W is for Wasted (Kinsey Millhone 23)

“‘Legit’ is a relative term,” I said.

Henry slapped his knees and stood up. “Well, now that you’ve settled the matter, I’m off to bed. You kids can thumb-lock the door and pull it shut behind you when you leave. Take all the time you want.”

Dietz set the cat on the floor and got to his feet. Across the front of his jeans there was a ghostly cat outlined in newly shed white hair. “I better be on my way. I’m at the Edgewater, scheduled for late arrival, but why risk them giving my room away?”

He extended a hand to Henry and the two men shook hands. “Thanks for supper. I owe you one.”

Henry said, “Good seeing you again. As long as you’ve come all this way, I hope you’re staying a while.”

Dietz made no response.

•   •   •

Our good-nights were superficial, not even accompanied by a perfunctory handshake or a neutral buss on the cheek. I was sorry he’d driven nine hours to chew me out when I could have set him straight on the phone. I was about to suggest that he submit his bill to the probate court, assuming Pete Wolinsky’d died with a will, but I was certain the idea would occur to him without my piping up. At this point, it seemed best to leave well enough alone. I’d already done him a disservice without even meaning to.

He waited until I’d unlocked my door and I was safely inside before he returned to the street. I heard him pass through the squeaky gate and moments later, I heard his Porsche grumble to life. The sound faded as he drove off. I looked at my watch. It wasn’t even 9:00. Despite the long, hard day I’d endured, one more question remained. I picked up my jacket, my shoulder bag, and my car keys, locked the door behind me, and headed out again. I had Felix on my mind.

24

When I reached the Santa Teresa Hospital, visiting hours had wound to a close, but there was still foot traffic in and out. The Intensive Care Unit was quiet. I passed the empty waiting room. Even with the corridor lights dimmed, the business of life and death went on behind the scenes. This was the time for clerical work; charts to be caught up, supplies ordered, reports prepared for the shift change. There was no one in the hall. At the nurses’ station, I inquired about Felix. A young Hispanic woman in blue scrubs got up from a rolling office chair and indicated that I was to follow. “Where’d Pearl disappear to?” she asked over her shoulder.

“Don’t know. I’ll have to look into it,” I said.

She had me wait in the hall while she slipped into Felix’s room and pushed the curtain aside, sliding it along the track above his bed. She stood on the far side and watched him as I did. Felix lay in a pool of light, attached to machinery that monitored and recorded his progress for good or for ill. Blood pressure, respiration, pulse. His head was heavily swaddled in white, both legs in casts. There was none of the usual in-patient detritus in range. No bed table. No flowers, no get-well cards propped up, no bucket of ice, and no oversize plastic cup with a flexible drinking straw. Life-sustaining fluids dripped into him from the clear bag that hung from the IV pole beside him and waste fluids trickled into a container out of sight under his bed. His sheets were snowy; the light in the rest of the room was subdued.

Poor Felix. The big Boggart, who’d stumbled into the camp while Pearl and Felix were trashing it, must have known she was the instigator. Felix responded to life in the moment, ill equipped to form a long-range plan and act on it. I could picture their desire to retaliate against Pearl, but why him? And why so savagely? Surely not for sport. Maybe this was better revenge from their perspective than attacking her directly.

Where I stood, no sound reached me. Felix didn’t move. Even the rise and fall of his breathing was difficult to discern. He was alive. He was safe. He was warm. He didn’t seem to be in pain. Sleep was all that remained to him. So much of the “stuff” of life was already gone, leaving him undisturbed. Maybe he would swim into consciousness again or maybe the gods would set him adrift. I kissed the tip of my index finger and pressed it to the glass. I’d come back the next day. Maybe by then, he’d be surfacing from his long sleep.

•   •   •

Sunday morning, by all rights, I should have slept in. Instead, I woke at 6:00 and while I didn’t stir from my bed, I lay under the weight of my quilt and savored the warmth. The Plexiglas skylight above my bed showed a half dome of blue. I’d slept with my windows open to the full, and the morning air wafting in was scented with seaweed and burning leaves. Dietz was less than a mile away. He was one of those people who needs very little sleep. In the time we’d spent together, he was typically up until two, down for four hours, and up again at six. Sundays in particular, he took a long time over coffee, reading the paper section by section, even the parts I skipped.