Laurie can hear me.
I run out in the hall yelling to the nurses, and three of them come running. I get Laurie to repeat her performance for them, and they confirm for me that it’s real. And that it’s a damn good sign.
They send me out so that they can run some tests, and I head back to the room, my feet barely touching the floor. For the first time since this began, I’m feeling some optimism.
I take a shower, dress, and check back with the nurses. Laurie is still upstairs, so I go back to my room. Kevin has arrived and is of course thrilled to hear about Laurie’s progress.
“That is fantastic,” he says. “Beyond fantastic.”
“She’s a fighter,” I say.
Kevin brings me up to date on his meeting with Steven Timmerman. Steven is understanding and sympathetic to a point; he expressed his concern for Laurie and me, and will accept whatever decision I reach. He just wants it to be fast. He wants his trial to take place as quickly as possible. It’s a reasonable position for him to take.
Dr. Norville comes in for the daily update on Laurie’s condition. I basically understand about every fifth word he says, but the gist of it is that the brain scans they performed do not show damage, but that I shouldn’t take too much encouragement from that, because they are notoriously unreliable at this early stage.
He is pleased by her responses to the stimuli, but again cautions me in doctor-talk not to read too much into it. Laurie is not out of the woods, and won’t be until she wakes up. Ever willing to grasp on to straws with both hands, I like the fact that he doesn’t say “if ” she wakes up.
Kevin, whose favorite place in the entire world is a hospital, seizes upon the occasion to ask Dr. Norville about his own “unresponsive congestion.”
“How long have you been experiencing it?” Norville asks.
“About three weeks,” says Kevin.
“Do you have an internist?”
“Of course,” says Kevin, slightly miffed. You name the type of doctor, and Kevin has one.
“You might want to see him,” Dr. Norville says, and extricates himself from the conversation and the room.
Kevin is obviously not pleased with the interaction. “Does he really think it’s possible I haven’t consulted with my internist about this?”
I shake my head in feigned sympathy. “What planet is that guy living on?”
Sam Willis drops by to ask if I want an update on his progress in digging into the now concluded life of Walter Timmerman. The truth is that I don’t, but he’s worked hard and quickly on it, so I agree.
It is truly amazing how much of a person’s life is available on computers if you know where to look, have the expertise to do so, and are willing to skirt all applicable federal and local laws. Sam fits the bill on all those counts, and he brings me a treasure trove of information on Timmerman, he says-far too much to go through now. And he’ll have much more later on, when he really has time to get into it.
“Can you give me an overview?” I ask.
“Well, the guy was as rich as the media reports made him out to be; I would estimate his net worth at between four hundred and four hundred fifty million. And he didn’t spend much of it; he had the nice house, spent a lot on jewelry for the current wife…”
“Was Steven’s mother his first wife?”
Sam nods. “Yes. Died about six years ago. Cancer.”
“No recent unusual transactions?” I ask.
“Could be; I’m not sure. At this point I was more into gathering the information than analyzing it,” he says. “I’ve also got copies of the e-mails he sent and received for the last three months from his private and business addresses, but I didn’t read most of them.”
“How did you get that?” I ask.
“You don’t want to know,” he says, and he’s right about that. “By the way, I did happen to see one strange e-mail.”
“What was that?”
Rather than tell me about it, he searches through the reams of paper and finds a copy of it. It is from Robert Jacoby, whose e-mail sign-off identifies him as the director of laboratory operations at the Crescent Hills Forensics Laboratory.
The e-mail conveys what seems to be an annoyance on Jacoby’s part with Timmerman, though it is expressed rather gently:
Walter
I’ve chosen to report back to you in this informal way because of the unusual results we have gotten on the sample you submitted. As you no doubt are aware, the DNA from the sample is your own, as it is a perfect match from a previous sample of yours we have on file.
Did this represent something of a test you felt we needed to pass? That would surprise me, and the fact that you requested the results on a priority basis only adds to my puzzlement. Can you enlighten me?
All my best to you and Diana. Looking forward to getting you back on the golf course.
Robert
I won’t be able to place this in any kind of context until I go through everything Sam has brought, though he says he didn’t see a reply to Jacoby’s questions. Certainly the fact that a man who was soon to be a murder victim was experimenting in any way with his own DNA is at least curious, and something for me to look into carefully if I stay on the case.
But a nurse comes in and asks me to quickly come to Laurie’s room, so right now everything else is going to have to wait.
“ANDY.”
Laurie says it as I walk in the door. She sort of mumbles it, and it’s hard to make it out, but it is without a doubt the most beautiful rendition of my name that I have ever heard.
There is a searing pain in my throat as I fight back the need to cry. I don’t want her to see me cry, not now, because I don’t want her to misinterpret it. She might think I am upset about her condition, when I have actually never been happier than I am at this moment.
I walk to her side. “I’m here, Laurie. God, you look beautiful.”
I take her hand, and she seems to be struggling to speak. It looks as if one side of her face is unmoving and a little distorted. “Andy… don’t know what happened… to me.”
The doctor mentioned that she might have short-term memory loss, so I’m not surprised by this. I decided that I would tell her the truth, and I see no reason to change that decision now. “Someone shot you in the leg when you were in front of my house. You lost a lot of blood, but you’re going to be fine now.”
“Who?” she manages.
“We don’t know that yet, but we will. Believe me, we will.”
Tears start to stream down her face, but I see that they are only coming out of her right eye. It scares me, but I try not to show it. I assume she is crying at the fact that another human being would do this to her, but that’s just a guess. I don’t know what perfectly healthy women are thinking, and I doubt my abilities in this area are any better when the woman has a brain injury and is just coming out of a coma.
She doesn’t answer, just closes her eyes. I call the nurse over, and she takes Laurie’s hand and holds it, probably feeling her pulse. “She’s asleep,” the nurse says. “She needs to regain her strength.”
“Is Dr. Norville here?”
She nods. “He’s finishing up a procedure, and then he’ll be down.”