His tone startled her. What had she done to deserve The Voice?
He came back with a thermometer. She held it obediently under her tongue until he removed it. “It’s back to bed with you, love. You have a fever. I’ll bring you something to drink in a few minutes.” He looked at his watch. It was almost ten. Damn! She could have been ill for over twelve hours, and none of them had twigged it.
He brought two tablets and a tall glass of cold juice for her. She shivered a little from the juice and slid down in bed to warm up. When he returned an hour later, she had pushed the covers aside. He took her temperature again and offered her another drink.
“Is my fever high?”
“Reading’s in Celsius. Won’t mean much to you. Rest now.”
He went into his room and rang Dr. Gallagher. “Fever’s up.”
Gallagher knew Jenny’s history. She had no spleen. Consequently any fever was cause for concern. “Any sign of infection in the wounds?”
“No, sir.”
“Check her for swelling, tenderness, or any other indication of a fever source. In the meantime, I want a blood sample. I’m prescribing a broad spectrum antibiotic which I’d like you to administer through a drip.” He rang off.
Casey phoned Sinclair and reported Gallagher’s orders.
“I’ll send Andrews straightaway.”
Casey returned to her room. “I need to have a look at you, love.” She had the covers piled high, but she let him remove them. “Tell me if anything feels tender.” Nothing did.
When he came back to take her temperature again, her fever was still rising, and she was restive, wiping the sweat from her face and trying to fan herself with her hand.
He paced the sitting room, willing Andrews to arrive. He took her another glass of juice. “Even my eyes feel hot,” she said. He moistened a face cloth in the bathroom and placed it on her forehead. She squeezed the excess water over her chest, and he watched it bead on her skin. She closed her eyes.
Where the bloody hell was Andrews? He heard her swallow. He ran his fingers down the sides of her neck. No swelling. “Throat sore?”
She nodded. She was cold now.
Damn! He rang Gallagher to report. Andrews hadn’t arrived at the hospital yet. “I’ll need a throat culture,” the doctor said. “I’ll include instructions and supplies in the packet I give Sergeant Andrews.”
“Her fever’s higher now. Shall I bring her in?”
“We’ll wait for the test results.”
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Casey was coming out of the bathroom with another face cloth when Andrews arrived. He unpacked everything Gallagher had sent. He took the blood sample from her arm first, having to explain that Gallagher needed it to isolate the reason for her illness. Then he set up the stand. Gallagher had sent two drips, one with glucose and one with saline. She was restless and apprehensive, and when he tried to insert the needle in her limp hand, she jerked her hand away, and blood welled up in a thin line. “Andrews, I could use some help here,” he said without turning.
“I’ll send Davies,” he heard Andrews say. His lighter tread was replaced by Davies’ heavier stride.
“Why are you doing all this?” she asked.
He’d not told her that her immune system was compromised. “Gallagher’s orders. Your resistance is down because of your recent wounds.”
“But IVs are for the hospital. You’re scaring me! Why do I need it?”
“Gallagher believes in aggressive treatment,” he told her. “Davies, hold her arm and hand still.”
“If you don’t get it the first time, you’ll have to ask Hunt,” Davies said, one hand over her fingers and the other squeezing her elbow.
Casey gave him a sharp look and got it the first time.
“The needle hurts,” she said. “Do you always have to be in such a hurry? Is my next court date already set and you have to get me well by a certain time?”
“Nothing of the sort.” He connected the tubing and set the bags on the stand, adjusting the rate of flow. Gallagher’s instructions said to administer the antibiotic next. Then he sat down on the edge of the bed and patted her cheek. “Open wide, love.”
“What’s the Q-tip for?”
“Throat culture.” He wasn’t sure how far down her throat to poke it. “Davies, bring a torch.”
The light helped. He aimed for the redness. She gagged, but he was done. He sent Andrews on his way with everything that needed to be returned to the hospital. Gallagher had included a stronger antipyretic with instructions on how often he could give it. It would be time soon. The over-the-counter medicine he’d used in the morning hadn’t been effective. He waited. It hurt her to swallow, but she got it down.
