The nurse picked up my tray and smiled her nurse's smile. "At least your appetite is healthy."
I eyed Benedict. "Just like Mom used to steam."
The nurse left, and I made Herb get me my clothes.
"You're not leaving."
"I'm leaving. I hate being coddled. I'm a grown woman, and I can fend for myself. Now help me put on my pants."
After ten minutes of sweating, grunting pain, I managed to get changed into the clothes Herb had brought me the night before. I was even able to tie my own shoes without ripping my stitches.
"There's a media circus waiting outside the front entrance for you to come out," Herb said. "Should we find a back way?"
"Hell, no. Our man isn't making any mistakes, but maybe if I piss him off enough, he will."
"So -- you're going to anger the psycho?"
"Not at all." I called the surveillance team and told them I was getting out of there. "I'm simply going to give an honest, bare-bones interview."
After fighting with two doctors and four nurses, I was finally discharged against hospital recommendation and had to sign a paper absolving them of responsibility if I died after stepping off their property. Then I ran a brush through my hair, wiped the crud from my eyes, grabbed my aluminum hospital cane, and went to meet the press.
Benedict hadn't been exaggerating about the media circus. At least two dozen reporters were hanging around outside the hospital entrance, all waiting around for the off chance that I'd appear. I'd had big cases before, and had been on TV. At first I was impressed. But then I saw myself on the tube, which added twenty pounds, made me look short, and somehow distorted my fine speaking voice into something squeaky.
"I have some things to say, and then afterward I can answer a few questions," I told the crowd, giving them a chance to switch on their cameras and focus. "First of all, I was shot by the criminal that the press is calling the Gingerbread Man. He'd broken into my apartment last night. As you can see, my injury isn't serious. He couldn't aim the gun properly, because he was hysterical, crying for his mama."
Herb gave me a slight nudge in the ribs, but I was just warming up.
"Besides the obvious emotional problems, the killer is also very stupid. The only reason we haven't caught him yet is because he's been lucky, and because he's a coward who runs away when confronted. I fully expect that with the combined efforts of the Chicago Police Department and the FBI, we should have him in custody soon. Now I'll take questions."
The questioning went well. When it was over I'd also called the killer a bed-wetter, said he was impotent, and predicted that when we found him, he'd probably be picking his nose. I explained I felt no anger toward his attack on me; rather I felt sorry for him, like a sick dog. When asked if I was afraid of him going after me, I laughed and said he would be too scared to make another attempt.
At that point my cellular phone began to ring, and I had a pretty good idea who it was. I excused myself from further questions and walked away from the crowd before answering.
"Daniels."
"Why didn't you clear this with me before broadcasting live on five channels?"
Captain Bains.
"I was live? Did I sound squeaky?"
"You sounded like you're provoking him. Dime-store psychology is not the way to run a headline case."
"You left me in charge, Captain. This is how I want to run it."
"And when this guy kills a dozen people because he's mad you called him a mama's boy, how do you figure we'll still be employed after the lawsuits come rolling in?"
"I'm provoking him to come after me. The only one I put in danger is myself."
"And what if you don't catch him? You just promised the city you'll have him in custody soon."
"I'll catch him."
"If you don't, it's your ass."
He hung up. That was two conversations with Bains in two days. Maybe now was a good time to ask for a raise.
"Jack..." Herb caught up to me. The reporters had snagged him for a few questions after I'd jetted out. "You sure poked your stick at the hornets' nest back there."
"Hopefully the hornet will come out. Can you do a crippled girl a favor?"
"Sure. You bought dinner."
"See my tail?" I nodded in the direction of the two plainclothes cops, following our path twenty feet behind us. "If they were any closer they'd be wearing my clothes. Ask them to loosen up."
"You got it."
Benedict waddled up to them, giving a mini lecture on the art of being inconspicuous. I gave them a big smile and a thumbs-up to smooth it over. Don't want to anger the guys guarding your life.
Herb drove me home, first stopping at the Salvation Army on my request, where I wanted to replace my antiseptic aluminum hospital cane with something more distinguished. I found a polished piece of hickory that fit the description.
"Very distinguished," Benedict commented.
"We ladies of good breeding demand nothing less than the best. Lend me fifty cents so I can buy it."
He forked over some pocket change and then insisted on seeing me into my apartment.
"If you're looking for a good-night kiss, I'll whack you with my cane."
"Just want to make sure you can work your burglar alarm okay."
"Since when did a bullet wound make a person feeble-minded?"
I couldn't work the burglar alarm, so Herb had to show me.
"You press the green button first, then the code."
"Thanks. Want a drink?"
"Can't. It's Sunday."
I waited for more.
"Lasagna night," Benedict explained. "Got to get home."
"See you tomorrow, Herb. Thanks again."
"Get some rest, Jack."
He left me to my empty, quiet apartment. The lab team had taken half of my possessions, including the phone, which saved me from having to take it off the hook. The free press has no qualms about around-the-clock harassment.
My leg was throbbing as if it had its own heart. I limped into the bedroom to get undressed and froze stock-still.
Dread crawled over my body.
My blood was still on the mattress. The bullet holes were still in the wall. The closet door was closed, and I had an unrealistic fear that the Gingerbread Man was still hiding in there. It was silly and stupid, but a fear nonetheless.
I forced myself to open the closet, and left it open. Then I gathered up every bit of clothing that was in the closet and arranged for dry cleaning. I had no desire to wear anything that might have touched him.
Afterward I took four Tylenol, grabbed my blanket, and went to go sleep in my rocking chair.
Well, attempted to.
The apartment was too quiet. So quiet that I could hear myself breathe. So quiet that when a car honked outside, I almost wet my pants.
I turned on all the lights and flipped on the TV to keep me company. The Max Trainter Show was on -- local talk soup at its basest level. Whereas other shows relied on melodrama to keep the viewer interested, Trainter went for shock value and violent confrontation. Six bouncers were on the set at all times, necessary to keep the guests from beating one another silly. Which they did, several times a show.
I tried to relax, losing myself in the wonderful drama of human nature. A white-trash couple confronted their daughter's lesbian lover. The lover fought back with a folding chair, which seemed as if it had been placed on stage for that very purpose. I counted four felonies and a dozen misdemeanors on screen before tiring of the show and switching it off.
When sleep finally came, it came with nightmares.
Chapter 22
THE PAIN WOKE ME UP. My leg had stiffened overnight, and I felt like a piece of twisted licorice from my big toe to my bottom. I admit to some less than heroic yelping as I got out of the chair and hobbled to the bathroom in search of drugs. I'd gotten a prescription for codeine at the hospital, but hadn't bothered to fill it, big tough girl that I am. Luckily I still had some of Don's medication from when he'd had his wisdom teeth pulled. Vicodin. I took two.
Showering was an awkward, painful affair that involved a garbage bag, duct tape, and more patience than I thought I had. When I was finally clean and dressed, an hour of my life was irretrievably gone.