the man who shot up the service station this morning was carrying
cocaine and PCP in his pockets. If he was using both drugs
simultaneously … well, that’s psycho soup for sure.”
“Like nuking your own brain, for God’s sake,” Delaney said
disgustedly.
Heather knew they were genuinely frustrated and angry, but she also
suspected they were delaying the bad news. To the surgeon, she said,
“He came through without brain damage. You were worried about that,
but he came through.”
“He’s not aphasic,” Procnow said. “He can speak, read, spell, do basic
math in his head. Mental faculties appear intact.”
“Which means there’s not likely to be any brain-related physical
incapacity, either,” Walter Delaney said, “but it’ll be at least a day
or two before we can be sure of that.”
Emil Procnow ran one slender hand through his curly black hair. “He’s
coming through this really well, Mrs. Mcgarvey. He really is.”
“But?” she said.
The physicians glanced at each other.
“Right now,” Delaney said, “there’s paralysis in both legs.”
“From the waist down,” Procnow said.
“Upper body?” she asked.
“That’s fine,” Delaney assured her. “Full function.”
“In the morning,” Procnow said, “we’ll look again for a spinal
fracture. If we find it, then we make up a plaster bed, line it with
felt, immobilize Jack from below the neck all the way past the filum
terminale, below the buttocks, and put his legs in traction.”
“But he’ll walk again?”
“Almost certainly.”
She looked from Procnow to Delaney to Procnow again, waiting for the
rest of it, and then she said, “That’s all?”
The doctors exchanged a glance again.
Delaney said, “Heather, I’m not sure you understand what lies ahead for
Jack and for you.”
“Tell me.”
“He’ll be in a body cast between three and four months. By the time
the cast comes off, he’ll have severe muscle atrophy from the waist
down. He won’t have the strength to walk. In fact, his body will have
forgotten how to walk, so he’ll undergo weeks of physical therapy in a
rehab hospital. It’s going to be more frustrating and painful than
anything most of us will ever have to face.”
“That’s it?” she asked.
Procnow said, “That’s more than enough.”
“But it could have been so much worse,” she reminded them.
Alone with Jack again, she put down the side railing on the bed and
smoothed his damp hair back from his forehead.
“You look beautiful,” he said, his voice still weak and soft.
“Liar.”
“Beautiful”
“I look like shit.”
He smiled. “Just before I blacked out, I wondered if I’d ever see you
again.”
“Can’t get rid of me that easy.”
“Have to actually die, huh?”
“Even that wouldn’t work. I’d find you wherever you went.”
“I love you, Heather.”
“I love you,” she said, “more than life.”
Heat rose in her eyes, but she was determined not to cry in front of
him. Positive thinking. Keep the spirits up.
-His eyelids fluttered, and he said, “I’m so tired.”
“Can’t imagine why.”
He smiled again. “Hard day at work.”
“Yeah? I thought you cops didn’t do anything all day except sit around
in doughnut shops, chowing down, and collect protection money from drug
dealers.”
“Sometimes we beat up innocent citizens.”
“Well, yeah, that can be tiring.”
His eyes had closed.
She kept smoothing his hair. His hands were still concealed by the
sleeves of the restraining jacket, and she wanted desperately to keep
touching him.
Suddenly his eyes popped open, and he said, “Luther’s dead?”
She hesitated. “Yes.”
“I thought so, but . . . I hoped …”
“You saved the woman, Mrs. Arkadian.”
“That’s something.”
His eyelids fluttered again, drooped heavily, and she said, “You better
rest, babe.”
“You seen Alma?” That was Alma Bryson, Luther’s wife. “Not yet,
babe.
I’ve been sort of tied up here, you know.”
“Go see her,” he whispered. “I will.”
“Now. I’m okay. She’s the one … needs you.”
“All right.”
“So tired,” he said, and slipped into sleep again.
The support group in the I.C.U lounge numbered three when Heather left
Jack for the evening–two uniformed officers whose names she didn’t
know and Gina Tendero, the wife of another officer. They were elated
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