The Whistler (The Whistler #1)(40)
She nodded and tried to mumble something, but the tube was in the way. Ann Stoltz sat in a chair and wiped her eyes.
“How ya doing, Lacy?” Michael asked, himself on the verge of emotion. Such a beautiful face reduced to such a mess.
She nodded slightly.
Ann whispered, “I told her nothing.” A nurse slipped into the room and stood next to Ann.
Michael eased closer and said, “You guys were hit head-on. A terrible crash, Lacy.” He swallowed hard, glanced at Ann, and said, “Lacy, Hugo didn’t make it, okay? Hugo was killed.”
She groaned pitifully and closed the narrow slits. She squeezed his hand.
Michael’s eyes watered and he pressed on. “It wasn’t your fault, Lacy, you gotta understand it. It wasn’t your fault.”
She groaned again, and moved her head slightly from side to side.
A doctor eased to the side of the bed opposite Michael and stared at the patient. He said, “Lacy, I’m Dr. Hunt. You were unconscious for over forty-eight hours. Do you hear me?”
She nodded again, and took a deep breath. A small tear managed to find its way through the swelling and dropped onto her left cheek.
He proceeded with a quick exam of asking short questions, holding up fingers, and having her look at objects across the room. She responded well, though with some hesitation. “Does your head hurt?” he asked.
She nodded. Yes.
Dr. Hunt looked at the nurse and ordered a painkiller. He looked at Michael and said, “You can chat a few more minutes, but nothing about the accident. I understand the police want to talk to her, but that’s not going to happen anytime soon. We’ll see how she feels in a couple of days.” He backed away from the bed and left the room without another word.
Michael looked at Ann and said, “We need to discuss something confidential. If you don’t mind. Just take a second.” Ann nodded and slipped out of the room.
He said, “Lacy, did you have your BJC phone with you Monday night?”
She nodded yes.
“It’s missing; so is Hugo’s. The police searched your car and the accident scene. They’ve looked everywhere, no cell phones. Don’t ask me to explain, because I can’t. But if the wrong people hacked into your phone, we have to assume they can find Myers.”
Her swollen eyes widened slightly and she kept nodding go on.
He said, “Our tech guy says it’s virtually impossible to hack the phones, but there’s the chance. Do you have Myers’s number?”
She nodded. Yes.
“In the file?”
She nodded. Yes.
“Great. I’ll get to work on it.”
Another doctor popped in and wanted to poke around. Michael had had enough for one visit. His dreaded mission was accomplished, and evidently he would not be asking any more questions about what happened Monday night. He leaned a bit closer and said, “Lacy, I need to go. I’ll tell Verna that you’re okay and thinking about the family.”
She was crying again.
—
An hour later, the nurses took her off the ventilator and began pulling tubes. Her vitals were normal. She napped off and on throughout Thursday morning, but by noon was getting bored with so much sleep. Her voice was scratchy and weak but also getting stronger by the hour. She talked to Ann, Aunt Trudy, and Uncle Ronald, a man she had never been fond of but now appreciated.
ICU space was limited, and with Lacy stabilized and out of danger, the doctors decided that she could be moved to a private room. That move coincided with the arrival of Gunther, Lacy’s older brother and only sibling. As usual, Gunther was heard before he was seen. He was in the hallway arguing with a nurse about the number of visitors the hospital allowed in each room at any given time. The rule was three. Gunther thought that was ludicrous, and besides he’d just driven nonstop from Atlanta to see his kid sister and if the nurse didn’t like it, she could call security. And if she called security, Gunther might have to call his lawyers.
The sound of his voice was usually a sign of trouble, but to Lacy at that moment it was beautiful. She actually chuckled, and in doing so ached from her head to her knees. Ann Stoltz said, “I guess he’s here.” Trudy and Ronald snapped to attention as if bracing for something unpleasant.
The door swung open without being knocked on and Gunther rolled in, a nurse in pursuit. He pecked his mother on the forehead, ignored his aunt and uncle, and almost lunged at Lacy. “Good God, girl, what have they done to you?” he asked as he kissed her on the forehead. She tried to smile.
He glanced over and said, “Hello, Trudy. Hello, Ronald. Say good-bye, Ronald, because you need to wait in the hall. Nurse Ratched here is threatening to call security because of some arbitrary and unreasonable rule they have around this Podunk place.”
Trudy was reaching for her purse as Ronald said, “We’ll be going. Back in a few hours.” They hustled out of the room, obviously quite happy to get away from Gunther. He glared at Nurse Ratched, held up two fingers, and said, “One visitor, two visitor. Me and Momma. Can you not count? Now that we’re legal would you please leave us alone so I can talk to my sister in private?”
Nurse Ratched happily left too. Ann was shaking her head. Lacy wanted to laugh but knew it would be too painful.
Depending on the year, or even the month, Gunther Stoltz was either one of the top ten commercial property developers in Atlanta or one of the five real estate swingers most likely headed for bankruptcy. At forty-one, he’d filed at least twice already, and seemed destined to live on that tightrope that some developers seem to thrive on. When times were good and money was cheap, he borrowed heavily, built like a maniac, and burned through cash like it would never end. When the market turned against him, he hid from the banks and unloaded assets at fire-sale prices. There was no middle ground, no thought of prudent planning, or, heaven forbid, the actual saving of some of the money. When he was down he never stopped betting on a brighter future, and when he was up he choked on the money and forgot about the bad times. Atlanta would never stop growing, and it was his calling in life to clutter it with even more strip malls, apartments, and office complexes.