The Whistler (The Whistler #1)(41)

During this brief invasion, Lacy had already picked up on an important clue. The fact that he’d driven from Atlanta, as opposed to using a private jet, was a clear sign that his developments were not going well.

Almost nose to nose, he said, “I’m so sorry, Lacy, for not coming sooner. I was in Rome with Melanie and got back as fast as I could. How are you feeling, dear?”

“I’ve felt better,” she said with a scratchy voice. There was an excellent chance he hadn’t been to Rome in years. Part of his act was to drop names of fancy places. Melanie was wife number two, a woman Lacy loathed and, fortunately, rarely saw.

“She just woke up this morning,” Ann said from her chair. “It would have been a waste to come earlier.”

“And how are you, Mother?” he asked without looking at Ann.

“Fine, thanks for asking. Did you have to be so rude to Trudy and Ronald?”

And just like that, family tension filled the air. Uncharacteristically, Gunther took a breath and let it pass. Still staring at his sister, he said, “I’ve read the news stories. Just awful. And your friend was killed, Lacy? I can’t believe this. What happened?”

Ann chimed in, “The doctor said she is not to talk about the accident.”

Gunther glared at his mother and said, “Well, I really don’t care what the doctor said. I’m here and if I want to have a chat with my sister no one will tell me what to talk about.” He returned to Lacy and asked, “What happened, Lacy? Who was driving the other vehicle?”

Ann said, “She’s not processing everything, Gunther. She’s been in a coma since Monday night. Please back off, okay?”

But backing off was not in Gunther’s playbook. He said, “I know a great lawyer and we’re going to sue that bastard for everything he has. It was all his fault, right, Lacy?”

Ann exhaled with as much noise as possible, then stood and walked out of the room.

Lacy shook her head slightly and said, “I don’t remember.” Then she closed her eyes and fell asleep.

—

By mid-afternoon, Gunther had laid claim to at least half of Lacy’s private room. He had arranged two chairs, a cart on wheels, a night table that once held a lamp, and the small fold-out sofa into a configuration that allowed him to set up shop with his laptop, iPad, not one but two cell phones, and a stack of paperwork. Nurse Ratched had objected, but she had quickly learned that any comment from her would be met with a blistering and threatening response. Trudy and Ronald popped in a couple of times to check on Lacy, but got the impression they were now trespassers. Finally, Ann threw in the towel. Late in the day, she informed her two children that she was headed back to Clearwater for a day or two; that she would be back as soon as possible; and that if Lacy needed anything to please call.

When Lacy napped, Gunther either stayed off the phone or stepped into the hallway, and worked feverishly, but quietly, on his laptop. When she was awake, he was either in her face or growling on the phone as another deal teetered on the brink. He repeatedly badgered the nurses and orderlies to bring him more coffee, and when the coffee didn’t materialize he stomped down to the cafeteria, where the food looked “dreadful.” The doctors made their rounds, each glaring at him as he seemed ready for any confrontation. They were careful not to provoke.

For Lacy, though, his energy was infectious, even stimulating. He amused her, though she was still afraid to laugh. Once when she awoke, he was standing next to her bed, wiping tears from his cheeks.

At six, Nurse Ratched appeared and said her shift would be ending. She asked Gunther about his plans, and he replied, rather sternly, “I’m not leaving. This sofa is here for a reason. And for what you folks charge, you could certainly provide something more comfortable than this flimsy fold-out. I mean, hell, an army cot would be more comfortable.”

“I’ll pass that along,” she said. “See you in the morning, Lacy.”

“What a bitch,” Gunther mumbled, just loud enough for her to hear as she closed the door.

For dinner, Gunther fed her ice cream and Jell-O while he ate nothing. They watched Friends reruns until she was exhausted. As she dozed off, he was back in his nest, hammering out e-mails with no sign of slowing down.

Throughout the night, the nurses eased in and out. At first Gunther bitched about the noise they made, but soon settled down when a cute one he fancied slipped him a Xanax. By midnight he was snoring, the flimsy fold-out sofa notwithstanding.

—

Around five Friday morning, Lacy began to fidget and moan. She was asleep and dreaming, and the dreams were not pleasant. Gunther patted her arm, whispered that everything was going to be fine, that she would be home in no time. She awoke with a jolt and breathed heavily.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Some water,” she said, and he lifted a straw to her mouth. She took a long sip and he wiped her mouth. “I saw it, Gunther, I saw the truck just before we hit. Hugo screamed and I looked ahead, and there were bright lights right in front of us. Then everything went black.”

“Attagirl. Do you remember a sound? Maybe the collision, maybe the explosion of the air bag in your face?”

“Maybe, I’m not sure.”

“Did you see the other driver?”

“No, nothing but lights, really bright. It happened so fast, Gunther. I had no time to react.”