Some bit of electronics beeped louder, faster, in one of theother curtained alcoves, some other patient, and both nurses converged on it.They weren’t quite running, but I’veseen race-walkers who moved slower. One of them did something, the beeps slowedand quieted, and the whole room relaxed.
Looked like they didknow what they were doing.
“How soon can I get out of this dump?”
I jerked at the voice behind me. I swung the wheelchair back,give me enough practice and I might figure the contraption out. Her eyes wereopen.
“Jesus, Cash. If you give me a heart attack, you’ll have to call the doctors.” Nojoke, my heart pounded and I could feel the throb of my pulse from my templesall the way down to my toes. My leg didn’t like it.
“You have a heart attack, I’ll kill you. You have to last longenough to help me catch that bastard. And then long enough to raise someNef-babies. Three, maybe four.”
She was scaring me. “You’re supposed to wake up groggy,babbling your darkest secrets, wondering where the hell you are and whathappened. And maybe puking from the anesthetic. None of this instant-oncomputer crap.”
She blinked a few times. “I woke up before they rolled you inhere. Just didn’t have the energy for talk.”
Okay, that explained a few things. Like, why those quiet beepshadn’t changed with her coming out from under. Why the nurses weren’t hovering.
She blinked again and took a while just breathing. “You didn’tanswer my question. How soon can I get out of here? We’ve got work to do.”
I shook my head. “They haven’t told me. Days. No, weeks, I’dguess.”
“I vote for this afternoon. That bastard killed Becky and Rob.I want his ass. I want it bad and Iwant it now.”
I tripped over those names, then remembered the single mom inthe apartment down the hall from Nef, the toddler, the woman who thoughtparking next to a cop cruiser was safer. So Cash remembered the bomb. Where’s alittle traumatic amnesia when you need it?
“And what the hell happened to you?”
Oh, damn. She had toask. “Same thing. Bomb behind the gas tank. I’ve got less excuse. I knewsomething was there, and I got careless. Just a broken leg, bad landing when Ipracticed flying.”
“Idiot.”
I couldn’t argue with that.
We sat for a while, quiet enough that mumblings came throughfrom one of the other cubicles, one of the other patients talking to thin air.A nurse ambled over to check on that, casual, as if she was used to it.
“John?”
“Eh? Still here.”
“What do I have down at the end of my leg?”
Okay, there it was. “Last they told me, you have a foot. Bunchof steel pins and screws and stuff, permanent hardware, and God alone knowswhether you get to keep it. Crushing injuries, the doctors say those can betrouble. Bad trouble, damaged circulation, dead tissue and nerves and such.They seemed surprised that it wasn’t a lot worse. Something landed on you.”
“Yeah. Think it was the frigging differential and rear axle.Maybe the state should change over to front-wheel drive. Cut down on the staffinjuries.”
She nodded, barely moving her head, weak. No, she wasn’tgetting out of the hospital soon. “A foot. Good. I don’t have to kill anybody.They didn’t even want to frigging try.”
So much for her being irrational and incoherent — if she couldremember that . . .
Yeah, she was a witch. I wasn’t going to talk about that justnow, not with the nurses in hearing range.
And I hadn’t thought about her bomb. If the explosion threwstuff around like that, blew the whole rear end away — I’m no explosivesexpert, but it sounded like a bigger bomb than mine, placed differently. She’dhave approached it from the rear, like I had, but my blast had mostly focusedforward and away from me.
What the hell hadKratz been up to? This almost looked like he’d wanted me to survive and her todie. He’d have to have known I would shield before I triggered the bomb, hadn’thad a clue she even could.
Made no sense, no sense at all. I needed the forensicsreports, and I needed to have those bomb blasts analyzed by some explosivesmavens.
One of the nurses ghosted up, a tall and wide and formidableblack woman about my age, burr hair starting to go gray against her brownskull. She checked the electronics and adjusted that drip in Cash’s good arm.
Cash reached out. “When can I get out of here?”
The nurse stopped. “Sugar, you gonna be with us for a while.Doctor says he don’t dare put a cast on that foot for a while, week or more.Wait for the swelling to go down, inspect the wounds, make sure everythingstill works. Doctor put a lot of workinto yo’ foot. Says he wants to pro-tecthis in-vest-ment.”
Some of that electronic beeping speeded up, probably Cash’sheart rate. “You tell doctor I got amurderer to catch, hear? Can’t do nothingfrom a hospital bed.”
There she was, dropping into street jive again. I knew NefCash. That was a bad sign.
The nurse just lifted an eyebrow. “Honey, you want to keepthat foot so bad, you behave. Doctor knows his job. You walking a thin edge,right now. In-clu-ding getting yo’heart rate up. This’ll calm you down a smidge. Jes’ fight one war at a time,child. Let yo’ man do some of the work fo’ a change.”
And she tucked a nod at me, apparently unbothered by questionsof race and age and physical condition. I guess we had some kind of lodge-signtattooed on our foreheads, advertising that we were a couple rather than justprofessional partners.
She adjusted the drip again. Must have contained some kind ofmedication as well as the plasma or saline or whatever. I had to assume thatwas the right drug, now that we hadthe witch question sorted out.
The beeping slowed. Cash wrinkled her nose, but nodded. Thenurse nodded back, and left.
Then Cash shook her head, slow as if the drugs were getting toher. “Got to get out there and find that bastard.”
I rolled my chair into the space the nurse had just left, so Icould keep my voice down. “One war at a time, like the lady said.
