Well, when I actually sat down and typed it out, this chapter got long. So long, in fact, that I decided it needed to become two. Once again, my brain is wordier than originally planned. So, Plausibility marches on.
Here's the result for last chapter's question: one person finds needles scariest, three fear bees, three fear pissed-off Bullock and one thinks the scariest would be "Angry Bullock with a needle full of bees". I have no idea how you'd pull that one off, but it's horrifying.
Joe was awoken by a bright light. His initial thought was that he had died, his body succumbing to stress or a slow-acting side effect of the Scarecrow's drug, and that light was the one at the end of the proverbial tunnel. Then the light began to move back and forth like a fairy in flight, and Joe had to consider the light was either not angelic or God was screwing with him.
"You are a heavy sleeper, my friend. I know you're tired and I promise I won't keep you up for too long. I've just got a few questions to ask and a perfunctory medical exam to do, and then you can go back to sleep."
If that voice belonged to God, wouldn't God already know all the answers as well as Joe's colorful medical history? Joe supposed that yes, God would know both those things. Therefore, the voice did not belong to God.
Joe blinked his eyes a few times and a face began to materialize behind the white light. With a few more blinks, the face took on distinct definitions and its features became clear. As Joe had suspected, the face did not belong to God, unless God was really a young, blond, acne-scarred doctor.
"Where am I?" Joe asked.
"Metropolitan Hospital. You arrived a few minutes ago. I was conducting a quick test, and you've got normal pupil dilation, so that's a good sign," the doctor replied. He clicked off his obscenely bright ophthalmoscope.
"Great news about the pupils. How long was I asleep?"
"The ambulance ride took about fifteen minutes. From what I gathered, you slept the whole way."
"No wonder I don't feel any less tired. Why the hell did you wake me up? Can't the probes wait a day or two?"
"You aren't going to be probed but I do have to assess the damage that maniac did to you. You're my first Scarecrow-related patient, so this is a learning experience for me," the doctor said, grinning brightly.
"Isn't there anyone here who has Scarecrow experience?"
"There was Dr. Patel, but, uh, he's on leave for personal reasons."
"Great."
Resigned to his fate, Joe tried to think happy thoughts and not imagine all the ways this could go wrong. The doctor produced a clipboard and a pencil. Joe's mind immediately skipped back to the Scarecrow and his clipboard and questionnaire. In a snap, all Joe's happy thoughts floated out of his head and drifted away.
"Before I examine you, I want to get down some basic information. Name, age, allergies, things like that."
"Joseph Savoca, age thirty-nine, no allergies. Can I sleep now?"
"Not yet. I've still got three more pages to fill out, and then we actually get down to business."
Joe groaned. "What more could you possibly want?"
"Date of birth, weight, current address, current medications, recent vaccinations, recent illnesses, blood type, next-of-kin…"
While Joe was giving out every intimate detail of his life, Danielle was being enveloped—and constricted—in the warm, loving embrace of Grandma Sophia. The woman, despite her official status as an octogenarian, hugged like an anaconda. Once a person was in her coils, there was no escape. That wasn't usually a problem, though; people rarely wanted to escape from the hugs.
"I had a card and a present for you, but I left them in the cab. Sorry," Danielle said as her grandmother squeezed her.
"I'm not worried about any of that. All night I thought I might lose my only grandbaby. I couldn't stand thinking about it, but I couldn't help myself. My poor Danielle. All night, just wondering where you were, if you were hurt, what I'd do if your uncle's dog had to become my grandkid. My hair started falling out because I was so worried," Sophia said.
Danielle looked at the elegant, braided, silver ponytail that hung down well past her grandmother's shoulders, and decided it had not thinned by a single strand in the years since she'd last seen Grandma Sophia in person. Unless Grandma Sophia had shed from some other part of her body, she was exaggerating. Danielle was thankful for that: the image of a completely bald grandmother would scar her.
"I'm sorry I did that to you on your birthday. I'll never do it again, I promise," Danielle said.
"You damn better not! Don't you dare think for one minute I'm too old to teach you a lesson you'll never forget."
