March Into Hell (16 page)

In fact, the reason that Matt had remembered the bruise at all was because when he'd initially seen it, he wondered about possible complications to having three head injuries in such a close period of time. It was fortunate for Taylor that he'd had no brain swelling or bleeding.

Matt supposed that there were some crackpots out there who might go to such extremes to garner attention, but after speaking to the people who actually knew Mark Taylor, he found it hard to believe the speculation that the whole thing had been staged.

Cards, letters and flowers had poured into the hospital for their famous patient. So many, that his business partner advised the hospital to give most of the flowers away to other patients.

Matt stood at the foot of Taylor's bed and glanced at the windowsill to where a small sample of the gifts were displayed. For the most part, his patient had been kept too sedated to notice any of them. A couple of times they had tried to decrease the sedation but the results had been scary. The poor guy had awakened extremely disoriented and fighting. They'd had to restrain his right hand and his left was in a sling due to the dislocated shoulder, but that hadn't stopped Taylor from straining to get free. At the moment, Mark was still, his breathing unlabored and his color good, but the livid bruises on his neck had taken on an even more colorful hue as the edges began fading. The yellow contrasted sharply with the still vibrant purple that circled his neck like a morbid tattoo.

"Good morning Doctor Jenkins. Mark's doing a bit better. His blood pressure has been stable and all his labs came back within normal limits. Oh, and the radiologist's report says that the laryngeal swelling is down." Tina adjusted the flow rate of the IV.

Matthew Jenkins grinned. "Great! I'm going to take a look at his chart, and then we'll see about waking him up and pulling that tube."

He couldn't help feeling a little excited about finally being able to meet the man.

* * *

Mark blinked several times and tried to focus. Above him were white ceiling tiles with little tiny holes in them. A faint water stain darkened the corner of one. His eyes felt gritty and dry and he gagged on a hard plastic thing in his throat. It hurt. Lots of things hurt. He reached to remove the object, but found that his hand was tied down. Panic raced through him and he pulled as hard as he could against the bonds. The effort made him gag again and he tried to call for help. Nothing. The only sound he could make was an awful raspy whistling as his breath moved inside the tube.

What the hell was going on? Mark quit fighting, but his chest heaved as he tried to take stock of the situation. He turned his head, wincing at the stab of pain as the tube shifted in his throat, gagging him again. Bright sunshine streamed into the room hitting his eyes like shards of glass.  He felt foggy and muddled and wondered about all the plants on the windowsill. This room definitely wasn't his loft. A dark-haired woman dressed in pink scrubs crossed in front of his vision and closed the blinds. Bless her, she must have read his mind and at least now he knew where he was.

Mark relaxed and let his head fall back against the pillows. Snatches of memory from his ordeal played in his mind; memories of Kern, the chanting and the warehouse. He closed his eyes and tried to push it all out of his head. He saw again the large wooden cross and his breathing quickened. How had he made it out of there? His last coherent memory was of seeing the sun rise. He had thought for sure it was his last.

"Good morning, Mark. I'm Tina, I'll be your nurse today." She checked the tubing on an I.V. in his arm. "Do you remember what happened to you?"

Mark looked at her eyes, saw the barely concealed pity and turned his head. Slowly, he nodded.

* * *

"Now take a big breath!"

Mark tried to obey the nurse's request, but choked as the tube scraped up and out of his throat. He coughed hard and followed by a groan when the coughing caused the pain in his belly to flare. Lying back against the pillows, he closed his eyes, starting when he felt a cool washcloth wipe against his mouth. He swallowed. There was still pain, but the removal of the tube was a big improvement.

"Mark?"

He opened his eyes. "Yeah?" It came out more as a croak than an actual word, but it was the first word he'd spoken in three days.

"Are you having any trouble breathing?"

Mark took a deep breath. Except for some abdominal pain caused by inhaling so deeply, he didn't have any trouble. "No." He tried to clear his throat; grimacing at how raw it felt-- like someone had taken a metal grill brush and swirled it around down there.

