A Conspiracy of Bones (Temperance Brennan #19)(80)

Besides hallucinations, could migraines cause panic, paranoia, and feelings of hopelessness? Could the aneurysm or subsequent embolization? Or had I been drugged? Was my heightened anxiety a by-product of a bad acid or Molly trip? Were my fears justified?

Were Slidell and I closing in on someone or something?

A long-hidden government secret?

A real estate scam?

A media fraud?

A child molester?

A killer?





27


FRIDAY, JULY 13

Hospitals are the least restful places on earth.

Nevertheless, I ended up having to stay what remained of that first night and the next. Once my medical history was revealed, my neurologist was notified. He ordered an MRI and MRA, an EEG, and other poking and prodding, “just to be sure.”

Both nights, I was awakened repeatedly by a penlight shining in my eyes. Both dawns, some doctor was paged for some color-coded crisis. Constant summonses followed. Carts rattled. Speakers bonged.

At seven a.m. on Friday, anxious to return home to rescue Birdie from my neighbor Walter’s care, I started agitating for release.

The wheels ground at the pace of tectonic drift.

At eight, I was disengaged from my drip line.

At eight thirty, breakfast was placed on my over-the-bed table. As on my first morning, no Jell-O.

At nine thirty, the tray was cleared. I inquired about my belongings, not disclosing my intention to bolt.

At nine forty, Ryan walked through the door with a bouquet the size of a Hereford. Mixed feelings flooded through me. Happiness? Humiliation? Resentment?

“Wow,” was all I could muster.

“Wow, as in good wow? Or just-shoot-me wow?”

Ryan looked around, finally set the flowers on the windowsill. They were not a good fit. Then he crossed to the bed to kiss me.

“Of course I’m glad to see you. It’s just such a surprise.” We’d spoken early Thursday, agreed it was just a bump on the head and that Ryan should remain in France.

“Staying put didn’t work for me. I had to see your smiling face myself.”

My smiling face did anything but.

“What about Neville?” I asked.

“I set some things in motion. Will head back if one of those leads pans out.” Big Ryan grin. “So. When are you out of here?”

“Any minute. Or we hatch an escape plan.”

Ryan snapped a salute. “I am a police officer. I can condone no illegal maneuver.”

At ten thirty, a plastic bag appeared, T. Brennan, Rm. #1203 penned in Sharpie on the outside. I loosened the drawstring, was relieved to see my keys tucked into one dirt-crusted sneaker. A silent thank-you to Slidell. I was pulling out my jeans when an attending physician appeared. Or a hospitalist. Maybe a plumber. His name tag said Gursahani.

After giving me a cursory once-over and issuing recommendations for my continued well-being, Gursahani informed me that Dr. Bernard, my neurologist, was on his way. And that Bernard would be discharging me.

When Gursahani had gone, I glanced over at Ryan, defiant.

“Don’t even think about it,” he said, confiscating the bag and dropping into the room’s only chair.

Arms crossed, I slumped back on my pillows.

“Want to talk about what happened?” Ryan asked after several moments of silence.

“I don’t know what happened,” I said, too snappishly. I wasn’t in a chatty mood.

“Fair enough. How about this?” Gesturing at my eyes. “Lids down.”

“Why?”

“So you can tell me what you remember. It will pass the time while we wait.”

After rolling them, I closed my eyes. Given a little encouragement, a bedlam of disconnected scenes fired like tracer rounds in my head. Fragmented. Disorganized. I sorted briefly, hoping for some semblance of chronology.

“I was reviewing the Pasquerault file when Dorothée appeared and told me I’d made an error.”

“That must have been unsettling.”

“You think?” Eyes still closed. “Dorothée and I drove to the bunker in Cleveland County. Everything was the same, yet exaggerated—the colors too bright, the vegetation too thick and tangled, the heat too oppressive, the shadows too dizzying. It was like picking my way through the frames of an overcolorized film cranking in slo-mo.”

“I get it.”

“Dorothée disappeared through the blast door. Though afraid, I followed. It’s hard to explain why. Somehow, I couldn’t turn back. It was like I was driven by a need to right my mistake.”

I paused. Ryan waited.

“Underground, the darkness was so absolute I had to feel my way by touch. Then, in the distance, I saw this tiny green dot. It seemed to be beckoning. But the more I moved toward it, the farther away it seemed. This is making no sense.”

“It is.” Again wiggling a finger at my now-open eyes. I complied.

“I felt my way through inky-black tunnels into open chasms filled with swirling neon light, pulsating walls, and heaving floors and ceilings.”

I swallowed, nauseated by the recalled tumult.

“At one point, I was in a passageway, at first doubled over, then crawling on all fours, then curled fetal. The space was shrinking, and I knew I had to get out. Or wake up. But I couldn’t do either.”