Jay Giles

by Blindsided (A Thriller)

  My next task was to secure a weapon. I remembered the old TV show, McGyver, where the hero would defeat the bad guys by making a device out of whatever he happened to find handy—a comb, two paper clips, a hub cap. I walked around, looking, but nothing jumped up and said use me as a weapon. I finally decided to take an arm off one of the chairs. It was heavy wood I could use as a club. Not very ingenious. McGyver would have been disappointed.

  With a dime, I unscrewed three of the four screws that held the arm to the chair. The fourth wouldn’t budge. I pulled. Wiggled. Strained. Got nowhere. Frustrated, I made a loud sneezing sound and slammed it with my foot. The arm splintered at the end and broke away. I gave it an exploratory swing. The proverbial blunt instrument. It would work.

  I made myself comfortable in a seat in the corner of the room that gave me the best view of the hallway. A round clock on the wall told me it was one-thirty-four. There’d be a shift change with lots of people coming and going sometime around five. If D’Onifrio was going to try something, it would have to be before then.

  Of course, I had no idea how many people he’d send, how they’d be armed. Even with my chair arm, I didn’t have any illusions I could best armed assailants. My only hope was to scare them off.

  To do that, I was counting on the fire alarm box I’d discovered on the wall to my right. I theorized that once I pulled the alarm, sirens would go off, lights would flash, and D’Onifrio’s people would scatter.

  Not a great plan, but all I could come up with.

  I tried to stay awake by watching the black hands creep around the white face of the clock. Every five minutes, I’d move, stretch, cross my legs—anything to mark time. It got old, of course. And it didn’t keep me from dozing off. There was a stretch in there from about two to two-forty-five where I must have dropped off. I awoke with a start, suddenly alert.

  I tiptoed to the doorway, my heart pounding, fearful of what I might see. I peeked cautiously into the hallway. It was empty. All was quiet at the nurses’ station. I used the bathroom, splashed some water on my face, and went back to my seat.

  That little bit of sleep had helped. I felt surprisingly refreshed. The clock on the wall said two-fifty. Two more hours, I told myself and tried staying awake by thinking of companies and their stock symbols. That seemed more effective than watching the clock, but by three-thirty, my eyes were once again getting heavy. I’d closed them—just to rest them for a second—when I heard that “dink” sound of an elevator’s arrival followed by the whoosh of doors opening.

  Through the glass portion of the waiting room hallway wall, I saw the heads and shoulders of two women in white—nurses probably—get off the elevator and head toward ICU. I almost ignored them. I’d been expecting D’Onifrio to send men. But something about the one woman, a blond, seemed vaguely familiar. Bam, it hit me. Ann, the blond from D’Onifrio’s office.

  Every nerve in my body tingled as I tiptoed to the doorway to make sure. They were halfway to the nurse’s station, backs to me. My heart raced faster. The other one looked like the woman who’d sat next to me at City Hall.

  There wasn’t any doubt. Nor was there any time to go back and pull the alarm. They were almost to the nurses’ station. I did the only thing I could. I charged.

  I had the element of surprise going for me. Running up behind, I swung the chair arm as hard as I could at the side of the dark-haired woman’s head. It connected with a solid thump, dropped her like a bag of rocks.

  The nurses at the station screamed. To them, I was attacking one of their own.

  “Call the police,” I yelled back and dove for the dark-haired woman’s purse. I was sure there’d be a gun in there. I jammed my hand inside, bumped into something hard.

  Ann launched a kick that caught me in the kidney. Pain shot up my left side. Worse, my hand slipped away from the gun. She landed another kick to my ribs. Started to kick again. This time I saw it coming, grabbed the heel of her foot, yanked upward. She went down on her ass. I reached for the purse.

  It was good I was quick. By the time I had the gun out of the purse and pointed at her, she was back on her feet, coming at me. She kept coming, daring me to pull the trigger. A dare she would have lost.

  “Freeze. Police,” a voice boomed from the end of the hall.

  She looked around wildly. Realized she was sandwiched between us. The plainclothes officer walked closer, gun drawn, calling for backup on his walkie-talkie. When the backup arrived, he handcuffed her.

