anywhere," said
Kilmara. "That is one of the rules
of their game. There are no limits. Zero. Zip. Nada. None. That's what
keeps me young," he added cheerfully, "trying to outguess the
fuckers."
"So you
think they will try again?" said Kathleen.
"Possibly,"
said Kilmara slowly.
"So we're
all at risk," said Kathleen, "as long as your friend remains in this
hospital."
Kilmara
nodded. "There is an element of
risk," he added, "but let's not go overboard on it. There will be heavy security."
"Jesus
Christ!" said Kathleen, quite shaken. "Who are these people? Why
can't you find them and stop them?"
Kilmara
emptied his hip flask into his mug. "Terrorism is like cancer," he said. "We have our successes, but the enemy mutates
and we're still looking for a cure. It
is a long, open-ended war."
"I guess
the sooner we get your friend recovered and out of here, the better," said
Kathleen.
Kilmara lifted
his mug in a mock salute. "Way to
go, Kathleen," he said. "Now
you're getting it."
Kathleen gave
a thin smile.
6
Connemara
Regional
Hospital
January 18
Fitzduane
opened his eyes.
What had
awakened him? Who was out there? He must react. He had dropped his guard before and look at
what had happened.
The imperative
to move coursed through his body and was counteracted by his painkillers and
sedation.
Still the
warning screamed at him.
Sweat broke
out on his forehead. He tired to rise to
a sitting position, some body posture from which he could react more forcibly
than when lying down helpless and defenseless.
The effort was
terrible. His body did not want to
respond.
He drove it
into submission and slowly he could raise his head and bandaged torso, but he
was too weak. He screwed up his eyes as
the pain hit, and a low cry of agony and frustration escaped from his body.
He heard a
voice, and it was the voice of a friend. There was no threat. He was
safe. Boots was safe. Suddenly, he knew where he was.
And then he
saw her and felt her hand soothe his forehead and heard her voice again. "Hugo," she said. "You're safe. Relax. Lie back. There is nothing to
worry about. You must rest and get
well."
The digital
wall clock read 2:23.
Kathleen, a
warm, dark-haired woman in her early thirties, was changing his drip. On Linda Foley's initiative, she had been
seconded from Intensive Care. Burke's
patients tended to do better than most. She had the touch.
She finished
her task and checked his pulse. She had
an upside-down watch pinned to her uniform and she was looking at it as she
counted silently. He liked the touch of
her fingers and the clean, warm smell of her body. There was the mark of a recently removed ring
on the third finger of her left hand.
"Can I
get you something, Hugo?" she said very softly.
Fitzduane smiled. It was strange. The pain was still there but somehow
remote. He felt rested and at
peace. He lifted his hand and took
hers. There was nothing sexual in the
gesture. It was the kind of thing you
might not do in broad daylight but which is somehow appropriate when it is two
in the morning and the rest of the world seems asleep.
"Tell me
about it," he said sleepily. His
fingers stroked the spot where the ring had been.
Kathleen
laughed quietly. She was a very pretty
woman, all the better for the signs of the passing of the years etched on her
face. "It doesn't work that
way," she said. "You're
supposed to do the talking. It doesn't
do for a nurse to give away her secrets to a patient."
"It takes
away the mystique," said Fitzduane quietly, with a smile, quoting what a
nurse in
Dublin
had once told him. "Patients want
support and strength — solutions, not problems. It doesn’t do to get emotionally involved with a patient." He grinned. "One way or another, we move on."
He started to
laugh out loud. Outside in the corridor,
the
Kilmara. "That is one of the rules
of their game. There are no limits. Zero. Zip. Nada. None. That's what
keeps me young," he added cheerfully, "trying to outguess the
fuckers."
"So you
think they will try again?" said Kathleen.
"Possibly,"
said Kilmara slowly.
"So we're
all at risk," said Kathleen, "as long as your friend remains in this
hospital."
Kilmara
nodded. "There is an element of
risk," he added, "but let's not go overboard on it. There will be heavy security."
"Jesus
Christ!" said Kathleen, quite shaken. "Who are these people? Why
can't you find them and stop them?"
Kilmara
emptied his hip flask into his mug. "Terrorism is like cancer," he said. "We have our successes, but the enemy mutates
and we're still looking for a cure. It
is a long, open-ended war."
"I guess
the sooner we get your friend recovered and out of here, the better," said
Kathleen.
Kilmara lifted
his mug in a mock salute. "Way to
go, Kathleen," he said. "Now
you're getting it."
Kathleen gave
a thin smile.
6
Connemara
Regional
Hospital
January 18
Fitzduane
opened his eyes.
What had
awakened him? Who was out there? He must react. He had dropped his guard before and look at
what had happened.
The imperative
to move coursed through his body and was counteracted by his painkillers and
sedation.
Still the
warning screamed at him.
Sweat broke
out on his forehead. He tired to rise to
a sitting position, some body posture from which he could react more forcibly
than when lying down helpless and defenseless.
The effort was
terrible. His body did not want to
respond.
He drove it
into submission and slowly he could raise his head and bandaged torso, but he
was too weak. He screwed up his eyes as
the pain hit, and a low cry of agony and frustration escaped from his body.
He heard a
voice, and it was the voice of a friend. There was no threat. He was
safe. Boots was safe. Suddenly, he knew where he was.
And then he
saw her and felt her hand soothe his forehead and heard her voice again. "Hugo," she said. "You're safe. Relax. Lie back. There is nothing to
worry about. You must rest and get
well."
The digital
wall clock read 2:23.
Kathleen, a
warm, dark-haired woman in her early thirties, was changing his drip. On Linda Foley's initiative, she had been
seconded from Intensive Care. Burke's
patients tended to do better than most. She had the touch.
She finished
her task and checked his pulse. She had
an upside-down watch pinned to her uniform and she was looking at it as she
counted silently. He liked the touch of
her fingers and the clean, warm smell of her body. There was the mark of a recently removed ring
on the third finger of her left hand.
"Can I
get you something, Hugo?" she said very softly.
Fitzduane smiled. It was strange. The pain was still there but somehow
remote. He felt rested and at
peace. He lifted his hand and took
hers. There was nothing sexual in the
gesture. It was the kind of thing you
might not do in broad daylight but which is somehow appropriate when it is two
in the morning and the rest of the world seems asleep.
"Tell me
about it," he said sleepily. His
fingers stroked the spot where the ring had been.
Kathleen
laughed quietly. She was a very pretty
woman, all the better for the signs of the passing of the years etched on her
face. "It doesn't work that
way," she said. "You're
supposed to do the talking. It doesn't
do for a nurse to give away her secrets to a patient."
"It takes
away the mystique," said Fitzduane quietly, with a smile, quoting what a
nurse in
Dublin
had once told him. "Patients want
support and strength — solutions, not problems. It doesn’t do to get emotionally involved with a patient." He grinned. "One way or another, we move on."
He started to
laugh out loud. Outside in the corridor,
the
Similar Books
