If The Seas Catch Fire(72)

Rojas draped his stethoscope around his neck and ran through a battery of questions, mostly asking about Sergei’s symptoms, and occasionally throwing in questions about what day it was, where he was, what his name was.

“Have you had any paralysis? Numbness?”

“No,” Sergei said. “Balance is f*cked, but… no.”

“Good. What’s your mother’s name?”

Sergei’s expression darkened.

Rojas stiffened a little. “Where are you right now?”

“In the Salty Air Motel, wondering why some f*ck wants to know about my mother.”

“Well, you’re obviously not confused, then.” Rojas checked the gauge on the oxygen tank. “Why don’t you just relax for a little while?”

Sergei glared at him, but didn’t speak. He let his eyelids slide shut, and breathed slowly, the O2 mask continuing to fog and clear in time with the rise and fall of his chest.

Rojas got up and gestured for Dom to come with him to the other side of the room. Not that there was much space in a room this small, but between the hum of the air conditioner and the hiss of the oxygen, there was a surprising amount of privacy.

Back slightly to Sergei, Dom asked, “How is he?”

“Well, don’t ask about his mother…”

Dom pursed his lips. “I mean, his condition.”

“Yeah, I know. And it’s good you called me when you did.” He draped his stethoscope over his neck. “The oxygen should help, along with the IV. As long as his symptoms don’t worsen, he should improve.”

“And if they do?”

Rojas glanced at Sergei. “Then he needs to go to a hospital.”

Dom scowled.

The doctor shot him a pointed look. “By all rights, I should be telling him to go to a hospital now because he’s not out of the woods yet.”

Dom shifted his weight. “Just tell me honestly—hospital, or no?

Rojas chewed his lip. For a long moment, he watched Sergei.

“Yes or no?” Dom pressed. “I’d just as soon not go to one, but if it’s what he needs, then tell me.”

“He’s…” Rojas swallowed. Finally, he met Dom’s gaze. “Look, decompression sickness is unpredictable. Normally, I’d err on the side of caution and get him to a medical facility, just in case things take a bad turn. But, like I said, as long as he doesn’t get any worse, he should be okay. Just keep a close eye on him, Dom.”

“Of course. For how long?”

“Judging by his condition now, I’d say the next four or five hours are critical. To be safe, stay with him for the twelve after that.”

Dom nodded. “All right. I’ll stay with him as long as I can.”

“Good.” Rojas glanced around the room. At Sergei. At Dom. When his eyebrows pinched together, the question was unmistakable.

Dom swallowed. “This stays between us, all right?”

“Of course.” The doctor touched his arm. “Not a word. I promise.”

“Thanks.”

Rojas looked back at Sergei for a second. As he faced Dom, he said, “He should be all right in a few hours. If he gets any worse, though, you need to take him to the ER.”

Dom scowled.

“I know,” Rojas said. “But if he doesn’t improve on his own, he needs recompression therapy, and that’s not something I can do.”

Chewing the inside of his cheek, Dom nodded. “Well, there’s nothing illegal about scuba diving, so it isn’t like it’ll raise any red flags.”

“Maybe in any other town,” the doc muttered. “I’ve treated four people for decompression sickness in the last year, and they’ve all turned out to be drug mules.” His eyes flicked toward Sergei. “Believe me—it raises questions.”

“I don’t think he’s a…” Dom watched Sergei. Is he?

“Listen to me, Dom.” Rojas’s expression hardened. “Even if he is involved in something like every f*cking person in this town seems to be, he still needs treatment if his symptoms don’t improve. Promise me you’ll take him to the ER if he doesn’t get better.”

Dom nodded. “Yeah. Definitely.”

“Good.” Rojas clapped his shoulder gently. “I’ll be back in a while. Call me if anything changes.”

“You or an ambulance?”

Rojas glanced at Sergei. “Both. Ambulance first.”

A chill ran up Dom’s spine. “Will do.”

The doctor left, and Dom sat beside Sergei. “Feeling any better?”

“Than what?” Sergei turned to him, eyelids fluttering open. “Roadkill?”

Dom chuckled. “Well, you still have a sense of humor. That’s promising, right?”

Sergei laughed, fogging up the mask. “If that ever goes, just put a bullet in me because I’m probably done.”

That sobered Dom faster than it should have. He slipped his hand into Sergei’s—the one without the IV—and laced their fingers together.

This was so weird, sitting beside a sedate Sergei, with no sound in the room except the A/C and the oxygen tank. He tried not to liken it to his mother’s final few days when he’d sat with her, when she too had worn a mask to get oxygen into her starving lungs while an IV kept fluid moving into her frail arms. Sergei wasn’t dying. He probably wasn’t even in that much danger as long as he relaxed and let the oxygen and IV do their jobs. But the quiet room, the near-silence, the fingers laced between his…