F Wilson - Sims

“She seems okay,” he said as he climbed back into the driver seat.

“Wonderful,” replied the voice from the dim rear.

“But what the hell happened in there?” He threw the shift into forward and took off after the receding ambulance. “She was supposed to stand clear and fake being hurt. How the hell did she cut her head open?”

“I should have foreseen this,” Zero said. “This is so Romy.”

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t you understand? She had to make it real. She had to send a message to Manassas and SimGen and whoever else is involved that she’s ready to bleed for her beliefs.”

“Sheesh,” Patrick muttered.

“Isn’t she wonderful.”

It wasn’t a question. In that moment Patrick realized that the mysterious Zero, although “unavailable,” was as smitten with Romy Cadman as he was.

“What is it about her?” Patrick said. The ambulance was still in sight, though blocks ahead. Tailing it was easy in the light traffic. “I mean, you’re obviously taken by her, and I confess I’m drawn to her—”

“Drawn?”

“Like a moth to a searchlight. And then that guy Portero—”

“The SimGen security chief?”

“He’s got it bad for her. Might as well have written it on his forehead in DayGlo orange. What is it about Romy Cadman?”

“Simple: her purity.”

Patrick didn’t have to ask. He knew Zero wasn’t talking about virginity. He was talking about heart, about purpose.

“I hear you. But Portero didn’t strike me as the kind who’d go for that.”

“Some men approach purity like Romy’s simply to protect it from harm; and some wish to draw closer in the hope that it will rub off on them or somehow cleanse them; and others want to possess it merely to defile it and extinguish it because it reminds them of what they have become, as opposed to what they could have been.”

Patrick glanced Zero’s way in the rearview. He’d obviously given a lot of thought to this.

“Well, I guess we know where Portero fits in that scheme.”

“I think we do.”

“But how about you?”

A long pause, then Zero said, “If my circumstances were different, I’d be content merely to warm myself in her glow. And if I couldn’t do that I’d settle for curling up outside her door every night to keep her safe from trespassers.”

Patrick swallowed, unexpectedly moved.

“You know, Zero,” he said, his voice a tad hoarse, “I’ve got to admit I’ve had my doubts about you. Major, heavy-duty doubts. But now…”

“Now?”

Patrick didn’t know quite what to say. Any man who could pinpoint Romy as Zero had, and who could not only feel about her the way he’d described, but come out and say it…

“You’re all right.”

Lame, but the best Patrick could do at the moment. At least it was sincere. Romy would appreciate that.

8

Patrick parted the curtains that separated Romy’s treatment area from the rest of the bustling emergency room. She sat on the edge of a gurney, her head swathed in fresh gauze—but no seepage this time. She looked pale and tired, but even so, to Patrick she was a vision.

“How are you feeling?”

A wan smile. “I’ve got a killer headache but I’ll survive.”

He leaned close. “How’d you get hurt?”

“You’ve heard the expression, ‘Shit happens’? Well—”

Patrick clapped his hands over his ears. “The ‘S’ word! Saints preserve us!” He wanted to throw his arms around her but made do with seating himself next to her on the gurney. “Seriously. What happened?”

“This lighting fixture fell from the ceiling and clocked me on the noggin; things get a little fuzzy after that. Took the ER doc hours to get to me, then after she stitched up my scalp there were x-rays and—”

“How many stitches?”

“The doctor said seventeen.”

“Seventeen!” The number horrified him.

“It’s not as bad as it sounds. She said she placed them close together to keep the scar thin.”

Scar?“Jesus, Romy—”

She smiled. “Not like I’m going to look like the bride of Frankenstein, or anything. It cut my scalp, way up above the hairline. Once the hair grows back where they shaved it, no one will know, not even me.”

Relief seeped through Patrick. The lighting fixture had been his idea. If it had left Romy disfigured…

“Why, Romy?”

“Relax, will you. I got a tetanus shot out of it, and a free ride in a stoplight-running ambulance. It’s no biggie, Patrick. Really.”

“Is to me. Zero too.” Patrick had driven him to the garage, then rushed back here. “He wants me to call him as soon as—”

“I’ll call him.”

“How many days are they going to keep you?”

“Days? More like minutes. They’re finishing up my paperwork now.”

“You’re kidding!” Patrick realized his knowledge of medicine was just this side of nothing, but wasn’t it standard procedure to admit a head-trauma patient for observation, at least overnight? “They’re letting you go?”

“Be real, will you. It’s just a cut on my head. I can—”

“Excuse me,” said a male voice.

Patrick looked up and saw a dark-haired man in a gray suit standing between the parted curtains.

“Are you her doctor?” Patrick said. If so he was going to warn him about the malpractice risks of releasing Romy too early.

The man flashed a collector’s edition set of pearlies. “Not a chance. I’m an attorney and I’m looking for the woman who was injured in the Manassas Ventures offices this morning.”

Patrick stared at him. He’d met his share of ambulance chasers, but this guy really lived up to the name.

“That would be me.” Romy shook her head. “But I don’t need a lawyer. I’ve—”

“You’re absolutely right. And that’s precisely why I’m here.” He handed Romy a card. “Harold Rudner. I represent Manassas Ventures.” He set his briefcase on the gurney and popped its latches. “The company called me the instant its landlord informed it of this unfortunate incident. I was instructed to find you and compensate you immediately for the pain and inconvenience you have suffered.”

“Compensate me?”

He lifted the briefcase lid, removed a slip of paper, and extended it toward Romy.

“Exactly. Although your injury resulted from shoddy work by remodeling contractors, Manassas is taking full responsibility and offering you this to ease your distress.”

Romy took the slip and stared at it. “A check? For a hundred thousand dollars?”

“Yes.” He pulled a sheaf of papers from the briefcase. “And all you need do to have your name written on the pay-to-the-order-of line is sign this release absolving Manassas Ventures of all liability and refrain from any future—”

“Wow!” Patrick said, impressed. “Hit her while she’s still dazed from the terrible concussive impact of her life-threatening head injury, then shove a check under her nose and tell her all those zeroes can be hers if she’ll just sign away her legal rights to just compensation for an injury that might affect her quality of life for years, maybe decades, perhaps permanently. Youare a smoothy.”

Romy and Rudner were staring at him.

Finally Rudner spoke. “Are you her lawyer?”

“I am a very close personal friend who just happens to be an attorney.”

Rudner turned to Romy. “I am offering you far more than you could hope to receive from any jury.”

“We’ll see about that,” Patrick said. “One hundred thousand dollars barely scratches the surface of the amount this unfortunate woman deserves for her pain and suffering.”

Romy smiled and handed back the check. Rudner took it with a sad shake of his head.