Engaging the Enemy (21 page)

“Better not look,” he said.

She looked anyway. A mangled mess where her elbow had been, only a shred of skin holding it on. Beyond, her undamaged left hand, now looking like the corpse it was, bloodless.

“Might as well take it off the whole way,” she said.

His brows went up. “I'm no surgeon.”

“It's not an arm, at this point,” Grace said. She felt only mild regret, which she knew to be shock and drug combined. Still, two live children for one lost arm was a good bargain.

“As you wish.” He cleaned the gutting knife carefully, something she appreciated fully only later, and cut the arm free. Grace felt nothing physical, but despite her determination to accept the loss, there was something profoundly wrong about her arm—
her
arm—lying there with no connection to her. It was not her arm; it could not be her arm…it must be someone else's arm. What a disgusting thing to leave lying in the paddock, where a child might find it…

She had a dim memory of MacRobert helping her back to the house, of his voice assuring her the children were safe, Helen was safe, everyone was safe, when she opened her eyes to find herself in bed, floating above the mattress in a pink cloud. That was so unlikely that she closed her eyes again, willing herself to dream properly and wake up completely. On the second try, she recognized the drifting sensation as drug-induced, and the memory of the morning's—that morning's?—events appeared in chunks, accessed by her implant's recording.

“—Transfer to regional trauma center immediately—” she heard a voice say. She wanted to argue, but her mouth was full of very dry cotton. “Should have called immediately—”

“She said—” That was Helen's voice.

“
She
said!” A pompous voice, full of scorn. Grace felt anger stirring. “Why would you listen to a woman missing an arm, a woman in shock? People in shock say all sorts of stupid things.”

Her tongue was working its way through the cotton. “Na'stoo-id,” she croaked. Even to herself it sounded more like a frog than a human.

A stranger's face appeared on one side, Helen's on the other. “Grace!” Helen said. “You're awake.”

Not really awake,
she wanted to say. Too full of drugs to be really awake. But the other face annoyed her, as full of self-righteousness and scorn as the voice had been.

“Who you?”

“I'm the local doctor. Please stay calm. You've had a rather serious injury, some kind of hunting accident. These idiot summer visitors never seem to think about how far their shots go…missed a rabbit, I daresay.”

And he had called
her
stupid. Three hunters, shooting at and missing three rabbits?

“Where Mac—” She couldn't say the rest of his name.

“The man?” Helen misunderstood the word. “The fisherman who helped you? He's gone to help the police find the…the hunters.”

So there was a reason for the stupidity about hunters. She wished she could think what it was.

T
he ceiling of the regional trauma center's amputation ward had been designed for the entertainment of those who must lie flat in bed. Grace had a choice of programs to display: games, news, sports. None of them served her purpose. She had been overruled by doctors, psychologists, and worst of all Helen, all of them certain that a woman her age needed the specialized services here, rather than specialists in attendance
there.

Surreptitiously, she hitched herself up in the bed until she could use the headboard to tilt her head forward and look across the room. Through the glass sliding door, she could see the man in uniform seated just beside it. The careless-hunter story had broken down; provincial authorities knew that the shots had been attempted murders. Her life, they said, might be in danger. They were not happy with her weapon, though she faced no charges for having wounded (unhappily not killed) the assailants. An unlicensed beam weapon was an indictable offense, she'd been told. Hadn't she realized? Her explanations had been received in silence, without comment afterward.

Her stump ached. No, calling it an ache was a euphemism. The attendants used euphemisms.
Are we feeling some discomfort, dear?
It wasn't discomfort and it wasn't an ache. It hurt, a lot. The med dispenser button lay just under her right index finger. She didn't push it. No one died of pain, and she wanted to think. They had cleaned up the stump of her arm; the bulky wrappings prodded her ribs. She wanted a cloned prosthesis; they were saying she was too old, and she needed a way to convince them she wasn't.

Using heels, hips, and her right arm, she pushed herself head-ward a few more centimeters. It was never good to lie still too long. She couldn't turn on her side; the arm board and IV line to her right arm made it too awkward, and she wasn't about to try lying on her stump. But by the clock, she had eighteen minutes until the next official attendant check.

The man outside the door alerted; she saw his head come up, his arm drop to his side. Her chest tightened. Then he relaxed, smiled, stood up. Helen already? She wasn't supposed to visit until tomorrow. Grace made herself breathe more slowly. No use panicking the attendants.

MacRobert peered through the door, winked at her, said something to the man in uniform, then came in. He had a sheaf of flowers wrapped in green paper.