Danielle tried to laugh but the laugh dissolved into a watery sob. She clutched at her grandmother and buried her face into the woman's shirt. Grandma Sophia, Danielle discovered as she continued to cry, still hadn't picked up that famous old-lady smell. Instead, she smelled of faded jasmine perfume, sweat, and cat food. It was nice.
The two women held each other for a minute longer before slowly detaching from one another. Just as she'd done when Danielle was a child and had scraped a knee or fallen on her backside, Sophia wiped the tears from her granddaughter's face. Danielle sniffled and nearly burst into tears again at the familiar gentle gesture.
"I think we've made enough of a scene. Let's sit down and read some old magazines until they can get someone to look at you. Or until they're kind enough to tell us what's happening to your friend. I want to thank that man for saving you," Sophia said.
They picked side-by-side seats and Sophia reached over to a low table that was littered with magazines and a fresh newspaper. The morning's edition of the Gotham Times was in nearly mint condition. The magazines beneath it, long-forgotten issues of Reader's Digest and the ilk, looked like artifacts that had been pulled from a recently excavated time capsule.
"I believe I remember this issue from my girlhood," Sophia said, examining a mangled copy of Time magazine.
As her grandmother flipped through the beaten periodical, Danielle's mind refused to focus on the newspaper. All she could think about was Joe. The paramedics had rushed him into the hospital while she'd been allowed to walk in under her own power and meet her grandmother in the waiting room. He'd been in rough shape, and Danielle wondered how he'd react to prescribed treatment. Though she wasn't a doctor, Danielle suspected some of the cuts the Scarecrow had inflicted on Joe would require stitches. She supposed she would know for sure when Joe's howling alerted everyone in the hospital.
In considerably worse shape than Joe, Detective Stephens was currently undergoing—and not enjoying—an emergency abdominal CT scan. That basically meant he was put in a giant tube and scans of his vital organs were taken. If the scans revealed Zsasz's knife had nicked some major blood vessel inside him, that meant an immediate trip to surgery and possibly a pathetic death. If the scans came up clean, Stephens could rest assured he wouldn't end up as one more notch on the sicko's skin.
It didn't take the doctors long to analyze the images and cross-sections of Stephens' insides. The detective had to take the doctors' smiles as good signs—they were actual bright, confident smiles, not the tentative kind they'd wear if they were delivering bad news but trying to keep spirits afloat.
"You, detective, are a very lucky man," one of the doctors said.
"If being stabbed is lucky, what would you consider unlucky?" Stephens replied, incredulous.
The doctor coughed. "What I meant was, considering where you were stabbed and how deep the wounds are, you were very lucky. You have to take your luck from a certain perspective, you see. It's all a matter of perspective."
Another doctor—Dr. Evans according to her name badge—stepped in to save the floundering philosopher. She did not congratulate Stephens on how fortuitous his circumstances were. She explained in remarkably clear layman's terms how close he had come to major hemorrhaging and what an inch or two could have cost.
"The knife entered the liver in both instances, but that in itself isn't a bad thing. The liver is incredibly resilient and can regenerate after suffering massive damage. If your intestines had been perforated, the risks would have been much higher. As is, the main cause for concern was the hepatic artery. It's a sizeable blood vessel, and you don't want it cut. The first puncture, the higher one, missed the artery by about an inch and a half. The second puncture, the downward angled one, passed just in front of the artery," Dr. Evans explained.
"So my liver will grow back? And I'm not going to bleed to death?" Stephens asked.
"Yes, it should heal without any major complications. And no, you aren't going to bleed to death. You could have—you lost enough blood to induce minor hypotension—but whoever held that shirt against the wound helped you significantly."
"Thank you, doctors. Can I ask you one quick favor?" Stephens said.
"Of course."
"If a guy—average height, scrawny, annoying as hell, probably wearing an undershirt—tries to bring Tom and Jerry DVDs into my room, have security boot him out on his ass."
Confident their patient was not in immediate danger, the doctors decided to release Stephens to his room. He was wheeled there on a stretcher and, during the journey, discovered riding an elevator while lying supine and enjoying the effects of high-potency painkillers was a mildly thrilling experience. Once the ride was over, he wished he could do it again.
