Then a gentle hand on her back. “Let me help you,” Vicky said.
“Okay,” Michelle whispered.
[CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE]
The hospital looked clean, modern. “One of the best in Vallarta,” Vicky had assured her. “Just as good as—or better than—what you’d get at home.”
It was a hospital; that was all Michelle cared about.
“Anyone I can call for you, honey?” Vicky had asked.
Michelle had thought about it. “Charlie,” she’d said. She didn’t know his number, and her phone was gone. She could call Maggie herself; that number she knew by heart.
Okay, so maybe Vicky wasn’t in league with Gary. Or whoever it was who’d tried to kill her. Michelle was feeling pretty stupid about her panic attack in Vicky’s car, now that she could think a little more clearly. The IV fluids and the pain meds helped.
“You have a concussion,” the doctor told her. “Luckily, no skull fracture. Two broken ribs. A hairline fracture here”—he pointed to his upper arm, near the shoulder—“and a probable shoulder sprain. We don’t see any fracture in your hip, but those are hard to find sometimes. A deep bone bruise at least. Altogether you are a lucky woman.”
“I am.” Michelle laughed. “Right.”
“We want to keep you for a day, minimum, because of the head injury. The other injuries we immobilize as best we can, and then you just must rest.”
“Okay,” she said.
They moved her into a private room after the ER and all the X-rays and even an MRI for her hip. She supposed the privacy would help her rest, and truthfully, she craved isolation now, wanting nothing more than a hole to crawl inside while she licked her wounds.
But how was she going to pay for all this?
The money, Gary’s money—some of it was in the hotel safe. The remainder was gone, along with her wallet, her phone, her credit cards.
I’ll call Charlie’s friend, she thought. If rest was what she needed, she could rest at home. Funny to be thinking of Los Angeles that way, but right now even the spare bedroom in Maggie’s Torrance condo sounded better than good.
She dozed awhile, vaguely aware of nurses coming in and out a couple of times. The third time she smelled food.
“Some dinner,” the nurse said, smiling.
Chicken, mashed potatoes, limp green beans.
Just like home.
“Can I use that to make a long distance call?” Michelle asked, pointing at the phone on the nightstand by her bed.
“Of course. You can call in Mexico, and also international.”
“Thank you.” Michelle looked around the little room. Across from the bed was a floor-to-ceiling cupboard. Maybe her clothes were in there, her shorts, with the piece of paper from Charlie in the pocket.
“Is that where my clothes are?” she asked the nurse.
The nurse frowned. “I don’t think so. Didn’t they …?” She mimed a cutting gesture. “And the clothes, they were very dirty, too, I think.”
Michelle tried to remember what they’d done when they brought her in. Jesus. Right. They’d cut the clothes off when she couldn’t lift her arm and they thought her hip might be broken.
“There was something … A piece of paper … Something I need,” she said.
The nurse smiled at her. “Don’t worry. I can go ask about it.”
After the nurse left, Michelle lay back on her pillow and closed her eyes. I should eat some of this, she thought, some of the chicken at least, but it seemed like too great an effort. I will in a minute, she told herself. Just being able to lie there, on clean sheets, felt like the most wonderful thing in the world.
“Ms. Mason?”
There was only one person in Vallarta who called her that.
“Detective,” she said. She couldn’t remember his name, but she recognized him: the youthful appearance, the khakis, the glimpse of a spiderweb tattoo.
“Morales,” he supplied. “I’m sorry to have to bother you now, but we need to talk.”
“Right.” She tried to sit up, gasped at the pain that caused.
“Here.” Morales came to her bedside, dug around for a control pad attached to the bed by a thick cable. “You can push this one for the bed.”
She took the controller with her good hand and pressed the button he’d indicated, till the top half of the bed lifted enough to prop her up to a sitting position.
Morales pulled the room’s heavy, vinyl-upholstered chair over to the bed and sat.
“Who did this to you?” he asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Any ideas?”
She didn’t say anything.
