“A painkiller.” Dr. Hamilton appeared at the side of the bed. “Demerol.”
Savage flicked his eyes in acknowledgment, conscious enough to realize that a nod of his head would cause him more pain. But the pain had a compensation. It made him see with terrible clarity.
His bed had guardrails. To the right, a metal pole held an IV pump. The liquid in the tube was yellow.
“What is it?” Savage asked.
“Nourishment,” the doctor said. “After all, you've been here five days, and we couldn't feed you by mouth.”
“Five days?” Savage's mind reeled.
His pain-intensified consciousness made him aware of other things. Not only was his skull wrapped with bandages, but both of his legs and arms were in casts.
And the doctor—why did these details seem important?— was in his forties, blond, with freckles beneath his glasses.
“How bad?” Savage's face oozed sweat.
The doctor hesitated. “Both your arms and legs were broken in several places. That's why we put the IV into your hand. With the casts on your extremities, we couldn't reach veins in your arms.”
“The bandages around my head?”
“The back of your skull was fractured. On your right side, your fourth, fifth, and sixth ribs were fractured as well.”
Savage suddenly realized that layers of tightly wound tape constricted his chest. Now he understood why he had difficulty breathing, why he felt a lancing pain when he inhaled.
The Demerol began to work. His agony subsided.
But the drug dimmed his thoughts as well as his pain. No! He had too many questions!
He struggled to concentrate. “Is that the worst of my injuries?”
“Not quite, I'm afraid. Bruised kidneys. Ruptured appendix and spleen. Internal bleeding. We had to operate.”
Despite the increasing numbness caused by the Demerol, Savage realized something else: a catheter had been inserted up his penis into his bladder, draining urine to an unseen container that hung at the foot of the bed.
“The rest of your injuries, thank God, are minor—multiple superficial contusions,” the doctor said.
“In other words, I'm all fucked up.”
“Good. A sense of humor's a sign of healing.”
“I wish I could say it only hurts when I try to laugh.” Savage struggled to clear his thoughts. “An accident?”
“You still don't remember?” The doctor frowned.
“It's like trying to see through a fog. Some time ago … Yes. I remember I was in the Bahamas.”
“When?” the doctor asked quickly. “Do you recall what month?”
Savage strained to focus his mind. “Early April.”
“Approximately two weeks ago. Can you tell me your name?”
Savage almost panicked again. What name was he using? “Roger Forsyth.” Had he guessed correctly?
“The name on the driver's license we found in your wallet. And your address?”
Savage's thoughts focused. He gave the address on the driver's license, a farmhouse outside Alexandria, Virginia. Graham owned it under a pseudonym, allowing Savage and various other protectors to claim it as a residence.
Graham? Savage's heartbeat quickened. Yes. He remembered Graham as well.
The doctor nodded. “That is the address on your driver's license. We got the phone number from information. We kept calling. No luck. The Virginia state police sent an officer there, but no one's home.”
“There wouldn't be. I live alone.”
“Do you have any friends or relatives you want us to contact?”
The Demerol made Savage more groggy. He feared he'd make a mistake in his answers. “I'm not married.”
“Parents?”
“Dead. No brothers and sisters.” Savage's eyes drooped from sleepiness. “I don't want to worry my friends.”
“If you're certain.”
“Yes. Absolutely.”
“Well, at least your answers correspond to the information we found in your wallet. It proves what I told you yesterday. You've suffered short-term memory loss. It doesn't always happen after trauma to the skull, but it's not unusual either. And it will be temporary.”
Savage fought to stay awake. “But you still haven't answered my question. What kind of accident?”
“Do you recall the Medford Gap Mountain Retreat?”
Despite the haze drifting over him, Savage felt a shock of recognition. “Medford Gap? Yes. A hotel. A strange …”
“Good. It's coming back to you already.” Dr. Hamilton stepped closer. “You were a guest there. You went hiking.”
