As soon as we pass through the door, I see a woman who must be Henry’s girlfriend sitting near the foot of his hospital bed in one of those ugly chairs that fold out into a torturous bed. She’s a nurse, I remember now. Sherry something. Sherry wears pink scrubs and looks to be a few years older than Henry. Dark bags hang beneath her bloodshot eyes. She doesn’t get up when she sees us, nor does she offer any welcome.
As I pass the corner of Henry’s bathroom, I see him at last, and the sight takes my breath away. His neck and face are a swollen collection of contusions, ecchymosis, and hematomas, with only the occasional patch of undamaged flesh showing. A plaster cast encases his left forearm, and his right wrist is purplish-black. Henry’s eyes are only half open, yet he acknowledges our arrival by slightly lifting his right hand from the coverlet.
“Sherry?” I venture.
The woman on the chair nods as though against her will.
“Is it all right if we come in?”
“Come on. He been waiting for you long enough.”
Her eyes stay mostly on Caitlin, giving an examination worthy of a romantic rival. This might be irrational, but I see it all the time during initial meetings between women.
When I’m far enough into the room, I see a catheter bag and another bag for fluids strapped to Henry’s bed. There’s probably a drain tube sewn into the stab wound in his belly. A wave of nausea goes through me.
“How’s he feeling?” I ask.
Sherry rolls her eyes at the absurdity of this question. “How do you think? You know, I knew this would happen. Sooner or later, it had to, with all those stories he was writing.”
Caitlin starts to speak, then wisely thinks better of it.
“I’ve tried to get him to tone them down,” Sherry goes on. “The articles. Things have changed around here, but not that much. Most people have moved on, and the races get along pretty good. But some folks can’t let go of the past. And that’s who put him in here.”
“I’m afraid you’re right.” I move closer to Henry and touch his foot under the covers. “Hey, buddy. It’s Penn. Can you hear me?”
Henry’s eyes blink open and stare at the ceiling, then track slowly over to me. When he tries to speak, what emerges is a sort of guttural ululation, and I wonder if pain meds are contributing to his difficulty.
“What have they got him on, Sherry?”
“Zosyn for infection. Dilaudid for the pain.”
“Wiss I could nalk benner,” Henry groans suddenly. “Lossa ell you. But … I not gon be able work … on stery foh while.” A strained laugh comes through his clenched teeth.
“Is his jaw wired shut?” I whisper to Sherry.
“No. But he bit his tongue during the beating, and some teeth are smashed. They had to stitch the tongue up.”
“Christ.”
Henry moves his eyes until they settle on Caitlin, who has moved up beside me. “You gon haf pick up where I lef off.”
This statement probably sent a blast of endorphins through Caitlin’s body, but she hides her excitement well. Demurring with a shake of her head, she says, “Henry, I’m sure you’ll be able to dictate stories from here. I’ll put one of my reporters at your disposal.”
He closes his eyes, squeezing tears from their inside corners.
“Has anybody read you this morning’s Examiner?” I ask. “Caitlin did a big story on you. You’re a hero, man. The online edition has racked up praise from all over the world. You’ve got comments from India to South Africa.”
Sherry steps up to the bed and wipes Henry’s tears with a tissue.
“This is still your story,” Caitlin says firmly.
His lips move again, but his jaw barely moves. “No. Uppa you now. But thass not why I call you here. I got … sumpin for you.” He motions weakly to Sherry with his right hand. “Give it her.”
“Are you sure?” Sherry asks, her resentment clear.
Henry nods with obvious difficulty.
Reaching into the pocket of her scrub pants, Sherry produces two small keys, which she hands to Caitlin. Caitlin looks at Henry and raises her eyebrows.
“They shole my case files,” he says. “Or bun ’em. Everysing. ’Ose my keys … safe apposit box … woy—urr-ROY-al Cotton Bank.”
Excitement is crackling off Caitlin like static electricity. These are the keys Henry mentioned to Lou Ann Whittington while he lay bleeding on the pavement. “What’s in the safe-deposit boxes?” Caitlin asks.
“Copies,” Henry croaks. “Sranscrip. FBI files … disk. Insern did mos of ih foh me … lass summuh. Took mohhr … moh suff yes’day.”
“My God,” Caitlin breathes. “Henry, are you saying I can use your files?”
The reporter nods again, his forehead covered in sweat. He probably couldn’t verbalize the trauma of giving away the fruits of a decade’s work, even if he wanted to. “You haff oo,” he says at length.
Sherry leans over and wipes his purple skin with a washcloth.
“Be cah-ful,” Henry warns. “Nah lige me. Don bee supid lige me.”
Caitlin walks around the bed, lays her hand lightly on his shoulder, and bends to speak close to his ear. Her words are faint but filled with conviction. “I’m going to do everything in my power to live up to the example you’ve set. You concentrate on getting better. Any time you want to file a story, have Sherry call my cell, and I’ll come myself to take dictation.”
Caitlin continues speaking, but I’m distracted by Sherry, who comes to my side and begins whispering with great passion.
“Who said my man had to be the one to bring the whole damn Klan to justice? Huh? He’s done more than anybody else already. Hasn’t he done enough?”
“More than enough,” I assure her.
Sherry shakes her head. “I can’t live like this anymore. I want a life, you know? A normal life. I’m too old to have more kids, but I can sit on the porch and listen to Henry play the guitar. I can work in my garden, and do a lot of other things that don’t make people want to kill you.”
Unsure of how to comfort her, I take her arm and whisper, “I think Henry’s dangerous work is done. A lot of good people are going to take over from here, including the FBI. But without Henry’s work, those Klansmen would almost certainly go free forever.”