Touch & Go (Tessa Leoni, #2)(47)

“Could be concussion,” he muttered. “Could be contusion, could be straight-line fracture. Do you know what the Glasgow Coma score is?”

I didn’t answer. He mostly seemed to be talking to himself.

“I’d put you at a ten, which is better than an eight, but still… You need a CT scan. Toys here aren’t quite that fancy, but we can start with a basic X-ray.”

New room. Definitely not walking so well now. Sweating. I could feel my pulse starting to flutter. Pain, agitation, distress.

I wished… I wished Justin were here, his arm once more around my shoulders.

X-ray machine. I got to lie down on a table. Radar positioned a heavy mat over my chest, then a cover over my eyes, then a machine over my head.

“Close your eyes. Don’t move.”

He left. A buzzing, then a flash.

Radar was back.

“Digital system,” he announced, as if that should mean something to me. “But gotta wait a bit.”

“How did you…learn, all this?” I managed to wave my hand around the room.

He stared at me straight-faced. “In school, I applied myself real hard.”

“Doctor? Is that what you studied?”

“Doctors are pansies. I’m a field medic. We have real skills.”

“In the military? Army?”

Kid didn’t say anything, just stared at me.

“What’s your name?” he asked after another second.

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out, so I closed it again. “He tried to kill me,” I heard myself say.

Radar rolled his eyes at me. “Pretty f*cking stupid thing to do, Tase a guy twice your size. Take it from me, your survival skills could use some work.”

“Bigger they are, the harder they fall,” I murmured.

“Yep, and the faster they crush your skull.”

“Are you friends?”

The kid shrugged, shifted uncomfortably. “We know each other. That’s enough.”

“There’s something wrong with him.”

Radar shrugged again. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

“He would’ve killed me. Then my husband. Then my daughter.”

“Z stopped him.”

“Is he the boss?”

“In any grouping of more than one, there is a boss.”

“Can he control Mick?”

“Z?” Radar laughed. “Z can control the world. Question is, does he want to?”

“I think I’m going to vomit now.”

“Now, see, you tell that to a real doctor, they run away. I, on the other hand, already have a bag.”

The kid held up a plastic grocery bag. I rolled slightly to the side, and threw up a small stream of water. Then I dry heaved, then I fell back, holding my aching stomach. Radar wasn’t impressed. “You need to drink. Look at your skin.” He pinched the back of my hand, then shook his head. “Already dehydrated. What do you think, you’re on a pleasure cruise? First rule of thumb in an adverse situation: Tend to your own health. You need fluids. You need food.”

“I need my purse.” I whispered the words without thinking, already licking at my cracked lips.

“Can’t,” the kid said levelly. “No Vicodin as long as you have a head injury.”

“How did you…?”

“Some people limit themselves to going through life using all five senses. Then, there are guys like me. Prescription painkillers, right? Ritzy housewife from Back Bay, no way you’re hitting the hard drugs yet—that would imply a real problem. But popping Percocet, oxycodone, pills prescribed by your own doctor, that not’s so bad, right? Meaning you’re going on twenty-four hours without a hit… Bet you’re really tired right now. Just barely hanging on. Like the world is an ocean dragging you under. You know you need to pull it together, focus for the sake of your family, but of course you can’t. You’re suffering from depression, abdominal cramping, agitation, constipation and nausea. Oh yeah, and now a knock on the head. But other than that, sure, you got your shit together.”

I didn’t answer.

He spread his hands. “Might as well tell me everything. Just you and me here, and at the rate you’re going, we’re going to have a lot of quality time together. More you tell me, more I can maybe help. ’Cause you’re kind of useless right now. FYI.”

“Water,” I said.

He crossed to the sink and poured a little in a plastic cup. I used the first sip to rinse my mouth, then spit in the puke pouch.

I thought Radar looked like his TV namesake—too young to sound so old. Too fresh-faced to appear so cynical. But then I thought of Z and I thought of Mick and I wondered how innocent he could really be while hanging with the likes of them.

“Ten,” I said. “I try to limit myself to ten a day.” Or fifteen.

“Oxycodone or Percocet?”

“Hydrocodone. It’s for my neck.” I said the words straight-faced. He didn’t correct me.

“Dosage?”

“Ten milligrams.”

“That’s the opiate dosage. So you’re taking at least another five hundred milligrams of acetaminophen per pill. Times ten… How long?”

“Couple months.”