“Okay,” he said. “Can you just tell me what happened?”
She told him. It sounded dry and impersonal to her ears, like she was reciting a story that had happened to someone else, someone she didn’t know very well.
“What did he look like? Can you describe him at all?”
She gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Just … big. Maybe a mustache. It was dark, and I was too busy—”
Suddenly she couldn’t continue. She saw the bat coming down. The bags of garbage. The birds waiting.
He gave her a moment to calm herself, or maybe he was just watching her, trying to see what she might be hiding. “I’m sorry,” he said. “What happened to you is terrible.”
“I was lucky.”
Morales cocked his head back, his expression some combination of puzzled and amused. “It’s interesting you say that. You know, the first time I met you, that night at the hotel, I thought, here’s this nice lady who’s had some bad luck. Second time we were just talking to anybody who’d seen Mr. Gardner close to when he died. But this time …” He shook his head. “This time, Ms. Mason, I really have to wonder if there’s something you’re not telling me.”
“I’m not feeling well,” she said.
“I understand that. But if someone is targeting you, why do you think it stops here?”
He sounded so concerned. Like he actually cared.
“It was a robbery,” she whispered. “Look, my head hurts. I can’t talk any more right now.”
“Sure, okay.” He reached into his pocket. “I’m going to give you my card again. For when you’re feeling better.”
He put the card on the nightstand. “Oh, the lady who brought you here? Vicky? How do I get a hold of her?”
“I don’t know.” Michelle squeezed her eyes shut. “My phone’s gone. I don’t know her number. But she’s easy to find. You don’t need me. You can figure it out, right?”
You’re a detective, she almost said.
“Okay, Ms. Mason.”
When he got to the doorway of her room, he paused. “We’ll talk more soon,” he said.
After he left, she closed her eyes again, leaning against the hard mattress of her hospital bed. He’d be back. He’d said as much. What should she tell him? The truth? She didn’t even know what the truth was.
Besides, the police, a lot of them were corrupt here, weren’t they? Starting with the one who’d pulled her over and hauled her off to jail. Who’d spied on her.
Who’d maybe tried to kill her.
Now she tried to remember instead of pushing the images out of her head, tried to summon up his face, the man who’d attacked her. Was it the same man, the policeman?
She honestly couldn’t be sure.
Morales seemed like an honest man. That’s what her instincts told her, if she could only trust them.
But the things she’d read, the things Charlie had told her, about the drug wars, the corruption—presidents were involved in that here. Attorney generals. Judges. Army officers. How could she trust a local detective with a spiderweb tattoo?
Her dinner had gotten cold. I should eat some of it anyway, she thought. When was the last time she’d eaten? She’d had some tacos at Charlie’s the night before. And a few swallows of Coke since then.
The chicken wasn’t too bad, and at least it was lean protein. She ate most
of it. Tried a few green beans. A bite of the congealed potatoes.
After that there was nothing to do but wait. Wait for the nurse to return with the scrap of paper she needed. Or for Vicky to come back. Or for Charlie to call.
For someone, anyone, who cared about her.
“I’m sorry,” the nurse said. “But the police came and took the clothes. Maybe you can ask them for the paper?”
“Great,” Michelle muttered. “He was just here.” Assuming that Morales was the policeman in question. “Okay. Thanks.”
I should call Maggie, she thought, but she didn’t want to. What could she say? Hello, I’m in the hospital, and I’m in more trouble than I was the last time we talked. And oh, I lost my driver’s license, my credit cards, and most of my money. That is, the money that doesn’t really belong to me. So can you help me out?
Like Maggie had money to spare. She was barely making it as it was, and she had a kid to worry about.
Shit, the credit cards. How could she even report them stolen from here? Who could she call? What cards were they anyway? She tried to remember. A Visa. An auto teller card. Did she still have the AmEx?
She was crying now. “Fuck this,” she whispered.
What a stupid thing to cry about. Fucking credit cards. Plastic. Who cares?
