Chapter Eighteen
All was not well in hospital room 623. Bill picked at his food, and refused his afternoon dose of morphine. He sat like a stone as the nurse did what nurses do, attaching a new bag of antibiotics, giving him anti-inflammatories—which he would swallow—and coming and going with ice packs.
He answered the phone before the first ring had ended, and hung up politely yet quickly on well-wishers such as Paula, Rose, Harlan and Ira, and others who called to see how he was doing. He didn't want to raise any suspicions among his friends.
It was four o'clock when he got the phone call he wanted. Picking up the phone, peremptorily saying "Maxwell", he heard a voice with a clear Spanish accent.
"Agent Maxwell," it said. It sounded slimy to Bill, like ooze on a polluted lake.
Be cool. Stay cool. Deal from strength. Don't show fear. Pressure makes diamonds. He believed in those axioms. They worked.
"That's me. Who's this?" he asked, trying in inflect as much boredom into his voice as he could.
"I am Culdero. I have as guests your friends, Ralph and Pam Hinkley."
His heart leapt in his chest. They were still alive. "Really? Tell 'em I expected 'em with the bagels and cream cheese for brunch."
"They could not come. They were…enjoying my hospitality. We would like you to join our party."
"I don't know. It's pretty short notice. I've got a Rotary Club speech to give tonight on 'The Benefits of Hollow Point Bullets'. How about tomorrow?"
There was a pause on the line. He had thrown Culdero for a loop by his insouciance. He expected a harsh comeback, but nonetheless, for the moment, Culdero was a bit off balance. That gave Bill the encouragement to continue pushing his buttons.
"If you do not show up by 6:00 p.m. at my residence, the Hinkleys will be killed."
"6:00? Hmm, I don't give the speech till 8:00….Let me hear Ralph speak and I think I can make it."
The phone went dead for a couple of seconds, and then Maxwell breathed a sigh of relief to hear his friend's voice. "Bill, I'm sorry. I took the suit off to shower—".
"Don't worry, Kid. Just keep calm and level-headed."
"He's got the whole place rigged with bombs—".
Culdero came back on line. "That's enough. You'll be here by 6:00 p.m." He gave Maxwell directions and since Bill had memorized pretty much the geography of the whole Los Angeles basin, plus surrounding areas, he knew exactly where the location was. Culdero's ominous warning that if anyone but Bill, or with Bill, showed up, he would immediately kill the Hinkleys was what Bill expected to hear, but was a serious caveat nonetheless.
Maxwell decided to play a card he'd thought up during the long hours he had waited for the call. "It irks you, doesn't it, Clodero, how Ralph survived the condo explosion unscathed, and how he removed the bomb from my hospital room and was uninjured when it went off." Maxwell laughed. "It wouldn't be very good if people were bomb-proof, were they? You'd be out of a job."
"What are you talking about?"
The tide had changed; now Culdero wasn't ordering Maxwell around, but was asking him for information.
"Keep your wires off my friends, and I think we might be able to do some business. I'll see you at 6:00," he said.
"What do you mean, bomb-proof—?"
Maxwell hung up the phone. Bingo. Deal from strength. He wiped his sweaty palm on his hospital gown and waited a minute for his heart to slow down.
Now, he just had to figure out how to get out of this place.
A young nurse came in with a tray of food, a little snack since Bill had skipped lunch, his stomach too taut with worry to welcome a meal. She saw him snap down the side bar on his bed with his left hand.
"What are you doing? You should keep that up. It's safer."
"Get my clothes from the chair and bring them to me," Bill said.
The nurse looked at his clothes and then back at Bill. "But, why?"
"I'm leaving."
"You can't leave. The doctor hasn't allowed it yet."
"Have him sue me for patient malpractice." Bill inched over a little to the edge of the bed, his hip screaming out for him to not move. This was going to be difficult, very difficult. But, he was damn well going to do it anyway.
"Get me a wheelchair and some crutches. Big enough for my size."
"But—"
Bill removed the IV line from his left hand and let it drop to the floor. The nurse's eyes widened and she stammered, "Oh, you can't do that, you can't—"
Bill had no time for this. Inching over a little more, ignoring the pain-induced perspiration wetting his face he ordered, "Get me my clothes, a wheelchair and crutches. Now!"