The time passed very slowly. Periodically he brought her a cooler face cloth or something to drink. The cycle of heat and chills had not ceased. “I feel like a slice of Brian’s fried bread,” she told him. “Sizzling.”
He didn’t expect to hear from Gallagher today. He might get a reading on the throat culture quickly, but the blood sample would take longer to test. He realised he’d missed lunch. He went into the kitchen and made himself a sandwich and a cup of coffee.
“I hear Little Bit’s tits up,” Hunt said. He’d begun to tease her, calling her a Little Bit of Texas.
“Yes. She doesn’t have a normal immune system.”
“If you need a break, I’ll sit with her. I’m not as squeamish as Davies.”
Casey nodded and finished his impromptu meal. He went back to her room and took her temperature. The new medication hadn’t had any impact yet on her fever.
Davies brought him dinner and asked what else he could provide.
“More strong coffee.”
Hunt came in and coaxed her. “Time to eat, Little Bit.”
She was listless, but she did eat a few biscuits and some gelatin, to Casey’s surprise. He wouldn’t have thought Hunt the sort to have a decent bedside manner.
Sinclair rang, wanting to know if he should notify her parents before he left the Yard. Casey advised waiting for lab results and giving Gallagher’s medicine time to work. He promised to ring Sinclair in the morning, even if there were no change.
Sinclair didn’t wait for morning. He stopped in on his way home. Casey saw him sit down on her bed and stroke her cheek.
“I’ll be okay, Colin. Don’t worry about me.”
She protects him, Casey noted. Interesting. Something has changed between them.
CHAPTER 57
Twenty-four hours passed, but to Jenny it seemed much longer. There was nothing to do. She was too sick to read. Sergeant Casey turned up the volume on the radio, but it wasn’t soothing. The slower and softer the music was, the sadder it made her feel. The tunes that moved, that had a beat, made her head pound.
Brian’s sandwiches were dry and tasteless as sawdust. The only foods that appealed were Cokes—which were rapidly becoming cloying—and potatoes, which Brian boiled until they were so soft that she hardly had to chew. If she were home, her mother would have breezed in and out, checking on her, cajoling her. Sergeant Casey was always nearby, but he was not smiling.
It was so unfair! She should have testified already. Danny should be in the flat, calling Brian “Spuds” and making jokes to help her settle down after the courtroom experience. Spuds and Suds. Sergeant Casey was Suds because of the baths he’d given her, but Danny had never called him that to his face. Danny had been sly—involving her in his plans to play practical jokes on the others so she wouldn’t suspect she was his first target. When she’d found bubblegum on her toothbrush, she knew she’d been duped twice. “You chewed it first, Danny,” she said when she confronted him. “That’s gross!”
“It is, isn’t it?” he’d laughed. “Want a new toothbrush?” He’d set his sights on Brian and Sergeant Casey next, confessing that Casey was the hardest to get. “I want to replace his combat knife with a rubber one, but he’s too vigilant.” He’d had t
o settle for repeatedly moving his bookmark, but he’d promised her he wouldn’t give up. Now he was in a hospital bed, and she might as well be. Her every movement was monitored.
She picked up her cell phone and called home. “Mother, it’s Jenny. I’m sick, and I miss you.”
Casey stepped outside her room, not wanting to be available to discuss her condition.
“Fever and sore throat. Sergeant Casey’s taking good care of me, but I wish you were here.”
There was a pause.
“I don’t know, but he’s talked to the doctor and everything.”
Silence.
“Yes, I will. I just missed you, that’s all. I’ll call again soon.” She saw Casey enter the room. Not the thermometer again! Every time he took her temperature, he looked more somber. Then he’d bring crackers, jello, juice, ice cream—and she didn’t want any of it. “I’ve never been this sick. Am I contagious? Is that why Brian and Hunt don’t come in anymore?”
“They’ve got their hands full, love. They’ve split the watch, and there won’t be any day police for a while.”