I’m alive, she told herself. Focus on that. Worry about the rest of it tomorrow.
“You’re doing really well, Ms. Mason,” the doctor told her the next morning. “I think we can release you today, but I would feel better about that if you have someone to watch you, just because of the concussion.”
“Oh, I do,” Michelle lied. “And I’m really feeling pretty good.”
Which was another lie. She felt like shit.
The narcotics had made her drowsy, but she hadn’t slept well. She hadn’t felt safe. Her room was unlocked, unguarded—anyone could come in. Nurses had, every hour or so, to check on her.
“The humerus fracture we immobilize with a sling and swathe, probably for about six weeks. It’s difficult with ribs, because we don’t want to compromise breathing, so you will just have to take it easy for a while, until you heal. It is important to breathe deeply and therefore to manage the pain. I don’t think you can use crutches now, for the hip, but we will fit you for a cane. Ice, anti-inflammatories, and rest are the best treatment for that.” The doctor smiled. “Luckily, Vallarta is a good place to rest.”
Michelle nodded.
“For the shoulder injury, you will want to look into physical therapy. You can probably treat it that way. Otherwise there are some very effective surgeries now that aren’t too invasive.”
“I’ll look into that,” she said.
Like I can afford it, she thought.
Funny, so far no one had said anything about her bill. Maybe they were waiting to hit her with it when she checked out. But you’d think they would at least have asked her about insurance. Or a deposit.
Maybe they were just kinder about things like that here.
“I will check back with you after lunch,” the doctor said. “And we can make a decision then.”
After that she lay in bed. Try to rest, she told herself, as impossible as that seems.
Exhaustion, injury, and drugs pulled her down like leaded weights into dark water. She dozed, the air conditioner making a sound of gentle waves.
She was aware of someone sitting by the bed almost before she opened her eyes.
“Hey, Michelle. Hope I didn’t wake you.”
A part of her wasn’t afraid of him even now. She’d never been able to take Gary completely seriously.
Except she was pretty sure he’d tried to kill her.
“What are you doing here?” she said, heart pounding.
“Vicky sent me.” He scraped the heavy chair closer to the bed.
“Vicky?” All those thoughts she’d had, the things she’d told herself were crazy and paranoid, all this time, Vicky, with her fanny pack and her Hawaiian shirts and her charity—Vicky was a part of this?
“Yeah.” Gary shook his head. “You know, she’s pretty shook up, and somehow she knew that I’d helped you out before, so she just figured she’d ask me to give you a hand.” Now he smiled at her. “How’d she know that, Michelle? Did you tell Vicky about our little arrangement?”
“Christ, no, I … Just that you’d given me some legal advice. She wanted to know about the two of us after that day at the dump. I had to say something.”
“Ah.” He nodded. “Good thinking. You really do think on your feet, you know that?” He lifted up a plastic tote bag, the Frida one they sold by the beach. “Anyway, I brought you some clothes. From what Vicky told me, I guess you need them.”
“What did Vicky tell you?”
“That she found you on top of the dump, that you were pretty messed up.” Gary looked her up and down, a smile lurking at the corners of his cherub mouth. “Somebody really did a number on you, didn’t they?”
She wanted to kill him.
“Yeah, Gary. Somebody did. You fucking son of a bitch. Like you didn’t know? And you just sit there like, like …”
It wasn’t fair. She wanted to take something, anything, hit him with it, pound him to a pulp, but she couldn’t. She couldn’t even lift her fucking arm above her head.
Gary half rose and grimaced—from the pain in his back, probably. “Well, that’s nice, Michelle. I’m the one who shows up to help you. What makes you think I had anything to do with it?”
“Don’t try to bullshit me,” she said furiously. “It was that policeman, wasn’t it? The one who arrested me, who planted drugs on me—”
“And you think I’m behind that?” He settled back down in the chair. “Okay, I get it. I know how women like you are. Some guy gives you a good fuck, and all of a sudden you’ll do anything for him. ‘Oh, he wouldn’t hurt me. He loves me.’ Jesus. I thought you had a little more sense.”
