Chapter Six: A Horrible Experience
"Well, Steve," Wil Erickson said as he looked at his patient's chart, "you seem to be doing quite well. No sign of fever, all vitals normal, but . . . "
When his doctor trailed off, Steve became slightly alarmed. "But what, Doc?"
"Well, your blood pressure isn't technically low, but it is on the very low side of normal. I don't see any indication of infection, but it has me a little worried. What have you been doing today?"
Steve tried not to look embarrassed as he answered, "Sleeping, mostly." When Wil frowned, Steve knew more explanation was expected. "We had tickets to a show last night," he said. "I guess I overdid it a bit. I went down to the hotel's dining room for breakfast, and it was all I could do to stay awake until I got back to my room. My partner came to check on me a little later, we talked a while, watched a movie. I fell asleep about halfway through Die Hard, and didn't wake up again until it was time to come here."
"I see. And have you been experiencing any achiness, dizziness, lingering nausea?"
Steve shook his head. "No, not at all. I was just really tired today."
Wil nodded. "Then you are probably right. Chances are you just overdid it, but if you start to feel ill, do not hesitate to come in and get checked out, all right?"
"Ok."
"Good, now let's take out that drainage tube. Lie back for me, please."
Steve did as he was told and winced slightly as the single suture that looped around the tube and held it in place was clipped and pulled out. Then his doctor loomed over him, and with a sympathetic look said, "Now, I have to warn you, most of my patients have said this next bit is really a horrible experience. I'll try to get it over with as quickly as possible, but you need to brace yourself, ok?"
Steve nodded, took a deep breath, and clenched his hands tight on the edges of the exam table. He felt Wil take a firm grasp on the tube.
"Ready?"
Steve nodded again. He held his breath as he felt the tube sliding out of his body, snaking its way through him, slithering around his organs. In the end, he couldn't resist the urge to groan, "Ohh, God."
And then it was over. Steve was trembling from the weird sensations, sweating, and feeling a little nauseous, but it was over.
"Ok, Steve, I'm going to send a nurse in to put fresh dressings your surgical wounds," Wil said lightly. "Keep them covered until they are healed, and see your doctor at home in about a week or ten days for a final checkup. If everything is still ok, then you should be fit to go back to work, though I would recommend that you take it easy for a couple more weeks."
"You mean that's it?" Steve asked.
"Yeah," Wil nodded. "Why? Did you have some other concerns you wanted to discuss?"
"Well, no, but it's only been a little over two days since you operated on me. How can I be well that fast?"
"The biggest difficulty with gallbladder removal has always been the surgical wound," Wil explained. "In the traditional open procedure, I would have had to make an eight inch incision and cut across the abdominal muscles. With the laparoscope, I can make a few small incisions and remove the gallbladder through a half inch opening and never have to cut into the muscle tissue at all." Wil gave a lopsided smile and concluded, "It's not much worse than having your navel pierced."
Steve shuddered at the thought of having a bellybutton ring. "Ok, then, I'll see my regular doctor in a week. You'll forward my records to Community General Hospital in LA?"
"Of course," Wil said.
"And I am still ok to give my presentation tomorrow, right?"
"You can do anything you feel up to, Steve, including sex." Steve frowned, and Wil grinned. "I noticed the way your two lady friends were looking at you the other night, and you know what they say: What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas. If the opportunity, uh, arises, and you want to take advantage of it, don't let this surgery, uh, stand in the way. Just take a break if you feel you need one."
"Yeah, right," Steve replied, not at all sure he understood everything the doctor was talking about, and not entirely comfortable with asking him to elaborate. He never noticed the self-satisfied smirk his surgeon wore or the small, bloody square of gauze he tossed into the trash on his way out.
WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS STAYS IN VEGAS
"So, are you giving your presentation tomorrow, then?" Cheryl asked with equal parts of surprise and dismay in her voice as the friends sat around a table in the hotel dining room, enjoying the buffet.
"Yep," Steve responded, taking a bite of one of the two coconut-fried shrimp he had allowed himself, "Doctor Erickson said I was all right to do anything I felt up to, and he did mean anything, from what I gather." The last was said with a bit of embarrassment and an involuntarily suggestive tone, and looks of confusion quickly shifted to amusement.
"Speaking of, uh, anything," Ron began awkwardly as he watched his hands break apart a crusty roll, "has anyone seen Kathryn today?"
