“Nobody.”
At the hospital, Pittman had noted that she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. Nonetheless, he’d been concerned that she might be living with someone. Her roommate might have gone out for the day to avoid making noise, to let her sleep.
“I live alone,” Jill said. “This handkerchief is stuck to your wound. I’m going to run cool water over it and peel it off. How did you-? Good. It’s coming off. Does that hurt?”
“No.”
“Sure. That’s why your face turned gray. This looks like a cut.”
“Broken glass.”
“Deep. You should have gone to the hospital instead of coming here.”
“Your apartment was closer.”
“You need stitches.”
“No,” Pittman said.
Jill frowned at him, then returned her attention to Pittman’s hand. “Which do you object to, the hospital or the stitches?”
Pittman didn’t answer.
Jill rinsed the crusted blood off the hand, then directed a gentle flow of water into the cut. “Keep your hand under the water. I have to get bandages and disinfectant.”
Then she was gone. Pittman worried that she might decide to run from the apartment.
To his relief, he heard her opening drawers in another room.
He stared at the blood welling from his hand, the water diluting it, pink fluid flowing down the drain. Weary, he looked away, feeling oddly at a distance as he scanned the small, bright, neatly arranged kitchen. A pot holder in the shape of a cat seemed more amusing than it should have been.
“Your face is grayer,” Jill said with concern, hurrying back. “I can’t imagine what you’re smiling about. Do you feel delirious?”
“A little off balance.”
“For God sake, don’t fall off the chair.” Jill put her arms around him, leaning past him, over the sink.
He felt her breasts against his back but was too tired to respond with anything but gratitude that she was taking care of him.
Gently she washed his hand, blotted it with a towel, applied amber disinfectant to the cut, put a dressing on a gauze pad, and wrapped a bandage around the hand. Blood soaked through the first layer. Jill bandaged faster, adding layer after layer.
“You’d better hope this stops the bleeding, or you’ll be going to the hospital whether you like it or not,” she said.
Pittman stared at the thick padding around his hand. A portion of it turned pink, but it didn’t spread.
“One more layer for good luck.” Jill wrapped it again. “Now let’s get you into the living room and up on the sofa.”
“I’m fine,” Pittman said. “I can do it myself.”
“Yeah, sure, right.” Jill lifted him, putting an arm around him as his knees bent.
The sunlit living room turned shadowy for a moment. Then Pittman was on the sofa.
“Lie down.”
“Look, I really am sorry.”
“Put your feet on this pillow. I want them higher than your head.”
“I wouldn’t have come here if there was any other way to-”
“Stop talking. You sound out of breath. Lie still. I’m going to get you some water.”
Pittman closed his eyes. The next thing he knew, Jill was cradling his head, helping him to drink.
“If you don’t feel queasy after this, I’ll get you some juice. Do you think you could eat? Would you like something bland like toast?”
“Eat?”
“You make it sound like a new idea.”
“The last time I… You could say my meals have been irregular.”
Jill frowned harder. “Your overcoat’s torn. Your pants have dirt on them, as if you’ve been crawling on the ground. What’s going on? How did you get hurt?”
“A broken window.”
“You look like you’ve been in a fight.”
Pittman didn’t answer.
“We’re not going to get anywhere if you’re not honest,” Jill said. “I’m taking a big chance by helping you. I know you’re not a policeman. You’re Matthew Pittman, and the police are hunting you.”
12
The shock of her statement brought Pittman upright.
“No,” Jill said. “Don’t try to sit.”
“How long have you-?”
“Lie back down. How long have I known? Since about thirty seconds after you started talking to me at the hospital.”
“Dear God.” This time when Pittman tried to sit up, Jill put a hand on his chest.
“Stay down. I wasn’t kidding. If the bleeding doesn’t stop, you’ll have to go to a hospital.”
Pittman studied her and nodded. Adrenaline offset his light-headedness. “Matt.”
“What?”
“You called me Matthew. My friends call me Matt.”
“Does that mean I’m supposed to think of you as a friend?”
“Hey, it’s better than thinking of me as an enemy.”
“And you’re not?”
“Would you believe me if I said no?”
“It’s not as if you never lied to me before.”
“Look, I don’t get it. If you knew who I was at the hospital, why didn’t you call the police?”
“What makes you think I didn’t? What if I told you I played along with your charade because I was afraid of you? You might have hurt me if I let on I knew who you really were.”
“
“You don’t remember me, do you?” Jill asked.
“Remember? Where would we have…?”
“I’m not surprised. You were under a lot of stress. About as much as anybody can take.”
“I still don’t…”
“It’s only in the last six months that I’ve been working in adult intensive care.”
Pittman shook his head in confusion.
“Before that, I worked in the children’s section. I left because I couldn’t stand seeing… I was one of Jeremy’s nurses.”
Pittman felt as if his stomach had turned to ice.
“I was on duty the night Jeremy died,” Jill said. “In fact, I’d been on duty all that week. You’d received permission to sit in a corner of the room and watch over him. Sometimes you’d ask me about the meaning of some of the numbers on his life-support machines. Or you’d get a look at his chart and ask me what some of the terms meant. But you weren’t really seeing me. Your sole attention was toward Jeremy. You had a book with you, and sometimes if everything was quiet, you’d read a page or two, but then you’d raise your eyes and study Jeremy, study his monitors, study Jeremy again. I got the feeling that you were focusing all your will, all your energy and prayers, as if by concentrating, you could transfer your strength to Jeremy and cure him.”
Pittman’s mouth felt suddenly dry. “That’s what I thought. Dumb, huh?”