Savage did remember walking through woods.
“You fell off a cliff.”
“What?”
“The hotel manager insists the stairs down the cliff were clearly marked. ‘Only for expert climbers.’ You went down the steps. It appears you lost your footing on a patch of ice. If it weren't for a ledge thirty feet below, you'd have fallen a thousand feet. You're a lucky man. When you didn't return to the hotel for dinner, the staff went looking for you. They managed to find you just before sunset, and I might add, just before you would have bled to death or died from hypothermia.”
The doctor's face became hazy.
Savage strained to clear his vision. “Fell off …? But that's not …”In panicked confusion, he knew, he sensed, that wasn't the truth, that something far more terrible had happened to him. Blood. In his murky memory, he saw blood.
The glint of razor-sharp metal. Something falling.
As he now fell toward blackness.
15
Kamichi's severed body toppled in two directions. Akira's decapitated body spouted blood. The head thunked onto the floor and rolled to a halt in front of Savage.
Akira's eyes blinked.
Savage woke up screaming.
His entire body, even the skin beneath his bandages and casts, was clammy with sweat. He hyperventilated despite the lancing pain in his ribs each time his chest heaved.
A nurse rushed into the room. “Mr. Forsyth? Are you all right?” She hurried to check his pulse and blood pressure.
“You've upset yourself. I'll get more Demerol.”
“No.”
“What?”
“I don't want to be sedated.”
“But it's Dr. Hamilton's orders.” She looked flustered. “I have to give you the Demerol.”
“No. Tell him I need my mind clear. Tell him the Demerol blocks my memory. Tell him I've started—”
“Yes, Mr. Forsyth?” The blond-haired doctor entered the room. “You've started to what?”
“Remember.”
“About your accident?”
“Yes,” Savage lied. His protective instincts warned him: say only what's expected. “The hotel's manager was right. The steps down the cliff were clearly marked that they were dangerous. But I used to be a climber. I hate to say it—I got overconfident. I tried to cross an icy rock. I lost my balance. I …”
“Fell.”
“It seemed more as if the ledge was rushing toward me.”
Dr. Hamilton grimaced. “An unfortunate misjudgment. But at least, you survived.”
“He doesn't want the Demerol,” the nurse said.
“Oh?” Dr. Hamilton looked perplexed. “It's essential to your comfort, Mr. Forsyth. Without the sedative, your pain—”
“Will be severe. I understand. But the Demerol clouds my thoughts. I'm not sure which is worse.”
“I realize it's important for you to reconstruct the days before your accident. But given the extent of your injuries, I don't think you comprehend the degree of pain—”
“When the last of the Demerol wears off?” Savage wanted to add, suffering's my specialty. Instead, his pain increasing, he said, “Let's compromise. Half-doses. We'll see how I do. We can always go back to the amount you recommend.”
“A patient negotiating with his physician? I'm not accustomed to …” Dr. Hamilton's eyes crinkled. “We'll see how you do. If
my guess is right …”
“I'm resilient.”
“No doubt. Since you're feeling aggressive, perhaps you'd care to try to eat.”
“Crackers and chicken broth.”
“Exactly what I meant to suggest,” the doctor said.
“If I hold it down, the IV isn't necessary.”
“Correct. Removing the tube would be my next decision.”
“And since Demerol reduces the flow of urine, with less sedation I ought to be able to piss on my own without this damned catheter up my—”
“Too much, Mr. Forsyth. Too soon. If you adjust to a half dose of Demerol, and if you don't throw up the crackers and broth, I'll remove the IV and the catheter. We'll see if, to use your word, you don't need help to”—the doctor's eyes crinkled again— “piss.”
16
“More apple juice?”
“Please.”
It frustrated Savage that he couldn't use his arms. He sipped slowly from a straw, grateful for the nurse's help.