“Fuck you, Gary,” Michelle said. She had the controller in her hand, the one that worked the bed and the TV and called the nurse. Her finger brushed against the call button. “You think I care about Danny? Well, I don’t. But he didn’t steal my passport. And he didn’t blackmail me into some bullshit spy scheme with a fucking James Bond watch.”
“But he did try to kill you,” Gary said. Then he shrugged. “Fine if you don’t believe me.” He stood up, reached into his pocket, pulled out something flat and dark blue. “Here’s your passport.” He tossed it at her. It landed on her lap. “My advice is, soon as you get out of this hospital, get yourself on a plane to the U.S. Forget about all this. And keep your mouth shut.”
He picked up the Frida tote bag and dropped it in the chair. “Though you might want to check in with Vicky first. She’s pretty upset, and I know the two of you are tight.”
Michelle knew she’d been out of it yesterday, but if anything, Vicky had seemed calm. Concerned yes, but certainly not hysterical.
“About what happened to me?”
“Oh. Right. There’s no way you would have heard.”
Gary stood behind the chair. Rested his hands on the back.
“You know Charlie Sloane? Older guy, kind of a drunk? Well, I don’t know the whole story, but Vicky went over to his place for some reason, and she found him there, dead. I guess he slipped and fell in the tub. Crazy, huh? But you drink the way he did, something like that’s bound to happen.”
[CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO]
“Here are your prescriptions,” the nurse said. “You can fill them at any pharmacy. Here are your instructions for managing the … the healing. Remember, for the ribs you must breathe deeply and cough every hour. You do not want to get pneumonia. Try to lie on the side of the injury when you rest. It will actually feel better.”
“Thank you,” Michelle said. “I will.”
She’d put all the pills and the papers in her Frida tote bag. She didn’t have anything else to put them in. The clothes Gary had brought fit her at least, the shorts a little on the baggy side, the T-sh
irt a turquoise color she’d never wear, with cap sleeves, a scooped neck, and an embossed dolphin above one breast, with a Puerto Vallarta logo. He’d brought flip-flops for shoes. With her feet bandaged up, they barely fit, but they would do for now.
“What about the bill?” she finally asked.
“Oh, I think it’s taken care of. But we can check at the front desk.”
An orderly wheeled her to the lobby in a wheelchair. That was something she’d never understood: why they thought you were well enough to leave a hospital but not strong enough to walk on your own.
“The bill is all settled, Señora Mason,” the clerk at the front desk confirmed. “Please take care of yourself and feel better.”
Fucking Gary, she thought.
They’d called a taxi for her. It waited at the curb, in the full glare of the afternoon tropic light.
The orderly helped her into the backseat of the cab, handed her the specially fitted aluminum cane. “Take care, Señora Mason,” he said.
“Thank you.”
The cabdriver craned his head toward her. “¿Adónde vamos?”
Where to?
“Hacienda Carmen.” That was where her stuff was, what was left of it. And the money she had, so she could pay the driver.
Charlie was dead. He was dead.
“Oh, fuck,” she whispered. She wanted to cry. Don’t do it now, she told herself. Wait. Just wait.
He was dead. He’d tried to help her, and they’d killed him.
It’s my fault, she thought. If I hadn’t … if I’d stayed away …
They drove south along the Malecón. The sun glared off the ocean like spotlights on broken glass.
He’d just wanted to enjoy the rest of his life. Drink tequila. Watch the sunset.
No one had the right to take that time from him. No one.
“Oh, Señora Mason, what’s happened to you?” Paloma came out from behind the counter, putting a tentative hand on Michelle’s uninjured shoulder.
The taxi driver, who had opened the gate for her and helped her through the courtyard, leaned the Frida tote bag against the counter.
“Can you pay him?” Michelle asked. “I have the money. I can … I can give it to you.…”
Getaway Page 24
