John Grisham - The Whistler

Ann said, “She’s not processing everything, Gunther. She’s been in a coma since Monday night. Please back off, okay?”

But backing off was not in Gunther’s playbook. He said, “I know a great lawyer and we’re going to sue that bastard for everything he has. It was all his fault, right, Lacy?”

Ann exhaled with as much noise as possible, then stood and walked out of the room.

Lacy shook her head slightly and said, “I don’t remember.” Then she closed her eyes and fell asleep.

–

By mid-afternoon, Gunther had laid claim to at least half of Lacy’s private room. He had arranged two chairs, a cart on wheels, a night table that once held a lamp, and the small fold-out sofa into a configuration that allowed him to set up shop with his laptop, iPad, not one but two cell phones, and a stack of paperwork. Nurse Ratched had objected, but she had quickly learned that any comment from her would be met with a blistering and threatening response. Trudy and Ronald popped in a couple of times to check on Lacy, but got the impression they were now trespassers. Finally, Ann threw in the towel. Late in the day, she informed her two children that she was headed back to Clearwater for a day or two; that she would be back as soon as possible; and that if Lacy needed anything to please call.

When Lacy napped, Gunther either stayed off the phone or stepped into the hallway, and worked feverishly, but quietly, on his laptop. When she was awake, he was either in her face or growling on the phone as another deal teetered on the brink. He repeatedly badgered the nurses and orderlies to bring him more coffee, and when the coffee didn’t materialize he stomped down to the cafeteria, where the food looked “dreadful.” The doctors made their rounds, each glaring at him as he seemed ready for any confrontation. They were careful not to provoke.

For Lacy, though, his energy was infectious, even stimulating. He amused her, though she was still afraid to laugh. Once when she awoke, he was standing next to her bed, wiping tears from his cheeks.

At six, Nurse Ratched appeared and said her shift would be ending. She asked Gunther about his plans, and he replied, rather sternly, “I’m not leaving. This sofa is here for a reason. And for what you folks charge, you could certainly provide something more comfortable than this flimsy fold-out. I mean, hell, an army cot would be more comfortable.”

“I’ll pass that along,” she said. “See you in the morning, Lacy.”

“What a bitch,” Gunther mumbled, just loud enough for her to hear as she closed the door.

For dinner, Gunther fed her ice cream and Jell-O while he ate nothing. They watched Friends reruns until she was exhausted. As she dozed off, he was back in his nest, hammering out e-mails with no sign of slowing down.

Throughout the night, the nurses eased in and out. At first Gunther bitched about the noise they made, but soon settled down when a cute one he fancied slipped him a Xanax. By midnight he was snoring, the flimsy fold-out sofa notwithstanding.

–

Around five Friday morning, Lacy began to fidget and moan. She was asleep and dreaming, and the dreams were not pleasant. Gunther patted her arm, whispered that everything was going to be fine, that she would be home in no time. She awoke with a jolt and breathed heavily.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Some water,” she said, and he lifted a straw to her mouth. She took a long sip and he wiped her mouth. “I saw it, Gunther, I saw the truck just before we hit. Hugo screamed and I looked ahead, and there were bright lights right in front of us. Then everything went black.”

“Attagirl. Do you remember a sound? Maybe the collision, maybe the explosion of the air bag in your face?”

“Maybe, I’m not sure.”

“Did you see the other driver?”

“No, nothing but lights, really bright. It happened so fast, Gunther. I had no time to react.”

“Of course you didn’t. It wasn’t your fault. The truck crossed the center line.”

“It did, yes it did.” She closed her eyes again, and a few seconds passed before he realized she was crying.

“It’s okay, Sis. It’s okay.”

“Hugo’s not really dead, is he, Gunther?”

“Yes, Lacy. You need to accept it and believe it and stop asking if it’s really true. Hugo is dead.”

She cried and there was nothing he could do. He ached for her as she shivered and struggled and grieved for her friend. Finally, mercifully, she went back to sleep.

After the early morning wave of doctors, nurses, and orderlies, things settled down somewhat and Gunther worked on his deals. Lacy was improving by the hour. The swelling in her face was easing, though her bruises were changing into various shades of blue. Around 9:00, Michael Geismar arrived and was startled to see such an elaborate makeshift office in Lacy’s room. She was awake and sipping lukewarm coffee through a straw.

Gunther, unshaven, in his socks and with his shirttail to his knees, introduced himself as her brother and was immediately suspicious of this guy in a dark suit. Lacy said, “Relax, he’s my boss,” and Gunther stood down. He and Michael shook hands tentatively across the bed and all was peaceful.

Michael asked, “Do you feel like talking?”

“I guess,” she said.

“Lyman Gritt is the constable for the reservation, and he wants to stop by and ask some questions. Probably a good idea if we cover things first.”

“Okay.”

Michael looked at Gunther, who showed no signs of even thinking about leaving the room. Michael said to him, “This is quite confidential. It deals with one of our investigations.”

With no hesitation, Gunther said, “I’m not budging. She’s my sister and she needs my advice. I need to know everything and I get the concept of confidentiality. Right, Lacy?”

Lacy had no choice but to say “He can stay.”

Michael was in no mood for a fight; plus, Gunther had a glow in his eyes that was clear evidence of a short fuse. What the hell. Michael said, “No word from Myers. I called the three numbers in your file several times and got nothing but ringing on the other end. Guess he doesn’t do voice mail.”

“I doubt if they could track him, Michael.”

“Who’s Myers?” Gunther asked.

“I’ll tell you later,” Lacy said.

“Or not,” Michael said. “Back to Monday night, what can you tell me about the meeting with the informant?”

Lacy closed her eyes and took a deep breath, one that made her grimace. Slowly, she said, “Not much, Michael, not much. We went to the casino. We waited in the parking lot. Then we drove down a dark road and stopped at a small building.” She paused for a long time and seemed to be napping.

Michael asked, “Did you meet with the informant?”

She shook her head. “Nothing, Michael. I don’t remember.”

“Did Hugo talk to the guy on his cell phone?”

“I think so. Yes, he had to. The guy told us where to drive and meet him. Yes, I remember that.”

“What about the collision itself ? Anything leading up to it? The other vehicle?”

She closed her eyes again as if her memory might work better in the dark. After a gap, Gunther said, “Early this morning, she was having a nightmare. She woke up and said she could see the headlights, said she remembers Hugo screaming, and before she could react the truck was right there. She remembers it was a truck. She does not remember the impact or the noise or anything else. Nothing about the rescue, the ambulance, the medevac, the emergency room. Nothing.”

One of Gunther’s muted cell phones erupted in vibration, a call so urgent that the device tried to bounce across the purloined feeding table in his half of the room. He glared at it and fought the temptation the way a drunk in recovery stares at a cold beer.