The Mayan Apocalypse (21 page)

Meredith Roe had watched Morgan drive off with the woman. Lisa Campbell—a reporter, he had said. That could be trouble. Real trouble.

She slipped back into her car, retrieved her cell phone, and made a call.

A short time later, she pulled a backpack from the trunk of her car, slipped her arms through the straps, and climbed the gate.

L
isa hated hospitals. She imagined that was true for most people. Everything about a hospital seemed designed to make people uncomfortable. Privacy was limited to a thin gown that refused to stay closed in back, leaving—at best—one's underwear-clad bottom showing, or—at worst—one's bare fanny hanging out. In an effort to get the most money and use out of each square foot of floor space, strangers were made into roommates. Lisa had been a patient only once, having received the gift of a swollen appendix, and she spent most of the first night listening to an obese woman in the bed next to her alternate between snoring so loud the diffusers in the overhead lights rattled and moaning from pain.

Walking on polished floors, bracketed by depressing green walls, Lisa fought to ignore the smell of disinfectant, hospital food, and odious odors wafting from some rooms—odors she didn't want to identify.

Her heart fluttered, and her stomach turned. They had parked at the front of the hospital and made their way to the ER. Morgan had insisted on accompanying her. She drove them in her five-year-old Ford Taurus. She wondered when the last time was that Morgan had sat in any vehicle costing less than fifty thousand.

A thickly built male nurse with massive arms in the ER informed them that Garrett Vickers had been moved to ICU. He eyed Morgan and gave him a nod in what she assumed was one gym rat's secret salute to another. He gave them the barest directions on how to find their way to the ICU.

“Can you tell us how he is?” Lisa knew the answer before he spoke it.

“No ma'am. They will be able to tell you more in ICU.”

“But—”

“Come on.” Morgan took her by the arm. She didn't resist. His touch seemed to pour strength into her.

Down two more shiny halls and a four-floor elevator trip put them next to the Intensive Care Unit. A set of metal doors with a small portholelike window in each marked the boundary between the realm of the healthy and that of the critically ill. Somewhere beyond those doors lay Garrett Vickers. A white sign with red letters read, N
O ADMISSION
. P
LEASE CHECK IN WITH THE NURSE'S STATION
.

Lisa's first impulse was to push through the entry and deal with the gatekeepers later, but she reigned in the urge. “How am I supposed to check in with the nurse's station if it's on the other side of the doors?”

“Here.”

She turned. Morgan stood by a small metal box. It had a red button with the word
CALL
above it.

“Your friend's name is Garrett…”

“Vickers. Garrett Vickers.”

Morgan started to press the button but pulled back. “Tell me again: What's his uncle's name?”

“Rodney Truffaut. Why?”

“Do you think he'll be in there?”

“Probably.”

Morgan nodded. “If Garrett is…out of it, they might not let you in, but if family is there…”

He pressed the button, and a female voice poured from the tiny speaker. “Yes?”

“Lisa Campbell to see Garrett Vickers.”

“Let me check with his nurse.”

Morgan shrugged. A moment later, he heard, “Come in.” The doors opened automatically.

A shiver raced up Lisa's spine, but her skin felt hot. She felt afraid of what she might see. Her feet stuck to the floor, and then a familiar hand on her elbow started her forward. Morgan led her into the unfamiliar world where the most fragile of patients lay.

No one looked up as they walked in. Lisa felt like a ghost, invisible to everyone around her. Not everyone. A voice to her left said, “Please wash your hands.”

Lisa turned. A short Filipino nurse with bright eyes motioned to a metal sink. Yet another sign: A
LL VISITORS MUST WASH HANDS BEFORE VISITING PATIENTS
.

“Oh, of course.”

Morgan leaned close. “This is the age of swine flu, bird flu, duck flu, and armadillo flu.”

“Armadillo flu? Really? I didn't know.” The moment of humor helped.

“Yup, thickens your skin and turns it a lovely shade of gray.”

“Every girl's hope.”

They washed, using the pink disinfecting soap that came from a reservoir mounted behind the metal sink. When they finished, the nurse pointed to a set of rooms. “Cubicle 212. Please keep your visit short.”

“Of course.” Lisa felt the urge to salute, but then she chastised herself. The woman was doing her job and protecting the patients. Lisa had to admit that her emotions were getting the best of her.

She inhaled deeply. “You don't have to be here. You've done so much already.”

“I know.” Morgan led the way to a glass wall that faced the nurse's staging area. Everything in the ICU was designed to keep the doctors and nurses aware of what was happening at all times.

Morgan stopped two steps from the open door. All the cubicles had doors, but none were closed. Lisa assumed they were shut only while medical personnel treated the patients.

Lisa hesitated at the threshold. Inside was a single bed. A figure she couldn't recognize lay motionless on the white sheets. Several
monitors flashed lights and drew lines that meant something to doctors, but not to her. The patient's head was wrapped in thick gauze. Both legs were in casts and elevated above the bed by wires and pulleys. One arm also dangled from medical cables.

Lisa stared at the face. It was swollen and purple. One eye was covered with bandages.

Her hands began to quiver. Was that Garrett? Granted, she had only spent a day with him, but it was enough to know what the man looked like. Whoever it was in the bed barely looked human.

Her eyes moved to a figure seated at the foot of the bed. It was a man hunched over, his face buried in his hands. He didn't move or look up, but Lisa knew who occupied the chair.

