“Eat your lunch, Bill. If I get any further ahead of you, I’ll look like a pig.”
Hodges eats, although he has very little appetite these days even when his stomach isn’t giving him the devil. When a bite sticks in his throat, he washes it down with tea. Maybe a good idea, since tea seems to help. He thinks about those test results he is yet to see. It occurs to him that his problem could be worse than an ulcer, that an ulcer might actually be the best-case scenario. There’s medicine for ulcers. Other things, not so much.
When he can see the middle of his plate (but Jesus, so much food left around the edges), he sets his chopsticks aside and says, “I found something out while you were hunting down Nancy Alderson.”
“Tell me.”
“I was reading about those Zappits. Amazing how these computer--based companies pop up, then disappear. They’re like dandelions in June. The Commander didn’t exactly corner the market. Too simple, too expensive, too much sophisticated competition. Zappit Inc. stock went down and they got bought out by a company called Sunrise Solutions. Two years ago that company declared bankruptcy and went dark. Which means Zappit is long gone and the guy giving out Commander consoles had to be running some kind of scam.”
Holly is quick to see where that leads. “So the questionnaire was bullpoop just to add a little whatdoyoucallit, verisimilitude. But the guy didn’t try to get money out of her, did he?”
“No. At least not that we know of.”
“Something weird is going on here, Bill. Are you going to tell Detective Huntley and Miss Pretty Gray Eyes?”
Hodges has picked up the smallest piece of lamb left on his plate, and here is an excuse to drop it. “Why don’t you like her, Holly?”
“Well, she thinks I’m crazy,” Holly says matter-of-factly. “There’s that.”
“I’m sure she doesn’t—”
“Yes. She does. She probably thinks I’m dangerous, too, because of the way I whopped Brady Hartsfield at the ’Round Here concert. But I don’t care. I’d do it again. A thousand times!”
He puts a hand over hers. The chopsticks she’s holding in her fist vibrate like a tuning fork. “I know you would, and you’d be right every time. You saved a thousand lives, and that’s a conservative estimate.”
She slides her hand from beneath his and starts picking up grains of rice. “Oh, I can deal with her thinking I’m crazy. I’ve been dealing with people thinking that all my life, starting with my parents. But there’s something else. Isabelle only sees what she sees, and she doesn’t like people who see more, or at least look for more. She feels the same way about you, Bill. She’s jealous of you. Over Pete.”
Hodges says nothing. He’s never considered such a possibility.
She puts down her chopsticks. “You didn’t answer my question. Are you going to tell them what we’ve learned so far?”
“Not quite yet. There’s something I want to do first, if you’ll hold down the office this afternoon.”
Holly smiles down at the remainder of her chow mein. “I always do.”
10
Bill Hodges isn’t the only one who took an instant dislike to Becky Helmington’s replacement. The nurses and orderlies who work in the Traumatic Brain Injury Clinic call it the Bucket, as in Brain Bucket, and before long Ruth Scapelli has become known as Nurse Ratched. By the end of her third month, she has gotten three nurses transferred for various small infractions, and one orderly fired for smoking in a supply closet. She has banned certain colorful uniforms as “too distracting” or “too suggestive.”
The doctors like her, though. They find her swift and competent. With the patients she is also swift and competent, but she’s cold, and there’s an undertone of contempt there, as well. She will not allow even the most cataclysmically injured of them to be called a gork or a burn or a wipeout, at least not in her hearing, but she has a certain attitude.
“She knows her stuff,” one nurse said to another in the break room not long after Scapelli took up her duties. “No argument about that, but there’s something missing.”
The other nurse was a thirty-year veteran who had seen it all. She considered, then said one word . . . but it was le mot juste. “Mercy.”