Legacies_ A Repairman Jack Novel Part 7

SUNDAY.

"How's it going, Hector?"

Little Hector Lopez looked up at Alicia from his hospital bed but didn't smile.

"'Kay," he said.

She'd admitted him to the pediatric service on Friday due to intractable vomiting, but he'd been holding down fluids since yesterday afternoon. He looked better. Still had a fever, though. His spinal tap had looked negative, but the culture was still pending. So were blood and urine cultures. She hoped this turned out to be a simple gastrointestinal virus, but his practically nonexistent CD-4 count deeply worried her. Just to be safe, she'd shot him up with some IV gamma globulin.

"How're you feeling?"

"Thith hurtth," he said, pointing to his splinted left arm where the IV tube drained into an antecubital vein.

"We'll take that out as soon as you're better."

"Today?" he said, brightening.

"Maybe. Your fever's got to come down first."

"Oh."

Alicia turned to Jeanne Sorenson, the nurse who was accompanying her on rounds today. The big blonde was barely twenty-five but already a grizzled veteran of the AIDS war.

"Who's been in to see him?" she said in a low voice.

Sorenson shrugged. "No one that I know of. His foster mother called-once."

"All right, then," Alicia said. "Who's Hector's buddy on this s.h.i.+ft?"

"We haven't a.s.signed one yet."

Alicia suppressed an angry snap. "I thought we agreed that all my kids would have one buddy per s.h.i.+ft," she said evenly.

"We haven't had time, Dr, Clayton," Sorenson said, looking fl.u.s.tered. "It's been hectic here, and we figured he'd be out in a couple of days, so-"

"Even if it's one one day, I want them a.s.signed a buddy. We've been over this, Sorenson." day, I want them a.s.signed a buddy. We've been over this, Sorenson."

"I know that," the nurse said, looking sheepish.

"But apparently it didn't sink in. You know how scary a hospital is for an adult, so imagine yourself a child confined to bed in a place where a bunch of strangers have taken your clothes and sneakers and started sticking needles in you and telling you what you can eat and when you can go to the bathroom. But at least most kids can count on a mother or father or someone someone familiar showing up and lending a little rea.s.surance. Not my kids. They've got n.o.body to fall back on. Their support system is a black hole. Can you imagine what that's like?" familiar showing up and lending a little rea.s.surance. Not my kids. They've got n.o.body to fall back on. Their support system is a black hole. Can you imagine what that's like?"

Sorenson shook her head. "I've tried, but..."

"Right. You can't. But trust me, it's terrible."

Alicia knew. She'd been hospitalized a few weeks into her first year at college-for dehydration secondary to a viral gastroenteritis very similar to what had brought Hector here. She was in only two days, but it had been an awful experience. No boyfriend and no close friends, no one to visit her or even ask after her, and d.a.m.ned if she was going to call home. She'd never forgotten that feeling of utter helplessness and isolation.

"So that's why they need someone on every s.h.i.+ft who'll come in and talk to them and smile and hold their hand every hour or so, someone they can count on, just so they don't feel so d.a.m.n alone alone. It's almost as important as the medicine we pump into them."

"I'll get on it right away," Sorenson said.

"Good. But don't do it for me. Do it for him." She turned and rubbed Hector's bristly head. "Hey, guy. That buzz cut looks as mad as ever."

Now she got a smile. "Yeth. It'th-" He coughed. He tried again but interrupted himself with more coughing. she got a smile. "Yeth. It'th-" He coughed. He tried again but interrupted himself with more coughing.

"Easy, Hector," Alicia said.

She sat him up and parted the back flaps of his hospital gown. Pressing the head of her stethoscope against his ribs, she listened for the soft cellophane crinkle that would herald pneumonia. She heard nothing but an isolated wheeze.

Alicia checked Hector's chart. The admitting chest X ray had been negative. She ordered a repeat, plus a sputum culture and gram stain.

She stared down at his bony little body. She didn't like that cough one bit.

"Oh, no," Alicia said as she rounded the corner and saw the police cars in front of the Center. "What now?"

She had her donut and coffee from the hospital cafe in one hand, the fat Sunday Times Times in the other. She usually spent the rest of Sunday morning at the Center. They still had kids coming in for their treatments, just like every other day, but it was a lot less intense than the rest of the week-nowhere near as many phone calls, for one thing-so she used it to catch up on her paperwork. in the other. She usually spent the rest of Sunday morning at the Center. They still had kids coming in for their treatments, just like every other day, but it was a lot less intense than the rest of the week-nowhere near as many phone calls, for one thing-so she used it to catch up on her paperwork.

She had also planned to devote some of today to figuring out her next step in the saga of the will and the house that supposedly belonged to her but no one wanted to let her have.

But now...

Just inside the front door she nearly collided with two cops, one white, one black, talking to Raymond. Raymond Raymond. He was devoted to the Center, but he rarely if ever showed up on Sunday.

"Oh, Alicia!" he said. "There you are! Isn't it wonderful?"

"Isn't what wonderful?"

"Didn't anyone tell you? The toys! The toys toys are back!" are back!"

Suddenly Alicia wanted to cry. She turned to the pair of policemen. Raymond introduced her. She wanted to hug them.

"You found them? Already? That's... that's wonderful!" Better than wonderful-fantastic was the word.

"I guess you could say we found them," the black cop said, scratching his buzz-cut head. His name tag read POMUS. "If you can call opening up a truck parked on the sidewalk by your front door really 'finding' them."

"Wait a minute," Alicia said. "Back up just a bit. What truck?"