“You're looking better,” he said.

“Thank you,” Grace said, meaning more than the words or the flowers.

“You're welcome,” he said. He looked around for somewhere to put the flowers, and chose the pitcher from the bedside table. “Just a moment.” He took the pitcher and flowers into the tiny adjoining bathroom—to which Grace had not yet been allowed access—and came back with them. “There. Nothing makes a hospital room really cheerful, but flowers can't hurt.”

“They're lovely,” Grace said. She did not believe for a moment that he had brought her flowers just to cheer her up. But as long as she was stuck in a ward with full patient monitoring, how could they communicate?

He gave her a sweet smile, something so at odds with what she thought of him that she felt herself scowling back. “Are you in pain?” he asked. “You're frowning.” Then, as if reassured, “I was due extra leave, and it was granted, so I thought I'd stay in the area until you're out of the hospital. My time is up in the cottage, but—your niece, is it?—graciously invited me to stay at the manor with her and the children. I offered to do the back-and-forth for her; the children are upset about the pony.”

Grace blinked. “That's…very nice of her. Of you. Of course, we do have fishing rights to that whole area. I hope you're scaring some fish.”

“A few, yes.” He pulled one of the chairs around to sit facing her. “Wouldn't you like the bed elevated?”

“I would, yes, but they wouldn't, and the bed reports to the nursing station if I do it. In would come the efficient attendants to put it back down and remind me not to hit that button by accident.”

“Control enthusiasts, aren't they?” MacRobert said. “Helen says they're bucking about a cloned prosthesis instead of bioelectronic?”

“They think the clone won't take, or it's not cost-effective or something.”

“How long does it take?”

“To grow an arm? Minimum of eight months. Four for the initial stage, then implantation, then another four to eight of boosted growth and a lot of physical therapy.”

“Mmm.”

“And I resent every day of it. I knew there was more than one; I knew there might be more than two. But I had to go get Shar…”

“Of course you did,” MacRobert said. “The bioelectronic prosthesis is faster, though, isn't it?”

“Supposedly, yes,” Grace said. “Hook up the nerves, attach the prosthesis, and then it's forty to sixty days of training. But it wouldn't be
my
arm.”

“They could make it look—”

“I don't care about looks!” That came out more angrily than she meant to sound with MacRobert. “I care about function,” she said more quietly. “It's easier to interfere with the signaling in a non-cloned prosthesis. It's less reliable. I can't afford to worry about who might be programming my arm.”

“Oh.” He looked taken aback.

“Bad enough I'm out of action when Helen needs me. A shorter time out would seem better except…I don't know when, or who, or how many.”

“Perhaps you could recuperate back at the manor while making that decision,” MacRobert suggested.

“Get out of here? Everyone seems convinced I need to be here.”

“Until you were out of danger, yes. But now? Don't you have some recovery time before they can start either approach to a prosthesis?”

“I…think so, yes.”

“You would be as safe, from a security standpoint, at the house as here. The level of medical support you need is much less…the last time I stopped by, you had tubes and wires everywhere.” He grinned.

“I don't remember.” She did not remember a visit from him at all. How long had she been unconscious?

“Blood loss and shock,” he said. “You've made a remarkable recovery.” He did not add
for a woman your age,
which the attendants kept mentioning. She felt absurdly grateful.

“I intend to make a full recovery,” she said. “I have things to do.” One of the most frustrating things about being locked up here was having to leave the guilty at peace.

“I'm sure you do,” he said. “But if you feel up to roughing it in the country, we can both put pressure on the staff.”

“Just a moment,” Grace said. She felt around on the keypad under her right hand. There. That was the bed control. A motor whined faintly and the head of the bed came up. “It's hard to argue effectively while flat on your back.”

His grin broadened. “Indeed. Shall I barricade the door so the attendants can't get in, or—”

She didn't feel at all dizzy. “No, you're going to help me get out of bed and into the bathroom.”

“I am?”

“You are. Here—give me your arm—” He held out his bent arm; she grabbed it and pulled herself upright. Now she was dizzy for a moment, but it passed. Sitting upright on the side of the bed felt much better than lying in it. Her bare feet, hanging over the side of the bed, looked pale and oddly unnatural.

“I'm going to stand,” she said. “I'll have to lug this damned IV pole with me—”

“You're sure? Never mind, you're always sure.” He positioned himself to make it easy for her to slide off the bed, his other arm ready to steady her if she needed it. She felt lopsided without her left arm, but not unsteady. He put a firm hand on her back as she reached out to the IV pole, and together they started a very slow walk across the room.

