The Hornet’s Nest. Patricia Cornwell

He did not think complete thoughts, but rather in shards of memories and feelings

unexpressed that might have formed a meaningful composite had he been able to

articulate them. But he was weak and sedated and intubated. During rare lucid flickers

during days he could not measure, when he might have given Hammer enough to

interpret his intentions, the pain pinned him to the bed. It always won. He would stare

through tears at the only woman he had ever loved.

Seth was so tired. He was so sorry. He’d had time to think about it.

I’m sorry, Judy. I couldn’t help any of it ever since you’ve known me.

Read my mind, Judy. I can’t tell you. I’m so worn out. They keep cutting on me and I

don’t know what’s left. I punished you because I couldn’t reward you. I have figured that

out too late. I wanted you to take care of me. Now look. Whose fault is it, after all? Not

yours. I wish you would hold my hand.

Hammer sat in the same chair and watched her husband of twenty-six years. His hands

were tethered to his sides so he would not pull out the tube in his trachea. He was on his

side, his color deceivingly good and not due to anything he was doing for himself, but to

oxygen, and she found this ironically typical. Seth had been drawn to her because of her

strength and independence, then had hated her for the way she was. She wanted to take

his hand, but he was so fragile and inflexible and trussed up by tubes and straps and

dressings.

Hammer leaned close and rested her hand on his forearm as his dull eyes blinked and

stared and looked sleepy and watery. She was certain that at a subconscious level he

knew she was here. Beyond that, it was improbable much registered. Scalpels and

bacteria had ravaged his buttocks and now were file ting and rotting his abdomen and

thighs. The stench was awful, but Hammer did not really notice it anymore.

WA Mrs. Brazil barely opened her eyes. She managed to sit up an inch, thinking she

heard something. A choir in blue with gold stoles praised God. Maybe that was the

noise. She reached for her glass, and it shook violently as she finished what she had

started the night before. Mrs. Brazil fell back into old sour couch cushions, the magic

potion heating blood, carrying her away to that place nowhere special. She drank again,

realizing she was low on fuel with nothing open but the Quick Mart. After noon, she

could get beer or wine, she supposed.

Where was Andy? Had he been in and out while she was resting?

Night came, and West stayed home and did not want to be with anyone.

Her chest was tight and she could not sit long in any one spot or concentrate. Raines called several times, and when she heard his voice on the machine, she did not pick up.

Brazil had vanished, it seemed, and West could focus on little else. This was crazy. She

knew he wouldn’t do anything stupid. But she was revisited by the horrors she had

worked in her career.

She had seen the drug overdoses, the gunshot suicides not discovered until hunters

returned to the woods. She conjured up images of cars covered by the clandestine waters

of lakes and rivers until spring thaws or hard rains dislodged those who had chosen not to

live.

tw Even Hammer, with all her problems and preoccupations, had contacted West several

times, voicing concern about their young, at-large volunteer. Hammer’s weekend, so far,

had been spent at SICU, and she had sent for her sons as their father settled deeper into

the valley of shadows. Seth’s eyes stared dully at his wife when she entered his room.

He did not speak.

He did not think complete thoughts, but rather in shards of memories and feelings

unexpressed that might have formed a meaningful composite had he been able to

articulate them. But he was weak and sedated and intubated. During rare lucid flickers

during days he could not measure, when he might have given Hammer enough to