Monument to the Dead

by Sheila Connolly

  “The Bowie knife that belonged to Edwin Forrest.” I swallowed something between a laugh and a sob.

  “Damn,” Marty said. “A Bowie knife? In that case, Jimmy was lucky. It could have been a lot worse, if Nicholas wasn’t such a klutz.”

  “Can we go to the hospital now?” I asked. There was no way I was going anywhere else.

  “All right.” Marty led me to her car and settled me in the passenger seat. I wondered briefly if she’d mind some blood on it.

  When she got in on the other side, I asked, “How did you plan to bust me out of there if they’d arrested me?”

  Marty started the car. “My brother’s former prep school roommate is the city attorney. I made a couple of calls.”

  “I figured it was something like that.” I leaned back against the seat. On the ride over I filled her in on the bare bones of my reasons to suspect Nicholas, now amply confirmed. It didn’t take long to reach Thomas Jefferson Hospital. Or at least, I thought it didn’t—time was doing a weird accordion thing, speeding up and slowing down erratically. This day had been going on forever, but I knew it wasn’t over yet.

  Marty didn’t ask any questions when I was done talking, which was just as well, because I wasn’t sure I could answer coherently. I’d spent all my coherence on Hrivnak. Of course the detective was right: we should have handed our suspicions and evidence over to some authority. Except we’d tried—or at least, James had—and the authorities hadn’t wanted it. After the messy and very public confrontation at the Water Works, maybe now someone would listen. Kind of late, though, wasn’t it?

  Marty pulled into a No Parking zone on the street and came around to open my door. Either I had forgotten how a door worked, or I’d completely run out of initiative. “Come on, upsy-daisy.” She held out her hand.

  “Upsy-daisy?” I said as I managed to stand up on the pavement.

  “Follow me,” she said. I followed.

  Inside, the hospital didn’t look much different from the police department, except there were more people and most of them were wearing scrubs or white coats instead of uniforms. But there was too much light and noise, too many hard edges. I stood in the middle of the human stream, unable to decide which way to move, while Marty conferred with someone sitting in front of a computer terminal behind a counter. Then she came back. “He’s in the ICU. I think we could bull our way in, but you might want to clean up first.”

  I looked down at myself and tried to frame a question. “What . . . how?”

  “I’ll snag you some scrubs. Meet you in the ladies’.” She pointed toward the restroom and gave me a small shove in the right direction. I kept going.

  Once inside, I stopped in front of the first bank of mirrors and leaned heavily on the counter. Then I looked at my reflection, and the sight of myself unnerved me. I looked like I’d been butchering a steer with an axe. I looked away from my reflection and turned on the water in the sink. One of those damned faucets that gave you thirty seconds of water and turned itself off—at that rate, I’d be clean by next Tuesday. I wadded up a paper towel to stop the drain and leaned on the water faucet until a few inches of water accumulated in the sink. Then I pulled out a handful of paper towels, added a liberal amount of soap from the stingy dispenser, and began scrubbing, starting with my hands.

  Marty appeared with an armful of colorful scrubs, which she dumped on the counter. I pulled off my shirt and pants and stuffed them in the trash—no way was I ever going to wear them again. The blood had soaked through to my underwear, but there wasn’t a lot I could do about that. I stared at the scrubs, trying to guess what size I wanted, until Marty lost patience, grabbed a shirt from the pile, and handed it to me. I put it on; it hung on me like a curtain. Marty handed me unmatched pants, which were too long, but I rolled up the waistband.

  In the middle of the process, some unfortunate woman came in to use the facilities. She took one look at me, half dressed, still covered with blotches of dried blood, and backed away quickly and fled out the door. Marty gave a snort of laughter.

  I scrubbed and scrubbed, but there was still blood crusted under my fingernails. “Good enough?” I asked Marty.

  “You’ll do.”

  It felt good to be clean again, but it was only a small boost, and I was terrified of what was coming. “Okay, now what?”

  “Upstairs.”

  Thank God she knew where she was going. I followed her through the hall and we stopped at a bank of elevators. I laid a hand on her arm. “Marty, what can I expect?”

