Dead and Gone

“No question about it. I’ve seen it a hundred times.”

“Thank you,” I said. Meaning it.

He said “Sure,” and walked out, waving his hand to hide his face. But I’d already seen the tears. He had a good heart, that kid. But he was a lousy liar.

The floor outside my room was a rectangle, with a nurses’ station near each end and a bank of elevators in the middle. A full lap around the perimeter took me almost an hour the first time I tried it. Now I could do a couple of dozen without stopping to get my breath. I’d been off the morphine for ten days, but I’d kept the billing computer happy. And anybody watching wouldn’t see I was disconnected. I moved slow, taking my laps. Just like on the Yard—eyes down, but always watching.

If cops were watching the door to my room, I couldn’t see them. Or any of those little dots that tip you to a minicam.

But I couldn’t see what was at the bottom of the elevator’s ride, either. And I couldn’t leave the floor to find out.

There had to be a reason why none of my people had come. The cops had all their faces, but Michelle had gotten through once. Why …? Sure! That was before the cops made their move on me, before the whole private-room game. That had to be it.

Maybe the cops had some patience of their own, figuring they could outwait my people.

No matter how I played it out, it came up NFG all the way. No Fucking Good. If my people came for me, the vise would close. And if they didn’t … Ah, no use in thinking about that. They would. They were waiting, but they wouldn’t wait forever.

Well, fuck that: the State had made me into a lot of things during my life, but it wasn’t going to turn me into a goddamn Judas goat.

“Where are my clothes?” I asked Rich when he came on duty.

“Your clothes?”

“I must have clothes. I mean, I was driving in the car before it … happened. I must have been dressed, right?”

“Oh. I see what you mean. They’re probably right over here in the closet.…”

The “closet” was a free-standing wardrobe. Rich opened the door. Turned to me with a puzzled expression. “There’s nothing here,” he said. “Give me a few minutes, I’ll see if I can find out where they put your stuff.”

I already knew where it was—in a forensics lab being vacuumed for evidence to help them put me back where they knew I belonged. Or in an NYPD evidence locker, waiting to nail the coffin they were building for me. But I kept my face blank and confused, watching him leave.

It took him about an hour to return. “Apparently, there’s some sort of rules for a person who was … assaulted. The police—”

“But what do I do?” I asked him, depression leadening my voice. “I have to get dressed sometime, don’t I? I mean, if I’m ever going to get better? So I can find my —”

“Of course you do,” he said. He was trying to be soothing, but I could feel the anger beneath the surface. He was in the right profession, caring for other people. I wondered how long he’d last, working next to people who didn’t.

“This … thing,” I said, plucking at the hospital gown. “It’s embarrassing to walk around in. Even if I just had a pair of pants, I could maybe …”

“I’ll find you something,” he said.

The next night, Rich gave me two pairs of light-green, bleached-out pants with a drawstring instead of belt loops. I knew where they must have come from. When I told him I didn’t know how to thank him, I was telling the truth.

About one in the morning, the hospital floor was nearly as dead as some of its patients. I started my walk. A janitor with a huge square bucket on wheels stuffed with spray bottles of cleanser shuffled past, not looking up. The nurses’ station nearest my end was quiet—only two of them, absorbed in conversation. One glanced my way for a second. Curiosity, not concern.

After all those weeks of shuffling by, I had every room in the corridor catalogued. I knew what I needed, but it was still a crapshoot. I was completely unconnected from the machines by then, but I still pulled the morphine pump along with me. You’d have to be real close to see the tubes were loose and dangling under my hospital gown.

I told myself, if it didn’t work tonight, then tomorrow night. No panic. Breathed slow, through my nose, shallow and steady.

The first room I wanted was a four-patient unit. I slipped inside. Machines made their noises. Somebody was asleep, breathing through an oxygen mask. I parted the curtain, found the call button for the nurses’ station, and hit it a couple of times. Then I stepped to the door, looked back. All clear.

I moved again, quick now, all the way around to the other side of the corridor, shielded by the bank of elevators. Found the other room I wanted. A private room. Young man inside. Life-support systems kept him from crossing over. The room was empty, but his closet wasn’t. I grabbed a red pullover, a denim jacket, and a pair of fancy basketball sneakers. Stepped over to his door. Peeked out. It was as empty as before. Maybe one of the nurses had responded to the call button, maybe not. I was betting they’d take their time, the way they always had with me.

I walked to the staff elevator, still dragging the morphine pump, the stolen stuff bundled under my other arm. Hit the switch. Heard the motors engage. Waited.

The car was empty. I stepped inside, hit the button for the first floor, shoved the morphine machine into the far corner and draped the hospital gown over it. Then I stepped into the sneakers, slipped on the pullover, and put my arms into the denim jacket.

When the doors opened on the first floor, there were a lot of people moving around. A pair of interns brushed past me, impatient to get somewhere. But no cops—if they were on watch, they’d be on the other side, at the visitors’ entrance.