Tess Gerritsen - Peggy Sue Got Murdered

"This time," said the kid, "you get off easy." He gave M. J. a kick in the shoulder, which sent her sprawling onto the glass-littered sidewalk.

She groaned. "I'm such a lucky girl."

"No goddamn car is worth it," said Adam, gingerly holding an ice pack to his cheek. The left side of his face was swollen, and dried blood had caked in his eyebrow. His tuxedo, which had started the evening crisply immaculate, was now in tatters.

He fit right in with the other down-and-outers sitting in the Hancock Emergency Room waiting area. The benches were filled with a tired collection of the bruised and sick, coughing kids, wailing babies, all of them resigned to the long wait for a doctor.

"Anyone with a modicum of sense knows when to fight, and when to turn tail and run," said Adam. "You should've run."

"I didn't see you running," she shot back.

"How could I? I had to stay and protect you!"

"Well, I do appreciate the gesture."

"Let me tell you, I wasn't the least bit happy about getting killed over some old Subaru." He looked sideways in distaste as a drunk fingered Adam's tuxedo sleeve. "Do you mind?"

"No," said the drunk. "Do you?"

"I liked that car," muttered M. J. "It was the first car I ever bought brand-new."

"It could've been the only car you ever bought brand-new."

A man staggered into the waiting room, rolled his eyes back, and fainted. He was quickly scooped up by two orderlies and wheeled into the inner sanctum. Everyone in the room gave a collective sigh of unhappiness. The wait would be that much longer.

"I tell you what," said Adam. "Next time this happens, I'll buy you a new car."

"Hey, I could use a new car," said the drunk brightly.

"You could also use a bath," muttered Adam, sliding away.

"I can buy my own car," said M. J. "I just don't like getting ripped off." She-as well as everyone else-looked up hopefully as the ER nurse came into the waiting area.

"Ripped off," said Adam, "is better than beaten to a pulp. I can't believe they did that to us. And all over something so trivial."

"But it wasn't over the car," said M. J. "Don't you get it? My car had nothing to do with it."

The nurse called out: "Novak!"

M. J. shot to her feet. "Here."

"Follow me."

"Wait," said Adam, tossing aside the ice pack. "What do you mean, your car had nothing to do with it? Then what was that fight all about?"

"Your daughter," M. J. replied, following the nurse out of the waiting area.

Adam was right behind her as she went into the treatment room.

"You'll have to wait outside, sir," said the nurse.

"He's with me," said M. J.

The nurse looked at Adam's battered face, then at M. J.'s black eye. "I think I can tell," she said, and shook out a paper drape. "Lie down and put this over your blouse. So it doesn't get blood on it."

"It's already got blood on it," said M. J. as she settled back on the treatment table. The nurse began to clean the knife slash; the sting of Betadine was almost worse than the blade itself.

"What makes you think Maeve had anything to do with this?" said Adam.

"Something our friend with the knife whispered in my ear."

"Hold still," snapped the nurse.

"He said, 'Stay away, lady cop. Because she doesn't want to be found.' Now, that tells me a couple of things. First, he's stupid. He can't tell a cop from a civilian. Second, he's warning us that she doesn't want to be found. Who do you suppose she is?"

"Maeve," he said, looking stunned.

The ER doctor came in, a shaggy version of Dr. Michael Dietz, with the same look of battle fatigue. M. J. wondered how many hours he'd been working, how many bodies he'd laid hands on. He glanced at her neck wound. His name tag said Dr. Volcker .

"How'd you get it?" he asked.

"Switchblade."

"Someone try to kill you?"

"No, it was an accident."

"O.K." The doctor sighed. "I'll skip the dumb questions." He turned to the nurse. "Suture set. She'll need about three stitches. And hand me the Xylocaine."

M. J. winced as the needle with local anesthetic pierced her skin. Then there was the moment's wait for the drug to take effect.

"I can't believe she'd do it," said Adam. "I mean, we've had our differences. But for Maeve to have her friends assault us…"

"She wasn't attacking you, specifically. She probably didn't know who the hell was asking about her. We might've avoided the whole scene if we'd just told Anthony right off that you were her father."

"You're saying Anthony warned her?"

"He left the apartment while we were still there, remember? Before you said anything about her being your daughter. Probably went straight to Maeve."

"And she had her friends jump us."

"Gee," said the doctor, tying off the first stitch. "You two lead exciting lives."

They ignored him. "Maeve must be scared of something," said M. J. "Why send the troops to attack at the first sign of strangers?" She glanced at Adam and saw his troubled look. "What's she afraid of? What did you forget to tell me?"

He shook his head. "She's in trouble."

"What kind of trouble?"

He sank into a nearby chair and wearily ran his hands across his battered face.

"Does it have to do with Jane Doe?" asked M. J. "With Xenia Vargas and Nicos?"

"Maybe." His answer came out muffled, as though he wanted to bury the words in his throat.

"Or does it have to do with Cygnus? Some miracle drug you've got in development?"

He looked up in anger. "Why blame it on Cygnus? None of your tests are back! You don't know what the hell those junkies were shooting up."

"Do you know?"

He started to speak, then saw that both the doctor and nurse were watching them in fascination.

"Are you going to sew her up or what?" Adam snapped.

"I was kinda hoping I could hear the end of the story," said the doctor. He tied off the last stitch and snipped the thread. "All done. Come back for suture removal in five days."

"I can pull 'em myself, thanks," said M. J. She sat up. The room seemed to sway around her like a boat. She waited for a moment for everything to stop moving.

"Last tetanus shot?" the doctor asked.

"Two years ago. I'm current."

"Keep the wound dry for twenty-four hours. Clean it twice a day with peroxide. And call if it gets red or warm." He gave her the ER sheet to sign, then he headed for the door. "Come back any time," he said over his shoulder. "I can't wait for the next installment."

Back in the hospital lobby, M. J. waited for Adam to call his house. Collect, of course; the punks had done a thorough job of emptying their pockets. It was a helpless feeling, being penniless. When M. J. had told the ER billing clerk she'd mail in her payment, the clerk had given her a yeah, sure look. No respect at all.

"Thomas is on his way," said Adam, hanging up. "We'll give you a ride home."

"Who's Thomas?"

"Sort of my man Friday." Adam glanced down at his soiled shirt. "And he's not going to be pleased when he sees what I've done to his ironing job."

M. J. looked down at her own wrinkled shirt. "Maybe I should borrow him sometime," she said. "Along with his iron."

They sat down in the waiting area. A nurse walked by, carrying a cup of coffee from the vending machine. M. J. would've loved a cup of coffee, but she didn't have a dime. Broke and in purgatory , she thought.

A half hour passed, forty-five minutes. It was almost midnight, and things were still hopping at Hancock General. The next shift of nurses dribbled in from the parking lot, lugging umbrellas and lunch sacks. At the front door, an armed guard eyed everyone who entered. This was frontline medicine, and Hancock General was the equivalent of trench warfare. Every stabbing, every shooting that took place within a three-mile radius, anything on South Lexington, would roll in these ER doors. So would the drug ODs. M. J. wondered if another Nicos Biagi or Jane Doe had been found.