The Pale Rider

Part: 21
Rating: T
Summary: What do you do when a dead body washes up on the beach?
Beta: Captn Becky, Harper64
Notes: Canon up to May 1942. Anything else are lovely imaginations from the author's warped mind.
Disclaimer: All known characters are the creation of Anthony Horowitz and Dorothy Sayers. I make no money off this.

Scene 21

Christopher sighed as he folded his good arm to rest on his chest. He had to admit that most of the time while awake he was bored out of his mind. No one even thought to bring him a book to occupy his time. He felt his skin began to crawl under his cast and then develop into a full blown itch. Frowning, tried to shift the weighted limb, but that didn't work. Then he reached down and tried to slip a finger between the cast and his leg. A shadow moved past him. He had grown adept at ignoring the movement all around him.

"Mr. Foyle, is it itching?"

He looked up to the nurse. She stood at the foot of his bed with a clipboard in hand. "Yes."

She smiled. "That is a very good sign. It means that your leg is healing."

"It still itches. And the shoulder hurts." He frowned. "Nurse, is there a library on the premises?"

"We have a catalog of all our books. Would you like to see it?"

"Yes, please." He rested his head against the pillow and closed his eyes. At least his headaches had dissipated to almost nothing. It was not pleasant to need to retch every time he opened his eyes. One of the doctors had mentioned that the branch that messed up his shoulder kept him from being concussed anymore than he already was. Christopher wasn't sure if that was good thing or not.

"Damn Christopher. You look like shit. what happened to you?"

Foyle looked towards John Kiefer. The American Captain stood there with his hat in hand, obviously giving him the once over.

"Got run off the road."

"You weren't driving were you?" John moved closer and eventually sat down in the available chair.

"No." Christopher raised his good arm up to rub the bandage that was wrapped around his head with the heel of his hand. "I was investigating a murder."

"Sounds like the murderer didn't want to be captured."

Christopher tilted his head back and forth thinking about what the American had said. "Maybe. I'm not certain."

"How's your driver. It's still Miss Stewart, right?"

"Yes."

"Was she injured?"

"Yes, though I don't know whose worse."

"Mr. Foyle?" The nurse returned and held out a piece of paper.

"Thank you." He took it and read down the list. There wasn't that much available. It reminded him of when he first brought Paul on as his sergeant. "Do you have anything by Graham Greene?" he asked as he handed it back.

"No, and I'm sorry about that. We've had quite a few requests for his work. I'll see if I can find something similar."

"Never heard of Greene." John shook his head as the nurse left. "What did he write?"

"Brighton Rock. It's quite good. You should read it sometime."

John gave him a lopsided grin. "I don't have the time. I had to request this off so I could visit you once I heard you were in the hospital. You wouldn't believe how swamped we are getting ready for…."

"Oh, I do understand." Christopher chewed on his bottom lip, unsure of what to tell the American. "I was in the Great War. Worst three years of my entire life."

John shook his head. "From what I heard from the older fellows when I up and joined, I can understand. Yet quite a few of my boys signed up the day after Pearl Harbor. They didn't need any incentives."

"Pearl Harbor?"

"Yeah, damn worst day for our Navy. The Japs took out almost the entire Pacific Fleet in one fell swoop."

Foyle shook his head. "I should have known that." He paused, "Not saying anything bad about what happened to your fleet, I'm very glad you and your chaps are here."

John gave a rather embarrassed smile. He glanced at his watch. "I hate to say this, but I gotta get. My CO will tell me I've wasted enough time here gabbing with you. Plus I gotta meet with the USO to get everything set up for the boy's moral boost." He stood up. "I would reach out my hand, but your shoulder looked to be banged up good. If I can, I'll stop by sometime in the near future. Bring you some more bourbon and we can do a bit of fishing."

For once Christopher smiled. "Sounds good."

"And don't go running off the road. It's bad for your health."

John left and was eventually replaced by the nurse with a book in hand. "I'm sorry, Mr. Foyle, but it's the best I could do." She handed him an Agatha Christi novel. He took it without question. Even though he knew who the murderer would be by the end of the first paragraph, it would at least keep him occupied for the time being. Maybe if Peter came by he could bring Greene's book.

