Overkill(27)

“Sure. I understand.”

“Good. Please behave accordingly.” Sid patted his shoulder. “You’ll be here for dinner?”

“Yeah, I’d counted on it.” Eban smiled up at him. “Let’s shoot some stick after.”

“You’re on.”

Sid had almost reached the door when Eban halted him. “You said she?”

Sid turned. “Pardon?”

“The prosecutor. You said she?”

“Yes. A rising star in the AG’s office named Kathryn Lennon.”





Chapter 12





Zach was shown into Rebecca’s room by a nurse who said, “You have a few minutes before she’s scheduled to be turned.”

Anxiety had created a lump in his throat that prevented him from speaking. He merely nodded at the nurse and then was left alone.

He had expected the room to be dim and hushed, a deathbed scene. But the window shade was all the way up, letting in sunlight to which his eyes had to adjust. The ceiling lights were on full. Heavy metal rock music was coming from a wireless speaker sitting beside a snow globe of Paris on a wall-mounted shelf.

The brightness and the music could be thought to be inappropriate.

But this was Rebecca’s room. She loved the limelight, spotlights, and hard rock.

With reluctance, Zach advanced into the room. To his right was a sink. On the counter next to it were several plastic basins of various sizes, a stack of folded towels and wash cloths, containers of liquid soap, shampoo, body lotion. Nail clippers. Lip salve. A hairbrush. A box of adult diapers.

Quickly looking away, he took in all the medical apparatus: the monitoring machines with their blinking lights, the IV pole, the seeming miles of tubing that snaked around the bed and up underneath the light blue blanket… on top of which a pair of hands rested.

He didn’t recognize them as Rebecca’s hands. They were curled downward at a severe angle, fingertips almost touching the inside of her wrists. The nails were short, blunt, unvarnished.

After seeing the distortion of her hands, he took several deep breaths before he could bring himself to look at Rebecca herself.

He gasped.





“Please have a seat, Mr. Bridger.”

The doctor’s name was Anna Gilbreath. It was printed on the brass placard at the edge of her desk. The number of letters following her name attested to her qualifications to be the administrator of the special care facility.

She reminded Zach of his tenth-grade English teacher, who’d made the class wade through Beowulf: cardigan sweater, reading glasses hanging from a chain around her neck, and, despite her benign features, an authoritative bearing.

She began with a subtle admonishment. “I’ve been here for two years, but up till now I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting you.”

He propped his ankle on his opposite knee, then awkwardly lowered his foot to the floor again. “My first time here.”

“Welcome,” she said. “May I ask why now?”

“First, I want to thank you for seeing me without an appointment. I came straight from the airport.”

“Fortunately for both of us I had a clear schedule this afternoon. Where did you travel from?”

“Western North Carolina via Atlanta.”

“You came quite a distance. What prompted your visit?”

“I wanted to check things out, talk to whoever is in charge of Rebecca’s care.”

“Then you’re in the right office. What’s your impression so far?”

He shifted in his seat, propped his elbows on the chair’s armrests, then removed them. “Everything’s top-notch. The place, the staff. I’d give it high ratings in every category.”

“Thank you. Our staff is committed to providing our patients excellent medical care, as well as treating them with the respect and dignity they deserve.”

“That commitment shows.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” After a brief stall, she said, “I’m told you spent some time in Rebecca’s room before asking to meet with me.”

He put his fist to his mouth and gave a dry cough. “I didn’t really come down here to check up on you, Dr. Gilbreath. The facility has a flawless reputation, which is why the Pratts chose it. I came to get a clearer understanding of Rebecca’s condition. I mean, after seeing her, it’s obvious that she… Uh. Want I want is to understand… Hell.” Dropping his head forward, he expelled a long whoosh of air.

Softly she asked, “Would you like some water?”

He nodded.

She got up, took a bottle of water from a small refrigerator, and brought it to him. He wanted to roll the cold bottle across his damp forehead, but he uncapped it and took a swallow. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” She touched his shoulder very lightly, very briefly, before resuming her seat behind the desk. “Don’t be embarrassed by your distress, Mr. Bridger. The Rebecca you knew was a vibrant young woman. You wouldn’t be human if you weren’t deeply affected by her present condition.”

“Which is what, exactly? I’ve been told she isn’t brain dead. Clinically speaking.”

“That’s right. Her brain stem function is minimal, but enough that she breathes on her own. She’s in what we call a PVS. Persistent vegetative state. Rebecca suffered a traumatic brain injury. She was deprived of oxygen for a length of time more than sufficient to cause severe cerebral damage and render her unaware and unresponsive. From a medical standpoint, the qualifier that makes her condition ‘persistent’ is that it’s lasted for longer than twelve months.”