  She looked at me with eyes as somber as I’d ever seen. “I won’t lie to you, it’s kind of touch-and-go. They stitched him up—or maybe it’s all staples now—and gave him a lot of blood, but he hasn’t regained consciousness, which has them worried.”

  “Okay, got it,” I interrupted. I didn’t want to hear any more. The elevator arrived and we boarded. No one else got on. Marty pushed a button.

  “Will they let me in?”

  Marty turned to face me squarely. “I’ll take care of the staff if they try to keep you out. All I know is, it would kill Jimmy if he wakes up and you’re not there. So if you turn tail and run now, you’d better keep going.”

  “Marty, that’s not what I meant. Bottom line, I’m scared.”

  “Of what?” Marty demanded.

  I swallowed. “Of losing him.” Of watching him die. Or not wake up. Or wake up as a vegetable. The possibilities were many, few of them good.

  “Nell, he’s a strong man—you know that. He’ll pull through. You just saved his life, and you had to shoot somebody to do it, which we’ll have to talk about later. You think that’s not enough to prove your right to be here? You’re going to be there when Jimmy wakes up, because he will want you there. Whatever you work out after he’s back on his feet is your business, but you’re not going to bail on him now.”

  “I didn’t plan to.” If I was honest with myself, I supposed I was trying to protect myself from losing him. I didn’t know if I could handle that.

  The elevator door finally opened, and Marty steered me down another hallway, to a nurses’ station. Machines flashed and blinked from all sides, but there was little human noise. Marty leaned on the counter and asked the nurse, “Any change?”

  “Morrison? No. Is this his fiancée?”

  She was looking at me. I managed to work out that using that label was probably the only way I’d be allowed into his room, so I nodded silently.

  “Only one person at a time. Don’t touch anything. And don’t get in anyone’s way,” the nurse said crisply. “Understand?”

  I nodded again. “Can I talk to him?”

  “He’s unconscious.”

  “I know that. But talking won’t mess up your machines?”

  “Nope. Go right ahead. Just don’t expect him to answer.”

  “Got it.” Marty set off down the hallway, and I followed more slowly.

  At one doorway, she stopped and turned to me. “This is him. I’m going to go find some coffee or something.” She turned abruptly and marched off without waiting for me to answer.

  The door was open, and I walked into the room. James lay on his back, with assorted tubes and wires connected to beeping machines. At least he seemed to be breathing on his own—was that a good sign? Stubble, flecked with grey, stood out against his pale skin. His left arm was wrapped with stained gauze. They’d shaved part of his hair, and a line of . . . staples? arced across the bare patch.

  I tiptoed around the bed to his other side and laid my hand on his. No response, but at least it was warm.

  Now what? Did I expect that my being here would fix everything, and he’d wake up and smile? Maybe I didn’t expect that, but I sure as hell wanted that. “James?” I whispered. Nothing. I sighed.

  Well, I was here, and I was staying, so I figured I should make myself as comfortable as I could. There was a stiff chair upholstered in plastic in one corner, and a smaller and even less appealing one closer to the door. I pulled the larger ch
air close to the bed, away from all the wires and beeping blinking machines, then dragged the other chair in front it. I slid down, put my feet up on the second chair, and settled in to wait, watching James’s face.

  Now I could face the terrors I’d stuffed deep inside me. My mind kept running a silent loop of that stupid, stupid scene: the three of us, locked in confrontation at the Water Works. I didn’t think Nicholas would have attacked me. Even James’s arrival hadn’t spooked him, because he still thought he had everything under his control and that he could walk away. I could see Nicholas calculating his next step when Phebe had startled everybody and set off the cascade of disaster. Even then, Nicholas might have held on to his composure—until James had made a stupid, chivalrous gesture trying to protect me, and Nicholas had read that as a threat and overreacted. And James had paid for his chivalry. He was here because he had been trying to keep me safe. He could die because of some dumb primitive reaction. I’d hate him for it, but he’d still be dead. And that idea set off some primal howling in me as well. You can’t die! We’re not finished!

