The 7th Victim - Alan Jacobson [117]
She inserted her Bluetooth headset and listened as she drove, fast-forwarding to the next message as soon as she ascertained the source of the caller. She finally deleted all of them when she had reached the end. Nothing important.
She arrived at the hospital and made her way up to ICU. As soon as she headed down the hall, she was accosted by a man in his thirties wearing a pair of khakis and an oxford dress shirt cuffed at the sleeves. A microcassette recorder, held tightly in one hand, hovered near Vail’s face as he asked her a question: “Agent Vail, how do you feel about being targeted as the Dead Eyes killer?”
She knocked the recorder out of her face and continued walking, but did not say anything.
“I personally don’t believe you’re the killer,” he continued, “but how does it make you feel to have your picture pasted all over the front page?”
Vail stopped and turned to face him. He was younger than she had originally thought when she had looked at him peripherally. “How long have you been on the beat, kid? You’re the only one of the press corps bright enough to find a way up to this floor, and you come up with lame questions like those? Even if I felt like talking, which I don’t, you didn’t earn an answer from me.”
The reporter was stunned into silence. His arm, holding the recorder, dropped to his side in defeat. Vail turned away and continued walking.
“How about giving me another chance?” he shouted down the hall. “We could meet for lunch—on me. . . .”
Vail noted a man in his midtwenties dressed in scrubs hovering down the hall near Jonathan’s room. Her instincts told her it was Bledsoe’s undercover man, and when she made eye contact, he dipped his chin at her. Obviously, he had been well briefed and knew who she was on sight . . . or he’d heard enough of the exchange with the reporter to make the connection.
She stopped at the nurse’s station and asked her to page Dr. Altman. The woman gave Vail a cautious look, then backed away slightly and reached for the phone. She didn’t take her eyes off Vail as she dialed.
“Unbelievable,” Vail muttered, then walked away and pushed through the door to Jonathan’s room. She stood by her son’s side, waiting for Dr. Altman. She had the feeling neurologists dreaded cases like these, where there was little for them to do but make their rounds—that is, go through the motions—look over the patient’s vitals and talk with the concerned parents . . . having nothing of value to tell them. Certainly there were those victorious moments when the child regained consciousness. Perhaps those were the ones that kept the doctors sane, that allowed them to deal with the ones who didn’t recover. A few successes and happy endings made the intolerable failures more palatable. Sometimes. At least in theory.
Vail pressed her lips to Jonathan’s forehead, then took his hand. A tear trailed down her face and dropped onto his cheek. She gently wiped it away, then stood there watching him breathe. She talked to him and let him know she was there. Beyond that, she felt as helpless as she imagined Dr. Altman felt. The doctor poked his head in the door and smiled when he saw Vail. He stepped in, shook her hand, and picked up Jonathan’s chart to scan the nurse’s notes.
“I suppose you want to know how your son is doing,” he said absentmindedly.
“I’m not here selling Girl Scout cookies.”
Altman looked at her, his face conveying the realization he had asked a stupid question. “No, of course not,” he said, setting the metal chart on the table beside the bed.
“I’m sorry,” Vail said.
Altman shrugged. “No need to apologize. I’ve seen the papers, I know the stress you must be under. But I do have some good news. Watch.” He leaned close to Jonathan and clapped his hands in front of the boy’s eyes. Jonathan blinked. Altman looked at Vail for confirmation, as if he had just revealed something wondrous. “Did you see?”
“See what? He blinked.”
“Exactly. He wasn’t doing that before. He’s recovering mental function. His brain is regaining consciousness, so to speak.”
Vail’s eyebrows