His side of the room was darkened, but a sheet of sunlight hung like a yellow screen on the opposite wall. Under it, in a recliner, with half of her face illuminated, sat Grace, staring into the twilight under his bed. Her purse, like a sundial, cast a triangular shadow on the table next to her.
Brome moved his hands, aimlessly, just to see that he could. An IV tube was attached to the back of his right wrist.
With a small cry Grace jumped towards him.
“Oh, God, Olie! I was so scared! When Brighton called me…” She was by the side of the bed, clasping his free left hand. Her own hands were warm and a little moist. Somewhere in the haze of his instincts he found a comforting smile.
“Don’t worry, baby. I’m all right. A couple of bruises, nothing more. Where’s Anna?”
“I took her to the babysitter before coming here. She doesn’t know. She kept asking about you and I just kept smiling and telling her…” She began to sob. “God, Olie. I thought I was going to go insane in the time it took me to drop her off.”
“I’m sorry.” He pulled her closer and kissed her lips. It felt good. He felt good, he suddenly realized. Despite the hospital bed, despite the IV he felt better than he could remember in a long time. He got the bad guy. Didn’t quite catch him, but…
Letting Grace go, he planted his hands at his sides and pushed up into a sitting position. Pain, dull and distant, like a muffled scream in the next room, spread through his body but caused little discomfort.
“The button, Olie. Just push the button,” Grace said with concern, taking hold of his hand again.
“It’s okay,” he said, noting the IV bag above his head. “I’m okay. See how it is.”
Spreading the gown’s flaps apart, Graced leaned over to look. He heard her gasp and regretted the request.
“It’s all purple down here. Jesus, Olie…”
“Nothing to worry about,” a confident voice said behind her. Grace turned and stepped aside, revealing a tall, lanky man in a white robe. Streaks of gray hair shone on the sides of his deeply tanned face. His smiled shone, also. He shook Grace’s hand. “Dr. Kent.”
“We’ve already fixed the rib fractures. The procedure went splendidly. We’ll keep him here overnight, but tomorrow morning you can take him home. Painkillers for a week and he’ll be better than new.”
Damn, Brome thought. They can fix fractures within hours, but they can’t get rid of the stupid bruises? But it came and went, like a whiff of some unpleasant smell.
“Thanks, Doc.”
“No thanks are necessary. You do your job and we do ours. Besides, the Bureau always pays the bills on time, unlike some other agencies I could name.” They all grinned. Grace patted Brome’s shoulder. Dr. Kent checked the IV bag, bent around to glance at the bruises on Brome’s back, nodded, satisfied. “Well, I’ll leave you to it, then.” To Grace he added, “It was nice meeting you, Mrs. Brome. You should be proud of him.”
“I am,” Grace said tearfully.
Dr. Kent nodded to both of them with a restrained smile and left. Grace left two hours later. She needed to pick up the baby. Before going she assured him she would be there first thing in the morning to take him home. Brome took a nap. When he woke up it was dark and quiet.
With the push of a button he raised the bed and rolled his head around to work his neck. He heard a juicy crack and smiled. Careful not to pull too much on the IV tube, he stretched his arms. He wiggled his toes, curled and uncurled his feet. Languid tingling of muscles and joints, rested after what felt like years of hard, uninterrupted work, spread through his body. He somehow knew that wrinkles in the middle of his forehead and in the corners of his eyes, the ones Grace had always complained about, and Annie often tried to pull apart, stretching the skin with her tiny fingers, were gone. Never before solving a case felt so satisfying and refreshing. Even his brain crackled with energy inside its shell, greatly rejuvenated and ready for another marathon. It wasn’t until he felt its crispness that Brome realized how tired his brain had been. Probably more tired than any overworked limb or muscle.
He sighed. He didn’t want to think back, because he already knew what had really happened. Whatever his worn out mind thought he saw in that hole, supposedly big and black, had been in reality a man’s silhouette, Freud’s silhouette, dark against the brightly illuminated room. The gun, the one Lloyd Freud clutched in his hand to the last breath, gleamed with reflected light, causing Brome to open fire. Good thing I didn’t share any of that nonsense with Brighton, Brome thought, rolling his eyes. At least I had enough sense to prevent that from happening. And to think I felt perfectly capable. It’s a wonder I ended up in the right place at the right time. Likely a coincidence more than anything else.
It occurred to him then that stopping the pills had been a stupid idea. He would call in a refill as soon as he was discharged. First thing in the morning. But he still had some pills left… He looked around, wondering where his clothes were.
The plastic door slid to the side, letting in the night nurse. She was a short, neckless, impetuous woman of around fifty, with a squinty grin on her face.
“Awake, agent Brome? How’s the hero of the day? Hungry?” She darted about, checking the machinery, the sheets, the bed’s angle and plastic bags. Not waiting for his answer she asked, “What will it be? We don’t have much, especially at this time, but a nice sandwich with some drink should be no problem. Dr. Kent also said he had nothing against a double portion of dessert.”
“Ham, please. On wheat. Mayonnaise, mustard, onion, lettuce.”
“Not afraid of a little onion breath? That’s a good boy. People stress over those things too much these days. Well, everything seems to be in order here. You’re comfortable, right? Good. I’ll return with the food in a jiffy.”
“I was wondering…”
“There’s a button for the TV if you feel like hearing about yourself on the news. Pretty sure it’s all over the country.” She pressed the button under Brome’s left arm. A TV slid out of the ceiling, flicking on. A familiar rum commercial was just beginning. “Volume is on the other side. You’ll figure it out, won’t you? Good. You know, I knew from the start that boy Luke Whales couldn’t kill anyone. He’s just too cute, isn’t he? Ah, but you wouldn’t know anything about that.” She patted his leg through the sheet. “Ham on wheat coming right up. Anything else you needed while I’m awake? I’m just kidding you. I won’t sleep till my shift is over.”
“I was wondering where my clothes were. I had a… I had a bottle of pills,” Brome said, eyes watching bandaged penguins and polar bears comradely passing around a bottle of rum after a pretty mean match of football.
“Your wife took your clothes. I hope she’ll dump them straight away. Torn, dirty all over…” Seeing Brome’s quick glance, the nurse lowered her voice. “Don’t worry. They took the pills out before giving them to her. Everything’s confidential.”
“I appreciate that. Can you bring them when you get the food, please?”
“Sorry, no outside medication allowed in the hospital. They’ll give them back to you tomorrow before discharge. But, like I said, not to worry. You didn’t miss anything.” With that squinty grin the nurse nodded at the IV bag. “All right? All right. Be right back.”
As the door slid back in place behind her, Brome looked up at the drip bag. On TV, the news resumed.
Chapter Seventeen
It made no sense.
Still, I thought it over for a minute or two, because lately a lot of things that had sounded like gobbledygook at first became a lot more sensible once I thought them over. In this particular case, however, thinking it over amounted to nothing. I came up with nothing. It simply didn’t make any sense, and coming at the end of Dr. Young’s convincing and at times interesting lecture, this nonsense cast on it a different sort of illumination.