Chapter Three
He'd always thought of hospitals as busy places, with people–and their all-important task of saving lives–hurrying every which way. But on this floor there was little human traffic. Of course, they had come in the main entrance this time, rather than the emergency room. The pace was a little slower here. Still, it just didn't feel right.
The others were ahead of him, BA holding the doors to the elevator. "Come on, man," he urged. Murdock joined them. The doors closed, and they watched the numbers change as the elevator rose. People entered and exited, looking in askance at the three men there. The Puerto Rican with his hair pulled back in a ponytail, the muscular black in the Mandinkan haircut and gold jewelry, and tall, thin Caucasian in the baseball cap and flight jacket were an odd combination by anyone's standards.
The elevator finally stopped at their destination. They exited, and–with Murdock leading--followed the signs to the intensive care unit. Pushing through the doors defining the unit, they were stopped by a staff member whose name tag identified her as a certified nursing assistant. "Who are you looking for?" she inquired.
Questioningly, Murdock glanced back at BA. He nodded, and Murdock turned back to the woman. "Templeton Peck," he answered.
"He's not able to have visitors," she said, "Only family."
"We are," said Murdock, pushing past her. Mouth open in astonishment, she looked at BA and Frankie. She scurried to catch up to Murdock. "You can't come in here," she sputtered, "You just can't." She followed them to the nurses' desk, still protesting.
The desk was situated such that someone seated there could monitor several rooms, each with a large window allowing staff to see directly into the room. Some were occupied. A few had blinds closed, indicating that staff members were engaged in personal cares with the occupants. Others were empty, their machines standing silent. Staff moved between the rooms and the nurses' station. The conversation was an odd mix of medicalese regarding the patients interspaced with discussions of movies, personal life, and work-related cares.
Murdock stopped at the desk, unsure where to go next. "This way, man," said BA, heading toward one of the rooms with blinds closed. Frankie followed. The aide continued to squawk at them.
One of the nurses rose from behind the desk and intercepted them. "I'll handle it, Trini," she said softly to the aide, who looked relieved. The nurse then turned to the trio. "I'm sorry," she said, addressing her words to BA and pointedly ignoring Murdock "You can't go in there right now." She smiled, a professional smile, obviously in command of the situation. "We will be finished in a few minutes," she continued, "Your other friend has gone to the cafeteria. Why don't you join him there? Or, if you prefer, there is a waiting room outside the unit."
Murdock started to protest, then BA's elbow jabbed into his ribs. "Cool it, man," BA warned, "You get us all kicked out." He grabbed Murdock's arm, swinging him around to exit the ICU. Murdock started to pull away.
Frankie grabbed the captain's other arm and they hustled him from the unit. "I think we've already been kicked out," he observed, "Didja see the way she didn't look at Murdock?"
BA merely grunted. Murdock glared at him.
They passed the waiting room on their way back to the elevator. BA hesitated, then entered it, towing Murdock and Frankie with him. He dragged Murdock to a chair, positioned him in front of it and pushed, much to the consternation of the others in the room. Murdock collapsed into it. BA grabbed a magazine from one of the tables, shoved it into Murdock's hands, and scowled at him.
"I'm gonna go find Hannibal," he growled, "You make them nurses mad, I'm gonna feed you your socks." With a warning look at Frankie, he left the waiting room.
"Wow," said Frankie, "He got grouchy fast."
Murdock tossed the magazine back on the table, a shadow of a grin on his face. "He always gets like that after confronting female authority types," he said, "You should see him after he visits his mother." The grin faded. He got up from the chair and walked over to the window, gazing out at the city.
Was it only twenty-fours hours since he had stood in the complex at Langley, wheedling the others to come to the restaurant? He watched the traffic on the street below, rush hour in full force. His gaze drifted, seeing the buildings surrounding the hospital, then mentally seeing the land flattened out two blocks later, becoming the Congressional Cemetery. He had walked there several times since coming to Washington, wandering among the graves of the notables and the ordinary.
Damn, he had cemeteries on the brain. But BA was right. He WAS scared (and so was the big guy.) Scared that their luck had finally run out. He knew Hannibal was apprehensive, too. He'd watched the man too long, especially in Vietnam, to believe otherwise. The colonel was so confident that he could pull his men out of any situation, that it hit him really hard when he lost a man under his command. And he'd lost very few.
He continued to stare out the window, lost in thought. Then his mind drifted back to Monday night, replaying the scenes, critiquing and criticizing. But it still boiled down to one fact. If he hadn't nagged Face to come to the restaurant, and then to take out those hit men, they wouldn't be here.
He had to talk to Face.
He turned from the window and glanced around the room. Frankie was hunched in a chair, attention occupied with a magazine. There was a handful of others in the room, absorbed in their own thoughts. Coffee machine in the corner, chairs, and small tables piled with magazines were scattered about the room. The only doorway was the one to the hall. Well, it is the oldest trick in the book, he thought and–mentally crossing his fingers–walked toward the hallway.
Frankie glanced up as he passed. "Gonna find the john," Murdock mutteredFrankie nodded and went back to his magazine.
He paused at the doorway, checking the hall for Hannibal and BA. Clear on the left, clear on the right, he thought, The firing line is clear. He glanced back to be sure Frankie wasn't watching, then turned and went quickly through the ICU doors.