"Room 375. It's got a nice view of the parking lot and a couple of trees. Oh, and a stray cat. Just look at that," the accompanying doctor said.
"If it's all the same to you, I think I'll skip the cat and go to sleep. I've been up for over 24 hours and I'm feeling it."
"Absolutely, I understand. My days as an intern all over again. Anyway, I'll report your condition to your fellow officers—quite a few of them are waiting for news—and you can rest. Oh, this must be one of those officers now. I don't know if you should have visitors…"
"Jerry! Thank God. I practically had to beat the head nurse for your room number and I thought for sure she was lying just to get rid of me."
Instead of feeling annoyance at Benson's intrusion, Stephens felt only gratitude and relief. Why? He couldn't articulate it. Maybe knowing he'd come within an inch of death had put Benson's big mouth into perspective.
"He'll behave, let him stay. I need the moral support and he doesn't take up much space," Stephens said.
Reluctantly, the doctor allowed Benson to take one of the two visitors' chairs in the room. The detective sat down, scooted the chair as close to Stephens' bed as possible, and then began to ask an array of questions.
"He needs rest, not an interrogation. If you can't be quiet, I'll have to ask you to leave," the doctor warned.
Benson's mouth snapped shut and he gave the doctor a thumbs-up to let him know silence would reign. The doctor explained the emergency call button to Stephens, showed him how to turn on the room's TV once he was up to it, and warned Benson once more to be as quiet as possible.
Once the doctor was gone, Benson dared to peep, "You look good, Jerry. You wear that hospital gown really well. Looks great on you. Man, if you'd died, I think I'd kill Zsasz with my own two hands."
"I'm trying to sleep, and mentioning his name is not helping."
"Sorry, Jerry. Do you think I could hook a DVD player up to that TV? Or maybe they have the Boomerang network and—"
"Sleeping."
Silence once again filled the room. Benson watched his partner's chest fall in its slow, steady rhythm. Soon, the metronymic effect of Stephens' unconscious breathing lolled Benson to sleep as well.
With them, all was well.
Two floors down, Danielle was finished with her medical exam. She hadn't been forced to stare at the newspaper long before a doctor called her into a small office. A cursory exam revealed minimal physical damage, considering the ordeal she'd undergone. There was some bruising around her face from when the Scarecrow had slammed her against the table, but that would disappear within a week. The doctor did, though, recommend Danielle seek psychological counseling if she suffered nightmares of emotional distress.
Given a clean bill of health, Danielle wanted to do only one thing: see Joe. She asked the doctor who'd just examined her if he knew what Joe's status was. The doctor was kind enough to make a few phone calls and find out.
"Your buddy, Joe, is being, and I quote 'a difficult patient'. Apparently, he has a problem with needles, and doctors, and everything else."
"Can I see him? Maybe I can convince him not to punch anybody," Danielle said.
The doctor made a few more phone calls. Unless Danielle was mistaken, she could hear Joe swearing in the background of the last call.
"He's in Room 451; you should be able to hear him as soon as you get off the elevators. I think he's got them pulling their hair out up there."
Danielle stepped out of the office and discovered her grandmother surreptitiously tearing a photo of Bruce Wayne from the newspaper. Upon seeing her granddaughter's disapproving look, Sophia hastily folded the photo and slipped it into her purse.
"We're going to see Joe," Danielle said.
"Wonderful. I've been dying to thank him," Sophia said.
"We might have to help hold him down. He's apparently scaring people. Are you up to it, Grandma?"
"The day I can't put a man in his place is the day they bury me."
Danielle and Sophia rode the elevator up to the fourth floor. As the doctor had predicted, they heard Joe as soon as they exited the elevator.
"For the last time, you are not coming anywhere near my face with that! Go sew a quilt with it, for all I care, but keep it away from me!"
"If you'd let me numb the area, you wouldn't even feel it."
"Get the hell away from me!"
Danielle followed Joe's outrage to his room, and peeked in to see what he was shouting about. It took Joe a moment to notice her standing there, but the second he did, his demeanor completely shifted. The anger fell from his face and all signs of combativeness vanished.
"They let you up here?" Joe asked.
"They practically sent me up here. My grandmother, too."