The nurse skittishly dashed out of the room, like a kitten being spooked by a nearby vacuum cleaner.
Bill stared at his clothes and tried to move them closer with his mind, but "white paper" got him nowhere. If he could swing his left foot off the bed onto the floor, and then pull his right leg off, perhaps he could stumble to the chair before he passed out from the pain, and 6:00 came and went, and Ralph and Pam died. It was worth a try.
Nurse Amy ran out into the hallway to the main nurses station, meeting up with Nina, who was there on her day off to pick up her wallet. She had taken her wallet out of her purse yesterday to chip in for a doctor's birthday cake, and had forgotten to put it back in her purse, leaving it at the hospital.
"Mr. Maxwell is trying to leave!" she cried out to Nina.
"He's trying to what? To leave? But, he's not ready for that," the older nurse replied.
"He's taken his IV line out, and demands a wheelchair and crutches."
"Oh, for crying out loud," Nina said. "Don't worry, Amy, I'll go speak to him. You just stay here."
Nina frowned and moved down the corridor to Bill's room. Opening the door she couldn't believe what she was seeing. It was just as Amy reported.
"What do you think you're doing?" Nina asked, hands akimbo as she came up to the bed. Stopping Bill's progress to the edge, she pulled up the side frame and clicked it back into place.
"Don't do that! Go get my clothes."
"Absolutely not. Your doctor has not signed any orders for you to leave. Your hip is still too swollen to move. You're not going anyway, if I have to tie you down."
"Listen, Nina, my friends are in trouble, serious trouble, and I've got to get to them. It's the only way to save their lives. Now, either help me or get out of the way."
Nina saw the panic in Bill's face and realized that for this man to exhibit fear something drastic had to be happening. "What exactly is going on?"
Bill realized the only chance he had with this nurse was to tell the truth to the limit he could. "The bomber who injured me has kidnapped my friends, and will blow them up if I don't appear at his residence in two hours."
"That sounds like a Saturday morning cowboy show."
"I know. But, it's true. Now, I've got a way to stop him, but I've got to get there, first."
"Let's just call the police, or your FBI—"
"—No! Anyone but me appearing, and my friends are toast. And the creep's location enables him to keep track of all arrivals."
"But—"
"No buts! Get me my clothes and help me dress."
"I can't help you leave. Without a doctor's order, I'd lose my job and my nursing license."
"You have to help me. If you don't, two good people will die and a madman will escape to blow up more people."
Nina thought long and hard as Maxwell's gaze never wavered from her face. What did ordinary people do when put into extraordinary situations? How did they act when led to the self-sacrificing altar of altruism? Which individuals became heroes, which goats? What type of person was she, at her inner core, admirable or faint-hearted? These were questions she had never before posed to herself; had they telepathically come from this wounded FBI agent, ready to place himself in utmost danger to save his friends? His resolve radiated from his face—his eyes were narrowed and focused, his lips puckered in determination. She believed Bill Maxwell would stare down the Devil. She found herself realizing this was a man she should follow.
"Well, I have been thinking about retiring. My husband wants to buy an RV and travel a bit around the country."
"Atta girl, Nina. Get my clothes."
She couldn't believe she was doing this. After thirty-five years as a nurse, never defying one single order, here she was about to do everything wrong. On her day off, to boost.
First, she put a band-aid on the open wound where his IV hand been in his hand, even though Bill 'tsk'd at her. Then she brought his clothes to the bed, and it was an earnest struggle getting him dressed. Socks were easy. Sliding his trousers up not so bad, until he had to lift his hips, and then he took a deep breath in, braced himself, got his butt off the bed for a few necessary seconds and the slacks were buttoned and zippered. When he said he was ready, she hugged her arms around him and yanked back, elevating him up to a sitting position, ignoring his soft cry of pain, which leaked out even though she knew he desperately wanted to hide it. She untied and removed his gown, dressing him in his black t-shirt and his red and white short-sleeve shirt. Last, she tied his shoes in place. She left his hospital bracelet on, hoping he'd be back soon once again getting proper care.
"I'll need a wheelchair and crutches," he said. "Go get them." He added the obvious, a brief grin flashing on his sweaty face. "I'll wait here."
Nina turned to go. Bill grunted and then called out, "Could you also get me a smaller dose of morphine than the one I've been getting? I've got to stay alert, but some pain-killer help would be good."