“You’re here all the time. Are you going to catch it?”
“Not likely.”
She jumped. “What was that?”
“Hunt’s crushing ice for you. He must have used the frying pan.”
The ice was delivered, but she was too dizzy when she sat up to consume any. The sheet felt heavy and hot. She pushed it away and rubbed one of the larger chunks of ice over her face and down her arms. The relief it brought was fleeting.
Colin came by and sat with her for a few minutes. “Your mother rang me. I reassured her,” he said, but he didn’t look reassured.
“Wash your hands before you leave,” she told him. “I don’t want you to get sick.”
He was gone when she woke. There was only Sergeant Casey, who looked as solemn as an undertaker. She shivered and reached for the blankets at the foot of the bed. “Sergeant Casey, did your mother take care of you when you were sick? When you were little?”
“When she could.”
“I wish my mother were here now.”
He was silent.
“Should I have stayed at the hospital? None of this is helping.”
His eyes were unreadable.
She realized how ungrateful she must sound. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“You’re a good soldier, Jenny.”
“I don’t want to be a soldier.”
She waited for anger or his combat voice, but neither came. He touched her hand very lightly, as if he knew how tender her skin was.
CHAPTER 58
It was a long night for Jenny. Her skin was dry and tight, and it hurt to move. She felt imprisoned in the no-man’s-land that exists between consciousness and restful sleep. The world outside her room did not exist, and within it, nothing changed. There was just her bed, the lamp nearby, and Sergeant Casey in the armchair just a few feet away.
The first throat culture had been negative. Gallagher had requested a second, and he rang late in the morning to report that it had been negative also. He recommended increasing the rate of flow of the drips and continuing the current level of both medications until the results of the blood test were received.
Davies and Hunt kept Casey supplied with tea and coffee and brought a succession of light snacks for him to consume. After lunch he found her fever again on the rise. With it came a dispirited attitude that concerned him even more than the physical symptoms.
“Is this how my world is going to end?” she asked. “Not with a bang, but with a whimper?” Then she called home on her cell phone. “I’m tired today, Mother. Tell Daddy—when he came here, that was awesome. I’ll never forget it. Tell Matt and BJ—they’re the best. I love you, Mother.”
Casey realised she was saying good-bye, and he rang Sinclair. “Damn it, sir, she’s given up. Thinks she’s not going to make it. Tidying up loose ends.”
“I’m on my way. Thirty minutes. Tell her I’m coming.”
When Sinclair arrived, there was someone with him, but he went straight to Jenny’s room, not even stopping to introduce his companion to Davies and Hunt. “Any change?” he asked Casey.
“Wanted me to remove the drip.” He stepped aside. He had put so much tape around the drip needle that her hand looked gloved.
“Jenny, listen to me. Don’t give up! ‘Do not go gentle into that good night…Rage, rage against the dying of the light.’ Tell me who said that. I know you know.”
Her voice was muffled. “Colin—I’m sorry. But it is a good night. I’m not afraid.”
Casey noted the clerical collar worn by the man who accompanied Sinclair and was immediately suspicious of his purpose. If Sinclair had brought the bloody God Squad to administer last rites, he’d give them both theirs.
The stranger took the chair Sinclair offered and grasped her hot little hand in his rough one. “I’m Neil Goodwyn, Jenny. Padre Neil. I’m a police chaplain. I’d like to help you.”
Padre? Casey knew some Army chaplains called themselves that.
Her fever had made her vision a little blurry, but through the haze she could see a weathered face with warm brown eyes and an untroubled expression. His voice was soft. “I understand you have a job to do, little one.”
She felt like a little girl again, when a missionary had visited their church and entertained them with his puppets, and he had been so full of love that none of them had wanted him to leave. “I did, but I’m not strong enough now.”
“God’s strength is sufficient when we’re weak. He loves you, Jenny. He loves you so much He trusts you to do something that is very important to Him.”
God would be disappointed in her then.
“He will cradle you in His arms, Jenny.”