"A panel truck, Alicia," Raymond said. "Filled with the toys. The police think it was the same one used to haul them away. Someone drove it up on the sidewalk last night and left it there."

"Any idea who it was?" she asked, although she had a pretty good idea of the answer.

The white cop-SCHWARTZ on his tag-grinned. "According to the guy tied to the b.u.mper, it was Santa Claus himself."

"Guy tied to what? what?"

They went on to explain about the man they'd found lashed to the front of the toy-filled truck. Someone had "knocked the c.r.a.p out of him," as Officer Pomus put it, and taped some rubber antlers to his head. The battered man admitted to the theft and swore that his a.s.sailant had been Santa Claus-even admitted to shooting Santa, rambling on about shooting him in the heart without killing him.

"But of course, you can't kill Santa," Officer Schwartz said, grinning.

"He's obviously a user and he sounds like an EDP, so we don't know what to believe," Officer Pomus added. "We've got him up on Bellevue's flight deck now, under observation."

"Flight deck?"

"You know-the psych ward. Sooner or later, we'll get the straight story out of him."

"And throw the book at him, I hope."

"Oh, yeah," Pomus said. "No question about that. But he's already had worse than a book thrown at him." He grinned. "A lot lot worse." worse."

"Yeah," Officer Schwartz said. "Someone worked him over real real good before dropping him here. The creep seemed almost glad to be arrested." good before dropping him here. The creep seemed almost glad to be arrested."

After they were gone, Alicia and Raymond went to the storeroom and inspected the gifts. Except for a little wrinkling of the paper and an occasional b.u.mped corner, most were in the same condition as before the theft. She told Raymond to get hold of a locksmith-she didn't care that it was Sunday-and have him secure that door, even if it meant putting a bar across it.

Then she went to her office and sipped her coffee, lukewarm by now, and thought about that nothing-special-looking man named Jack-"Just Jack" Niedermeyer.

On Friday afternoon he'd said he'd see what he could do. Thirty-six hours later, the gifts were back and the thief in custody.

A man who could do that just might be able to solve her other problem.

Alicia looked up a number in her computer's directory and began dialing.

Jack winced as he reached for the phone. He could think of only one person who'd be calling him this morning, so he picked up before the answering machine.

"Jack, you're wonderful!" Gia said. "Just wonderful!"

"I think you're pretty swell too, Gia."

"No, I'm being serious here. I just got a call from Dr. Clayton, and she told me the toys are back."

"Is that so? Gotta hand it to New York's finest. When they get on the job-"

"Right," she said, and d.a.m.ned if he couldn't hear hear her smile. "You had nothing to do with it." her smile. "You had nothing to do with it."

"Not a thing. You said you didn't approve, so I gave it up."

"Okay. Be that way. But Dr. Clayton said as far as she can tell, every single gift is back, and the guy who stole them is locked up. I don't know how you managed it, but-"

"I simply E-mailed Santa and he did the rest."

"Well, Santa may have to do some more. Dr. Clayton asked me for your number."

Jack stiffened. "You didn't give it to her."

"No. I didn't give her any number. I told her I didn't know it by heart, and I'd have to look it up and get back to her."

Jack relaxed. "You done good, Gia. The perfect answer. Any idea what she wants?"

"Something about a personal matter. She didn't offer any details, and I didn't ask."

"Okay. Write this down." Jack rattled off the number at the Tenth Avenue drop. "Tell her to leave a message on the answering machine. Tell her that's how you get hold of me."

"Will do. Are we still on for this afternoon?"

"Sure are. Westchester, right?"

"No," she said, drawing out the word. "FAO Schwartz."

"We'll discuss that later. See you at noon."

"Oh, my G.o.d!" Gia said. "What's that?"

"Just a little bruise."

Jack looked down at the large purple area on his left chest wall. d.a.m.n. He'd hoped she wouldn't notice, but here in the warm afterglow of their lovemaking, he'd forgot all about it.

They'd dropped Vicky off at her art cla.s.s after lunch. She spent most of every Sunday afternoon learning the basics of drawing, painting, and sculpture. Her teacher said she showed a real flair for drawing. Jack figured it had to be genetic, what with her mother an artist and all. Vicky loved the cla.s.ses, and Jack loved the chance to be alone with Gia on Sunday afternoons.

Their routine was to dash here to Jack's apartment immediately after dropping Vicky off. Often they didn't travel ten feet inside the door before they were tearing at each other's clothes. From there they usually wound up on the nearest horizontal surface. Today, however, they'd made it all the way to the bed.

Jack pulled the sheet up to his neck, but she pushed it down.

"I'd hardly call that 'little.' " He watched Gia's fingers trace over it. "Does it hurt?"

"Nah."

She pressed and he winced.

"Right," she said. "Doesn't hurt a bit. How long have you had it?"

"Since last night." Since a little before midnight, to be exact.

He told her about the creep taking a shot at him, and how the Kevlar vest had saved him.

"Thank G.o.d you were wearing it!" she said. She couldn't seem to take her eyes off it or stop touching it. "But if the vest is bulletproof, how come you're hurt?"

"Well, it did keep the bullet from going through me, but the slug's still got all that velocity behind it. Something had to absorb it, and that something was me."

Jack still wasn't sure why he'd given in to the impulse to wear the Santa suit. Usually if he dressed up it was either as a lure or to allay suspicion. Last night's flamboyant performance with the ho-ho-ho's and the beard and red suit was not his style.

But somehow... this time, this job... he'd felt compelled to make a point.

And he'd known that was stupid. Experience had taught him, when you try to make a point instead of simply getting the job done, you up the chances of things going wrong, which ups your chances of getting hurt.