  “You know her?” the first officer asked, nodding in her direction.

  “I know she works at Shore for D’Onifrio.”

  “How about that one?”

  “She does, too. She’s the one who drugged me at City Hall.”

  He reached down, picked her purse off the tile floor, found her wallet, read from her driver’s license: “Virlinda D’Onifrio. Looks like we got a relative. Too bad we didn’t get him.”

  Virlinda wasn’t moving. They handcuffed her hands behind her back anyway.

  “Call this in to Ellsworth. He’ll want to know,” the one officer said.

  The nurses at the station must have been calling, too. A young doctor from the emergency room arrived to look at Virlinda. He bent down, examined the back of her head, said, “Ouch, that’s going to hurt.”

  “Is she going to be okay?” I asked.

  He looked up at me, shrugged his shoulders. “Headache. Possible concussion. She’ll live.”

  The officer who’d called Ellsworth returned. “He wants Gary and me to bring these two in. You guys stay. He’ll have someone relieve you at eight.”

  The doctor struggled to roll Virlinda over on her back—an awkward maneuver with her hands handcuffed behind her. Her head rose, rolled, hit the floor with a wham. “Oh, Jeez,” the doctor mumbled and quickly waved some smelling salts under her nose.

  She wrinkled her face, groaned. As soon as her eyes opened, they hauled her to her feet.

  “Get ‘em out of here,” the lead officer said.

  Once they left, all I wanted to do was collapse. I couldn’t believe how much that had taken out of me. I was tired, drained. Thank goodness it was over. I needed sleep.

  But before sleep overtook me, I wanted to watch over Tory, talk to her, let her know I was there.

  I carried the chair back over, put it at the end of the bed, walked to her bedside. I held her hand for a little bit, said what was in my heart. I desperately wanted to hear her answer me. It wasn’t to be. She didn’t move. She was quiet. The room was quiet. My words exhausted, I went to the foot of her bed, settled into the chair. My eyes closed, my body relaxed. I could feel myself begin to nod. Still, some niggling thing was keeping me from sleep.

  I was cold.

  I tried to forget about it, settle back down, will myself to sleep. Instead, I found myself focusing on how chilled I felt. Unless I did something, I’d never get to sleep.

  Annoyed with myself, I stood up, walked over to the nurses’ station. A young black nurse looked up as I approached. “Is there a blanket I could use?” I asked her.

  She smiled. “Sure. They do keep it kind of chilly in here.” She stood up. “I’ll get you one from the supply closet.”

  I started to follow her as she headed down the hall. We hadn’t gone more than three steps when a monitor sounded. She stopped, looked at me, and pointed down the hall. “They’re right around the corner. First door—marked ‘clean supplies.’ Take whatever you need,” she said quickly and left.

  I found it easily enough. It was a walk-in storage room with floor-to-ceiling shelves stocked with supplies. Ice buckets. Scrubs. Bed pans. Rubber gloves. Sheets.

  Sterile dressings. Scalpels. Syringes. And, yes, blankets. The place had virtually everything. I took a blanket off the shelf, tucked it under my arm, turned out the light, and returned to the hallway. As I closed the door, the nurse’s words—take whatever you need—ran through my mind. Wouldn’t hurt to have one other thing I’d seen in there. I quickly reopened t
he door, took one out of the box, put it in my pocket, and returned to my chair.

  I settled back down, pulled the blanket up around my chin, closed my eyes. Fell into a fitful sleep. My head kept bobbing up and down. My limbs twitched. My ear throbbed. Deep sleep never came.

  The ICU monitors were especially troubling. A deep beep, beep, beep or ping, ping, ping would shatter the quiet, jerking me awake.

  I was almost asleep, when an odd, irritating high-pitched hum roused me. Wasn’t a monitor. Was a sound I knew. But from where?

  I knew the answer at the same time that I felt tremendous pressure against my face.

  D’Onifrio’s hearing aids.

