DAN CARTER’S CHEEKS almost matched the red of the scarf wrapped around them. For twenty sub-freezing minutes that began at 5.30 AM, the Manifold Tribune reporter—also its editor and publisher—was one of the fifty or more souls who, thirsty for the story, had been bunched up outside in the dark, cross-slapping their shoulders and stomping their feet near the cold stone hospital steps. In that throng of reporters who’d rushed here, Carter was alone in one respect: when the newswire came through, he was the only one who’d ever heard of Manifold, let alone lived there. He’d actually come here last night—the news had flown around the town—but Tom Cisco had insisted on the hospital enforcing a no-go zone, even for his friend Dan.
The jostling forward started as soon as the wash of yellowish light that had filtered through the glass front doors began flickering, telling the media that someone was once again headed up the corridor to come out to speak to them. This time it wasn’t the nurse. Instead, the swing doors were pushed aside by the head surgeon, a distinguished, balding man with serious deep-set eyes and an arrow-point nose that Dan Carter knew was, for Tom Cisco, too uncomfortably close to a certain former president’s. Instantly hit by the dazzling onslaught of the TV floodlights and camera flashes, the doctor stood at the top of the steps blinking and shielding his eyes.
Dan and Tom were fishing buddies and just last night, the pair were about to hoe into the apple pie when the doctor was called in.
Dan decided to assert his local droit du seigneur and got in first, “Dr Cisco, is Ms Diaz stable?” he asked.
Before Cisco could give his answer, another reporter stretched her microphone forward, past several sets of frost-pink ears and asked, without a hint of intended humour, “Has the Speaker said anything?”
The doctor peered down from the steps, trying not to squint. This was one of those moments, he thought, when it would be perfect to wear those pince-nez glasses, the ones that characters in novels or movies always got to stare down over the top of. But his perfect eyesight meant Cisco had to do without props, other than his forearm to shield him from the floodlights that had just been snapped on.
“Dan… Dan Carter,” said the doctor bumping up his friend’s status by using his name, “Ms Diaz is no longer critical. I’m relieved to say she is stable, and sleeping. But…,” he held up his hand to halt the surge of interruptions, “you should know that Madam Speaker came to us in a most serious state, suffering acute hypothermia, massive lacerations and severe blood loss after an attack by a wolf up at Potter’s Mound…” The crowd jostled in closer. “Two locals, ranger Andy Goodman and Paul Dawkins, found her up there. They immediately stemmed her blood loss and their quick thinking saved her from frostbite and, ah, much worse. Relatively, she’s doing fine. But no, she isn’t speaking. She’s under sedation.”
“Her family?” asked another hack, pushing up the steps and thrusting her mike into Cisco’s face.
The doctor stepped back, his face twisting at the poor manners, but he collected himself and wrenched his features into a smile, “They’re due here shortly. Perhaps you should go and greet them at our little airport.” He prayed they would, especially this jackal!
A small pack did break off to go, but hesitated when they heard the next question, “When will Ms Diaz be able to speak to us?”
“That’ll be up to her, but not before this afternoon.” Cisco was being safe. He knew Isabel would be fine enough physically; she’d recovered quickly from the hypothermia thanks to Paul Dawkins’ and the nursing staff’s efforts. His surgery, though intricate, was pretty much a patch job. While her parts of her arm and leg had been ripped to shreds, her main problems were likely to be residual shock, lingering stings and severe throbbing, but with pain-killers he could get her hobbling about within the day, though he would not be recommending it.