Sophia stepped into the doorframe and offered Joe a little wave. He stared at her for a second, then returned the wave.
The disgruntled doctor turned to Danielle and Sophia. "Good to see you. Maybe you can talk some sense into him."
"What's wrong, Joe?" Danielle asked.
"Doc here wants to stitch up my face. First he makes me wear this dress—he asked me if I needed help putting it on, for Christ's sake—and then he takes one look at me and tells me I need stitches. We've been fighting over his diagnosis."
"It is not a dress! It's a hospital gown, and I wasn't going to let you sit there in your own bloody, torn clothing. And you do need stitches unless you want an ugly scar on each cheek," the doctor snapped.
"He's right, Joe, both about the gown and the stitches," Danielle said.
"I know he's right. I just wish like hell he wasn't. I don't want stitches and I don't want needles anywhere near my face."
The doctor folded his arms. He was obviously losing his patience, and would have liked nothing better than to tell Joe off for being stubborn. Professionalism kept him mum, however.
Sophia crossed the room and went to Joe's bedside. Without asking for permission, she took his uninjured hand and squeezed it tightly.
"When my son—Danielle's father—was eleven years old, he fell off a fire escape he should not have been playing on and broke his arm. Needless to say, he was in pain and let everyone know by yowling like an offended cat. I took his hand, just like I've got yours now, and I told him to squeeze whenever the pain or the fear became too much to handle. You do the same thing," Sophia said.
"I can't squeeze your hand. You're old and I might break it," Joe protested.
"You'll squeeze it or I'll slap you with it," Sophia replied.
"Can I proceed?" the doctor asked.
"Yes, just hurry the hell up! I can't believe this, I can't— Ouch! I felt that!"
Ten minutes later, the doctor declared himself satisfied. Joe, on the other hand, couldn't feel either side of his face and was more than a little revolted as he traced his finger along the sutures. Eleven stitches in one cheek, an even dozen in the other. He felt like Frankenstein.
"If you touch them too much, you'll have to wear a head cone," the doctor joked.
"I wouldn't feel like any more of a freak. Are we done yet?" Joe asked.
"Almost. There's just the matter of your hand, the gunshot, and that parallel cut on your left arm," the doctor said.
"You'll numb my hand until it feels dead before you do anything with it, right? 'Cause when Scarecrow punched it, I almost passed out and I'd rather not experience that again."
The doctor was faithful to Joe's wishes. By the time he set about bandaging the maimed hand, it didn't even feel attached to Joe's wrist. The doctor probably could have driven a nail straight through Joe's palm and he wouldn't have noticed.
After finishing with the hand, he carefully bandaged the cabbie's other injuries. Joe was too relieved for words when the doctor finally declared he'd done the best job he could.
"Thanks, doc. I mean it, thanks. That hand…it was driving me crazy. Can I sleep now, though? It feels like my face and hand are already sleeping, and the rest of me's eager to join."
"Yes, you can sleep now. You two, thanks for keeping him calm. You can stay if you want. Make sure he doesn't pick at his sutures," the doctor said. He shook Sophia and Danielle's hands before leaving.
Joe shifted, trying to get into a more comfortable position. Once he found it, he stilled and looked over at Danielle and her grandmother. They had taken the two chairs that sat in the corner of the room.
"Sophia, ma'am, I wish you were my grandmother. You're every bit as great as Danielle said you were."
Sophia was not too old to blush at the compliment. "I'd be happy to adopt you as my grandson. The closest thing to a grandson I currently have is an incredibly wrinkly shar-pei."
"I accept. Let's fill out the paperwork as soon as I wake up. Probably next week sometime."
"We'll be here when you get up, Joe. Don't worry," Danielle said.
It took Joe hardly a minute to nod off. As promised, Danielle and Sophia stayed and watched over him.
With them, as with Stephens and Benson, all was well.
I simply could not fit Scarecrow in, and maybe that's proper. Let the good guys have their day, and he can have his chapter, too. The next, and finally final chapter will be basically the end of Crane's adventure and an epilogue to close everything right and proper.
Random question of the chapter: are you happy to see that there is one more chapter to go are do you think I'm just wretchedly bad at planning?