Cheryl couldn't conceal the snort of laughter that came with the memory of the woman's bizarre, almost sexually desperate behavior of the previous evening, but a glare from Steve quickly quelled her humor.
"I spoke to her this morning," Mark said. "I have a feeling she's a little embarrassed." Studiously avoiding his son's gaze, he added, "Apparently, she's second-guessing some of her decisions and it's left her feeling a bit . . . off balance."
"You sure you don't mean unbalanced?" Ron suggested.
"Whatever you want to call it," Mark said, piercing him with a cool, blue gaze, "I think the best thing, certainly the kindest thing, all of you could do would be to just carry on as if nothing had happened next time you see her."
"Speak of the Devil," Cheryl murmured, and a moment later, Kathryn, buffet plate in hand, was standing at their table, between Mark and Ron.
"Is there room for one more?" she asked in a tone of forced brightness.
Mark smiled warmly up at her. "There's always room for a friend," he said and slid his chair closer to Steve's.
When Ron didn't move, Kathryn pulled up a chair from a nearby table and awkwardly squeezed herself in between him and the old doctor. Finally, it dawned on him that he should have made room, and muttering an apology, he slid over closer to Cheryl.
A waiter came over, poured a glass of water, and took Kathryn's drink order, "Diet soda, please."
For a few minutes, the only sounds at the table were the soft clink of cutlery and the quiet sounds of chewing. Eventually, the waiter brought Kathryn's soda and as she became absorbed in chasing the bubbles with her straw, she said to her companions, "I wouldn't blame you if you had turned me away."
"Now sweetie, what kind of friends would we be then?" Mark asked sympathetically.
Kathryn shrugged. "Maybe the smart kind," she said. "Look, I know I made an ass of myself last night, and I am sorry if it made you feel uncomfortable. I promise it won't happen again."
Mark looked from Ron to Cheryl to Steve, and then he jerked his head in Kathryn's direction to indicate that someone should say something. Finally catching his cue, Cheryl said, "It must have been the margaritas."
"Yeah," Steve agreed, "everyone has the right to act foolish once in a while. It's no big deal."
"Don't give it another thought," Ron chimed in.
Slowly, Kathryn lifted her gaze, and seeing the warm, forgiving smiles that greeted her, she looked over to Mark, nodded her head slightly, and grinned. "Thanks, guys," she said appreciatively, then looking at Steve, asked, "So, are you gonna be able to give your presentation tomorrow?"
WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS STAYS IN VEGAS
"Ok, that looks good," Steve said as the assistant the hotel had provided focused the first of his slides. Then he rubbed his eyes as his vision blurred. He'd been keyed up about his presentation last night and hadn't slept very well. For some reason, while he could face down a maniac with a gun and not even flinch or conduct a press conference without blinking an eye in spite of the bright lights and flashbulbs, facing an audience of his peers always scared the hell out of him.
"Could you get someone to check on the A/C in here?" he asked, loosening his tie and pulling on the collar of his shirt. "It's getting kinda hot. Aren't you hot?"
"Actually, I'm comfortable, Sir," the young man said in a squeaky adolescent voice, and when Steve glared at him, he wisely added, "but I'll get it checked out anyway."
Steve walked up on stage and began to pace nervously. In short order, he sat down at the table that held his materials, handouts, notes, and the like. He ached from tossing and turning all night, half dreading the morning, half anticipating it excitedly, and he needed to sit down and rest a bit. His dad would probably give him hell for pushing ahead despite his fatigue, but if he was a good patient and went straight back to bed when he was finished, he shouldn't get in too much trouble.
"The manager says the air conditioning is working perfectly, Detective Sloan," his young assistant called to him from the entrance to the meeting room, "but he can adjust it to lower the temperature if you like."
"I like," Steve called out adamantly, and added, "and I could use a pitcher of water if you don't mind." That coconut-fried shrimp had been a mistake last night, but he wasn't about to mention that to his dad. He knew enough to stay hydrated and didn't want to worry anyone more than he already had on this trip.
As the youth scurried off, Steve began going through his notes, looking for things he could cut out to shorten his lecture, knowing that he wouldn't be able to go the full hour as he had originally planned. As he reached across the table to pull his notebook closer, the spot on his side where the drainage tube had been bumped against the table, and he hissed in pain. As he'd changed the dressing earlier in the morning, he had noticed that the edges of the hole in his side were red and puffy, probably irritated from the friction of the tube sliding out the previous day. If it didn't get better soon, he would ask his dad to look at it for him.
WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS STAYS IN VEGAS
"Where's Steve?" Kathryn asked as Mark joined her, Ron, and Cheryl for breakfast.
"Oh, I don't think he's going to be joining us this morning," Mark said, the humor in his voice telling them all that, whatever was wrong, their friend was all right.
Ron couldn't resist a small laugh as he looked across the table and asked, "Was it the shrimp? I know you told him not to eat the shrimp."
"Oh, he's feeling fine," Mark deadpanned, but then began chuckling, "if being as nervous as a cat in the dog pound qualifies as fine."
Cheryl began laughing with him. "I just don't get it," she said, shaking her head. "Put him in front of an armed lunatic or a room full of reporters eager for a juicy story on a high profile murder, and it's not a problem. Put him in front of a room full of cops, and he wigs out every time."
"Is he gonna be all right?" Kathryn asked, now more concerned for her friend's dignity than his health.
"Oh, yeah, he'll get it together," Mark said, calmly, "but he's got a pretty serious case of butterflies right now. There's no way he's gonna eat until it's over."
Ron laughed in surprise. "I never would have guessed that Sloan suffers from stage fright."
"I think there's a lot of things about Steve that you would never guess," Mark said cryptically.
WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS STAYS IN VEGAS
"And, uh, as you can see, uh . . . " Steve trailed off and swayed at the podium for a moment.
"I thought you said this was nothing he couldn't handle," Kathryn hissed at Mark from the back row.
"I don't think this is stage fright," Mark whispered back and got up from his seat.
Steve closed his eyes, hoping they would focus when he opened them again. He reached a shaking hand up to wipe the sheen of perspiration from his face, and looked out at the audience. As the world lurched to the left, he saw a white-haired gentleman rise from his seat and move forward.
"Dad," he murmured, then he listed to the right and hit the floor with a thump.
"You, call 911," Mark pointed at one of the hotel staff and began giving orders before he even got to the stage.
"Cheryl," he barked as he reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet, and tossed it to her, "Find my card key, let yourself into my room and get my medical bag. It's in the bottom of the armoire."
On the steps, he called, "Ron, get these people out of here, and as he dropped to his knees beside his son, he said, "Kathryn, help me, please."
As the hotel employee and his friends got to work, Mark began assessing his son's condition. The first thing he noticed was that Steve was much too warm.
"What can I do?" Kathryn asked as she joined him beside Steve's prone form.
"Get that picture of water off the table and find a rag or something to dip in it," he commanded as he began loosening Steve's tie and unbuttoning his collar. "He's burning up." Looking up at another of the hotel staffers, he asked, "Can you turn off these hot lights, now, please?"
As the young man scrambled off to the light control panel, Kathryn retrieved the pitcher and, after looking around for a moment, snatched the silk pocket- square out of Mark's breast pocket and plunged it into the water. Wringing out the excess water, she gently bathed Steve's face as Mark continued loosening his clothes in an effort to cool his fever.
"Dear God!" Mark gasped as he finished opening Steve's shirt, raised his undershirt, and removed his bandages to inspect his surgical wounds.
"What is it?" Cheryl asked breathlessly as she arrived with the medical bag and dropped to her knees beside her friend. Ron stayed at the door to the meeting room keeping the curious onlookers at bay.
"He's got a wound infection," Mark told her as he inspected the fiery red trails of inflammation that wended their way out from under the cover of Steve's bandages, "and for him to be this sick, this fast, he must have gone septic."
Mark checked his son's blood pressure and pulse as he watched his breathing carefully. Then he placed the probe of an aural thermometer in Steve's ear. After a few seconds, it beeped.
"It's over one hundred and three. Where is that damned ambulance?"
As if his words had conjured it into being, a siren suddenly reached their ears, and in a few moments, the EMTs were in the room, gently examining Steve, taking down the notes Mark gave them about his recent surgery, starting an IV, and loading their patient onto the gurney. Mark trailed along beside them as they rushed Steve to the ambulance, not even glancing at Ron, Cheryl, and Kathryn to say goodbye.
With the room suddenly empty and quiet, Ron glanced from one woman to the other and said, "I'll drive." The ladies nodded their acceptance and together, the three of them filed out of the meeting room.
WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS STAYS IN VEGAS
He knew he was awake before he opened his eyes. The sounds were familiar, but strange. He knew he was in a hospital, but the rhythm of the noises was different somehow. The place didn't sound like home. Didn't smell or feel the same either. The mattress seemed lumpier, the sheets coarser, and he thought they used a different brand of antiseptic cleanser. In his mind, he smiled ruefully to think that he had spent so much time in Community General over the years that he could identify it by scent alone, the same way an old, blind dog could find its bed.
He felt tired, heavy. So heavy that it seemed his leaden limbs were sinking down into the mattress. He felt a crick in his neck and a crimp in his back, but he just couldn't summon up the energy to move, so he just lay there and listened to the noises around him.
"I'm so sorry, Doctor Sloan," a vaguely familiar voice said, bringing Steve out of a light doze, "Knowing how cavalier he can be about his health, I can't help but think that I should have imposed more restrictions on him. Even if they were arbitrary, maybe . . . "
Cavalier? Cavalier! I even followed doctor's orders this time . . . Well, I tried to . . . I guess I should have canceled the presentation, but really, that was my whole purpose in coming to this conference!
"No, Wil, nothing you could have done would have prevented this," Steve heard his dad reply. "The source of the infection could have been anything, even Steve's own skin. We all know how prevalent staphylococcus aureus is. As long as we don't see a pattern throughout the hospital or among your patients, we can conclude that it has nothing to do with you, but if there are any new cases, you should have your hospital pathologist check to see if they are staying at our hotel."
"I know, and I'll do that," Wil replied, "but I can't help feeling responsible for this. At least his fever is coming down, so we know he's responding to the antibiotics."
"Yes, he should be waking up any time," Mark responded.
Recognizing his cue, Steve slowly opened his eyes. "Hey, Dad."
He saw a figure melt away into the shadows of his room as his father leaned over him and grinned. "Hey yourself."
"What happened?"
"What do you remember, Son?"
Steve gave it some thought, licked parched lips, sucked on the straw that his dad held before him, and asked more than recalled, "I passed out during my presentation, didn't I?"
"Yeah, you did."
"How long ago?"
Mark looked at his watch and briefly did some mental math. "About, ohhhh, thirty-six hours, I guess."
"Man!" Steve exclaimed softly. "Sorry." He frowned and after a moment asked, "Cheryl, Ron, and Kathryn? Where are they?"
"They left after lunch, Son," Mark explained. "You were still sleeping, but your fever was already coming down. I told them to go on their way and that there was no need to worry."
"Oh, ok, that's good, then." Steve felt a slight pinch in the back of his right hand and looked down. From there, bleary eyes followed the tube up to the IV stand. There were two bags hanging from the crossbars, one full of clear fluids, electrolytes, nutrients, and medication, he supposed, and a smaller one containing something dark and viscous. He squinted, trying to make sense of what he saw. It took a minute for him to comprehend, and then, "Blood? You had to give me blood? I don't understand."
Mark sighed patiently and began to explain. "You developed a staph infection around your surgical wounds," he said. "It turned into TSS overnight. We had to give you blood to combat the toxins in your system."
"TSS?" Steve echoed on the only thing he had really grasped, an acronym he didn't recognize.
"Toxic Shock Syndrome," Mark elaborated. "An overgrowth of normally harmless staphylococcus aureus releases toxins into the blood stream resulting in a sharp drop in blood pressure depriving vital organs of the oxygen they need to survive. It's usually associated with menstruating women . . ."
"Ok, you can stop now!" The look on Steve's face said he was about ready for another nap, but the tone of voice indicated clearly his discomfort.
Mark chuckled at his son's obvious, and typically male, squeamishness. "Anyway, you are responding well to treatment, and you should be ready to go home in a week or so."
"A week? But I just had surgery and he released me the next day."
"That was just your gallbladder. This is systemic," Mark pointed out.
"Oh." Steve's lids were growing heavy, but another thought came to him. "I wasn't being cavalier," he said. "I thought it was nerves . . . and the coconut-fried shrimp."
"Uh-huh," Mark placated him. "You just get some rest. You'll feel better soon."
Steve's eyes flitted open once more, and he offered his dad a small, but genuine smile. Then his heavy lids fell, and after a minute, his whole face went slack with the mask of sleep.