  Chapter 58

  With my hands, I grabbed for what was over my face. Felt an arm. Something soft. The texture of fabric. A pillow. Pulled at the arm. Pulled at the pillow. Tried to breathe. Couldn’t. The pressure continued. I pulled at the arm. Pushed at the corner of the pillow, trying to raise it up to get a breath. Couldn’t get it far enough. No air. My chest felt heavy, my head light. I knew I didn’t have long before I blacked out.

  I tried to push the pillow away with my left hand, reached into my pants pocket with my right. My hand tightened on the scalpel I’d taken from the supply closet, wiggled it out.

  I put everything I could muster into swinging the scalpel over my head. It struck something hard. The force of my jab caused the blade to skip along that hard surface until it buried itself in something soft.

  An ear-splitting scream tore through the ICU. Instantly, the pressure on my face was gone. The scalpel was knocked from my hand. I couldn’t worry about it. I yanked the pillow away from my face, jumped up from my chair, gulping at the air.

  D’Onifrio stood there, slightly hunched over, hands trying to stop the blood that flowed freely from a rip that started on his left cheek and continued up to his ruined left eye. He must have come with the two women. Seen them botch it. Seen me, half asleep. Thought he could eliminate me quickly and easily. Despite the pain, he stared at me with his good eye, face contorted in anger.

  I looked around, didn’t see any sign of the two officers who were supposed to be protecting Tory. Nor did I see any nurses at the station. It was just the two of us.

  He balled his hands up into fists. Took a step in my direction. “Wilder was right. I should have killed you before the old man,” he snarled, blood streaming down his face.

  Even hurt, he was dangerous. He was bigger and stronger than I was. I kept backing away, thinking the pain would slow him, help would arrive.

  He lunged, lashing out with his fists. A right caught me on the side of the face.

  I backpedaled. I wasn’t a fighter; D’Onifrio was. He hit me in the face again. Where were the police? I backed up, bumped into the counter of the nurses’ station.

  He saw he had me against the ropes, smiled wickedly, slowly closed the distance between us.

  This was it. I got my hands up. Did the thing he’d least expect. Attacked.

  I stepped forward, put my weight into a right to the face. He blocked it. I followed with a left, caught him on the ripped cheek. He growled. Swung a hard right at my head. I moved and the blow glanced off.

  My right connected with his good eye. He retaliated with a flurry of blows, forcing me to cover my face with my hands. I didn’t know what to do. My back was against the counter; there was no escape. Again and again, he hit me. Jarring blows that hurt me, drained me, frightened me. Unless I did something, I was finished.

  I used the counter as leverage, pushed forward, tried to bowl him over. It worked halfway. Got me away from the counter. But it allowed him to grab me in a bear hug. He tried to throw me to floor, slipped on his own blood, took us both down hard. I landed on my right shoulder, immediately felt burning pain. D’Onifrio landed on his back.

  I was up first. Hit him with a hard right to the face as he struggled to get to his feet. He fell back. I went after him. Hit him with another hard right to the face. Hurt my hand. He tried to get up, again. I went after his injured eye. Hit him with a left. Another left. He yelled. The gash on his cheek spewed more blood. He turned his back to me, got to his feet.

  We squared off again.

  He didn’t act as strong now, wasn’t as aggressive, wasn’t as steady on his feet. My right arm was useless. Pain ran from my shoulder to my hand. He threw a clumsy right at me. I easily avoided it. That gave me confidence. He was weakening. Even with the useless right arm, I was stronger.

  I kicked him in the side of the knee. He bent over in pain. I followed with a left hand to the face. Caught him on the cheek. He went down on all fours, breathing heavily.

  “You’re finished, D’Onifrio. Give it up.” I wheezed.

  “Not until you’re dead.”

  I kicked as hard as I could. The blow caught him in the face. He went over on his back, lay still.

  The only sounds in the ICU were my gasps for air and the irritating hum of his hearing aids.

  Chapter 59

  “What happened?” A surprised Dr. Kline asked the next morning.

  I’m sure I was a sight. My right arm was in a sling for a dislocated shoulder. My right hand was in a cast for three broken knuckles, two broken fingers. Cuts on my face had required nine stitches. Bruising was developing in various shades of purple.