Tina swiped the damp cloth along his neck, a dry towel following behind. The personal care embarrassed him and he didn't want to think of what else had been wiped and cleaned while he'd been out of it. Her brown eyes lifted from the task and met his gaze. "Try not to talk too much. We'll see how you do and if everything is good, I'll get you some ice chips in a little while, okay?"

It crossed his mind that if she didn't want him to speak, then she shouldn't have asked a question. Especially since nodding his head wasn't something he was eager to do either, but if a cup of ice awaited him at the end of the line, he'd do whatever she wanted. "Okay."

He didn't have a whole lot he wanted to say anyway. The last three days had been a blur. Mark vaguely recalled waking up a few times, but the details were sketchy. He remembered the blind panic he'd felt one time when he'd found that he was unable to free his arms. The room had been dark and he had thought he was still in the warehouse. When he'd tried to call for help, he'd gagged on the tube and tried to bend his head down to his hand to pull the offending object only to be firmly pushed back against the mattress. It embarrassed him now to think of how he must have behaved, all wild and fighting everyone.

* * *

Although he was more awake than he had been, Mark spent most of the day sleeping. Lily had come by. He remembered that, but it seemed like one minute she was there, the next she was gone and the clock had skipped ahead several hours. The biggest event had been the ice chips. After keeping those down and not having any trouble swallowing, he'd graduated to a small cup of lemon-lime pop. He figured he hadn't eaten since the night before he'd been abducted from his loft, but found he didn't have much appetite. The pop had been enough to fill him up.

The room grew dimmer, the bustle outside
 
in the halls settled down, and Mark shut his eyes once more, wondering just before he drifted off, how he could still feel tired when he'd done nothing but sleep for three days.

A hand shook his shoulder, and Mark's eyes flew open as he gasped and blindly swung his arm in that direction. Dimly it registered that soft cloth brushed his fingertips and there was a clatter as someone stumbled. The room wasn't completely dark; light from the hallway spilled in and he blinked when he recognized his surroundings.

"Hey! Take it easy, Mark! I'm just here to check your vitals." He recognized Brenda, the nurse from the night before, as she stepped close to the bed, her expression wary.

Embarrassment flooded through him even as he sank back against the raised bed. "Sorry. I didn't hurt you, did I?"

"No, I'm fine, don't worry about it." She reached up and angled the I.V. bag, peering at the fluid level before meeting Mark's gaze and folding her hands on the bed-rail with a sigh. "And I'm the one who should be sorry. You'd think I would know by now to make a little noise and to call your name before touching you."

Her reminder of the previous night and the similar incident only served to further embarrass him and he felt his face burning. At least the room was still very dim. Unable to look her in the face, he mumbled another apology and closed his eyes, hoping she'd hurry and finish what she had to do. He was okay in the daytime when they would wake him up because the room was light and it was immediately apparent where he was, but night was harder. Even without someone touching him, he frequently awoke in a panic, his heart racing.

Brenda took his blood pressure reading, popped a thermometer in his mouth, and stuck a clip on his finger. Various beeps sounded and the devices were removed. "Hmm... looks like you're running a little temp. I'll get some acetaminophen for you."

Mark sighed, wondering if the fever was going to delay his discharge. He'd hoped to go home in a day or so, but at least he was no longer on a monitor.

Images from that night would flash through his mind at random times... even when he was thinking about something else entirely and at night, with no distractions, it was even harder to keep the nightmares at bay. If he could, he'd just stay awake all the time. As much as he wanted to leave the hospital, the thought of sleeping in his loft made his skin crawl. Mark shuddered. Somehow, he'd have to get over it.

"Are you cold? Getting chills?"

Mark started at the sudden question, not realizing that Brenda had returned with his medication. Now that she mentioned it, he became aware that he was shivering and
it
wasn't just from the images in his head. "Yeah, I guess it is a little cold in here."

Brenda frowned. "Here, take these and I'll be back in an hour or so to take your temp again."

He tossed the pills back, and fumbled with the water glass. After washing the medication down, he took a few more sips. His throat still hurt from the tube and the water felt cool and soothing. Tugging the covers up, he settled down to try and get a little more sleep before the nurse returned, and then shortly after that, if he had their schedule figured out, the lab rats would come and draw blood. He yawned and wondered how doctors ever expected anyone to get better when the patients were continually awakened.

