“--rated as a nine on the Glasgow Coma Scale. She makes no movements and cannot open her eyes, even upon application of painful stimuli. She does make the occasional sound, but they’re mostly just incomprehensible grunts and moans,” the nurse continued, Tim’s attention snapping back to her suddenly.
For a moment he didn’t really understand what she was saying, until his brain caught up with him and he remembered what they had been talking about. “Nine. That sounds pretty bad, Miss...”
“Reilly,” she said, but did not smile. She stared through the door at Greer for a moment just as Tim had, her dark red lips turning into a frown against the tan complexion of her face. She did not get as lost in it as Tim had, though, turning back to the conversation after only a moment. “And it’s not as bad as it sounds. The Glasgow Coma Scale goes up to fourteen, not ten. If I had to put it into simple terms, it is a very ‘moderate’ coma.”
“Will she recover?” he asked, again glancing toward the girl. It could have been anyone in that bed, really. The bruises and swollen welts that covered her head and upper body made it hard to distinguish her as female, let alone as Greer Donaldson.
Nurse Reilly sighed, pushing her brown bangs out of her eyes. “It’s hard to say, really. At this point she could recover... or she could recess deeper into the coma. A person’s place on the Coma Scale isn’t stagnate. It can change daily in the first few months... but with every day, the chances get less and less that she’ll wake up.”
Tim frowned. It occurred to him, and not for the first time, that there was another problem in this whole mess. Greer Donaldson’s attackers could only be charged with murder if she died within a year of the attack. After that it would be deemed as ‘natural causes,’ a thought that sickened him. Not that he didn’t want her to get better... But with every day the chances of that would get less and less likely. If she wasn’t going to wake up, he hoped that she would pass on in time to really get back at her assailants.
- BEEP BEEP!-
Nurse Reilly jumped back, her face startled as she looked into Greer’s room to see what was the matter.
Tim raised a hand to stop her, then withdrew his cell phone from his pocket. “Sorry,” he said quickly, his open palm changing to a single finger in a motion everyone understood as ‘give me a minute.’
“Well, that’s not the least of the reasons we don’t allow cellular telephones to be active while you’re inside the hospital, Mr. White,” she huffed, still regaining herself from the momentary start she’d been given.
It was the first time since beginning his conversation with her that Tim would have honestly described her as anything but mechanical. Now she shuffled her feet and let out several exasperated puffs of air, reminding him of the hens on his grandmother’s farm after the cat had given them a scare. The association made his lips curl into a smile, even though he knew it would only make her madder. Regardless, he brought the phone to his ear. “Hello?”
“Jeez, you are fucking impossible to get hold of,” came the agitated male voice from the other end.
Once again, despite the words being said, Tim got the distinct impression that the man was smiling. “Duncan,” he said, running a hand through his hair as he felt a migraine coming on.
“How’d you know? Anyway, hope you don’t mind me using th’ personal number and all, but you haven’t been in the office all day.”
“No, I’ve been out working my case all day, which I happen to be doing right now. So, if you don’t mind...”
“We don’t know our perp yet, but we think he’s a male age thirty to thirty-five. That could be wrong, but it’s coming from a reliable place,” Duncan continued, as if White hadn’t even spoken. “He likes to use things he finds at the scene on his victims, I’ll tell you that much now. Has made for some nasty autopsies. But listen, I’m on my way to pick you up. I’ll brief you more then, but --”
Tim tried to find a spot to break into the conversation, but Duncan Taggart just kept talking. After a full minute of this, White simply closed the cell phone, hanging up on his overzealous partner.
“If you’re going to keep that thing on, you’re going to have to leave,” Nurse Reilly said sternly, her hands again folded in front of her.
Tim sighed, pocketing the cell phone. Turning toward the dark green doors, he took one last look at the battered face of Greer Donaldson, then turned to leave.
The Factory was in a rare state of emptiness, something that looked almost foreign and alien. Seeing it this way produced the same sort of uneasiness as seeing an empty dance club in the daytime, or returning to your old Kindergarten classroom and feeling everything was out of place.
The arcade games against the back wall still rung out taunts and chimes to its absent audience, the bells and whistles only slightly dulled by the soundproofed walls. The fighting games were the worst, spewing out sound effect after sound effect as battle waged on upon their screens, like some sort of auditory regurgitation.
One game flashed blue light in rapid strobes, casting odd and disjointed shadows on the pool table not far away. The shape of the sticks leaned against it were projected onto the wall with such intensity that if left in that position for a long