Mark maintained his smile until he was certain his son was out, then his features rumpled into a frown. How did Doctor Erickson know Steve was 'cavalier about his health'? How had Steve gotten so sick, so quickly? He picked up the chart, and read it through twice, and seeing no indication of foul play, he tried to shrug off his suspicions. As his eyes came to rest on the signature, Wilfred Erickson, he grunted softly.
"No wonder he prefers Wil."
WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS STAYS IN VEGAS
"Las Vegas does have its own police department, does it not, Detective?"
"They do, but this is my partner, Sir, and Doctor Sloan is convinced that someone is trying to kill him," Cheryl answered.
"It seems like awfully tenuous evidence to me," Newman told her.
"His hunches are usually right, Sir, and he has proven far more with far less in the past."
"I don't know," Newman hesitated. "I respect Doctor Sloan and appreciate his efforts on behalf of the department, to a point, but if he is wrong and he draws us into it, then it looks like the LAPD is going out of its way, and out of its jurisdiction, to harass an innocent civilian on the basis of an old man's paranoid delusions."
"If he is right, we will have caught an escaped murderer."
Newman remained quiet, weighing his options.
"I'll use my vacation days and pay for the flight myself," Cheryl told him. "We'll only use the file for comparison purposes, if Doctor Sloan can get his prints from something."
When the captain still didn't reply, she added, "If Mark is right, Steve's life is in danger, Sir."
That settled it for Newman. "You have a week, and give my regards to Lieutenant Sloan and his father."
"Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir." Cheryl was out the door before Captain Newman could dismiss her.
WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS STAYS IN VEGAS
"You want me to come to Las Vegas to do what?" Amanda couldn't help the rising tone of incredulity in her voice. "I am not going to ask Steve's surgeon why he chose the laparoscopic procedure over the open one, Mark. You know as well as I do that Steve could have gotten that infection from anywhere."
Jesse came up to her, curious and grinning, and she turned away from him. She knew he would continue to eavesdrop unless she asked him to leave, and she wouldn't begrudge him the opportunity to listen in and find out about his best friend's condition. Still, that didn't mean she had stare at his puppy dog eyes pleading with her to take him along to Vegas even as she tried to convince Mark that he didn't need her there because he was being paranoid anyway.
"But he is cavalier about his health, Mark," she said, and on that understatement turned slightly toward Jesse to scowl at him when she heard a snort of laughter from his direction.
"Oh. I see your point . . . No, I don't suppose he would know, unless he knew Steve, that is . . . Wilfred Erickson . . . Well, no wonder he prefers Wil!" This time she turned fully around and gave Jesse a glare that, to her satisfaction, made him cower over his charts.
"Oh? Oh. Why, so it does . . . I'll be on the next flight, Mark. You just take care of yourself and Steve . . . You don't need to thank me, Mark, that's what friends do for each other . . . I'll see you soon."
"So, when do we leave?" Jesse asked as his friend hung up the phone.
"'We'? Jesse, what makes you think 'we' are going anywhere?"
"Well, you were just on the phone with Mark. Mark is in Las Vegas with Steve. Steve is sick, and you just told Mark you would be on the next flight."
"Right. I was talking to Mark and I told him I would be on the next flight."
"Amanda, Steve's my best friend. I'm worried about him, too." Jesse gave her the puppy dog eyes.
"Oh, all right!" Amanda gave an exasperated sigh, and relented, which she had intended to do anyway. She had just wanted to punish her young colleague a bit for listening in on her conversation without being invited. "You make the reservations. I have to arrange a sitter for the boys."
She couldn't help but smile back at the grateful, eager, boyish grin she got as Jesse picked up the phone and started dialing his travel agent.
WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS STAYS IN VEGAS
Steve slumped in his bed and made faces at his dinner tray. Nothing on it looked even remotely appetizing. The 'broth' that they had given him appeared to be a bullion cube in water, and he questioned whether there was any organic content whatsoever. It was in all probability mostly sodium chloride with a small amount of caramel coloring. The only protein source appeared to be the ubiquitous gelatin, which was delivered in stiff cubes, possessing unnaturally bright colors, brighter than the original fruits from which the artificial flavors were supposedly derived. Today's flavor was green, and Steve was fairly certain it was the same shade of green as the toxic waste that had turned some average guy into a hideous villain with superpowers in some recent movie. He couldn't help but wonder what those dyes did to a person's insides, and he couldn't understand how a hospital could possibly justify serving it to sick people under the pretense that it would help them get well.
