Dr. Singh filled the silence. "Detectives, a concussion of this severity is often accompanied by memory loss of the accident that created it."
"Uh-huh," said Kemper, closing his notebook. "This was no accident. Doctor. And this guy remembers everything he wants to remember."
"Paul," said the female detective, "leave him alone. We have the tapes. Let Kurtz get some painkiller and sleep and we'll talk to him in the morning."
"He'll be all lawyered up in the morning," said Kemper.
The woman shook her head. "No he won't."
It'd been twenty years since Kurtz had last seen Rigby Kingwhat was her married name? Something Arabic, he thoughtbut she still looked like the Rigby he'd known at Father Baker's and again in Thailand. Brown eyes, full figure, short dark hair, and a smile as quick and radiant as the gymnast she'd been named for.
Kemper left the room and Rigby came to the side of the bed and raised a hand as if she was going to squeeze Kurtz's shoulder. Instead she gripped the metal railing of the hospital bed and shook it slightly, making Kurtz's handcuffed wrist and arm sway.
"Get some sleep, Joe."
"Yeah."
When they were both gone, Singh called in a nurse and they injected something into the IV port.
"Something for the pain and a mild sedative," said the doctor. "We've kept you semi-conscious and under observation long enough to let you sleep now without worrying unduly about the concussion's effects."
"Yeah," said Kurtz.
As soon as the two left, Kurtz reached down, ripped away gauze and tape, and pulled the
IV out of his left arm.
Joe Kurtz had seen what could happen to a man doped up and helpless in a hospital bed. Besides, he had a lot of thinking to do through the pain before morning came.
CHAPTER THREE
Kurtz had nothing to defend himself withhe would have stolen a knife and hidden it under his pillows if the hospital had provided him with a dinner, but they hadn't fed him, so he was still handcuffed and defenseless. He readied himself the only way be could think ofsliding the long intravenous needle on its flexible tube down into his left hand and focusing his energy to swing it into an attacker's eye if he got close enough. But if one or both of these men pulled a gun, Kurtz's only hope was to throw himself to his left and try to tip the entire hospital bed onto himself while screaming bloody murder.
Squinting through his headache pain at the two shadows in the doorway, Kurtz wasn't sure he'd have the strength to tip the bed over. Besides, mattresses, even hospital mattresses, were notoriously poor armor against bullets.
There was a nurse-call button clipped to his pillow above Kurtz's head, but his right hand couldn't reach it because of the handcuffs and he wasn't about to release or reveal the IV needle in his left hand.
Kurtz could see the two men silhouetted in the doorway in the minute before they entered the room, and then the dim glow from medical monitors illuminated them. One man was tall, very thin, and Asian; his black hair was combed straight back and he was wearing an expensive dark suit. His hands were empty. The closer man was in a wheelchair, wheeling himself toward Kurtz's bed with thrusts of his powerful arms.
Kurtz didn't pretend he was asleep. He watched the man in the wheelchair come in. Any hopes that it was an errant hospital patient out of his bed at three A.M. disappeared as Kurtz saw that this man was also wearing a suit and tie. He was oldKurtz saw the thinning gray hair cut in a buzz cut and the lines and scars on the man's tanned face, but his eyebrows were jet black, his chin strong, and his expression fierce. The old man's upper body looked large and powerful, his hands huge, but even in the dim light, Kurtz could see that his trousers were covering wasted sticks.
The Asian man's expression was neutral and he stayed two feet behind the big man in the chair.
The wheels of the chair squeeked on tile until the wasted legs bumped into Kurtz's bed. Working to focus, Kurtz stared past his own handcuffed wrist and into the old man's cold, blue eyes. All Kurtz could do now was hope that the visit was a friendly one.
"You miserable low-life useless scumbag piece of shit," hissed the old man. "It should've been you who got the bullet in the brain."
So much for the friendly visit theory.
The big man in the wheelchair raised his huge hand and slapped Kurtz in the side of the head, right where the bandages and tape were massed above the wound.
Riding the pain for the next few seconds was probably a lot like riding the old roller coaster at Crystal Beach while standing up. Kurtz wanted to throw up and pass out, in that order, but he forced himself to do neither. He opened his eyes and slipped the long IV needle between the third and fourth fingers of his left hand the way he'd learned how to grip a handleless shank-blade in Attica.
"You worthless fuck," said the man in the chair, his voice loud now. "If she dies, I'll kill you with my bare hands." He slapped Kurtz again, a powerful, open-handed smash across the mouth, but this wasn't nearly so painful. Kurtz turned his head back and watched the old man's eyes and the Asian's hands.