Part 21 (2/2)

I got up and joined Wyatt in front of the window outside the room. Kevin was standing over Crawford, who was s.h.i.+rtless and had oxygen tubes up his nose and a jumble of tubes going into his right arm. A thin white sheet was pulled up to his waist, and the wound was covered in a thick pad of gauze that was taped down. He was unconscious. Kevin leaned over, his lips moving, and put his thumb into a small, open canister of holy chrism. He put his thumb to Crawford's forehead and drew a small cross as he performed the anointing of the sick.

Wyatt turned to me. ”She said you can go in. For five minutes. That's it. Got it?”

”I get it.”

”No lap dances.”

”You're an a.s.shole, you know that?” I asked him. It figured he would pick today to be funny and personable, but I wasn't in the mood.

He smiled. ”I know. I work really hard at it.”

Kevin finished up and put everything back into his leather bag. ”I'm done, Detective. If you need me, please call me.” He looked at me. ”Same for you.” He put his arms around me and kissed me on the forehead.

Wyatt held his hand out, showing me the way to the door. ”Five minutes.”

”He's unconscious, Detective. I don't think I need that long.”

”You're welcome, Your p.i.s.siness.”

I went into the room and stood at the foot of the bed. A nurse tucked the sheet in tight around his body and picked up his limp wrist, holding her finger against it while looking at her watch. ”Wife?” she asked.

I shook my head. ”Friend.”

She dropped his wrist and went to the bottom of the bed to take the chart off the hook on the bed frame. She noted his vital statistics. ”Five minutes,” she said.

”Do you think he'll recover?” I asked.

”Don't know,” she said noncommittally. ”The first twenty-four hours after an injury like this and surgery are really critical.”

”So I've heard,” I whispered.

She surprised me and put her hand on my shoulder before she left. ”He's got kids,” she said. ”Clean up before they get here. I'll give you scrubs.”

I nodded to her back; she was already out of the room before I understood what she meant. I turned back to the bed.

His skin had a ghostly pallor except for the ring of yellow around his shoulder and chest. I turned and looked out the window of the room, but Wyatt had turned his back to the room. I inched closer to the top of the bed. I put my hand on his forehead; it was hot to the touch. His eyelids fluttered slightly, but his eyes didn't open. I wondered if I would ever see his eyes open again.

I leaned over, kissed his cheek, and laid a hand on his hair. ”I'll see you later. I'm going for a ride in a cruiser.” No response. ”You were right about one thing: they do cut your pants off.”

I thought I saw his eyes move slightly under his closed lids, but they never opened.

”But I protected you from the emergency tracheotomy.”

I moved my hand to his cheek and kept it there, leaning down to kiss him after a few minutes.

I left the room; Wyatt was a few feet down the hall talking to Max. Like the little doctor, she had her neck craned at an uncomfortable angle, staring up at him. They both stopped talking when I joined them.

”I'm ready to go.”

Max took my hand and interlaced her fingers into mine.

Wyatt looked down at her and then at me. ”I'll call you if anything . . .” He paused. ”. . . changes.”

I nodded and took Max's hand, walking past the sober-faced cops cl.u.s.tered in front of the elevator. We got on and she pushed G to get us to the ground floor.

”I'm so sorry, Alison,” she said, and put her arm around my waist, pulling me close. ”He's going to be fine.”

”I hope so, Max.”

”Those big Irish ones have good genes. You can't take them out that easily.”

”And you would know this how?” I asked, running a finger under each eye to wipe away runny makeup.

”He didn't come into your life to leave this quickly.”

I hoped she was right.

Twenty-five.

The phone rang off the hook most of the day, but no calls from Wyatt. Sister Mary, the Journal News, the Daily News, Max, the president of the college. Kevin McMa.n.u.s. Not a word from Ray.

After going through the day in a semistupor, I decided to take off my clothes and get back into bed at four in the afternoon, wearing only my underpants and the huge NYPD T-s.h.i.+rt that Crawford had given me. I held the bottom of it to my nose, hoping for a whiff of the clean-laundry scent, but all I could smell was eau de cranky cop. I drifted off into a restless unconsciousness and was awakened at six in the evening by the ringing of the phone next to my bed. I picked it up, groggy and still mostly asleep.

It was Wyatt. ”He's awake.”

My breath caught in my throat.

”But he's got a hundred and three temperature, so he's isolated. He wanted me to call you.”

I started crying. ”Thank you, Detective.”

”Call me Fred,” he said.

I used Max's line. ”Is that your name or just what you want me to call you?”

”Has anyone ever told you what a funny lady you are?”

I wiped my nose on his T-s.h.i.+rt and thought for a moment. ”As a matter of fact, yes.”

”They've got visitation restricted to immediate family, but when you get to the main admissions area, tell them that Dr. Chin has given you clearance.”

”Thank you, Fred,” I said. He paused for a moment, and I didn't know whether or not we were done. ”Fred?”

He let out a breath. I waited. ”Bye,” he finally said, and hung up.

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