Chapter 10

I hit the bed as soon as I got to the room, didn't even unpack enough to brush my teeth. And in less time than it takes to tell it I was gone. I hadn't slept much the past couple of days after Susan had left so abruptly, and then she'd cut the night before short by coming back—if you can call it that—and what with everything that had been happening I was seriously done in.

Just as I was going off I worried suddenly about what if the hospital needed to reach me. But then I thought they had my cell number, too, I'd given it to them as part of the packet of paperwork they'd had me fill out, so when they couldn't reach me at home they'd try that, too. At least I hoped so. And on that I slept.

It was nearly full dark again outside when I finally bestirred myself. It took me a minute or so to get oriented, I was at first confused by awaking in a strange setting. But in a moment the memory came trickling back to me, and I sat bolt upright.

"Susan?" I said hesitantly. First things first, was she still with me? Had she ever been, in fact?

"I'm here, lover," came her voice. "Take your time waking up, you slept a long time." She knew from experience that I got moving kind of slowly in the morning. Not that this was morning, but still...

I looked over at the clock hotels are kind enough to set on your bedside table. Jesus! Eight-thirty, the illuminated numerals said, which I knew had to be at night. I'd slept thirteen solid hours! It had to have been about the longest uninterrupted sleep I'd had since, well, since forever. I usually got by on about seven hours, less in a pinch if I didn't have to do it many days in a row.

And I had to pee, I realized, really bad. I snapped on the bedside lamp to augment the waning light that was seeping in the window, hustled myself into the john the oversolicitous bellhop had showed me, and let fly for a very long time. Finally I was done. I washed my hands, went back to the bedroom, opened my bag, took out my tooth stuff and got the sour taste of sleep out of my mouth. Then I splashed some water on my face, dried off and headed toward the phone on the desk.

"Gotta call the hospital," I explained as I walked.

She rattled off the phone number. "Dial '9' first, Larry," she said efficiently. I'd probably have forgot that, just as I'd forgotten the number.

"Thanks, dear," I told her as I dialed. When they answered I asked for ICU, and was transferred promptly. In a moment it was picked up. "I'm calling about Susan Malone," I told whoever it was.

"Do you have a passcode?" the man asked.

That was one of the contemporary innovations of our healthcare system. In an age when information is widespread and privacy increasingly hard to come by, the law has taken up cudgels for the latter and hospitals follow faithfully along. You had to prove you were authorized to receive information from a hospital or they wouldn't even acknowledge that a patient was there; and you did that by knowing a "secret word." Kind of a cross between the old Groucho Marx TV show—I'd seen it in oldies reruns—and the antics of kids safeguarding their hideaways against intruders.

"Rose," I said. They'd clued me in on the drill before I'd left, and I'd picked that one simply because I liked the flowers.

He had to look it up, of course, but in due course he evidently located it. "A moment please, I'll find her nurse," he told me. And a couple of minutes later a woman's voice announced herself as "Nurse Riley."

"You're Susan Malone's nurse?" I verified. When she allowed as how she was—either the guy had told her I'd passed the code word test or she was behind the times—I asked how her patient was doing.

"She's resting comfortably, sir," was the uninformative response.

"Can you tell me a little more than that?" I asked. "I mean, what's her condition, has she been awake at all, how's she tolerating the whatsis, you know, the thing to stabilize her pelvis, is she hurting, all that?"

"She's still in serious condition, sir, and she remains unconscious. She's in no pain. The external fixator is still in place."

Nurse Riley was not a believer in volunteering anything, it seemed. But it was at least somewhat reassuring. Still, one more thing—"Is her security on duty?" I asked.

"Security, sir?"

"The guys who are supposed to be there to see to her safety, to protect her," I clarified patiently.

"Umm..." There was a long pause, and I could hear some byplay in the background. In a minute another voice came on. "Who is this?" she asked peremptorily.

"I'm Larry Costain, Ms. Malone's fiancé," I said. "Who's this?"

That one went unanswered and there was some more muffled conversation. Finally the last voice was back. "Sir, I'm afraid that's all the information we're authorized to provide," she said.

I nodded to myself. "Thank you," I said, and hung up. It was OK, the bodyguards were there; if they hadn't been I'd have got a different response, confusion or a denial or something else. I was pleased that they were taking it this seriously; anybody could have told them he was me.