  CHAPTER 30

  Eventually I slept, sort of, out of exhaustion, but it was nearly impossible to sleep in a hospital because there were always nurses coming and going, and monitors making startling noises. Now and then a nurse would glance over at me, her expression giving nothing away, and I was afraid to ask any questions. The chair wasn’t exactly ideal for sleeping, either—not only was it lacking in padding, but the plastic was slippery, so I’d nod off and find myself sliding toward the floor.

  After a while I gave up trying to sleep. Marty hadn’t come back—surprisingly tactful of her—so here I was, alone with my thoughts, until James woke up. The perfect time to face all the issues I’d been dancing around for months. When had I started deluding myself about where he and I were going? How soon after James and I had first connected?

  I’d been screwing up a lot lately, hadn’t I? Maybe I should start with when I’d hired Nicholas and work forward from there. Sure, he looked great on paper, and he was good at what he did. But if I was honest, I’d never liked him. He was a cold fish. Okay, hindsight was all well and good, and I’d done everything I could to stifle my dislike. But what I found most troubling about Nicholas was that he had no empathy, no warmth. I knew you couldn’t put those requirements in the job description—“Must like other people”?—but a few basic people skills sure made working somewhere a lot more pleasant for everyone. It was small comfort that my instincts had been proved right. Was James supposed to pay the price for my reluctance to go with my gut about Nicholas?

  As a distraction, I decided to worry about what I should say to the press. What would do the least damage to the Society? At the rate we were going, it wouldn’t be long until some journalist labeled us “Philadelphia’s Murder Museum” or something equally tacky. Or maybe pin a title on me. Pistol-Packing President? Nell Pratt, Crime Magnet? Why did I keep finding myself in the middle of crimes? Now I’d graduated to shooting someone—that had to be a first in our cultural community. No doubt the press would eat that up. Museum administrator shoots suspect. Or to be more lurid, Society Prez Blasts Employee. I wondered if the newspapers had gotten hold of the story yet, and what they’d made of it. Probably too late for today’s papers, although the local newscasters might pick it up at eleven, especially since an FBI agent was involved. But no doubt everyone would be all over it tomorrow.

  Stop it, Nell, my inner voice said sharply. You’re sitting here watching the man you love struggling to stay alive—maybe you should be thinking about that? How are you going to feel if he dies? I had to shut my eyes at that. It hurt. A lot. To think that I’d had a hand in it just made it worse.

  Please, James, don’t die. I wanted to see what we could have; I wanted to make it happen a lot faster than it had so far. He was a good and decent man; he was a smart and competent agent; he was funny and caring, and, yes, I loved him. I wanted more than a casual date when our schedules allowed. I was pretty sure that he did, too, even though he hadn’t pushed too hard.

  Exhaustion took over. Eventually when I opened my eyes again, the sun seemed to be coming up somewhere outside. I checked my watch and found that it was shortly after six a.m. I looked James over by daylight. Well, he was still breathing, and none of the alarms attached to him had gone off that I was aware of—all good. Any more sleep for me was probably out of the question now, so I scooted my chair closer to the bed and took his hand.

  Which moved, this time, sending my heart into overdrive. James’s body shifted, and then his grip tightened on my hand when he realized, consciously or unconsciously, that it hurt to move. I didn’t let go. I was all but holding my breath.

  His eyes opened, focused on the ceiling, then his head turned to me. “Nell?” he croaked. “What the hell happened?”

  I smiled through sudden tears. “Nicholas attacked you with a knife at the Water Works. Do you remember anything?”

  “Kind of. Wait—did you take my gun?”

  “I did. I had to stop Nicholas.”

  His brow wrinkled. “You shot him? Is he dead?”

  “Nope. I got him in the leg. The police are holding on to him.”

  “You never mentioned you knew how to shoot.”

  “You never asked.” That was a conversation for later.

  “What’s the damage?” His gaze wandered to the machines tracking his every breath and twitch.