* * *

In the morning, his temp was near normal and he felt half-way human again.

"Good morning, Mark." His doctor swept into the room, his white coat flapping behind him. "I'm Doctor Matt Jenkins. I doubt you remember me very well." He laughed and his eyes crinkled into a pleasant expression. "How are you feeling?"

"Okay. Better than I did." Mark only vaguely recalled the man coming into his room yesterday after the tube had been pulled. The doctor had tried to ask him some questions, but Mark hadn't been able to keep his eyes opened.

"You sound a lot better too. I think we'll advance you to a soft diet. How does that sound?" He jotted something down on Mark's chart then set it on the bedside table and stepped right up to the bed.

Mark would have shrugged if he could. It didn't matter to him. He nodded instead. "Sure."

"Let me take a look at your incisions." Dr. Jenkins untied the back of Mark's gown and eased it down. Quickly, he pulled the tape off one side of the incision in Mark's shoulder. "It looks good." He removed the entire dressing and tossed it into a trash can. "You don't need that anymore."

His exam moved down to Mark's abdomen and Mark tried not to wince when the doctor's fingers lightly pressed near the wound. He didn't say anything this time, and his mouth set in a grim line before he re-tied Mark's gown.

Sitting in the chair Lily had used earlier, Dr. Jenkins grabbed the chart and began writing again. Idly, Mark watched him, wondering at the other man's expression. Was something wrong? He looked pissed off.

Sighing heavily, the doctor stood again. "Okay, now let me just take a quick peek at your hands and feet." He unwrapped the bandage and Mark watched the other man's face instead of looking at his wound.

"Can you make a fist?"

Mark grimaced and clenched his right hand as hard as he could, which wasn't very hard at all. He could barely hold a paper cup and even that was a challenge.

The doctor ran the tip of his pen along Mark's pinky finger and Mark pulled his hand back at the sharp sensation. Jenkins glanced up at Mark and smiled. "That's good. I was testing for sensitivity there. You're very lucky. You could have wound up with permanent nerve damage."

Mark shook his head and remarked dryly, "Yeah. I"ll try to remember how lucky I am."

Dr. Jenkins glanced up sharply, not missing Mark's sarcasm but choosing to keep any comments he had to himself as he re-wrapped the wound.

Mark tried to smile to take the bite out of his previous comment, but he was incapable of forming his mouth into a curve and closed his eyes in embarrassment instead, feeling like a first class jerk. None of this was the doctor's fault. He opened his eyes but kept his gaze fixed on the sheets bunched around his waist. "Sorry about that, Doc."

"No need to apologize. I'd be pretty pissed too if I were you." He walked around to the other side of the bed. "Let's take a look at this hand." He repeated the thing with the pen, and this time, Mark didn't feel the need to pull back. He could feel it, but it was more distant, a pressure more than anything sharp.

"Hmmm... it could be temporary. Can you make a fist?"

Mark tried and his fingers curled, but it was even weaker than the other hand. His little finger didn't curl as much as the others. His eyes flew to the doctor's. "It's not working as well as the other one." He tried to keep the fear out of his voice.

"No, it's not, but it could be temporary and with some physical therapy, you could regain all or most of your normal function."

Mark absorbed that and prayed that the doctor was right. Then he wondered why he bothered to pray at all. He'd prayed before and it hadn't stopped the crucifixion from happening. His jaw clenched and he felt bitterness rise up within him. At the very least, there could have been a hint of what was going to happen in the camera. He'd done so much for that damn camera and now, when he needed help, it had abandoned him.

The doctor moved onto his feet and seemed satisfied with the results of those tests. "I'd like to get you up walking today. It's going to hurt a bit, but you'll recover faster from the abdominal surgery if you're up moving around." Jenkins moved over to the sink and washed his hands, and after drying them with a paper towel, sat back in the chair. He crossed his legs and opened the chart once more. "As long as you don't try running a marathon, your feet should be okay."