Slowly, Lisa approached and whispered, “Rodney?” At work, she called him chief or boss. Here, those appellations seemed out of place.

Truffaut looked up. In the dim light, Lisa could see the man's red eyes. Over the years, Lisa had seen the man in many situations, and he always presented a tough, bulletproof exterior. Now he looked like a lost child—confused, scared, and without direction.

“Lisa.” He stood. “I didn't expect to see you…”

Lisa took him in her arms and held him. He shook and then wept. Again, Lisa began to pray.

When they parted, Lisa's cheeks were wet. “I got here as soon as I could.”

“I know. I didn't expect you to come at all. I just thought you should know.” He looked up, and Lisa followed his gaze.

“Oh, I'm sorry. This is Andrew Morgan. Andrew, this is my boss, Rodney Truffaut.

Morgan offered his hand and the two men shook. “I wish I were meeting you under better circumstances.”

“So do I—
The
Andrew Morgan?” He looked at Lisa. “This is the guy you went to interview?”

“Yes. I was with him when you called. He arranged to fly me back.”

“Again with the corporate jet? No wonder you got here so soon.”

“I like showing off.” Morgan moved deeper into the room. He glanced at Garrett. “How bad…How's he doing?”

“He's hanging in there.” Truffaut seemed reluctant to talk. “Let's step outside for a few minutes.” He moved to the only limb of Garrett that didn't have a cast and gently touched it. “I'll be back in a few minutes, Garrett.”

They moved through the ICU past the double metal doors to a nearby waiting room. The room was empty. About fifteen Naugahyde-clad seats filled the space. A silent television mounted to a metal support hung from the ceiling. The window provided an unhindered view of one of the parking lots.

“How is he?” Lisa sat, hoping the others would too. They did.

“Both legs are broken, and so is his arm. His skull is cracked, one of his cheekbones is fractured, and his right eye socket is shattered. He may lose the eye. Whoever did this stabbed him…” Tears began to flow. ”Stabbed him four times. He almost bled to death. It's only by the grace of God he didn't die.”

Lisa felt sick, as if someone had poured acid into her stomach. “That's horrible. Do the doctors expect…I mean…I can't even ask the question.”

Truffaut gazed at floor as if the answer might be there. “They don't know yet. His injuries could kill him, the shock could do it, and there's infection and a dozen other things to worry about.”

“His parents?”

“Down in the cafeteria. The police are still investigating. They've already interviewed me. I was useless and clueless. I have no idea who would do this to him. The cops will probably want to talk to you too.”

“Me?” Lisa sat back. “Why would they want to talk to me?”

“They're talking to everyone at the office. We were the last to see him before…the incident.” He sighed and looked out the window. “You might want to let them know you're here.”

“I'll see if they're still around when I leave.” Lisa studied her boss.
He looked as if he had been awake for a week. “I hate to ask, but is Garrett alert?”

Truffaut shook his head and wrung his hands. “The ER docs told me he had lost a lot of blood. He flatlined several times. Once in the ambulance and twice in the ER. When they got him in a room, they couldn't get a decent blood pressure. They pumped whole blood and whatever else they give a patient in his condition. He came to for a while, but all he could do was to utter one word—Necco.”

“Necco?”

Morgan cleared his throat. “It's a candy company. They've been around since the mid-1800s. They make little candy hearts that you see at Valentine's. They also make Necco wafers and a few styles of candy bars.”

Lisa stared at Morgan.

“What? My wife liked candy.”

“You are a man of many facets, Mr. Morgan.”

“Thanks—I think.”

Lisa turned back to her boss. “Why would Garrett mention candy?”

“I don't know. Doctors think it was because he had lost so much blood. After what he's been through, it's a wonder he could speak at all.”

“He hasn't said anything since?”

Truffaut rubbed the back of his neck. “No. He slipped into a coma. He may not come out of it.”

“I don't know what to say, Rodney. I'm at a loss.”

“Me too, Lisa. Me too.” He rose and walked to the window. “Did he say anything to you? Anything that might explain all of this?”

Lisa leaned back and tried to think. That morning seemed like a month in the past. “No. He came in late—well, you already know that.”

“Yeah, I feel bad about that. I really lowered the boom on him. Now I wish I hadn't.”

“Don't beat yourself up, Rodney. You had no way of knowing this would happen.”

“I know. I know.” He began to pace the room. “Anything else?”

“Sorry, no. He came in late, and I gave him a bad time about it. Told him to go see you.” She waited, hoping more memories would come forward. “He said he had been working from home and pulled an all-nighter.”

“A party?”

“No.” Lisa drew the memory forward. “I wasn't paying much attention. I was getting ready to leave for the airport—wait, he did say that he had been doing research for me and that he had something to show me.”

Truffaut turned. “Like what?”

“I don't know. He didn't say, and I didn't ask. I just said goodbye and left.” Guilt blanketed her. “I guess we both have regrets about today.”

“Life is measured by regret,” Morgan said softly.

“What?” Lisa turned to him.

“Nothing. Just talking to myself.”

The police interview went quickly because Lisa had nothing to offer. She was out of state when the attack happened; no, she didn't know Garrett well—only one day. No, she didn't know where he lived, or if he had enemies, or if he was a drug user, or if he showed signs of being a troublemaker, and he didn't look nervous or frightened to her last time she saw him. No, she didn't know what kind of relationship he had with his family or his uncle Rodney. Lisa felt useless.