John Grisham - The Whistler

By noon Saturday, the nurses and doctors had concocted a perfect plan to get rid of Gunther. It was brilliant-just transfer his sister and he would have no reason to stay. On Friday, Lacy had asked a doctor when she might be stable enough to make the trip back to Tallahassee. There were plenty of hospitals there, and fine ones, and since she was simply recuperating and not awaiting surgery, why couldn’t she return to her hometown? Not long after that conversation, a nurse made a noisy entrance into Lacy’s room, waking from a nap not only the patient but her brother as well, and the situation unraveled quickly. Gunther, using strong language, demanded that the nurses and orderlies show some respect for privacy and “simple human decency” and stop barging in at all hours of the day. A second nurse came to the rescue of the first, but succeeded only in doubling the level of abuse. The plot was hatched to get Gunther out of the hospital.

At about the time Hugo was being buried, Lacy left the hospital in Panama City in an ambulance for the two-hour drive to Tallahassee. Gunther left too, but not before leveling a few parting shots at the staff. He followed his sister in his Mercedes-Benz S600 sedan, pitch-black in color and gobbling up $3,100 a month on a four-year lease. Evidently, the folks in Panama City had called ahead and warned the folks in Tallahassee. As Lacy’s gurney was being wheeled onto the elevator for the ride to a private room on the fourth floor, two large security guards joined her and glared at Gunther, who glared right back.

“Let it go,” Lacy hissed at her brother.

The new room was larger than the last one, and Gunther had a fine time rearranging the furniture into another cozy work space. After the doctors and nurses checked in, Gunther looked at his sister and announced, “We’re going for a walk. I can tell already these doctors are far better than the other ones, and they say it’s important to move around. You’re probably getting bedsores. Your legs are fine, so let’s go.”

He gently wrestled her out of bed, put her feet into a pair of cheap cotton hospital slippers, and said, “Grab my elbow.” They eased out of the room and into a wide hallway. He nodded to a large window at the far end and said, “We’re walking all the way down there and back. Okay?”

“Okay, but I’m very sore. Everything aches.”

“I know. Take your time, and if you feel faint, just say so.”

“Got it.”

They shuffled along, ignoring the casual glances from the nurses, clutching each other as Lacy’s feet and legs began to work. Her left knee was severely bruised and cut and painful to move. She gritted her teeth, determined to impress her brother. His grip was strong and comforting. He was not taking no for an answer. They touched the window and turned around. Her room seemed a mile away, and by the time they approached it her left knee was screaming. He helped her into bed and said, “Okay, we’re doing that once an hour until bedtime. Got it?”

“If you can do it, I can do it.”

“Attagirl.” He tucked in the sheets around her and sat on the edge of her bed. He patted her arm and said, “Your face is looking better by the hour.”

“My face looks like hamburger meat.”

“Okay, but sirloin, maybe, grade A, organic, and pasture fed. Look, Lacy, we’re going to talk and talk until you cannot talk anymore. Yesterday I spent some time with Michael, good guy, and he filled me in. I don’t know everything about the investigation, and I shouldn’t, but I know enough. I know you and Hugo went to the reservation Monday night to meet an informant. It was a trap, a setup, a situation too dangerous to walk into. Once they lured you there, they had you dead to rights, and on their property. The wreck was no accident. You were deliberately rammed head-on by a guy driving a stolen truck, and immediately after the collision he, or someone with him, went through your car and took both cell phones and your iPad. Then these assholes disappeared into the night and will probably never be found. Are you with me?”

“I think so.”

“So here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to start with you and Hugo driving to the reservation-time, route, what was on the radio, what did you talk about, everything. Same thing while you were sitting in your car waiting at the casino. Time, conversation, radio, e-mails, everything. And we’re going to drive your car down the road to meet the informant. I’ll do the questions, hundreds of them, and you come up with the answers. And after I grill you for thirty minutes, we’ll take a time-out and you can nap if you want, then we’re walking to the end of the hallway again. Sound like fun?”