Of course, it could have been a nice, juicy t-bone and baked potato, or even Community General's meatloaf, and it wouldn't have held any more appeal for him. Mid-afternoon, his fever had spiked, leaving him nauseous, and he had tried valiantly--and foolishly, his father had reprimanded him--to be stoic about his discomfort. The medication he was given when one of the nurses came by to check his vitals had lowered his fever again, but his nausea only relieved itself when he deposited the meager contents of his stomach into an emesis basin his father just barely managed to find in time.
Now, he had no appetite for anything, and, more alarmingly, shortly after he threw up, the phlebotomist had come in and drawn large amounts of blood and spoke to his dad in cryptic terms about tests. When he had questioned his father about it, he had received the disturbing news that they were concerned he might have developed yet another infection which they needed to identify in order to treat it. He was sure then that Mark was holding something more back, but he didn't want to ask for fear of upsetting him.
"You have to eat, Son, to keep your strength up."
"I thought that's what the IV was for, Dad," Steve replied sullenly.
"It is, but only as back up," Mark agreed. "Conventional medical wisdom says if the digestive system works, use it."
Steve eyed his tray suspiciously and finally asked, "If I eat the Jello, can I leave the broth?"
Mark considered the compromise on offer and finally said, "I think I can go along with that."
WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS STAYS IN VEGAS
"Well, fancy meeting you here," Jesse said enthusiastically as his other seatmate settled in beside him.
Cheryl looked across at Amanda and asked, "You couldn't leave him behind, could you?"
"Have you ever tried?"
"Yes, and not very successfully," Cheryl admitted.
"So, how did you end up here?" Jesse asked. "I thought you were just getting back today."
"I was. Mark called me at home while I was doing my laundry. It seems he has made some very interesting observations. He told me he was calling you," she indicated Amanda and pointedly left out Jesse, "and I played a hunch. I called the airline with the next outgoing flight and asked them to seat me next to you, if you were on board."
"So, what does Mark think is going on?" Jesse asked eagerly.
Cheryl didn't say a word, just handed the young doctor the folder she was carrying.
"Oh, no way," Jesse gasped. "Why would they ever let him out?"
"They didn't," Cheryl told him. "He escaped."
WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS STAYS IN VEGAS
As they stood by the carousel waiting to collect their bags, Kathryn turned to her traveling companion and said, "Uh, look, Agent Wagner . . . "
"I think you could call me Ron by now," he butted in.
"Oh, of course." She fumbled about for the right words. "Uh, I was hoping, Ron . . . I mean I would appreciate it if . . ." Ron was looking at her with a confused frown. I can't believe he is so unimaginative that I have to spell it out for him. What did Doctor Bentley ever see in this guy? "My fiancée . . . Winnie . . . Uh, Wincel, that is . . . Well, he's going to meet us, and I was hoping you wouldn't . . . "
His eyes lit up, and, finally getting it, Ron schooled his features into his most humorless FBI expression and replied in his famous monotone, "What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas, Agent Wakely."
Breathing a great sigh of relief, Kathryn smiled, and said, "Thank you, Agent Wagner." Maybe he's not so dull after all.
"Kat! Kitty Kat!"
Rolling her eyes to Agent Wagner, Kathryn kept her smile in place and turned its full force on the man who was supposed to be the love of her life.
"Winnie, darling, I missed you!"
"I missed you, too, Pet," Winnie replied.
Funny, he doesn't look like a Winnie, Ron thought, but what man ever does? He looks more like a banker. Maybe a Chase or a Rodney. Definitely too much education and not enough brains.
After the obligatory hugging, kissing, and saccharine baby talk of two people who were sickeningly in love, Kathryn stepped away from her fiancée and said, "Winnie, darling, this is Special Agent Ron Wagner. We work together from time to time, and the Bureau sent him to the conference with me. Agent Wagner, this is . . . "
"Wincel Atherton Eubanks, III," Winnie said in some kind of New England Ivy League accent that absolutely oozed money. "Delighted to meet you."
Oh, the son of a son of a banker, Ron thought, showing some teeth in his smile, hoping it looked convincing. I wonder what Kathryn sees in him. She never came across as the gold digger type. I wonder why she dumped Sloan for him.