  “Nicholas came at you with a Bowie knife. It is now in police custody as evidence. He got you in the arm and it bled a lot. Then you kind of tripped over me and hit your head on the steps. How do you feel?”

  “Like crap, but at least I’m alive. And so are you. I’m sorry I screwed up.”

  “You screwed up? James, neither of us had any reason to believe that Nicholas would turn violent. We have no evidence that he had ever physically attacked anyone before. So we were both wrong. Look, while the doctors here were sewing you back together last night, I was spilling the whole story to Detective Hrivnak at police headquarters, so the Philadelphia police now know as much as we do.”

  A nurse I hadn’t seen before chose that moment to bustle in, and I retreated to a corner to give her room to work. “Good morning, Mr. Morrison, nice to see you awake.” She looked at various readouts and made notes on her clipboard. “How are you feeling?”

  “My head hurts. My arm hurts. When can I leave?”

  “The doctor will be making rounds later. She’ll talk with you then.”

  I sat down again when the nurse left. “James, you’re in no shape to go anywhere.”

  He didn’t look convinced. “So what did Hrivnak say when you talked with her?”

  “You might have let the FBI know first,” said a tall greying man in a smart suit, standing in the doorway. I didn’t recognize him. “I’m Randall Cooper, Special Agent in Charge of the Philadelphia office. You, I take it, are Eleanor Pratt?”

  I stood up, but hung on to James’s hand. I was done playing nice. “I am. And as I understand it, James brought this case to you and you passed. You’re damned lucky that nobody else died. Although James could have.”

  Cooper eyed me neutrally, but I wasn’t about to back down. He glanced briefly at James, who met his glance. Finally Cooper said, “It seems I was wrong. I will be happy to hear what information you have collected, as soon as you are able, Agent Morrison. Ms. Pratt.”

  My God, was that actually an apology? “Who has custody of Nicholas Naylor?” I asked.

  “I understand that the Philadelphia police are holding him based on yesterday’s incident at the Water Works. We’ll decide who gets to claim him once we’ve gone over your information.” He held my eyes for a few seconds, then looked at James. “Morrison, I’m sorry. The doctors tell me you’ll be fine, but don’t push yourself. Tell me when you’re ready to talk. Naylor will stay in custody. Nice to meet you, Ms. Pratt.” He left as quietly as he had come.

  I looked at James. “What was that about?”

 
; He had a faint smile on his face. “You heard him—he actually apologized. I think it’s a department first. We were right, and he just admitted it. I’d celebrate, but since my head feels ready to explode I think we’ll have to postpone that.”

  “Whenever you’re ready.”

  CHAPTER 31

  Nurses came and went, poking and prodding James, and removing several attachments. I stayed, although I kept out of their way, sitting quietly in a corner. This was James: being with him now trumped my queasiness about blood and stitches and all that stuff. One nurse even cranked up the head of his bed just a bit, so it wasn’t so difficult for him to look at me, although I could tell that moving his head at all hurt him. James kept drifting in and out of awareness, and I didn’t know if I should worry about that or not.

  It was afternoon when Marty finally reappeared. She stopped in the doorway to check out the scene. Her face lit up. “Hey, you’re awake, Jimmy! That’s certainly an improvement.”

  “I think so, although maybe you should check with me when the painkillers wear off,” James said.

  “The docs have anything new to say?” Marty’s glance shifted back and forth between James and me.

  “The nurses seemed to be pleased by his progress,” I told her.

  “Good to hear,” Marty said. Another white-coated person came in, a woman who looked to be about my age. I deduced that she must be a doctor, based largely on the name stitched on the front of the coat, which was followed by M.D. She glanced briefly at Marty and me, then turned to James. “Mr. Morrison?”

  “Agent Morrison,” James corrected her.

  “Ah. Right. How’re you feeling?”

  “My head hurts—what do you think? When can I get out of here?”

  The doctor studied him. “We want to keep you another day or two, to make sure there’s no cranial bleeding or swelling. Let’s see how you feel tomorrow, and we’ll think about releasing you then.” She turned to Marty and me. “Would you mind waiting in the hall? I have to check a few things.”