want any links toAmity and to Bayside Hospital.'
'On my list, Slug.'
Katzka started his car. He looked at Lundquist. 'Your brother still in the Coast Guard?'
'No. But he's got buddies who're still in.'
'Run this by them. See if they've boarded that freighter lately.' 'Doubt it. If she just sailed in from Riga.' Lundquist paused, glancing up. Detective Carrier was crossing towards them, waving.
'Hey Slug,' said Carrier. 'Did you get the message about Dr. DiMatteo?'
Instantly Katzka turned off the engine. But he couldn't shut off the sudden roar of his own pulse. He stared at Carrier, expecting the worst.
'There's been an accident.'
A lunch cart rattled down the hallway. Abby woke up with a start and found she was lying in sheets damp with sweat. Her heart was still pounding from the nightmare. She tried to turn in bed, but found she couldn't; her hands were tied down, her wrists sore from chafing. And she realized that she had not been dreaming at all.
This was the nightmare, and it was one from which she could not wake up.
With a sob of frustration she sank back against the pillow and stared at the ceiling. She heard the creak of a chair. She turned her head.
Katzka was sitting by the window. In the glare of midday, his unshaven face looked older and wearier than she had ever seen him before.
'! asked them to take off the restraints,' he said. 'But they told me you'd pulled out a few too many IV's.' He rose and came to her bedside. There he stood gazing down at her. 'Welcome back, Abby. You're a very lucky young lady.'
'I don't remember what happened.'
'You had an accident. Your car rolled over on the South Expressway.'
'Was there anyone else…'
He shook his head. 'No one else was hurt. But your car was pretty much totalled.' There was a silence. She realized he was no longer looking at her. He was looking somewhere at her pillow instead.
'Katzka?' she asked softly. 'Was it my fault?'
Reluctantly he nodded. 'Based on the skid marks, it appears you were travelling at a high rate of speed. You must have braked to avoid a vehicle stalled in your lane. Your car veered into a highway barrier. And rolled over, across two lanes.'
She closed her eyes. 'Oh my God.'
Again there was a pause. 'I guess you haven't heard the rest,' he said. 'I spoke to the investigating officer. I'm afraid they found a shattered container of vodka in your car.'
She opened her eyes and stared at him. 'That's impossible.'
'Abby, you can't remember what happened. Last night, on the pier, was a traumatic experience. Maybe you felt the need to unwind. To have a few drinks at home.'
'I'd remember that! I'd remember if I'd been drinking-' 'Look, what's important right now is-'
'This is important! Can't you see, Katzka?They're setting me up again!'
He rubbed his hand over his eyes, the unfocused gesture of a man struggling to stay awake. 'I'm sorry, Abby,' he murmured. 'I know this can't be an easy thing for you to acknowledge. But Dr. Wettig just showed me your blood alcohol level. They drew it last night in the ER. It was point two one.'
He wasn't facing her now, but was gazing blankly out the window, as though just the act of looking at her had taken too much out of him. She could not even turn her body to confront him face to face; the restraints wouldn't allow it. She gave a violent yank on her bonds, and the pain that stung her chafed wrists almost brought tears to her eyes. She was not going to cry. Damn it, she was not going to cry.
She closed her eyes and concentrated on channelling her rage. It was all she had left, the only weapon with which she could fight back. They had taken everything else away from her. They had taken even Katzka.
She said, slowly: 'I was not drinking. You have to believe me. I was not drunk.'
'Can you tell me where you were going at three in the morning?' '! was coming here, to Bayside. I remember that much. Mark called me, and I was coming to…' She stopped. 'Has he been here? Why isn't he here?'
His silence was chilling. She turned her head to look at him, but could not see his face.
'Katzka?'
'Mark Hodell hasn't been answering his pages.'
'What?'
'His car's not in the hospital parking lot. No one seems to know where he is.'
She tried to speak, but her throat felt as if it had swollen shut, and the only sound that came out was a whispered: 'No.'
'It's too early to draw any conclusions, Abby. His pager may be broken. We don't know anything yet.'
But Abby knew. She knew with a certainty that was both immediate and shattering. Her whole body suddenly felt numb. Lifeless. She didn't realize she was crying, didn't even feel the tears sliding down until Katzka rose, tissue in hand, and gently wiped her cheek.
'I'm sorry,' he murmured. He brushed her hair off her face, and just for a moment, his hand lingered there, fingers resting protectively on her forehead. He said, more softly, 'I'm so sorry.'
'Find him for me,' she whispered. 'Please. Please, find him for me.'
'I will.'
A moment later she heard him walk out of the room. Only then did she realize he had untied the restraints. She was free to leave
HARVEST
the bed, to walk out of the room. But she didn't.
She turned her face into the pillow and wept.
At noon a nurse came in to remove the IV and to leave a lunch tray. Abby didn't even look at the food. The tray was later removed, untouched.
At two o'clock, Dr. Wettig walked in. He stood by her bed, flipping through the pages of her chart, making clucking sounds as he reviewed the lab results. At last he closed the chart and looked down at her. 'Dr. DiMatteo?'
She didn't answer him.
'Detective Katzka tells me you deny drinking any alcohol last night,' he said.
She said nothing.
Wettig sighed. 'The first step towards recovery is acknowledging you have a problem. Now, I should have been more aware. I should have realized what you were struggling with all this time. But now it's all out in the open. It's time to deal with the problem.'
She looked up at him. 'What would be the point?' she said dully. 'The point is, you have some sort of future worth salvaging. A DUI is a serious setback, but you're an intelligent woman. There will be other careers open to you besides medicine.'
Her response was silence. The loss of her career felt almost insignificant at that moment, compared to the greater grief she felt over Mark's vanishing.
'I've asked Dr. O' Connor to evaluate you,' said Wetfig. 'He'll be in sometime this evening.'
'I don't need a psychiatrist.'
'I think you do, Abby. I think you need a lot of help. You have to get beyond these delusions of persecution. I'm not going to approve your release until O' Connor clears it. He may decide to transfer you to the Psychiatry unit. That's his call. We can't have you hurting yourself, the way you tried to do last night. We're all very concerned about you, Abby. I'm concerned about you. That's why I'm ordering a psychiatric evaluation. It's for your own good, believe me.'
She looked straight up at him. 'Fuck you, General.'
To her immense satisfaction, he flinched and stepped away from the bed. He slapped the chart shut. 'I'll check in on you later, Dr. DiMatteo,' he said, and left the room.
For a long time she stared at the ceiling. Only moments ago, before Wettig had walked in, she had felt too weary to fight. Now every muscle had tensed and her stomach was in turmoil. Her hands ached. She looked down
