He was nodding, listening carefully but not making eye contact as I continued.
“For a couple of tropical drifters like you and me, it’s probably the closest we’ll ever come to having a home. I’d hate to see anything screw that up because of old… old stuff. Things that happened in the past. Events, or old promises. Alliances that maybe seemed the right thing to do at the time. Bullshit like that is absolute poison, and it always comes out sooner or later if you try and keep it hidden.”
Now he was looking at me, his eyes wise and old as he tugged nervously at a strand of frazzled, sun-bleached hair, still nodding, and I could see that he understood.
He said softly, “I was right this afternoon; right about you changing. So there’s something I wish I’d’ve told you a long time ago. Back when I figured out I could trust you. Back when I realized that you and I-about the two most unlikely nerds in the world-were going to be friends. I’m damn sorry about that, Marion.”
I said, “From one nerd to another, we all make mistakes. I’ve got scars from dealing with my scars.” I studied his face evenly for a moment before adding, “But that doesn’t mean everything can be forgiven. Some mistakes, there’s no statute of limitations.”
I waited through his long, thoughtful silence, then watched him stand a little straighter before he said, “I know that. I realize the risk. Even so, there’s something I need to tell you-”
Listening, I turned, glanced at the computer screen… and then did a quick double-take before interrupting, “ Whoa. Hold it right there,” stopping Tomlinson in midsentence.
I was holding up a warning index finger, my eyes fixed on the screen again as I added, “If you’ve waited this long, it can wait a little longer. There’s an e-mail here from Lake. I’ve got an e-mail from my son.”
TWENTY-ONE
There was an old, blind, black carney who lived in the trailer park, and who owned a utility van that had once been a phone truck. He’d bought it so neighbors could drive him places when he needed to go. Lourdes used the van to get around Tampa, and the old carney stayed with the boy when he was away.
On Sunday afternoon, Prax had driven through Tampa, then across the bridge onto exclusive Davis Island, where Tampa General Hospital was located. It was a huge complex, eight stories or so high, a pink-looking color, with helicopter pads and a multistory parking garage. The hospital was right there by the water, and within easy jogging distance of lots of older, classy-looking million-dollar homes.
He’d spent some time driving the streets, getting to know the area in daylight so he’d be comfortable there at night, looking at the mansions set back on shady lawns, all the rich assholes probably out playing golf or tennis or some other bullshit game.
On Monday, he’d come to the same area, but in the 22-foot Boston Whaler Outrage he’d bought for cash and kept at a marina on the Alafia River, which was just down the road from his trailer. Nice boat with twin 150-HP Yamahas, and the bastard could fly.
He’d cruised back and forth by the hospital, then cruised the canals looking at the mansions again, wondering which one was owned by his e-mail pal, Dr. Valerie. He kept his face covered with a bandana-not unusual for fishermen with skin cancers in Florida.
That was the afternoon he was pretty sure he spotted her. Her e-mails hadn’t given him any information about where she lived or her personal life, but she’d mentioned a couple times that she was close enough to the hospital to jog to and from work. So Prax had idled around the car bridges pretending to fish when, a little after sunset, there she was: a fit-looking, middle-age woman in fancy turquoise and black running tights, wearing a pink visor. She came jogging out from what seemed to be the back of the hospital, across the parking lot, then took a left toward the island’s cozy little business district.
She looked smaller than he had imagined her to be. In fact, Dr. Valerie looked tiny. It was weird how fame always seemed to make people look smaller in real life.
Prax had gotten the boat up on plane, trying to follow along in the general direction. The last he saw her, she’d turned down what he found out was Magnolia Street, which led to a handful of the island’s largest homes, all right there on the waterfront.
He was pleased. That narrowed things down.
HE spent Wednesday in a rental boat, charging around Miami Beach. Now, on Thursday afternoon, he drove the van once again, but this time straight to the hospital and parked in the parking garage, third level. He had his face expertly wrapped with gauze bandages, one of his hands, too, and he was wearing a green hospital gown over his shorts and T-shirt, as if he were a patient.
Screw it, if someone stopped him, asked him any questions, he’d just say he was a burn victim who wanted to take his own private tour of Tampa General’s famous burn center.
What’s the worst they could do?
He entered the hospital’s East Pavilion wing, walking through the bricked patio-people were eating at the outdoor tables there, blackbirds whistling above them in a tree. It seemed more like a modern shopping center-Christ, there was even a McDonald’s, along with other kinds of shops and crap.
Inside, he found a directory on the wall, then took the elevator to the sixth floor. He stepped out into a wide, well-lighted hallway to see a black sign with white lettering
that read: WELCOME TO TAMPA GENERAL REGIONAL BURN CENTER.
Visiting hours were listed below, followed by: BURN ICU VISITORS MUST CALL BEFORE ENTERING.
Prax decided to try and get into the ICU area anyway, just to see how far he could take it.
He did, too-but only long enough to take a quick look. He saw the nurses’ station-counter and walls done in blue pastels-with staff sitting and standing, talking or hurrying past, everyone wearing surgical scrubs and sometimes plastic, elastic hair coverings. Behind the counter, above a computer monitor, was a glass case filled with personal photographs: sons and daughters and grandbabies.
It gave the place a personal touch that made Lourdes oddly uneasy.
Beside and behind the nurses’ station, in a separate but open room, was one of the things he’d come hoping to find. It was an entire wall of medicines and medical supplies, everything stored in tall metal lockers, on shelves faced with glass so that you could see what was inside.
Prax realized that he didn’t have a chance in hell of getting into the room unnoticed and stealing the drugs he wanted. Even if he pulled the fire alarm and caused a panic, there were too many security people roaming around.
A disappointment.
Something that didn’t disappoint, though, was the surgical schedule he found on a clipboard that was hanging on a wall. This was down the hall, near a far less busy Nurses’ Station C3.
He read: Thursday: Dr. Santos, 2000 hrs, Operating Room II.
He scanned down to read also: Thursday: Dr. Santos, 1400 hrs, Operating Room II.
So maybe the famous lady was in the hospital right now, working her magic?
He followed the signs until he was outside the double doors of Operating Room II, looking at signs that warned he could not pass through the electronic doors without being scrubbed.
Coming through those doors, from inside the room, he could hear music playing. Loud music. Some kind of opera-sounding stuff, which always sounded like make-believe tragedy to him and which he hated. But maybe someone famous and sophisticated like Dr. Valerie would like opera.
So maybe she was in there. Judging from the schedule, it looked like she’d be in the same operating room that night, too, working late. Would probably have to jog home alone in the dark.
He wondered if she’d take a break, go home between surgeries, or just stick around the hospital.
Prax returned to his van, drove to the little business district, and waited. At 4:15 P.M., Dr. Valerie jogged by; waved to people eating at outdoor tables, a big smile on her pretty face. Seemed to know everyone.