Christopher dropped the book onto his lap and rested his head against the pillow while closing his eyes. Taking too deep a breath it triggered a coughing spasm, which only made him even more sore and worn out at the same time. At least he could breath comfortably once again. When he tried to think of Rosalind, all he could see was Sam slumped against the steering wheel of the Wolseley. Sam.

He wanted to see her, but he wasn't sure he would be allowed in her ward, especially since he was still recovering from pneumonia of all things. Christopher felt someone remove the book from his lap and ease him back down with gentle care. "Sam," he muttered.

The nurse answered, her voice soft so as to not disturb the other patients. "You need to rest, Mr. Foyle. You shall get to see her soon enough."

When he opened his eyes once again it seemed more towards evening. Black out curtains were already in place. How long have I been asleep? He tired so easily, it also made him wonder if he had the strength to go visit Sam. And then there were the times he had to go to the bathroom. The first time he felt mortified that he had to actually be helped. If there was one thing, he would make sure that he had the strength to take care of those daily routines without a nurse hovering nearby making sure he wouldn't topple over and fall down.

"Nurse?" he kept his voice low, but loud enough for the woman to hear him.

She came over with a smile. "How are you feeling, Mr. Foyle?"

"I would like to visit the woman who was brought in with me at the same time. Sam Stewart." Actually he wanted to see her.

"Let me talk to the nurse over the women's ward to see if she's strong enough." And she made her way to the door.

Sometime later the nurse reappeared with a smile on her face. "Good news, Mr. Foyle. Just to make sure I talked to the doctor about your pneumonia. The sulfa has done it's job and you're not contagious anymore, which is a blessing. And Miss Stewart has been asking for you."

"She has?" His eyes widened in surprise.

"Apparently she thought you were dead when she was first brought in." The nurse came up to his side and helped him into a seated position. "As soon as tomorrow we should be able to get you into a chair and have you go visit her."

Christopher nodded. "I remember hearing about that."

It took a moment for him to wonder why he'd be in a chair, that was until his leg started itching once again.

Which is where he found himself the next day. Two nurses helped him into the chair, which wore him out more than he expected and they moved him from the men's ward to the women's side. Only about half the beds were currently occupied, which could either be a blessing or a curse either way you took it.

Somehow the nurses understood that he didn't wish to remain in the wheelchair, so they brought him to her right side. With minimal help, he managed to sit on that side of the bed and faced her. The dip of the mattress woke her up and she blinked sleepily at him. "S-sir?"

Christopher looked over her. She did look worse than him, but at the same time he wondered if it was more cosmetic than anything else. "It's good to see you awake." He smiled. "The last time I saw you, you were slumped against the steering wheel." He shook his head, trying to banish the images from his mind.

Sam rubbed her chest with her good arm and winced. "The doctor told me I have broken ribs." She turned away and sniffed.

"What is it, Sam?"

"It's my fault for all this," she sniffed again, trying not to cry. "If only I stopped, none of this would have happened."

"Sam." Christopher closed his eyes for a moment. When she didn't seem to hear, he spoke again, "Samantha, listen to me."

She finally turned, her dark eyes seemingly bright with unshed tears.

"Even if you did stop it wouldn't have worked. The driver was out to kill us. It's not your fault." With his good arm he reached down and cupped her face. Then brought it down to cover her hand where he felt what he thought of as a not so entirely unwelcome jolt. His reasoning was that he was trying to make her feel better.

"But it is. I felt so horrible and thought they would send me back to Father's when I didn't want to go. I didn't know what to do seeing that I loved you and now you were gone," she babbled looking in every direction but towards Foyle.

What?

Several moments passed then she realized what she said and pulled her hand away from his and covered her mouth in horror. "Mr. Foyle, I am so sorry. I didn't mean what I said." She looked completely mortified.

"Sam."

"You can send me back to the MTC, even back to Lyminster."

"Sam, listen to me."

She finally dragged her eyes in his direction.

He paused, trying to gather his thoughts. The worst part was that he was in no position to respond to her comments the way he wanted to. "We both went through a traumatic experience that can trigger certain things that were never spoken about before. I will not send you away because I can't go anywhere without you."

Sam gave him a trembling smile.

TBC...