Dr. Morris answered without slowing his pace. "Good, let's go see how he's doing."
As the trio entered the room, they found Margaret attempting to calm the anxious patient. "You're going to be just fine, honey. Your jaw is broken, so they had to wire it shut. Dr. Morris explained it to you right before they took you off the respirator, remember? Now, let's try to slow your breathing down, okay?" As Tom's gasps for air became less desperate, she encouraged his progress. "That's good, nice and easy," she coaxed as she readjusted the nasal canula which assured his weakened lung ample oxygen.
Harry stopped and waited just inside the door to the small room, while the other two proceeded to the bedside. Unaware of the straggler, the patient turned a wary eye toward the new arrivals as the doctor spoke. "It's good to see you awake. I know it's going to be difficult, but we need you to answer a couple of questions for us. Can you tell us your name?"
When he attempted to swallow before answering, Tom's battered face contorted in pain as the fire in his throat intensified. "Why don't we see if some ice will help that a little," Dr. Morris suggested.
Margaret quickly grabbed the cup of shaved ice from the table next to them and offered her son a tiny spoonful. Tom gratefully accepted it and closed his eyes to block out the unwelcome intruders as he relished the cool wetness from the melting ice. The plea for more was obvious when he reopened his eyes, and Margaret quickly brought a second small spoonful to his swollen lips. Again, Tom briefly closed his eyes to savor the coolness as it soothed his burning throat. When he again opened them, Tom turned his attention to the medical personnel. Before the doctor could prod him to answer the earlier question, the injured detective offered a raspy reply. "Tom Ryan; nineteen-ninety-nine; hospital."
Dr. Morris chuckled slightly as he responded, "Ah ha. Well, I see you're familiar with the procedure." Turning serious again, he continued. "So you know where you are--can you remember why you're here?"
As Tom found the answer in his hazy memory, the beeping of the monitors quickened. "Stein kidnapped, beat me." His eyes traveled back to seek his mother as he hesitantly offered, "Stabbed me?"
"That's right, honey," she confirmed. "You were stabbed in the chest."
Tom frowned in confusion as he countered, "No, shoulder."
"Yes, in the shoulder first, but in the chest later," Margaret confirmed. "Remember when you were on the respirator? When I told you that you had to be on it because you were stabbed in the chest?"
Tom closed his eyes to search for a memory of the conversation. The instant he found it, they popped back open and he demanded confirmation of his recollection. "Stein's dead?"
"Yes," his mother affirmed.
The heart monitor's tempo increased and his breathing again became more labored as he fought to control his fear. Gasping, he forced out a question. "H-Har-Harry?"
Upon hearing his name, the captain moved in next to Margaret and quickly reassured his detective. "I'm here, Tom. I'm fine, so don't you worry about me. You just concentrate on getting well," he instructed.
Tom's relief was readily apparent as the monitors slowed to a more normal level. Drained, he closed his eyes, but his need to see that Harry was telling the truth soon forced them open again. As the detective's eyes focused and came to rest on the sling that helped to hold his captain's injured shoulder immobile, he surmised the cause. "Stein?"
Dr. Morris interrupted before Harry could respond. "It's time for you to get some rest now, Sergeant Ryan. We don't want you to overdo it. You can visit later when you're more rested."
Ignoring the doctor's orders, Tom again questioned his injured superior. "Stein do that?" Though his strength was nearly depleted, at the captain's reluctant nod, Tom demanded more. "How bad?"
Knowing his detective wouldn't rest until he had an answer, Harry reassured the determined patient. "It's nothing serious, just a dislocated shoulder." Switching to his stern captain's tone, he echoed Dr. Morris' instructions. "Now you do as the doctor ordered and get some rest. We'll talk more later."
Lacking enough energy to resist, he had no choice but to accept the answer. Tom closed his eyes and drifted off into an uneasy sleep.
**************
Intent on delivering the coffee that he'd promised Margaret, Lyam moved along the hallway to his son's door. The question Frannie had posed to him was very much on his mind as he proceeded. Surprised to realize that he had almost reached the door, he nodded to the guard. At that moment, his wife's voice echoed into the hallway as she reassured, "That's right, honey. You were stabbed in the chest."
His heart leapt to his throat as he realized that Tom was now awake. Though his urge was to rush into the room, he remained frozen just outside the door. Unbidden, the memory of his last visit to this room when his son was awake began to replay in his head. The look of terror and panic in his offspring's eyes haunted him as his wife's voice recited her theory in his mind. " I realized that he wasn�t fighting the respirator until he saw you--until he saw all that pain and anger in your eyes."
The exhausted father swayed slightly as Frannie's voice chimed in. "How do you propose to help your son deal with what's happened to him when you haven't been able to come to terms with it yourself?"
As the two voices swam together, repeating over and over in accusation, Lyam became dizzier and his knees nearly buckled. Suddenly, he was aware of the guard's hand on his arm and realized that the man had spoken. "Wh-What did you say?"
"I asked if you were all right, sir," the guard repeated.
In answer, the distraught father shoved the two cups of coffee he carried at the guard. "I-I just need some air. Give one of those to my wife, will you? And tell her I'll be back in a little while." Without waiting for an answer, Lyam turned and fled down the corridor.
*****************
The harried sales clerk again checked her watch against the clock on the wall. The lone patron methodically looking through each and every card remained the only obstacle to her leaving on time for a change. Located only one block from the hospital, the shop usually did a brisk business and today had been no exception.
Sensing her agitation, the patron looked up and smiled. "I'm sorry if I'm keeping you. I simply must find the perfect card. You understand, don't you?" he asked in earnest.
Forcing an understanding smile back to him, she responded, "Oh yes, of course I do. Take your time." Busying herself with rechecking the following day's delivery schedule, the clerk attempted to ignore the ticking clock while the patron continued to pour over the card display.
Twenty minutes later, he finally made his way to the counter with his selection. Taking a pen from his pocket, he began to write on the card as the clerk protested. "Hey, you can't write in it until after you pay!"
"Oh, I'm sorry," he apologized. He placed the pen on top of the card and reached into his jacket for his wallet. Pulling out two crisp bills, he placed them slightly spread out on the counter and returned the wallet to his pocket. Without another word, he picked up the pen and continued to write.
Speechless, the clerk gaped at the two brand new one-hundred-dollar bills he'd placed on the counter. She was shaken from her trance as the man sealed the envelope and handed her the bills. "The change is yours if you promise to see that in two days this is delivered along with one dozen of your finest roses to this person over at the hospital. I'm sorry, but I don't have a room number."
"Th-That's okay. W-We can find that for you. I'll see to it personally," she promised, staring in shock at the money now in her hand. The ping of the bell from the door opening finally brought her out of the daze and she looked up to find the generous patron had disappeared from the shop.
Shrugging, she entered the purchase into the cash register, pocketed the change, and grabbed a delivery slip to fill out. She then picked up the phone, dialed a familiar number and waited for an answer as she filled out the form in front of her. "Hi, Sherry. It's Gail. I need a patient's room number for a delivery order. The name's Sergeant Thomas Ryan."
