“Eight hours.”
“The first half was mostly from anesthesia recovery. We kept waking you for neurological tests.”
“They kept asking me questions and looking at my eyes.”
“It’s part of monitoring your level of consciousness. The bullet missed your skull by an eyelash, but it carved a three-inch groove through your scalp. I cut clean edges and stapled the two margins together. It’s similar to a brow lift that a plastic surgeon performs. Your left sideburn will be a little higher than the right, but it won’t be that noticeable. You also sustained a simple concussion, but there’s nothing simple about it. Do you feel any nausea?”
“Not at all. Good thing the bullet hit me in the head, I could’ve been seriously injured.”
She half laughed. “You are seriously injured. I’ve seen my share of gunshot wounds. You’re fortunate to be alive. Guardian angel?”
“Dumb luck.”
“Let me know if you begin to experience any nausea, dizziness, visual problems, or prolonged headaches, okay?”
He stared at the ceiling while she listened to his heart and lungs.
“Deep breath, please…. Again…. One more time….” She tucked the stethoscope into her coat pocket.
“You have some unusual scars on your body. May I assume you didn’t get them learning to eat with a knife and fork?”
He managed a smiled. “Yes, that’s a fair assumption.”
She waited for more.
“I lost a bet.”
“Naturally. You have visitors. Feel up to having some company? I get the distinct impression they’re pretty important. One of them is a United States senator from New Mexico.”
“No kidding?”
“He seemed quite concerned when I spoke to him a few minutes ago. He must have grilled me for five minutes about your condition.”
“What makes you think the others are VIPs?”
“Let’s just say this hospital looks as though the president’s here to take a tour. Lots of business suits with bulges, if you catch my drift.”
“I’m intrigued.”
“You must be a very important person yourself.”
“Nope, just an everyday joe.”
“Right….”
“Trust me, I’m nobody special.”
Dr. Rosson smiled and put a hand on his shoulder. “Well, Mr. Nobody Special, I’m going to bring in your guests.”
“You’ve got nice bedside manner, Doctor.”
“Thank you. Think you can avoid any gunfights for the next few weeks?”
“Absolutely.”
“You sure about the visitors?”
“Yes.”
“Good, because that senator I mentioned? He’s extremely worried about you. Like a father might be about his son.”
“Is it that obvious?”
“Your eyes.”
“It’s not common knowledge. Will you keep it that way?”
“Of course.”
“Is Harvey out there too?”
“Mr. Fontana? He’s done everything but pitch a tent outside your door.”
“Yeah, that’s Harv, all right. How’s Holly Simpson doing?”
“She’ll be fine. She’s outside with Mr. Fontana.”
“I need to use the head.” He swung his legs out of the bed and sat up. The world spun.
“Slowly, please.”
“I’m okay.”
“Navy or Marines?”
“What makes you think I was in the service?”
“You said head, not ‘bathroom.’”
“Marines.”
“I’ll bet you could tell a few campfire stories.”
“A few.”
Dr. Rosson grasped his arm firmly as he stood. “Any dizziness?”
“I’m okay.” It wasn’t entirely true, but he wasn’t going to say anything that might prolong his stay.
“I want you sit down when you use the toilet. Use the rails to steady yourself. I’ll be right out here, okay?”
“No problem, Doctor.”
Inside the bathroom he used the mirror to examine the wound. It looked just as Dr. Rosson had described. A three-inch long incision-closed with a dozen, quarter-inch-long staples-marred his head just forward of his left ear. Surprisingly, his hair wasn’t shaved around the wound. He’d have to ask about that sometime. Overall, it didn’t look too bad. Then again, compared to his scarred face, what would?
As instructed, he sat down to relieve himself and sighed. In hindsight, it had been foolish, perhaps even reckless, to spend the night in his Clairemont house. He should’ve stayed in La Jolla with Holly. Whoever attacked him probably knew about his La Jolla home as well. The end result would’ve been the same, except that his La Jolla home would be trashed rather than Clairemont. All things being equal, he preferred the latter. The thought of armed thugs breaking into his La Jolla home one really frosted him. They would’ve had to kill Grant and Sherman-there’d be no other way to get past his dogs. Maybe they had killed his dogs. What if they’d gone there first?
“You okay in there?”
“I’ll be right out.” He washed his hands and ran a warm washcloth over his face.
Dr. Rosson helped him get back into bed.
“I’d like to leave as soon as possible. No offense.”
“None taken. I’ll sign your release, but only on the condition you take it easy for a few weeks. I’m serious. If you jar your brain again.…”
“Understood.”
“No driving for a few days either.”
That wouldn’t be a problem. Nathan disliked driving anyway. “Thank you for patching me up, Doctor.”
Alone, he looked at the IV plugged into his wrist and waited. Whoever was out there would be walking through the door in moments.
Chapter 22
Senator Stone McBride entered his room and shut the door. Nathan’s father radiated confidence and leadership, even with a concerned expression, although today his usual suit and tie had been replaced with tan slacks and a cobalt sweater.
Nathan smiled to ease the tension.
“How are you feeling?”
“All things being equal, not too bad. Thanks for coming. How’s Mom?”
“She wanted to be here, but her hip is still bothering her. She’s a nervous wreck, though. Truth be told, so am I.”
“I’ll call her later.”
“She’d like that. You okay?”
“My La Jolla home, my dogs-”
Stone held up a hand. “They’re okay, but they proved to be a bit of a problem. They wouldn’t let anyone get out of their vehicles. Harvey took care of it. He imprinted the two federal agents to them.”
“FBI?”
“They’re watching your house as we speak.”
“Who else is out there?”
“I’ll let you see for yourself.” Stone opened the door a crack and nodded.
Two people in dark business suits stepped in. One man. One woman. They were roughly the same height, but the woman looked ten years younger. Nathan knew she was in her early fifties. Attractive and alluring. Perhaps it was her eyes. He liked her, but wouldn’t give that up. Both had graying hair and both looked all business. The woman’s hair was pulled back into a ponytail. Stone closed the door.
Nathan pushed himself up to a more upright sitting position. He felt somewhat insecure dressed only in a hospital gown. “To what do I owe this honor?”
The man said, “I take it you recognize one or both of us?”
He did. Standing in front of him were two presidential appointees. Director Ethan Lansing of the FBI and CIA Director Rebecca Cantrell. Cantrell stepped forward and offered her hand. Warm, but firm. Lansing also shook hands.
“You didn’t bring balloons.”
Cantrell smiled.
“I’d like to have Harvey and SAC Simpson present, please.”
Cantrell looked at Lansing, who shook his head no.
Nathan leaned back and looked out the window. “Well, thank you both for coming.”
“Nathan, please,” Stone said. “Directors Cantrell and Lansing have included me because I gave them my word this discussion would be kept confidential. Please hear them out.”
Cantrell said, “You were shot in the head last night. How about a compromise? Since Mr. Fontana has the same DOD security clearance as you, I’ll allow him to participate. But for national security reasons, SAC Simpson can’t be part of this discussion.”