“I have to say I'm impressed,” Dr. Hamilton said. “Since you managed to hold down both lunch and dinner, tomorrow we'll try you on something more solid. Bits of meat. Perhaps pudding.”
Savage fought a spasm of pain that seized his entire body.
“Sure. Pudding. Great.”
The doctor frowned. “Do you want me to increase the Demerol?”
“No.” Savage winced. “I'm fine.”
“Of course you are. The gray of concrete is your normal color, and you bite your lip for fun.”
“Keep the Demerol to a minimum. I need to have my mind clear.” Again, with horrifying vividness, he saw a mental image of the katana slicing Kamichi in half, of Akira's head thunking onto the floor, of blood spraying.
So much blood.
I fell from a cliff? Who invented that cover story? What happened to Akira's and Kamichi's bodies?
Need to stay alert. Can't make a mistake and say anything that contradicts the cover story. Have to find out what's going on.
An excruciating surge of pain interrupted his desperate thoughts. He held his breath, resisting an involuntary moan.
The doctor stepped closer, frowning harder.
The pain slackened enough for Savage to breathe. He closed his eyes, then opened them, and told the nurse, “More juice, please.”
The doctor relaxed. “You're the most strong-willed patient I've ever had.”
“I owe it all to meditation. When do I lose the IV and the catheter?”
“Perhaps tomorrow.”
“In the morning?”
“We'll see. In the meantime, I have a surprise for you.”
“Oh?” Savage tensed.
“You said you didn't want any of your friends informed about what happened to you. But one of them somehow found out. He arrived a while ago. He's waiting outside. But I didn't want to let him in until I saw how you were adjusting and, of course, until you gave me permission to send in a visitor.”
“Friend?”
“Philip Hailey.”
“No kidding. Good old Phil.” Savage had never heard of him. “Send him in. If you don't mind, though, I'd like to see him in private.”
“Of course. However, after you've visited with your friend …”
“Is something wrong?”
“Well, it has been several days. You're going to have to move your bowels, and with your arms and legs in casts, you won't be able to do it alone.”
“Just great.”
The doctor left, amused. The nurse soon left as well.
Savage waited apprehensively.
17
The door swung open.
Though Savage had never heard of Philip Hailey, his mind was clear enough to recognize the man who entered the room.
American. Midfifties. Expensively dressed. With the calculating eyes of an upper-echelon businessman or diplomat.
One of the principals at the Medford Gap conference.
Savage had known he'd eventually be approached. It was one of the reasons he'd insisted on keeping his mind as free of Demerol as possible. Even so, Savage's body was imprisoned by casts, tape, and bandages. An expert in defense, he felt powerless. Philip Hailey could kill him with minimal effort. A quick injection. A drop of liquid into Savage's mouth. A spray from a canister shoved close to his nose.
The visitor held roses in one hand, a box of chocolates in the other. Both could be weapons. The man had a mustache, wrinkles around his eyes, and an Ivy League ring that might conceal a pin coated with an instantly deadly and undetectable chemical.
“I hope the scent from these roses won't make you nauseous,” the man said.
“If you can live with them, I can,” Savage said.
“Suspicious?” The man set the roses and the chocolates on a chair.
“By habit.”
“A good one.”
“Philip Hailey?”
“It seemed as useful a name as any other. Anonymous. Waspishly American. The same as Roger Forsyth.”
“I admit my alias is bland. But as you suggest, that's the point,” Savage said.
“Indeed. However, the man who chooses the alias must not be bland. You have character.”
“Maybe not. Apparently I got careless. I fell,” Savage said.
“A terrible tragedy.”
“Yeah, I fell all the way to the floor of a hallway in the Medford Gap retreat.”
“Not as bad as a fall off a cliff. Still, an equally terrible tragedy.”
“For a time, I didn't remember. When I did, I kept my mouth shut about the truth. I stuck to the cover story,” Savage said.
“As your reputation led us to expect. All the same, I had to make inquiries. To be sure.”
