chance. We’ve come a long way in medical science, but bringing the dead back to life still eludes us.”

“When can I talk to him?”

“I can’t say.”

“Hazard a guess.”

“He may be functional by tomorrow, but until we complete the tests, I can’t gauge the exact extent of the brain damage. It may be several days, or weeks, before
he’s capable of answering any but the most basic of questions. The brain finds ways to bypass damage, to reroute if you will, and we can help that process along. But it takes time.”