  “Fell asleep and fell off that chair you found for me.” I tried not to smile. It hurt.

  I saw a twinkle in her eye. “Try and help someone and look what happens. How’s your lady friend?”

  “They say she should wake this morning. Nothing, so far.”

  “Some people take longer. Has Dr. Guardio been by?”

  “I haven’t seen him. But I wasn’t here for awhile. I was with the police.”

  That surprised her. “Police?”

  “Investigating my chair fall.”

  An I’ve-been-had look appeared on her face. “I’ll see if I can find you one with a seat belt for tonight.” She smiled. “I’m on all day. Let one of the nurses know if you need me.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate your looking in on me.”

  Tory didn’t wake that morning. She didn’t wake that afternoon. Or that evening. I lived by her bedside, leaving only to get something to eat, use the phone, or go to the bathroom. By nightfall, the jubilation I’d experienced at surviving D’Onifrio’s attack had worn off and Tory’s condition had me depressed and discouraged.

  That evening, Ellsworth stopped by. “Thought you’d like a progress report,” he said as we walked to the cafeteria to get coffee.

  “I am kind of curious.”

  We got our drinks, settled into seats. “D’Onifrio’s still here in the hospital—”

  I choked on a sip of mine.

  “Under armed guard,” he added quickly. “They operated but couldn’t save his eye. He also has a broken nose, some internal injuries—none of them serious. His lawyers are already trying to spin this, say he was attacked, get him released. Armstrong’s not having any of that. He’s going after him for murder.”

  “Why the change of heart?”

  “Twice now they’ve planned to use graves in abandoned properties owned by Shore as a way of disposing of bodies. Looks like a pattern. We got a search order, started looking in other abandoned properties, found something that had recently been covered over. When it’s excavated, we think we’ll find Raines, Enrico, the nephews, maybe others.

  “What happens if there aren’t any bodies there?”

  “We’ll keep looking. A pattern this strong usually leads to something.”

  “Will they let him out on bail?”

  Ellworth finished a sip of coffee, shook his head. “No. They know he’ll leave the country. Remember, I told you Armstrong’s political?”

  I nodded.

  “He knows he’s got a juicy case. Lots of publicity. Could go national. He’ll make sure this one is locked up tight.”

  I liked hearing the locked up tight part. Ellsworth talked a few minutes more, looked at his watc
h, said he had to go.

  On my way back to the ICU, I stopped in the waiting room, used the phone, called Dr. Swarthmore.

  “How are you, Matt?” she asked when she heard my voice.

  I chuckled. “A lot has happened since I talked to you last night.”

  “Tell me.”

  I did. I thought she’d be freaked out, but she wasn’t.

  When I finished, she said, “While I know last night wasn’t pleasant, it did give you closure. You no longer have the threat of this man hanging over your head. The fact that it happened so quickly is also beneficial. You no longer have two major concerns vying for your attention. One area of worry has been eliminated. You can now focus on Tory. What are the doctors telling you?”

  “I haven’t seen them.”

  Even over the telephone, I sensed her disapproval. “Until you talk to her doctors, you have no real sense of her condition. Find out when they make rounds, make sure you talk to them at length. Let me know what they have to say. In the meantime, stay positive. Don’t dwell on the negatives; don’t allow yourself to be pulled into depression.”

  “Thanks, Adelle.” I replaced the receiver. She’d been a little curt at the end, but I felt buoyed by talking with her, much the way I had the night before. I needed that as I settled into my chair for my second night’s vigil.

  That night, I slept surprisingly well. I woke feeling that it was a going to be a good day, a feeling that lasted until I saw that Tory hadn’t moved.

  At nine-thirty that morning, Dr. Guardio, the neurosurgeon, and Dr. Henry, a consulting neurologist, came to look at her. The two of them examined her, talked mumbo-jumbo to each other, dictated some notes, turned to go.

  “Doctor, there are a couple of things it would help me to know.”

  Guardio nodded.

  “Is there brain damage?” I asked the worst question first.