“It’ll be sorted out. Don’t worry.” It felt better to be handing out that advice rather than receiving it, although no more convincing.
“I hope so,” she said, hanging the chart back on the gurney. “They will take you for the scan and then I’m admitting you for the night. We ought to watch you for concussion. You’ve been acting strangely.”
The sheets were welcomingly clean and crisp. Harry hadn’t thought much of them, but they worked for me. After the scan, which revealed nothing of concern going on inside my brain, they wheeled me up to a private room on the eighth floor that no one was using that night, rejecting my offer to walk. With Vicodin inside me and the familiar hum of the equipment by the bed, I soon fell asleep.
I didn’t take to the breakfast-a floppy pancake with fake maple syrup and apple juice in a sealed plastic container, washed down with tasteless coffee. The stuff had usually been cleared long before I got to see the patients, and it made me understand why some of them were so grumpy about the place by the time I arrived. The sun shone through the corner window, and I lay on my bed with The New York Times, waiting for the bureaucracy to grind its way toward signing me out again. My head hurt and I hadn’t enjoyed the first sight of my battered face in the bathroom mirror, but I’d survived.
There was a knock at nine thirty a.m. and I put down the paper, half expecting Rebecca to reappear, but Jim Whitehead stuck his head around the door instead. He’d given no warning of his arrival and it didn’t fill me with enthusiasm, but I didn’t have much choice. I couldn’t refuse my department head the right to check on me.
When he wasn’t at York East, Jim hung his shingle off Park at Sixty-fifth. I suspected it was his way of making a professional statement, of moving away from Episcopal, which prided itself on being open-minded about treatment-drugs, cognitive behavioral therapy, whatever worked-for the high church of Sigmund Freud. The clue was his couch, a black-leather-and-chrome affair I’d noticed when I’d dropped by his office in an apartment building stuffed with physicians. It made sense: Manhattan was the only place on earth with enough rich neurotics willing and able to spend five hours a week talking to the human equivalent of a brick wall.
Now that he’d got me lying on my back, I wondered if he’d take the opportunity for a spot of analysis, but he stood there with his clipboard for a minute, regarding me with an expression that suggested doubts about my mental stability. Then he took a seat by the bed and rested the board facedown on his lap.
“You had a lucky escape,” he said.
I rapped the untouched side of my skull with the knuckles of my left hand. “I’m okay. Last time I go walking in Central Park.”
“That sounds wise. You’re not having an easy time. If there’s anything I can do to help, let me know.” He paused briefly before coming to the point. “I came to say that I’ve met with Mrs. Duncan about the Shapiro case. She’s considered all the points on which you might be vulnerable.”
Imight be vulnerable? That didn’t sound like an expression of solidarity. What was it Duncan had said about Episcopal being behind me, just before she’d threatened my career? If they were behind me, they were a long way back.
“She’s very professional,” I said carefully.
“There is one thing that concerns me. I’ve reviewed the case with everyone else who was involved-as well as myself, of course. I talked with Dr. Knox and the nurses in the ER, and Mr. O’Meara too. He told me that Mr. Shapiro arrived with a gun. Is that right?”
That jolted me, and I made a show of folding up The New York Timesand putting it to one side of the bed before I answered.
“Mrs. Shapiro brought one in for safety. She’d found her husband with it.”
“Was it the murder weapon?”
I looked out of the window, examining the pattern of steel and glass on the building opposite and conscious of not wanting to face Jim. I thought of Pagonis showing me Harry’s gun in the interview room at Yaphank. It hadn’t been the Beretta that Nora had brought to the ER, but it no longer felt as though that made a difference. I’d let him walk out of there without knowing what he might do, despite being handed a gigantic clue.
“It wasn’t, no. He had another one,” I said.
Jim glanced at his clipboard as if longing to pick it up and make a note of what I’d said. Then he gazed directly at me, his eyes boring into mine with the expression of a teacher whose promising pupil has let him down.
“You didn’t tell me about that and neither did Mr. Shapiro, since he wanted you to treat him. That worries me. I think it would have changed how I approached the case if I’d known. I wouldn’t have been happy handing over responsibility to you like that.”
My head started to throb as I grasped the purpose of Jim’s visit. He hadn’t been worried about my health. He’d come to make sure that I wouldn’t drag him into the affair by deflecting the blame to him. It angered me that he had rushed to my side so blatantly to shield himself, just as he’d nipped into the hospital on that Saturday to recruit Harry. He acted deliberately, but he could move fast enough when it suited him.
“Mr. Shapiro is my responsibility, not yours. You don’t have to worry about that,” I said curtly.
“I want to be clear, that’s all. I’ll do everything I can to support you through this, Ben,” he said.
Jim was the one who glanced away in embarrassment this time: unlike Duncan, he had the decency to look ashamed. As gestures of support went, his ranked pretty low on the scale, however. Even Harry’s wife had offered more than that.
It was four p.m. by the time they let me out, and I treated myself to a cab ride home down York Avenue, under the Queensboro Bridge, clutching a paper bag of drugs. I’d taken a shower to wash off most of the blood and mess from having been rolled around in the Central Park gravel, but dirt was still clinging to my hair near the gash on my forehead and the driver had given me a suspicious look when I’d climbed in the back.
I walked into my building warily, prepared to be accosted by one of the neighbors or by Bob, but the lobby was empty. I made it to the elevator and along the hallway without having to explain my appearance to anyone. My luck didn’t last. As I neared my apartment, I reached into my pocket for my keys and realized they weren’t there. I couldn’t believe it at first-nothing else was missing-and I poked my pockets in case I’d stowed them somewhere. But they were gone. There was nothing for it: I had to retrace my steps wearily along the hallway, into the elevator, and down to the lobby. Bob had returned from wherever he’d been, and I walked up to him resignedly.
He looked up and his eyes widened. “My God.”
“I got attacked in the park, but it’s not as bad as it looks,” I said. “Can I have the key to my apartment? Mine’s missing.”
I went back the way I’d come and got to my front door again, not expecting anything else to be awry. I lived in an apartment building, so the security was good, and I didn’t believe the man had taken my keys. It didn’t seem likely given that he hadn’t been interested in my wallet. They’d probably fallen out as we’d rolled down the slope or had scuffled in the dirt by the pond. Maybe I’d find them if I went back tomorrow, and it wouldn’t matter much if I didn’t. So I opened my apartment door and switched on the lights without concern.
My mistake was obvious from where I stood. Someone had been through the place like a whirlwind, pulling books from shelves and papers from the desk. Cushions had been tossed to the floor, and a mess of stuff was strewn chaotically on the rug. I stood there in shock for a minute, trying to take it in. It looked like a room in Twelve South after a schizophrenic or a manic patient had lost control, with objects flung around. The walls and the furniture seemed to be intact; only light things had been cast aside. I shivered, knowing for certain that my assault hadn’t been a random act. Someone had been after me.