“No.”

“Sorry, kid, you have no choice. We’ve got the legs working, now it’s time for the brain. Okay? First question: What time did you leave Tallahassee Monday evening?”

She closed her eyes and licked her swollen lips. “It was early evening but not dark. I guess around seven thirty or so.”

“Was there a reason you waited so late?”

She thought for a second, then began nodding, with a smile. “Yes, the guy worked until nine, a later shift in the casino.”

“Perfect. What were you wearing?”

She opened her eyes. “Seriously?”

“Dead serious, Lacy. Think hard and answer my questions. This is not a game.”

“Uh, jeans, I think, and a light shirt. It was hot and we were casual.”

“What route did you take?”

“Interstate 10, same as always. There’s only one way to get there. Exit onto State 288, go south for ten miles, turn left onto the tollway.”

“Did you guys listen to the radio?”

“It’s always on, but almost muted. I think Hugo was sleeping.” She groaned and immediately started crying. Her swollen lips quivered and tears ran down her cheeks. He wiped them for her with a tissue but said nothing. “His funeral was today, right?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“I wish I could’ve gone.”

“Why? Hugo wouldn’t know if you showed up or not. Funerals are such a waste of time. Nothing but a show for the living. The dead don’t care. The trend now is not to have a funeral, but a ‘celebration.’ To celebrate what? The dead guy damned sure ain’t celebrating.”

“Sorry I brought it up.”

“Back to Monday night.”

–

Word spread that Lacy was back in town, and by early evening visitors were bumping into one another. Since most were acquaintances, the mood grew festive and the nurses complained more than once. Gunther, always the flirt, took center stage, did most of the talking, hogged the attention, and fought with the nurses. Lacy was exhausted and content to let him do whatever.

At first, she was horrified at the thought of seeing anyone, or, rather, letting anyone see her. With her slick head, stitches, bruises, and puffy eyes and cheeks, she felt like an extra in a cheap monster flick. But Gunther put things in perspective with “Chill. These people love you and they know you just survived a head-on collision. And in a month you’ll be hot again and most of these poor folks will still be homely. We got the genes, baby.”

Visitation was over at 9:00 p.m., and the nurses happily cleared out Lacy’s room. She was exhausted. Her afternoon torture session with Gunther had lasted for four hours and ended only with the arrival of friends. Four hours of constant grilling and long hikes down the hall, and he was promising more tomorrow. He closed the door, said he wished he could lock it and keep everyone out, then turned off the lights and made his nest on the sofa. With the aid of a mild sedative, Lacy soon fell into a deep sleep.

–

The scream. The sound of terror from a voice that never screamed, never showed emotion. Something was wrong with a seat belt. He was complaining. She glanced over, then the scream as his wide shoulders instinctively threw back. The lights, so bright, so close, so shockingly unavoidable. The impact, the sense of her body hurling forward for a split second before being caught and slammed backward. The noise, the explosion of a bomb in her lap as five tons of steel, metal, glass, aluminum, and rubber collided and tangled. The vicious blow to her face as the air bag a foot away detonated and shot forward at two hundred miles per hour, saving her life but doing its share of damage. The spinning, her car airborne for a second as it turned 180 degrees, slinging debris. Then nothing. How many times had she heard victims say, “I must’ve been out of it for a few seconds”? No one ever knows how long. But there was movement. Hugo, stuck in the windshield, was moving his legs, trying to either get out or get back in. Hugo moaning. And to her left, a shadow, a figure, a man with a light crouching and looking at her. Did she see his face? No. And if she did she could not remember it. And then he was on the passenger’s side, near Hugo, or was it another one? Were there two shadows moving around her car? Hugo was moaning. Her head was bleeding, pounding. Footsteps crunched on broken glass. The lights of a vehicle swept the wreckage and disappeared. Darkness. Blackness.