“Because he experienced major trauma to his neurological system. And we don’t know what the effects are. We just have to wait.”
“But how long?”
“It may take another few days before he comes out of it. But so far he’s not responded to commands or to stimuli. But that’s not unusual given the trauma.”
“How long will he have to have the ventilator?”
“Until we’re certain he can breathe on his own.”
The moment was interrupted by a call on the telephone, and Nurse Maffeo took it. “There’s a Vince Hammond who wants to visit.”
Beth nodded in relief. “He’s a friend.”
A minute later he walked into the room. Vince Hammond was a big man, about six-one with an athletic frame from years of working out at gyms with Jack. But as he laid eyes on Jack, he seemed to shrink in on himself. “Jesus!” he whispered, his eyes filling up. “What’s the prognosis?”
Dr. Heller repeated what she had told Beth. “In a few days the swelling will go down and the sores will begin to fade.”
Vince shook his head in disbelief that this was his old pal and partner who in less than a month was supposed to be popping champagne at the grand opening of Yesterdays. “How long do you expect him to remain unconscious?”
“As I explained to Mrs. Koryan, it’s hard to tell. With cases of coma caused by a near-drowning or toxic shock, there is a seventy-two-hour window in which we begin to see responses to stimuli. We’re keeping a close watch.” Heller checked her watch.
“Uh-huh,” Vince said, and put his arm around Beth’s shoulder.
Beth nodded in autoreflex to the doctor. But the word “coma” cracked through her mind like an electric arc.
THE CAFETERIA AT MASS GENERAL WAS located three floors below. It was midafternoon, and the place had only a few people scattered at the tables. Vince and Beth took a small table along the back wall.
“I’m scared,” Beth said, putting her hand out to Vince. He took it in both of his. And it occurred to her that the last time they had held hands like this was when Vince came to their house to announce that he and Veronica were separating. Now it was Jack near death.
“Of course you are. Me, too. What the hell was he doing out there?”
“The anniversary of his mother’s death. You believe that? Thirty years ago she gets lost in a boat accident, and he goes out there to commemorate it.” She shook her head. “He’s got this thing about his mother. He doesn’t even remember her, for God’s sake. It was stupid, going out there alone with a storm coming. Now he’s in a coma.”
“He could still wake up any time now. The doctor said so herself.”
“But what if he doesn’t? What am I going to do? And what about you and the restaurant? I don’t believe this is happening.” She began to cry again.
He squeezed her hand. “Come on, come on, hang in there.”
“It’s my fault he went. We had a fight, a dumb fight. Ever since I lost the baby, he convinced himself we weren’t going to have kids, that he’d never be a father. That got to him, because he wanted a big family. I don’t know.”
Vince nodded and let her continue.
“He wanted me to go out there with him, but I didn’t want to. So he got mad and went off in a huff.” She wiped her eyes. “Jellyfish. You believe it?”
“Did you talk about adoption?”
“He wasn’t interested. The thing is that we had other problems. Things weren’t right between us … I was thinking of leaving him.”
“Maybe we should change the subject.”
“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. It’s just if he doesn’t make it, I never get to say I’m sorry.”
“He’s going to make it. And when he does, you can say you’re sorry all you want.”
She looked at Vince and nodded, struggling against dark sensations roiling just beneath the surface— sensations that she wanted so much to get out. But she couldn’t. Nor could she find the right words. And she hated herself. Besides, how could Vince understand when she herself didn’t—that when the doctors told her that Jack might not make it, her immediate reaction was relief?
5
IT WAS A LITTLE AFTER EIGHT on Saturday morning when the drilling ring of the doorbell startled Rene awake. Silky, her black-and-white cat, curled around her feet as Rene padded to the window. In her driveway was a Cobbsville, N.H., police car.
She threw on a bathrobe, made a fast gargle of mouthwash, and went down to the front door. A large man of about forty smiled and introduced himself as Officer Steven Menard of the Manchester P.D., Homicide Division. He was dressed in a navy blue sportcoat over a blue work shirt and chinos. “Rene Ballard?”
“Yes.”
He flashed his badge. “Sorry to bother you, but we’re investigating the murder of Edward Zuchowsky at the CVS yesterday. Are you familiar with the case?”
“No. What’s the name?”
“Edward Zuchowsky.”
“I’m sorry, but I’ve never heard of him.”
“Okay, but I’m wondering if I can come in to ask you a few questions.”
“Oh, of course.” Rene opened the door and Silky dashed out as the officer entered. She led him into the living room, where Menard settled on the couch.
From a folder he handed her an enlarged photograph of a man smiling and holding a pool stick in what looked like a basement rec room. “Edward Zuchowsky. He was assistant manager of the Cobbsville CVS.”
Rene studied the picture and shook her head. “Sorry, but I don’t recognize him.”
The officer nodded and returned the photo to the folder. “Okay, then does the name Clara Devine mean anything to you?”
“Clara Devine?” For the last two months Rene had been working as a consulting pharmacist who monitored the medication of nearly six hundred nursing home patients in facilities throughout southern New Hamsphire and eastern Massachusetts. At the present time most were still names attached to folders. The officer showed her the woman’s photograph—a wide-faced elderly woman with flat dark eyes.
He checked his clipboard. “She was living at the Broadview Nursing Home.”
“That’s one of my homes.” Clara Devine. The name did not register in Rene’s memory. “I’ll have to check my records. I’m still new at this.” She made a nervous smile, embarrassed that she couldn’t place a patient’s name. “Is there a problem?”
“She’s been arrested for Mr. Zuchowsky’s murder.”
“What?”
“She stabbed him in the neck with a pair of scissors at the CVS on Everett.”
“My God, that’s terrible. Are you sure it’s the same woman? I mean, nearly all of my patients are elderly and suffering from dementia.”
“There were several witnesses, plus, she was caught on security cameras.”
“That’s incredible.” Rene got up and got her laptop from the other room. In it were the medical records, bios, and pharmaceutical charts on her patients. She set the machine up on a table and began a search. “I’m very sorry about the young man, but I find it hard to believe that someone like her could have done this.” She scrolled her files.
“You’re not alone. So what’s your professional connection to Broadview?”
