Christ, he thought. She had to have had some control over her legs. There was no other explanation. Unless . . . he’d been seeing things.
“I do not understand,” she repeated.
Neither did he, but he was going to damn well figure it out. “I’m going to go review your scans. I’ll be right back.”
Out in the exam room, he got some help from the nurse and accessed Payne’s medical record via the computer. With practiced efficiency, he went through everything: vitals, exam notes, X-rays—he even found the stuff he’d done to her at St. Francis, which was a surprise. He hadn’t a clue how they’d gotten access to that original MRI—he’d erased the file nearly as soon as it had gone into the medical center’s system. But he was glad to see it again, that was for sure.
When he was finished, he sat back in the chair, and the band of coldness that shot across his shoulder blades reminded him he was in nothing but a towel.
Kind of explained that nurse’s walleyed look when he’d spoken with her.
“What the hell,” he muttered, staring at the latest X-ray.
Her spine was perfectly in order, the vertebrae lined up nice and square, their ghostly glow against the black background giving him a perfect snapshot of what was going on down her back.
Everything, from the medical record to the exam he’d just given her on the bed, suggested that his original conclusion upon seeing her again was the correct one: He’d done the best technical work of his life, but the spinal cord had been irreparably damaged and that was that.
And abruptly, he remembered the expression on Goldberg’s face as it had become obvious that the difference between night and day had escaped his notice.
Rubbing his eyes, he wondered if he was, yet again, going crazy. He knew what he’d seen, however. . . . Didn’t he?
And then it dawned on him.
Twisting around, he looked to the ceiling. Sure enough, all the way up in the corner there was a pod attached to a panel. Which meant the security camera inside could see every square inch of the place.
Had to be one in the recovery room. Had to be.
Getting to his feet, he went over to the door and peered out into the corridor, hoping that nice blond nurse was somewhere to be found. “Hello?”
His voice echoed down the hall, but there was no reply, so he had no choice except to barefoot it around. Without an instinct as to which way to head, he choose “right” and walked fast. At all of the doors, he knocked and then tried to open them. Most were locked, but those that weren’t revealed . . . classrooms. And more classrooms. And a huge, professional-size gym.
When he got to
one marked WEIGHT ROOM, he heard the pounding of someone trying to break a treadmill with some Nikes and decided to keep going. He was a half-naked human in a world of vampires, and somehow he doubted that nurse would be marathoning it if she were on duty.
Besides, going by how hard and heavy that footfall was? He was liable to open up a can of whoop-ass, instead of just a door—and whereas he was suicidal enough to fight anything that rode up on him, this was about helping Payne, not his ego or his boxing skills.
Doubling back, he headed in the opposite direction. Knocking. Opening when he could. The farther he went, the less classroom-y it was and the more police-station-interrogation-y shit became. Down at the far end, there was a massive door that was right out of the movies, with its reinforced, bolted panels.
Outside world, he thought.
Going right up to it, he threw his weight against the bar, and—surprise! He burst out into the parking garage, where his Porsche was parked at the curb.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
His eyes snapped over to a blacked-out Escalade: windows, rims, grille, everything was tinted. Standing next to it was the guy he’d seen that first night, the one he’d thought he’d recognized . . .
“I’ve seen you somewhere,” Manny said as the door shut behind him.
From his pocket, the vampire took out a baseball cap and put it on. Red Sox. Of course, given the Boston accent.
Although the big question was, how in the hell did a vampire end up sounding like he was from Southie?
“Nice Jesus piece,” the guy muttered, glancing at Manny’s cross. “Are you looking for your clothes?”
Manny rolled his eyes. “Yeah. Someone stole them.”
“So they could impersonate a doctor?”