The doctor had been very good at protecting me while I was in her care, even refusing to acknowledge to the media that I was in the hospital. Fortunately, if I can use that word, several other people were also injured in the explosion, although none of them seriously—most of them had been staying in rooms adjacent to 222. They were more than happy to provide the news media with all the interviews they wanted, so I was left more or less alone. A TV reporter named Kelly Bressandes, who, to the great pleasure of her male audience, always dressed like a hostess in a gentlemen’s club, recognized my name among the injured—I had given her a story a couple of years back in exchange for a few favors. She had managed to sneak into my room the night before, startling the hell out of me. I hadn’t been put into an immobilizer then, and flinching the way I did caused pain in my shoulder that brought tears to my eyes.
“McKenzie,” she said as she approached the bed, her honey-colored hair reflecting the lights of the monitors. I had no idea why she was whispering.
“Monica?” I said.
“It’s Kelly. Kelly Bressandes.”
“Monica?”
“No, it’s Kelly. McKenzie, what happened at the motel?”
I brought a knuckle to my eye yet did not brush away the tears. I turned my head so she could get a good look at the scratches on my cheek and the bruise on my forehead. I was hoping I looked as pathetic as I felt.
“Motel. Boom,” I said.
“Yes, there was an explosion. McKenzie, tell me about the Jade Lily.”
“Lily?”
“Yes.”
“Lily Bressandes?”
“No, I’m—the Lily, McKenzie. The Jade Lily.”
That’s when the doctor entered the room. She demanded to know who Bressandes was but clearly didn’t care, because in her next breath she told her to get out and never come back. As the reporter was leaving, I called to her.
“Good to see you again, Kelly. I’ll talk to you soon.”
The doctor told me I was pathetic, so I knew the look I was going for had worked. She then interviewed me as she had just hours earlier. I never did get much sleep, so I really was tired when she told Rask and Donatucci it was time to leave.
Lieutenant Rask was tapping my knee through the bedsheets.
“We’ll talk again,” he told me.
“Sure,” I said.
Both men moved to the door. Donatucci left the room first. I called to Rask.
“LT?” I said. “What happened to my car?”
“I had it towed to the City of Minneapolis impound lot,” he said.
“The one near International Market Square?”
“Yes.”
“I suppose that’s as secure a place as any.”
Rask paused for a moment as if he were trying to decipher a coded message and then gave it up.
“I have your Beretta,” he said. “Come see me when you get out of here.”
“Sure.”
After he left, I closed my eyes and settled against my pillows as best I could without moving my shoulder. I hated like hell to lie to them, especially Rask.
“I’ll make it up to you guys first chance I get,” I said.
“What did you say?”
I opened my eyes. The doctor was standing inside the door.
“When can I leave?” I asked.
“As far as I can tell, you’re neurologically intact—”
“That sounds promising.”
“You have a normal CT. I am concerned about the confusion and amnesia you demonstrated earlier, however, especially when you were in the ER and speaking to the investigators from the police department and insurance company for the first time.”
“I am not confused any longer.”
“If you want to make a big deal out of it, I can let you go right now. Otherwise, I’d like to keep you overnight.”
“Are you going to wake me up every two hours?”
“I’ll wake you once. How’s that?”
I thought about it for a few beats. On one hand, I needed to move and move fast if I was going to get the money back. On the other hand, my broken collarbone meant I would need help, and I wasn’t sure who to ask. On the other hand, all hell was going to break loose as soon as Mr. Donatucci met with the museum’s executive board. On the other hand, I wanted all hell to break loose. I was counting on it. On the other hand, I wasn’t prepared for it yet—all hell breaking loose, I mean. On the other hand, this wasn’t rocket surgery. I mean brain science. I mean—Jeezus! How many hands have you got? Focus.
Confusion and an inability to concentrate are symptoms of a concussion, my inner voice said. That and the ringing in your ears.
“That could be simple tinnitus,” I said aloud.
“What?” the doctor asked.
“Tinnitus—ringing in the ears. Everybody experiences ringing in the ears at one time or another, right? It doesn’t need to be a symptom of a concussion, right?”
“You tell me.”
“Hey, you’re the doctor. I’m the one with the degree in umm, in umm … What did I go to college for? Criminology. I have a degree in—Doc, is irritability also symptomatic of a concussion? I bet it is.”
“McKenzie…”
“You know, it probably wouldn’t kill me to spend another night in this fine establishment. The food sucks, but I could always send out for pizza. I know this great Vietnamese place that delivers, too. Yeah, I’ll stay. I’m going to need my cell phone, though.”