They were halfway to the bathroom when an attendant came bustling in. “Now, now, dear, mustn't play with the bed control—
what
do you think you're doing? You—whoever you are—get away from her—”

“No,” Grace said. “I need his help. I'm going to the bathroom.”

“You can't!”

“I most certainly can, and I most certainly am.” She glared at the attendant. “It's a shame that this gentleman is more use to me than you are, but it can't be helped. I certainly wasn't going to use a bedpan in front of him.”

“You should have rung!”

“You should quit treating me like an idiot,” Grace said, feeling better with every step. “If you want to help, unhook me from this blasted pole. Or help bring it along.”

“I'll have to call the doctor,” the attendant said.

“And I have to use the toilet,” Grace said. “Are you going to help, or not?” The longer she stood up, the more she wondered if this had been a good idea, and she really did need to get to the bathroom. The attendant, muttering, finally reached for the pole. Grace transferred her grip to MacRobert's arm and took another step. Better.

The attendant didn't want to leave her alone in the bathroom, but MacRobert drew him away and shut the door. Grace sat, feeling limper than she liked, but also triumphant. She imagined pacifying pharmaceuticals rushing away, and when she was through, she stood up by herself—with a good grip on the IV pole. That brought her face-to-face with the mirror. The person staring back at her was only partially familiar. It wasn't the missing arm that bothered her but the stooped posture and slack, puffy face with the hazed eyes. She dismissed the ridiculous hospital gown as an irrelevant accident.

She forced herself upright. Better. Glared at the puffy face. Better again. Made faces at herself in the mirror until the attendant knocked on the door.

“Are you all right?”

“I'm fine,” Grace said. “I'm coming out.”

On her way back to the bed—which seemed much farther away than it had been on the way to the toilet—she said, “I'm going home tomorrow.”

“You can't!” the attendant said.

“In law, I certainly can,” Grace said. “I am a competent adult, and thus allowed to discharge myself from a medical facility at any time, whether or not it imperils my life.” She sat down on the bed, trembling with exhaustion. “And since I am a competent adult, this won't. I will have medical assistance at home.”

“But—”

“You really do not want a legal battle with me,” Grace said.

“She's right,” MacRobert said. The attendant looked at him, then back at Grace, and let out a huge sigh.

“I'll have to talk to the doctor,” the attendant said, and left in a hurry.

“Idiot,” Grace said. She was perched on the edge of her bed and had no idea how to lie down again without hitting her stump. It hurt enough already; she did not want to bang it on anything.

“Here,” MacRobert said. He put one arm behind her and presented the other for her to hold with her good hand. She would have glared at him except that he was doing the obvious best thing without fuss. She let him ease her back to the bed, but managed to get her legs up onto it before he reached for them. He laid the cover over her lightly. “You really are one to take an idea and run with it, aren't you?” he said. “When I suggested recuperating back at the manor, I wasn't thinking of tomorrow.”

“I'll rest better,” Grace said. “And I'll be there if—”

“If nothing. I'm there. You're not in action right now.” He cocked his head. “You're a very determined woman.”

Grace arrived back at the manor in a medical transport, clearly marked as such. This obvious signal to the other side that she was helpless infuriated her, but the medical staff had insisted that she could not travel safely without attendance, and Helen backed them up. She was tense all the way, feeling like an obvious target, but the trip went without incident. Perhaps MacRobert had arranged protection; she felt inclined to believe that he had.

She let herself be moved through the house in a hoverchair, vowing silently that she would be on her feet as soon as she got rid of the worriers. She wanted to see the children above all, but Helen was worried that they'd upset her.

“Auntie Grace?” That was the younger, Shar. She turned her head.

“Yes, Shar.”

“Gramma said it's a bad word but sometimes it's all right for grown-ups to say bad words.”

“Excuse me? What, Shar?”

“That word you said when you fell down and there was all that blood. I told Gramma you said it and then your arm fell off and there was all that blood. I thought it made your arm fall off to say the bad word, but Gramma said no.”

The pure absurdity of that brought tears to her eyes and a snort of laughter at the same moment. Shar looked at her with concern. Grace blinked the tears away. “Shar, I'm sorry. I'm fine, but that just hit me funny.”

“You cry when something's funny?”

“Sometimes.” How to explain to a five-year-old…she wouldn't even try. “Shar, you did very well that day.”