"I didn't think Superman needed pain meds," she said, seeing him sit up five days before he was supposed to, before anyone imagined he could.
"I'm not Superman. I'm trying to save him," Bill said, cryptically. "Now, can you get me some lower dosed morphine tabs?"
Oh, great. Dress the patient, against orders. Steal hospital equipment, against orders. Sneak him out, against orders. Give him unprescribed medicines, against orders.
"Tell me I won't go to jail," she said.
"You won't. Promise. And if you do, I'll come visit every month. Smuggle in some syringes to make you feel at home."
Nina imagined that this man, if he wanted to, could get anyone to do whatever he wished. There was something about him that almost forced one to follow his directions.
Nodding, she left the room. She spoke to Amy and told her everything was all right and to care for her other patients. It didn't take long for Nina to get the wheelchair, crutches sized "tall", and two lower doses morphine tabs. After all, Nina had a key to the locked narcotic pain medicine cabinet. That came with being a completely trustworthy nurse for three decades. Bill swallowed one of the pills down immediately upon her return. He put the other into his pocket.
"You need to be on antibiotics. That head wound was very deep," she said.
"Later. You have a car, right?" he asked.
"Maybe," Nina answered, locking the wheelchair so it couldn't move. She really didn't want to hear what her patient was going to say next.
"I need you to drive me to my friends' home, and then lend me your car. You can take a cab home if your husband can't pick you up."
"This is just getting better and better," Nina said.
"Hey, you'll be on my Christmas list, my Memorial Day list, my Flag Day list, my Veteran's Day list. My big four holiday lists. Now, help me into the chair."
It was his delicious wit and the way he chased people around in conversations. One simply couldn't keep up.
She got his right arm out of its sling, so he could use both arms for leverage. She stuck a cotton towel in his mouth, and then the two of them managed, somehow, god knows how, to move him from the bed into the wheelchair. The towel was clenched so tightly, a pit bull could not have grabbed it from between his teeth. Bill's hip screamed, begged, implored, beseeched and pleaded to not be moved an atom of distance, but somehow, after five or so minutes, he was in the chair, rocking back and forth in agony, sweat coating his skin.
Thank goodness her 5'6" frame was still sturdy for her age.
"Paper," he gasped, reaching for a section of the newspaper he had read earlier in the day. Nina gave it to him, and he opened it up, hiding his face behind it.
There was, in reality, nothing unusual about a casually dressed woman wheeling an unknown patient out of the hospital. No one should notice. When they discovered Bill was not in his bed, all hell would break loose, true, but until then, it was just another patient getting discharged.
Nina glanced outside Bill's room and when the coast was clear, they made their move. Holding the crutches in one hand was unwieldy, but it was the best she could do, having to push the wheelchair with her other hand. Bill hid his face behind the paper. They entered the elevator with no one else in it, and descended to the ground floor. A few more steps, Nina waving to the reception counter woman, and they were out the door. She wheeled him to her large sedan in the parking lot, locked the wheels, and opened the back door. With Bill using his left leg, and Nina's pulling him up with sheer strength, they tumbled together into the back seat, and trying to keep Bill's hip as straight as possible, pushed and yanked him onto the seat. She threw the folded up wheelchair and crutches in the trunk and sank into the driver's seat.
"Where to?" she asked.
No answer came from the back seat for a number of seconds so she turned around to check on Bill. He was in too much pain to speak, and could only lift a finger, silently asking her to wait a little more. He was very pale. She couldn't imagine his fortitude and hoped the morphine kicked in quickly. Finally, after a good, solid minute, Bill was able to give the directions to Ralph's house in short, staccato sounds, with long pauses in-between.
"Got it," Nina said. "Nina's Chauffeur Service now For Hire."
She checked the rear-view mirror, seeing a man covered in bandages and plaster sweating profusely and looking half dead. Bill was leaning against a door, eyes closed, breathing heavily, his long legs lying lengthwise on the back seat reaching the opposite door all the way across the car. His right arm hung off the seat, to keep it from lying on his hip; his left hand tightly held his right shoulder. He hadn't seemed to hear her words.
She wondered if she had any friend who would bear such pain for her, and truly didn't know. She hoped her husband would!
Bill's friends, she decided, were very lucky people. As was society in general, having FBI agents like him out there looking after all of them.