His luck held. At that moment, the nurses' desk was empty, staff members occupied elsewhere. He scanned the smaller rooms, studying the pattern of blinds and doors. One room had blinds down, but the door was open, and Murdock headed for it.
His instinct proved correct. He paused at the door, as there was a nurse–a different one–still inside the room. She looked up from the chart she held, and said, "Yes?"
"How's he doing?" Murdock asked. He moved in front of the blinds, out of sight from the desk.
Eyebrows raised, she answered, "You are . . . ?"
"A friend," he said, "A good friend." She started to protest, and he interrupted, "I know. Only family." He paused, then said, "But we are his only family."
He could almost see her thoughts in her face. She regarded him for a moment, then her eyes narrowed in recognition. "You're the one they took out of here last night?" she said. Her tone made it a statement rather than a question.
Embarrassed, he looked down at the floor. "Yeah," he admitted. He glanced back up at her and smiled. "But I promise to behave," he said.
Unexpectedly, she returned the smile. She walked around the bed, closed the door, and turned to him. "You could get this from your colonel, you know."
Surprised, Murdock looked at her. She opened her mouth, closed it, and shrugged. "Been there, done that," she said, "I recognize the attitude." she said. She glanced back at the desk and decided, "Okay, quick update. And if you're staying, you can sit," she indicated a chair at the far side of the bed, "over there. You won't be seen easily from the desk."
He walked to the chair and sat, then turned back to the nurse. She scanned the monitors, then the chart in her hands. "He's still unconscious. His vitals are iffy–not great, but not really bad either," she said, "He's had a lot of fluids pumped into him. Looks like he coded--" she stopped and looked up, gauging his reaction, then continued, "ah, nicked spleen; perforated stomach and intestines--that caused an infection. He's on antibiotics right now, and we've got him on some really strong painkillers." She closed the chart and inquired, "Enough?"
Murdock nodded. She opened the blinds, reached for the door knob, then turned back to him. "We're letting you guys in only one at time," she apologized, "there isn't room, and we do need to work in here." She opened the door and left.
He felt as though he was peering through a cage of tubes and wires. He looked across the monitors, recognizing some of the readings–pulse, blood pressure--that they displayed. He could only guess at the functions of the others. Well, he was a pilot, not a doctor. The EKG machine was oddly comforting, though, tracing the pattern of a heart that still beat.
Finally, he looked at the man lying there.
The stillness bothered him. Face was normally a restless sleeper. That was one complaint they'd all voiced over the years, having shared rooms and occasionally beds. Face always tossed around in bed as though he were wrestling demons in his sleep. Didn't they all? Now the only motion was the rise and fall of his chest.
Murdock reached through the paraphernalia, touching Face's wrist. The skin was warm (that's good), but Face still seemed pale, like a dark shirt that had been bleached by mistake. It contrasted oddly with the sweat-darkened hair laying across his forehead. The locks of hair looked like fingers reaching down over Face. Murdock reached up and brushed the hair to one side, disturbed by the image.
He took refuge in inanities. "Hey, Facey," he said gently, "you know, this is gonna play great on the big screen. I wonder who they'd get to play us. Especially BA. Who'd be dumb enough to run around in all that jewelry he likes? And Hannibal, he's kinda hard to cast."
He paused, watching Face. " And you. Maybe they'd get that guy who plays that private eye in Hawaii. He'd have to shave off that mustache, and he's a little tall for you, but the girls will go for him. Or . . . , or how 'bout the guy from 'Indiana Jones'?"
He looked at the monitors, then back at Face. "Did you ever see 'Ghostbusters,' Face? There's a guy in there, I think he'd make a great me. 'Course we'd all be too old to play ourselves by then. But we could sit back and watch. Maybe they'd even make us into a TV series. They did it with 'MASH', you know. "
Murdock paused again, imagination running. "Yeah, then we could sit back and collect royalties. Just think, little copies of BA's van. Lunch boxes, T-shirts, sweatshirts. Maybe even our own breakfast cereal."
Suddenly, the alarm from one of the IV pumps went off, sounding like a chopped rendition of Beethoven's Fifth. Startled, Murdock looked up, then at the nurses' desk. He slid down in the chair, trying to look inconspicuous.
The nurse–the friendly one–hurried into the room. "It's just the bag's empty," she said reassuringly to Murdock. He straightened in the chair, relieved, and watched as she hung a full bag on the stand and connected it. She checked the monitors, then looked Face over. Flashing a quick smile at Murdock, she returned to the desk.
His movie monologue broken, Murdock sat in silence. He reached over and touched Face again. When he finally spoke, his voice was husky.
"Face," he said hesitantly, "I never should've let this happen. It's my fault. If I hadn't pushed you to help, those guys might've made their hit and gone. Maybe we should've taken them down then." He paused. "I screwed up again, and you're the one paying for it. Just like before." He pulled back his hand, rubbed it across his eyes, and sighed. "I wish I could trade places with you."
The silence continued. He dropped his head into his hands. As dusk sent lengthening shadows through the room, echoes from the past began drifting through his thoughts.
"Never coming back? Neither of them?"
"No, son. Dead means never coming back."
He shook his head, willing the echoes to leave.
"I'm sorry, Captain. They didn't make it. None of them."
"Go away," he whispered, "leave us alone."
"You will die here. All of you."
"No," he said softly.
"Sentenced to be executed . . . "
His head snapped up. "NO!" he shouted.
TO BE CONTINUED
