The Dead Room

of money, sat on the passenger seat. If she carried the backpack the right way, she could hide the Glock behind it. Granted, it might get a little dicey – she wanted Reynolds outside his car, not in it. It would be much easier to take him down outside. She’d have more manoeuvrability if he decided to go for the gun.

Let him, she thought, feeling the tyre iron hidden beneath the left sleeve of her sweatshirt. One hit to the artery behind the ear and the blood would rush away from his brain and shut down his central nervous system. He’d go down fast.

And there was always the jaw. A good, swift crack would disrupt the fluid in his ear. He’d lose his balance and his knees would buckle. Win-win either way. And let’s not forget about the kneecaps.

Reynolds flicked his cigarette out of the window. He didn’t get out of the car, just sat behind the wheel smoking and staring out of the front window.

He smells a set-up, Jamie.

No, he doesn’t. If he did, he would be driving away.

Get out of here. Go home to the kids and –

Reynolds opened the door.

Mouth dry and heart beating faster, faster, she watched Reynolds step into the ashy light. He grabbed a pack of cigarettes from the front pocket of a short-sleeved black silk shirt. He wore it Tony Soprano-style – untucked to accommodate his ample gut. She couldn’t tell if he was packing.

He lit another cigarette and looked towards the woods behind the minivan.

Come on, quit stalling. Come on over and introduce yourself.

Here he was.

Reynolds’s high-topped sneakers crunched across the gravel. He paused in front of the minivan, smoking as he studied the person asleep behind the wheel.

Jamie didn’t move or turn her head. She watched him through her sunglasses, watched him staring. Her finger slid across the trigger as she waited for him to come and knock on the driver’s door. That would be the best play. Have him open the door and when he reached inside to wake up the driver she’d press the Glock against his stomach.

Reynolds walked back to the Taurus.

Opened the door.

Climbed behind the wheel.

Started the car and pulled into the car park.

Jamie’s breathing was steady and shallow as he pulled up in front of the minivan. She could hear the low rumble of his car engine over the air-conditioning, and she could see him staring at her.

Reynolds hit the gas, tyres spinning as he shot backwards out of the car park.

Jamie threw the door open. The papers spread across her lap blew away in the hot breeze and the tyre iron tucked underneath her sweatshirt sleeve slipped past her hand and hit the ground. She had the Glock up, ready to fire, but Reynolds was too far away, speeding towards the bridge, scattering crows from the trees.

43

Darby’s eyes fluttered open. She saw a steel bed railing and, beyond it, a wooden chair with maroon cushions bleached by sweat. She was lying in a hospital.

A clock hung on the wall at the foot of her bed. Half past six. Judging by the dim light filtering in through the blinds, she assumed it had to be morning.

She wondered how long she had been out.

She could wiggle her toes and hands. Good. She touched her face and felt thick bandages wrapped around the right side of her head. She didn’t feel any pain.

She remembered what had happened – another good sign. That wasn’t always the case with severe concussion or head trauma. Sometimes your short-term memory blacked out. She remembered seeing Coop talking to Pine when the house exploded. Splintered wood and debris –

Coop. Coop was standing near the house when it exploded.

Slowly she lifted her head. A bolt of pain that felt like a hot poker slammed into the centre of her brain. Her head dropped back against the pillow and she sucked in air through her gritted teeth to stem the vomit creeping up her throat.

A machine started beeping. A nurse came in and injected something into her IV line.

Darby was starting to drift away when she saw Artie Pine standing beside the bed. His torn shirt and thick, pale forearms were covered with soot and dried blood.

‘You’re going to be okay, McCormick, you’re just a little banged up. Thank God you inherited your old man’s thick Irish noggin.’

She wanted to ask him about Coop but couldn’t focus.

Coop’s okay, she told herself as she drifted off to sleep. Pine was standing next to Coop, so Coop’s okay. Banged up but okay.

The next time she opened her eyes, bright sunlight flooded the room. Squinting, she looked at the wall clock: 9.13 a.m.

She lifted her head again. No nausea but a new kind of pain, one that felt like nails were pressing against every square inch of her skull. Her stomach hitched and she lay back against the pillow.

The male doctor who came in to examine her looked as if he had just graduated from puberty. MASS. GENERAL HOSPITAL was stitched above the breast pocket of his white jacket. He shone a light in her eyes and started asking her questions.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Darby McCormick.’

‘And where do you live, Miss McCormick?’

‘Temple Street in Boston.’ Her voice felt raw and hoarse. ‘The month is August and I know the name of the president. Both my short- and long-term memory are fine.’

The doctor smiled. ‘They warned me you’d be a pain in the ass.’

‘They?’

‘Your friends waiting in the hall.’ He clicked off the pen light. ‘You’ve suffered a Grade Three concussion, but you’re not exhibiting the more dangerous symptoms – memory loss or vision impairment. The CT scan shows no brain trauma. Your face sustained several lacerations from glass. When you take off the bandages, you’re going to see jigsaws of sutures. They’ll heal in about three to four weeks. You shouldn’t have any scarring.’

‘I suffer from SIS.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Shitty Irish Skin,’ Darby said. ‘I’ll definitely have some scarring.’

The young doctor chuckled. ‘Well, we can correct that down the road, so don’t worry. Are you feeling up for visitors?’

‘Absolutely. When can I leave?’

‘Probably this afternoon,’ he said. ‘We shot you up with small doses of Demerol for pain management and to help you sleep. Do you feel nauseous?’

‘Oh, yes.’ Demerol never agreed with her stomach.

‘That should dissipate in a few hours,’ he said. ‘You’ll need someone to take you home. And you’ll need to –’

‘Stay off my feet, relax, don’t push myself, etcetera, etcetera.’

The doctor gave her instructions on how to clean the wounds and promised to write her a prescription for Percocet. After he left, Darby used the hospital phone to call MCI-Cedar Junction, got Superintendent Skinner on the phone and explained where she was and what had happened. Skinner said he could arrange the meeting with