affiliations with his controllers. In all likelihood, the doctor had once been a military physician.
“I have the results of your X rays and other tests,” the doctor continued. “Your wound is infected, as you guessed. But now that I’ve redressed and resutured it and started you on antibiotics, it ought to heal with reasonable speed and without complication. Your temperature is already coming down.”
“Which means-given how serious you look-the bad news is my internal bleeding,” Buchanan said.
The doctor hesitated. “Actually, that bleeding seems more serious than it is. No doubt, it must have been quite a shock when you discovered blood in your urine. I’m sure you’ve been worried about a ruptured organ. The reassuring truth is that the bleeding is caused by a small broken blood vessel in your bladder. Surgery isn’t necessary. If you rest, if you don’t indulge in strenuous activity, the bleeding will stop and the vessel will heal fairly soon. It sometimes occurs among obsessive joggers, for example. If they take a few weeks off, they’re able to jog again.”
“Then what is it?” The doctor’s somber expression made Buchanan more uneasy. “What’s wrong?”
“The injury to your skull, Mr. Grant. And the periodic tremors in your right hand.”
Buchanan’s chest felt icy. “I thought the tremors were caused by shock to the nerves because of the wound in my shoulder. When the wound heals, I assumed. .”
The doctor squinted, concerned. “Shock. Nerves. You’re partially correct. The problem does involve the nerves. But not in the way you imagine. Mr. Grant, to repeat, you have an amazing constitution. Your skull has been fractured. You’ve suffered a concussion. That accounts for your dizziness and blurred vision. Frankly, given the bruise I saw on the CAT scan of your brain, I’m amazed that you were able to stay on your feet, let alone
“It’s called adrenaline, Doctor.” Buchanan’s voice dropped. “You’re telling me I have neurologic damage?”
“That’s my opinion.”
“Then what happens now? An operation?”
“Not without a
Restraining an inward tremor, appalled by the notion of willingly being rendered unconscious, Buchanan said, “I’m asking for
“Have you been sleeping for an unusual amount of time?”
“Sleeping?” Buchanan almost laughed but resisted the impulse because he knew that the laugh would sound hysterical. “I’ve been too busy to sleep.”
“Have you vomited?”
“No.”
“Have you experienced any unusual physical aberrations, apart from the dizziness, blurred vision, and tremors in your right hand?”
“No.”
“Your answers are encouraging. I’d like to consult with a specialist in neurology. It may be that surgery isn’t required.”
“And if it isn’t?” Buchanan asked rigidly. “What’s my risk?”
“I try not to deal with an hypothesis. First, we’ll watch you carefully, wait until tomorrow morning, do another CAT scan, and see if the bruise on your brain has reduced in size.”
“Best case,” Buchanan said. “Suppose the bruise shrinks. Suppose I don’t need an operation.”
“The best case is the worst case,” the doctor said. “Damaged brain cells do not regenerate. I’d make very certain that I was never struck on my skull again.”
3
The one-story house was in a suburb of Fort Lauderdale called Plantation, its plain design disguised by abundant shrubs and flowers. Someone obviously took loving care of the property. Buchanan wondered if Doyle made a hobby of landscaping. Their conversation during the drive from the hospital to Doyle’s home indicated that the recession had affected Doyle’s business and he was hardly in a position to afford a gardener. But after Doyle parked in a carport and led Buchanan through the side screen door into the house, it quickly became obvious who was taking care of the grounds.
Doyle had a wife. Buchanan hadn’t been sure, inasmuch as Doyle didn’t wear a wedding ring, and Buchanan seldom asked personal questions. But now he faced an energetic, pixyish woman a little younger than Doyle, maybe thirty. She had happy eyes, cheerleader freckles, and an engaging, spontaneous smile. Buchanan couldn’t tell what color her hair was because she had it wrapped in a black-and-red-checkered handkerchief. She wore a white cotton apron, and her hands were covered with flour from a ball of dough that she was kneading on a butcher-board counter.
“Oh, my,” she said with a pleasant southern accent (Louisiana, Buchanan thought), “I didn’t think you’d be here this soon.” Appealingly flustered, she touched her face and left a flour print on her freckles. “The house is a mess. I haven’t had time to-”
“The house looks fine, Cindy. Really,” Doyle said. “Traffic wasn’t as bad as I figured. That’s why we’re early. Sorry.”
Cindy chuckled. “Might as well look on the bright side. Now I don’t have to wear myself out rushing to clean the house.”
Her smile was infectious. Buchanan returned it.
Doyle gestured toward him. “Cindy, this is my friend I told you about. Vic Grant. I used to know him in the service. He’s been working for me the past three months.”
“Pleased to meet you.” Cindy held out her hand. Then she remembered the flour on it, blushed, and started to retract the hand.
“No, that’s okay,” Buchanan said. “I like the feel of flour.” He shook hands with her.
“Classy guy,” she told her husband.
“Hey, all my friends are classy.”
“Tell me another one.” She studied Buchanan, pointing at the thick bandage around his skull. “I’ve got another black-and-red handkerchief that’ll sure look better than that.”
Buchanan grinned. “I’m not supposed to take this off for a while. It doesn’t do much good. It’s not like a cast or anything. But it reminds me to be careful of my head.”
“Fractured skull, Jack told me.”
Buchanan nodded, his head still aching.
He expected her to ask him how he’d injured it. That would be a natural, logical next statement, and he was preparing to repeat his lie about falling off a boat, but she surprised him, suddenly switching topics, gesturing toward the dough on the counter. “I’m making you a pie. I hope you like key lime.”
He hid his puzzlement and told her, “I seldom taste homemade pie. I’m sure anything you cook would be wonderful.”
“Jack, I like this guy better and better.”
“I’ll show you to the guest room,” Doyle said.
“Anything you need, just ask,” Cindy added.
“Hey, I bet everything is fine,” Buchanan said. “I really appreciate your taking me in like this. I don’t have a family or anything, and the doctor thought it would be better if. .”
“Shush,” Cindy said. “For the next few days,
As Doyle led Buchanan from the kitchen toward a sunlit hallway, Buchanan glanced back toward Cindy, still puzzled about why she hadn’t asked him the obvious question about what had happened to his skull.
By now, she had turned from him and resumed kneading the ball of dough on the butcher-board counter. Buchanan noticed that she had flour handprints on the trim hips of her jeans. Then he noticed something else. A snub-nosed.38 revolver was mounted to a bracket beneath the wall phone next to the screen door, and Buchanan
