Middle Of Nowhere

C H A P T E R

31

Shying from the obnoxiously bright light, Boldt rushed through the emergency room's automatic doors, met there by the on-call physician who had tended LaMoia's injuries. Daphne spoke to a nurse. Upon being informed of the assault, they had made the drive from SEATAC in just over ten minutes—roughly half the usual time, even in good traffic.

The doctor spoke breathlessly, also trying to keep up with the lieutenant. "Fluid in the right lung, bruised kidneys, contusions, partial concussion, fractured ribs, bruised coccyx. If I hadn't gotten the report from the officers who delivered him, I would have said he'd been hit by a vehicle from behind."

They stepped into the oversized elevator and the doctor hit a floor button. Boldt felt ready to explode. "So nothing permanent," he said. "Nothing disabling."

"A good deal of pain, a long convalescence, and he's back to normal," the doctor said. "The guy's got a hell of an attitude, Lieutenant. He's making jokes as we're wiring his jaw shut."

"His jaw?" Daphne said.

"Didn't I mention that?" the doctor asked as the elevator toned its arrival. "Broken mandible."

"Jesus," Boldt hissed.

Daphne reached out and squeezed his forearm in support. He turned to face her. "I'm the one who put him there," he wanted to say. He charged out of the elevator, and hurried toward room 511.

* * *

A powder blue blanket hid most of him. Lying flat on his back, without a pillow. A variety of monitors. A dozen bright yellow numbers, some flashing.

At first Boldt thought they had the wrong room because he didn't recognize the man lying there. Then he realized they had shaved LaMoia's mustache to deal with the cuts and abrasions, and to stitch up a spot where a tooth had come through his cheek. Boldt had to look away, he was so overcome with emotion.

Boldt didn't always deal well with his anger, and he was very angry now. A rational thinker, he tried to avoid anger altogether by compartmentalizing explanations and analyzing situations, though he frequently failed. LaMoia was too close a friend for Boldt to see him solely as a wounded sergeant. Boldt had connected Ragman to LaMoia—and from the sketchy details he had, Boldt believed himself responsible for the injuries.

"How long like this?" Daphne whispered to the doctor, but so that Boldt could overhear. She wanted to bookend this for Boldt, to show him it wasn't forever, to make it finite.

"The lung will keep him here for a day or two. We'll get him pretty healed up by then. He'll be home with just a couple bumps and bruises in no time. Six to eight weeks, it never happened."

"Try telling him that," Boldt said.

"Medically speaking," the doctor replied.

The body in the bed grunted, its bloodshot eyes open now and fixed on Boldt, who slowly made his way to the injured man's bedside. Boldt saw a familiar morbid humor in those eyes, and for some reason this made his anger all the more palpable. How dare LaMoia make light of this! How dare he try to forgive him— Boldt knew what that attempted humor was about.

"Flek?" Boldt asked.

The man's lips moved, but Boldt couldn't hear.

The doctor warned, "He shouldn't attempt to speak. Please. In the morning, maybe."

But LaMoia grunted, drawing Boldt's ear closer to his lips.

"Good drugs," the man whispered.

Boldt felt tears spring from his eyes. "Jesus, John, I'm sorry." He dragged his arm across his face, trying to hide his reaction.

LaMoia just grunted in response. The doctor pulled Boldt away and checked the monitors.

"It's rest for you," he said to LaMoia, addressing an I.V. pump and increasing the rate of flow. "And stop flirting with the nurses," he added.

"Never," LaMoia whispered, meeting eyes with Daphne, and trying to smile.

"Healthy as ever," Daphne said.