"The pleasure's all mine, Mr. Eubanks," he said aloud.
"Please, Ron, call me Winnie," the man offered.
"Ok, Winnie," Ron echoed, and this time the smile was genuine, but the cough covering the laugh was obviously phony. He probably thinks everybody in the world is glad to meet him. I can't imagine anyone calling him by that name and keeping a straight face.
"Geoffrey! It's about time," Winnie said sternly to a man in driver's livery who suddenly appeared beside them holding a suitcase matching Kathryn's other bags and bearing her monogram.
"Sorry, Mr. Eubanks, Sir. I had to park on the top deck."
"Winnie?"
Wincel sighed deeply, looked at Kathryn sadly, and said, "It's your friend . . . this Steve Sloan person. Apparently while you were winging your way eastward he took a turn for the worse."
"But he was doing fine when we left," Kathryn said and looked to Ron for confirmation. When the tall FBI Agent nodded, she continued, "He was still asleep in the hospital, but Mark assured us that he was doing well.
"Mark is his dad," she added when Winnie frowned at the new name.
"What exactly did they say was wrong with Steve, if you don't mind my asking?" Ron inquired.
Wincel turned to face him and said, "From what I could gather, he has had a relapse. He suddenly got very, very ill, and the medication they were giving him before doesn't seem to be working now."
Locking his gaze on Kathryn one again, he continued, "His condition is critical, Kitten. I knew you would be worried, so I had Mrs. Arbuckle collect some of your things that you had moved into my place, and I got you a ticket on the next flight back to Vegas . . . if you want to go."
"And you don't mind?" Kathryn asked, confused. "Every time I called from Vegas, you seemed to get all jealous and insecure. Why the change?"
Wincel shrugged. "Of course I do, mind, that is, but if you love something set it free, isn't that what they say?"
"I'm not some broken-winged bird you found in the garden, Wincel."
"No, Precious, you're not, but then, you never were really mine, either, were you?"
Having nothing to say to that, Kathryn just hung her head.
Maybe he's smarter than I thought, Ron thought. Then he realized Wincel was talking to him. "There is nothing I can do about your laundry situation, but if you wish to return with Kathryn, I am certain I can find you a seat on the plane."
Ron seriously considered the suggestion for a moment, then he shook his head. "Thank you for offering, but I can't. I have to report to my superiors on Monday morning, and I really don't think they would look kindly on me for going straight back to Vegas right now, circumstances notwithstanding." He turned to Kathryn and asked, "Are you going?"
She nodded.
"Then tell Mark he knows where to reach me if he needs to, and keep in touch. I'll see if I can make it out by Monday afternoon if he is still doing poorly."
She nodded again.
"Geoffrey, get the man's bags for him, and then bring the car round," Wincel commanded.
"Oh, that's not necessary," Ron told him. "I can manage."
"Nonsense. Geoffrey's going that way anyway, and he hasn't just flown several hours across the country."
Ron shrugged, nodded, shook Wincel's hand once more, said his goodbyes, and left Kathryn and him to have a conversation that he doubted either of them really wanted to hold.
"You love him, don't you?"
"But I love you, too, Winnie."
"But there it is, that 'too,' or perhaps it's 'two', as in second."
"I never meant to hurt you," she told him.
"Oh, I know that, Kitty Kat, but no man wants to know he's your second choice. We have had fun, and I know you are fond of me, but there has been very little passion in our romance; and being fond of someone isn't really what you need to make a life together, is it?"
Kathryn gave him a narrow look and asked, "Mark didn't happen to talk to you about anything besides Steve's condition, did he?"
The confusion on Winnie's face was convincingly authentic. "No, he didn't, why?"
"Because he told me almost the same thing the other day."
Winnie smiled at her. "Then you should listen to him because he's right, but I figured it out when you told me to go to hell on Wednesday night and then didn't call back the rest of the week."
Shamefaced, all Kathryn could do was apologize. "I'm so sorry, Winnie. After that, I couldn't just . . . I didn't know how . . . Over the phone . . . "
"Hush, Love. Some things aren't meant to be, they are the way they are because, well . . . that's the way they are. It's neither your fault nor mine, it just is what it is." He moved forward and kissed her softly, tenderly on the cheek.
"Now, let's get you on that plane back to Vegas."