Chapter Twenty
Seventeen miles from Pequod Point, we reached Massamat Hospital—it had the closest ER. We backed into the emergency bay. Sounds of a commotion carried over from the street as soon as Al opened the ambulance doors. He glanced at me.
“Reporters,” he said.
Waiting for a break in the case, the press corps would have been scanning police and ambulance radios 24-7. They must’ve tapped into the 911 call. At least they were far enough away that I didn’t have to pull the sheet over my head. I cringed at the thought that Lizzie might be out there covering my arrest for the Courier.
Al and Mac unloaded my gurney and pushed me up the ramp into the ER. A county police officer accompanied us.
“We can stay with her, right?” Mac asked him.
The officer nodded. “Long as I’m there.”
We rolled into a small examination room and he took up a guard post outside. A male nurse arrived, said “hello” to the three of us and proceeded to place an electronic thermometer in my mouth. While he waited for a reading, Mac started for the door.
“Hold tight, Nora. I’ll see if I can find Ben and get him cleared to come in.”
The nurse finished and left the room. There was only Al standing by. He shuffled over to the gurney and took off his cap.
“I’m sorry about the letters to the editor, Nora. I was letting off steam, that’s all.”
“I know, Al. We’re good. Stop working and go home. There’s nothing more you can do here now. Thanks for everything. And say hey to Sinead for me.”
Al nodded. “I will. And good luck.”
He walked out. While I lay there alone waiting for a doctor, I started thinking about Al’s anger. My anger. Anger’s importance. Anger told you when someone crossed your line. “Don’t tread on me,” anger said. You had to pass through anger, and the hurt underneath it, before you could get to forgiveness. Otherwise, it seemed to me, you skipped a step. But there was also plenty of danger there. How long could you hold on to that dark fire before it scorched all that was good in your life? And what was the best way to let anger out?
I was turning this over in my mind, thinking of the murderous rage Abbas had unleashed on Hugh and Helene, when a massive sense of relief washed over me.
I hadn’t killed anyone.
“Ms. Glasser?”
A tall, fiftyish Indian man in surgical scrubs entered and closed the door behind him. He had a black, bushy unibrow above kind, almond-shaped brown eyes. He checked the name on my bracelet.
“You are indeed Ms. Glasser, and I am Dr. Patel,” he said, smiling. “How are you feeling?”
“Exhausted,” I said, smiling back at him weakly.
He lifted my free wrist and took my pulse. Then he pulled down my lower eyelids one by one and shined a bright penlight in each of them. Next, he pressed a stethoscope to my chest and listened. After a few moments, his dark brow furrowed. He left my side and walked over to a cabinet.
“You are mildly hypothermic, but you also seem to have a slight arrhythmia.”
“What’s that?”
“An irregular heartbeat. I’d like to give you an EKG and check a few other things,” he said, returning with a tray of needles and vials. “Just to be prudent.”
“Is an arrhythmia a big deal?”
He tied a rubber tube on my arm.
“It’s probably just the excitement.” He patted my hand. “I’ll give you some Valium to relax you after your blood sample is taken and the EKG is done. We don’t want it interfering with the results.”
Despite Dr. Patel’s reassurance, I fretted all through the EKG.
“Definitely an arrhythmia,” he said, checking the readout when the test was done. “We’ll see what the other tests show in a day or two. It’s entirely possible that a good, long rest could take care of this.” He rubbed my arm with an alcohol pad, and while he injected the Valium, he looked at my cuffed wrist sympathetically. “You’ve been through a lot. You’ll be staying here tonight. I’ll tell the detective your health won’t permit a move yet. You need sleep.”
“Thank you.”
I was grateful for the kindness and, unless Roche decided to believe my story, a respite from the county jail.
The Valium had taken effect by the time Ben walked in. I was floating on my back in the Caribbean.
“Hi,” said Ben.
“Hi.”
He smiled and bent over to kiss me. His lips felt like little soft pillows.
“How are you feeling?”
“High.”
“Hi.”
“No, high.”
“Yes, hi.”
I gave up and kissed him again. I could feel the drug dissolving my inhibitions like paint stripper.
“You are incredibly wonderful, Ben Wickstein. You are a good man. And I mean that as the highest compliment. Goodness does nothing to diminish your sex appeal.”
Ben looked amused.
“Maybe you want to pull the curtain and climb in here?” I suggested.
He laughed. “I think they’re keeping a pretty close eye on us,” he said, nodding at the door. “The officer actually frisked me before I came in.”
“As if you might try to pull off a jailbreak?”
The gravity of the situation dragged me down, despite the buoying effect of the drug. Ben’s expression turned serious, too.
“Mac brought me up to speed. You were incredibly brave,” he said, taking my cuffed hand in his and squeezing it. “I don’t know what I would have done if anything had happened to you.”
“What do you think will happen now?”
Ben furrowed his brow and sat down on the edge of the gurney. “Depends what they make of the hunter’s statement. It could come down to Masout’s word against yours.”
I was indignant. “What about all those shots he fired at me? And his motive for killing Hugh? I gave Hugh’s sketches of Abbas to the police. They’re proof.”
“Remember, they think you had a motive to kill, too. And you attacked Abbas with that spray varnish. I think it could be time for the New York City criminal lawyer I told you about.”
“I think you’re right.”
I sighed heavily. It was now or never. When else would I have the aid of a tranquilizer to ease the way? I swallowed hard.
“Ben. I have to tell you something. I haven’t been honest. I’ve been holding back information.”
Ben looked at me, curious.
“Okay. I’m just going to say it really fast. Get it out there.”
“I’m listening.”
“I walk in my sleep.”
“You what?”
“It used to do it when I was a kid, but I grew out of it. Then that first night in your apartment? I woke up standing in your kitchen naked, washing my hands. I was sleepwalking. That’s why I left. I was pretty freaked out.”
“You walk in your sleep. Really?” His eyes widened.
“I think I might have walked in my sleep the night of the murders, too. And I probably left the house. I found leaves and a twig in my hair in the morning. You saw the scratch on my cheek.”
He openly stared at me.
“You sleepwalk. And don’t know where you’ve gone or what you’ve done?”
“If I don’t wake up in the middle of an episode, yes.”
“You can drive in your sleep?”
“I’m not sure. I’ve read about people who have.”