Sally started laughing, a low, hoarse, very ugly laugh.
Amabel was so startled that she didn’t say anything more. She went upstairs to pack the duffel bag.
Thirty minutes later, after four o’clock in the morning, Quinlan let Sally into his tower room.
“Thank you, James,” she said. “I’m so tired. Thank you for coming for me.”
He’d come for her, all right. He’d been off like a shot to get her. Damnation, why couldn’t anything turn out the way it was supposed to, the way he’d planned? He was in the middle of a puzzle, and all he had was scattered pieces that didn’t look like they would ever fit together. He put her to bed, tucked the covers around her, and without thinking about it, kissed her lightly on the mouth.
She didn’t respond, just looked up at him.
“Go to sleep,” he said, gently pushing her hair back from her face. He pulled the string on the bedside lamp. “We’ll work it all out. Just don’t worry anymore.”
That was a promise and a half. It scared the hell out of him.
“That’s what he said on the phone, that he was coming for me. Soon, he said, very soon. He didn’t lie, did he? He’s here, James.”
“Someone’s here. We’ll deal with it tomorrow. Go to sleep. I’m sure as hell here, and I won’t leave you alone, not anymore.”
She was usually alone. At the beginning some of the patients had tried to talk to her, in their way, but she’d turned away from them. It didn’t matter really, because most of the time her brain was fuzzy, so completely disconnected from anything she could identify either outside herself or inside that she was as good as lost in a deep cave. Or she was floating up in the ether. There was no reality here, no getting up at six in the morning to run up Exeter Street over to Concord Avenue, covering a good two miles, then run home, jump in the shower, and think about all she had to do that day while she washed her hair.
Senator Bainbridge went to the White House at least twice a week. Many times she was with him, keeping together all his notes for the topics to be discussed. It was easy for her to do that, since she’d written most of the notes and knew more than he did about his stands on his committee projects. She’d done so much, been involved in so many things-press releases, huddling with staff and the senator when a hot story broke and they tried to determine the best position for the senator to take.
There were always fund-raisers, press parties, embassy parties, political parties. So much, and she’d loved it, even when she would fall exhausted into bed.
At first Scott had told her how proud he was of her. He’d seemed excited to be invited to all the parties, to meet all the important players. At first.
Now she did nothing. Someone washed her hair twice a week. She scarcely noticed unless they let water run down her neck. She didn’t have any muscles anymore, even though someone took her for long walks every day, just like a dog. She’d wanted to run once, just run and feel the wind against her face, feel her face chapping, but they didn’t let her. After that they gave her more drugs so she wouldn’t want to run again.
And he came, at least twice a week, sometimes more. The nurses adored him, saying behind their hands how devoted he was. He would sit with her in the common room a few minutes, then take her hand and lead her back to her room. It was a stark white room with nothing in it to use in attempting suicide-nothing sharp, no belts.
He had furnished it for her, she’d heard once, with the advice of Dr. Beadermeyer. It was a metal bed covered with fake wood, fake so that it wouldn’t splinter so she could stick a fragment through her own heart. Not that such a thing would ever occur to her, but he talked about it and laughed, saying as he cupped her face in his hand that he would take care of her for a very long time.