Chapter Thirteen
Outside the room, they waited for the door to open. Nothing happened. They waited. Still nothing happened. Finally Garcia picked up the phone, expecting Costa to answer. Nothing. He looked at McCall, but McCall's thoughts were elsewhere.
McCall was sure Barbara had used the scalpel. What he didn't know was whether she had been successful. That there had been no shot was a good sign. He was just about to relate this to Garcia when they heard a sound in the room.
"He's dead," Barbara tried to shout. It wasn't very loud, but loud enough, if you were listening as closely as McCall was. He pulled open the door and rushed inside, Garcia following closely behind.
Kneeling beside Barbara, McCall said: "Barbara, I'm here."
Garcia looked at the carnage in amazement. Costa was certainly dead, his throat expertly cut. Barbara was covered in blood, her own blood, and Costa's blood, but she was certainly alive. He shook his head. He'd never underestimate THIS woman again.
"Barbara, give me it to me," McCall said, attempting to loosen her grip on the scalpel. Barbara hardly heard him. She was reminding herself to breathe. She didn't realize she was clutching the scalpel so tightly that it was cutting further into her right hand.
"Barbara, give me the scalpel. It is cutting your hand," McCall entreated her.
She opened her eyes. Lifting her right hand, she stared at it as if it belonged to someone else. Abruptly pain shot from her hand through her body, and she dropped the scalpel with a cry.
By this time Ramirez had entered the room. He also knelt by Barbara.
"Stay right there, Dr. Williams. I'm going to stop the bleeding on your hand, then we'll get you out of here, to another room." He turned to a nurse standing in the doorway and instructed her to bring what he needed.
"Barbara, I'm getting out of Dr. Ramirez' way. Don't worry, I'll be here, but he needs room to work," McCall told his wife.
"Ummm," she answered. She was still reliving the past few minutes.
In due time, her hand was bandaged, and they moved her from the shambles of her original room to another on the sixth floor. Costa and her old room were now part of a crime scene, and the Miami police CSI unit was again doing its job. Eventually his body was taken to the morgue.
Barbara knew nothing of what became of Costa. After Dr. Ramirez checked her back wound again–the sutures had held and the bleeding had stopped–she was cleaned up and transported to the new room. Somewhere in the middle of this process, she finished reliving the Costa killing and returned to the present. Many parts of her body were suffering, not only from the surgical wound and the cuts on her hand, but also from falling to the floor. Still, she was alive. That was more than could be said of Costa.
Eventually she lay in her new bed, an IV attached to her right arm, other monitors keeping track of her oxygen saturation level, her blood pressure, and her heart rate. The beehive of activity that had surrounded her for the last hour was calming down. A healthy dose of pain meds was coursing its way through her system.
The nurse finished the last ministrations and left. The only one in the room was Robert, sitting by her bed looking very tired and unusually unkempt; after all, he had been up for over twenty-four hours. It was 5:00 AM, and the sun would be rising soon. Out the window they would be able to see a beautiful, panoramic view of the Miami area, but it was still dark now.
Before the pain meds put her out completely, Barbara wanted to discuss a few things with her husband.
"Robert," she began in a very quiet voice.
"Yes, my dear," he responded in a very tired voice.
"I'm sorry. I think I said I was sorry before, but I can't remember," she said.
"Yes, you did."
"What did I say I was sorry for?" She couldn't recall. It could be so many things, she knew.
"Hum, let me see…." He was gently teasing her.
"Robert, I mean it."
"You said you were sorry that you came here without telling me."
She thought that over. She was starting to drift with the narcotic.
"Well, good, that's true, I am sorry I came here without telling you. I wasn't sure what you'd say, you know. No, actually I did know what you'd say, and I didn't want to hear it." She was finding it difficult to say what she wanted.
"Yes, I thought as much. You're right, I would have tried to convince you not to come," McCall told her.
"You see," she said, as if she'd scored a point, "that's why I didn't tell you."
"My dear, you are being illogical. You must be feeling the drugs."
"Oh," she said. She couldn't figure out what he was talking about.
After a few minutes silence, she said: "Robert?"
"Yes, Barbara."
"I thought it was you who sent the scalpel. It was, wasn't it?"
"Yes, Barbara."
"Hum, I thought so."
"My dear, you are being redundant."
"The drugs again?"
"Probably."
"Thank you for thinking of the scalpel."
"You're welcome. I knew you'd figure a way to use it."
"Robert?"
"Yes, Barbara."
"Do you think Garcia will do anything about the gun and the silencer?"
"I don't know. We'll have to wait and see."
"Hum…," Barbara responded. "What about the German?"
"Someone's coming from the German embassy tomorrow to meet with Garcia. Garcia wanted to talk to you at 9:00. It's almost," McCall glanced at his watch, "5:30 AM, and the meeting is at 10:00. I don't know if he'll be back by 9:00."
"Hum…," she murmured. "Robert?"
"Yes, Barbara."
"I got him, didn't I?"
"Yes, my love, you did."
"Legally."
"Yes, legally."
"I'm glad," she said with a slight smile, before gliding into drug-induced oblivion.