Savage winced again, his pain increasing. “Kamichi and Akira? What happened to their bodies?”
“They were hurried away. Have no doubt—they were treated with respect. Scrupulous Japanese rites were obeyed. The ashes of your principal and his escort rest with their noble ancestors.”
“And what about the police? How did you explain—?”
“We didn't,” Philip Hailey said.
Savage's skull throbbed. “I don't understand.”
“It's simple really. The authorities were never involved.”
“But the hotel's staff would have called them.”
Philip Hailey shook his head. “Special arrangements were made. So brutal an incident would have destroyed the hotel's reputation. With only the few of us staying there, the staff was at a minimum. Each received handsome compensation in exchange for silence. Now that they've accepted the gratuity, even if they have second thoughts, they don't dare inform the authorities for fear of being charged with concealing a felony. What's more, the police wouldn't find any evidence.”
“But the blood. There was so much blood.”
“That corridor of the hotel has now been remodeled,” Philip Hailey said. “As you know, a talented laboratory team can find blood no matter how thoroughly you think you've cleaned the area, so not only the carpeting but the floor and the walls, the doors, even the ceiling, have been replaced. What was taken out was burned. There's absolutely no trace of blood.”
“I guess that leaves only two questions.” Savage's voice sounded thick. “Who killed them, damn it, and why?”
“The rest of us share your shock and outrage. But I regret I can't answer your latter question. The motive for the murders obviously relates to the purpose for the conference. But the purpose of the conference is not your business, so I'm not at liberty to discuss why your principal was killed. I can tell you this—my associates and I are opposed by several groups. An investigation was begun at once. We expect soon to identify and punish whoever was responsible.”
“What are you talking about? Businesses? Intelligence agencies? Terrorists?”
“I won't elaborate.”
“The assassins were Japanese.”
“I'm aware of that. They were seen escaping. But Japanese assassins could be hired b
y a non-Japanese. The nationality of the killers means nothing.”
“Except that Kamichi and Akira were also Japanese.”
“And Akira had martial arts skills against which corresponding skills perhaps seemed necessary,” Philip Hailey said. “That still doesn't prove the employer was Japanese. Consider the topic closed. Please. My purpose in coming here was to express our sympathy for your suffering and to assure you that everything possible was being done to avenge the atrocity.”
“In other words, stay out of it.”
“Given your injuries, do you have any choice? But later, yes, we feel you ought to decide that your obligation has ended.” Philip Hailey reached inside his suitcoat and removed a thick envelope. He showed Savage the numerous hundred-dollar bills within it, sealed the flap, and set the envelope beneath Savage's right hand.
“You think I can accept money when I failed to protect my principal?”
“As your injuries proved, you defended him heroically.”
“I wasn't good enough.”
“Unarmed? Against four men expert with swords? You didn't desert your principal. You behaved with dignity, almost at the cost of your life. My associates commend you. Think of the money as compensation. We've also paid for your medical bills. Incentives. Demonstrations of our good faith. In return, we count on your good faith. Don't disappoint us.”
Savage stared at the man.
Dr. Hamilton opened the door. “I'm sorry I have to ask you to leave, Mr. Hailey. Your friend's overdue for a procedure.”
Philip Hailey straightened. “I was just about to say goodbye.” He turned to Savage. “I hope I cheered you up. Enjoy the roses and the chocolates, Roger. I'll come back as soon as I can.”
“I look forward to it, Phil.”
“When you get better, think about a vacation.”
“Message understood. And thanks,” Savage said. “I appreciate your concern.”
“That's what friends are for.” Philip Hailey left.
Dr. Hamilton smiled. “Feel better?”
“Overjoyed. Can you bring me the telephone?”
“You want to talk to another friend? Excellent. I was worried about your refusal to depend on social contacts.”
“You don't need to worry any longer.”
Savage told him which numbers to press. “Please, put the phone under my chin.”
The Fifth Profession Page 10