God hadn’t held her in His arms, but Colin had.
“He carries you close to His heart, the way a shepherd carries a lamb.”
No, Brian had carried her. And Sergeant Casey. She would miss them.
“His love never fails, Jenny. And when we’re about His work, we can’t fail, either.” He leant closer to her, hoping he would hear her response if she made one.
It was almost inaudible. “I did my best.”
“That’s why He chose you—He knew you’d do your best. You can trust Him now. He’ll do the rest.”
His gentle voice drew her like a magnet, but she was too tired to follow him, even with her mind. She closed her eyes. His fingertips felt cool as they moved across and down her forehead. Someone’s fingers were resting on her hair, and someone was holding her other hand. She heard Goodwyn ask God to heal and restore her, to fill her future with hope, and to lavish her with love. “She’s in God’s hands, Colin. She always has been.”
Casey wasn’t reassured.
“Davies and Hunt will need to see you out,” Sinclair said.
“I’ll have a word with them,” Goodwyn replied. He extended a hand to Casey. “You’re doing good work, Sergeant.”
“Not good enough, sir.”
“Neil.” He clapped Casey on the shoulder and left.
Casey sat down next to the bed. Jenny smelled like roses—it must have been the oil Goodwyn had used. It still glistened on her forehead. A sign of God’s presence, the padre had said. Casey would have preferred some tangible sign that her condition was improving.
Sinclair stayed, resting his chin in his hand, occasionally rubbing his face, his eyes never leaving her.
The room was still. After a very long time she heard Sergeant Casey’s voice, his nice voice. He put the thermometer in her mouth. She didn’t know when he removed it, because she was at the beach with her family, lying in the Texas sun. She had wanted to get a suntan, but she must have been in the sun too long and gotten a sunburn instead, because she was hot all over, even under her hair and on the soles of her feet. Her mother would be so annoyed with her. “Jennifer Catherine, you try my patience,” she would say. She hated letting her mother down. She was supposed to have good judgme
nt about things. It was hard being the oldest.
Casey and Sinclair heard her whimper.
“Damn! She’s delirious. I’ll run the water in the bath. We have to bring the fever down.”
Sinclair waited with Jenny.
Casey returned and pulled the sheet aside. He leant over briefly, retrieved his knife, and slit both straps and the front of her nightdress. “Sir, hold the drip bags.” He knelt by the bath and laid her in the tepid water, his arm under her shoulders to support her.
Sinclair could see her flat stomach and the curve of her hip under the water. Strange how someone completely naked could look so demure, but her knees were touching, and her legs were angled away from him. After the courthouse attack, Casey had cut off her clothes so he could treat her. Had that been necessary tonight? Sinclair supposed so—her nightdress would have become cumbersome when wet. Still, she was nude in Casey’s arms, and Sinclair had to remind himself that the man was her nurse. He would insist that Casey clothe her as soon as this crisis had passed. He suddenly realised the room was quiet.
“She’s asleep, sir,” Casey said quietly. “We’ll put her back in bed before she gets cold.” He put his other arm beneath her knees and lifted her out of the water. It frightened Sinclair, seeing her limp form.
“Is she better?”
“For the moment.”
“Sergeant, are we going to lose her?”
“Not on my watch, sir.”
Sinclair nodded slowly. “Tea?”
“I wouldn’t mind, sir.”
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Sinclair and Casey sat in Jenny’s room sipping their tea. She was still quiet, motionless under the sheet.
“Sir, are we in for a change of command here?”
Sinclair glanced toward the bed.
“She can’t hear us, sir.”
Sinclair didn’t want to comment on his professional upheaval at the Yard to the sergeant, but it appeared that Andrews already had done. He sighed. “Graves and I are under review for our handling of Jenny’s protection. The Detective Chief Super has been uncomfortable with the unorthodox nature of this arrangement from the beginning. We’ve had monthly reviews, but the shooting has given him the perfect excuse to revisit each decision we’ve taken.”
The Witness Page 28