Authors: Dennis Palumbo
Night Terrors (31 page)
Lyle Barnes was looking better. He'd been moved from ICU, and now had a private room at Pittsburgh Memorial.
“The bureau has a great health plan,” he'd explained soon after I showed up. It was midafternoon, three days later, and a blinding sun bathed the spacious room with cool, unstained light.
Though hampered by a tangle of wires and tubes, he animatedly discussed his prognosis, which, he assured me, was good, despite the incompetence of his doctors.
“When I get outta here, I'm gonna research surgical protocols. No way my gut should still hurt this bad.”
“Lyle, as your therapist, I have to tell you: You're an idiot. You took a bullet at close range, the surgery was a success, and you're lucky to be alive. Deal with it.”
He frowned, shifting position under the bedsheets. He moved with obvious discomfort, but his face had resumed a reasonably human pallor. And his eyes were clear.
“I heard about that kid in Wheeling. Wes Currim. Some weird stuff you get yourself mixed up in, son.”
“Not by choice, I assure you.”
He looked skeptical. “I don't knowâ¦I'm stickin' with my initial interpretation. Civilian with a hero complex.”
“Gimme a break.”
“Speakin' of heroics, I got a call from the director yesterday. He says he's recommending me for some kinda medal. âRetired Agent of the Year,' or some shit.”
“Great. I think both you
and
Detective Lowrey deserve credit for Randall.”
“Maybe. But the thing is, I gotta sign something that forbids me to discuss the case, or my unsanctioned actions, with anyone. Especially the media. Total nondisclosure. Can you believe that crap?”
“Nothing about the bureau surprises me. Not anymore.”
He smiled. “I've taught you well, Grasshopper.”
We chatted a few more minutes, until I noticed his voice faltering.
“Look, Lyle, I better go. You should rest.”
“Hey, that reminds me. I didn't have any night terrors the whole time I was out of it. Not even during surgery. Think I got cured?”
“I think you got shot. We've still got a lot of work ahead of us. And someday, if you're a good patient, I'll explain the difference between sleeping and sedation.”
“And I'll teach
you
the difference between a Hallmark card and classic poetry.”
He shakily offered me his hand. I took it.
“Deal.”
***
I crossed town in my new rental beneath a crystalline, cloudless sky, heading for Mt. Washington. And home. According to the auto shop in Wheeling, it would take at least another week to repair my Mustang. And, as I'd guessed, it wasn't going to be cheap.
I headed toward the bridge, traffic already clogging the on-ramp. The improving weather had obviously prompted more people to get out and about.
I tapped my fingers on the wheel. After all that'd happened, my thoughts kept returning to Eleanor Lowrey. And what the future would bring. If anything.
Until I realized I was too tired to think about it. Or much else. And too beat up. Though I'd removed the bandages from my hands, my ribs were still taped and my neck still hurt like hell.
All I wanted to do now was get home, pour myself a tall drink, and watch the setting sun give the Three Rivers its nightly coat of many colors.
Tomorrow, it was back to work. Seeing my patients, especially those traumatized by physical violence and emotional pain, victimized by the brutality of crime and its aftermath. These includedâas soon as he was well enoughâretired FBI agent Lyle Barnes. I truly hoped to someday rid him of his night terrors.
Regardless, given the events of the past weeks, I knew one thing for certain. There were enough terrors in
waking
life to occupy me for a long time to come.
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