Dr. Spellman taps his shoulder. Blinking, he knocks the ‘phones from his ears and lurches to his feet.
“She’s going to recovery now.”
He reaches for the bindle of her shoes and clothing.
“What about her mother? Shown up yet?”
He shakes his head.
In the recovery room, Deanie is still unconscious, her face half-covered in surgical dressings, the other half still surprisingly dirty. But with the bandages on her face and around her head to hold the facial dressings in place, she is now recognizably a human being; she has become merely the victim of a nasty head injury. Hitting up a nurse for a face towel, Sam wets it down with cool water and gingerly does the best he can to clean the rest of her face.
Sergeant Woods closes his notebook as Dr. Spellman walks away.
Next to him, Poloniak scratches his head, which is broad and flat at the top, thatched in colorless hair worn a little long on top in inadequate compensation for its increasing thinness. He bears a resemblance to one of the amphibious short-snouted rodents—beaver, wolverine, water rat.
“You notice the kid’s nose was scratched, upper lip bruised? You don’t think he was in the middle of it? I’m not saying he busted the girl’s face but maybe he did Lord’s for him after Lord punched out the girl?”
Woods shakes his head. “Lord and the girl are all cut up. If Sam was in the middle of it, he should be too. I wouldn’t be surprised if that chain is what did Lord’s eye for him. Spellman did say she didn’t think that was caused by flying glass.”
Poloniak nods.
“Besides,” Woods adds, “I saw the both of them late yesterday afternoon, Sam and Deanie—couldn’t have been much before it happened—and he was headed for Greenspark and she didn’t have a mark on her.”
The Chief stares at him in surprise. “You did?”
“Logged it,” Woods says. “Not their names, though. Look, Art, you know the kids use the Mill to party. We got an understanding, right? Better to know where they’re partying than not? Well, the Gauthier girl uses the place as a flop too. That in itself suggests home sweet home isn’t. Anyway, a while before Christmas, I rousted the two of them making out in the Playground lot. I’ve noticed him in the neighborhood a couple of times since and yesterday when I saw him in the vicinity again, I went down there to check it out. The girl was just leaving the Mill. I went in after her and there’s no doubt about it, they’ve practically set up light housekeeping in there. I didn’t see much harm in it, Art. Couple horny kids finding themselves a place to get it on. I didn’t see any sign of dope or booze so I made the judgment call to look the other way.”
Poloniak grins. “Just what I would a done. We don’t want the kid benched on account of throwing his back out humping her in the cab of his truck, eh? I’m nervous about this. Aren’t you, Woodsie?”
“God yes. His name on the blotter and we’ll have a media circus.”
“It’s a DHS case. We can sit on it. I’ll call Bill Laliberte and fill him in so he can keep the lid on at the school. He’s got to know DHS’ll be around anyway. We can trust the kid not to talk. He didn’t even want to talk to us. The TV bozos get about three seconds of the kid stuttering and they’ll decide he makes a lousy sound bite. It’s a shame, you know?”
“Yeah. I feel bad for her.”
Poloniak grimaces. “Yeah, yeah,” he says impatiently. “She was tough enough to look at before. I guess he’s so big he don’t have to look at her face unless she sits on him. I mean the kid. Good-looking boy like that and talented, goddamn he’s good, and shit for brains otherwise.” He sticks out an obscene fat tongue and waggles it. “Tongue-tied and numb as a hockey puck. What’s he doing with this freakin’ little pumpette when he could be screwing some nice cheerleader, shaves her armpits instead of her head?”
“Softhearted,” Woods suggests. “Look, so far as we know now, he’s peripheral to the case. Just a good Samaritan who brought the girl to the hospital.”
Poloniak grunts. “Softheaded’s what he is. Softheaded, softhearted, but mostly hard-on. Way I remember it, Woodsie, the Good Samaritan wasn’t popping the victim.” He notices Woods isn’t laughing. “Lighten up,” he says, with a broad wink. “I got money riding on that kid.”
Hanging over his forearm, she gags into the shallow plastic dish. Sam wipes her mouth again.
“Hurts worse,” she whispers.
“That’s ‘cause they’re professionals,” he assures her. “They know what they’re doing. That’s why you have to pay them so much—get it done right.”
The nurse laughs.
Deanie tries to smile.
Dr. Spellman enters, with another of the little kidney-shaped dishes in one hand. Deanie’s facial chains and the rings from her nose and ears are puddled in it. Tinged with blood, they are at once as gruesome and banal as pulled teeth.
“I have to turn these over to the police. You’ll get them back eventually.”
There’s a typed sheet about cleaning the wound, dressings and bandages, and telephone numbers to call for questions and to make a follow-up appointment with Spellman. The doctor dispenses an assortment of medications: antibiotics and painkillers—enough samples to save the cost of prescriptions, Sam notes gratefully. She must have been listening when Deanie said she couldn’t pay.
“No smoking,” the doctor reiterates. “Wear a seatbelt.”
“When can I play again?”
Deanie’s muffled question startles Spellman.
“Basketball,” Sam prompts. “Season runs another month, six weeks if the girls go to the finals.”
“Oh.” Spellman shakes her head. “I don’t know. If there’s a possibility of another blow to
