Chapter Thirty-Eight: The Seventh Circle
Three hours later, Lisbon sat in a brown plastic chair, contemplating Hell. Dante had described the underworld as having nine circles – one for each different category of sin.
Somehow, Lisbon doubted that all nine of those levels, put together, could approach the singularly torturous experience of a trip to the hospital with Jane as the patient.
At first, the doctors had wanted to keep him overnight. At first, Lisbon had been inclined to agree with them: Jane was sick and hurt, dehydrated and exhausted.
But that was before he'd made a young intern cry by telling her she'd just wasted years of her life (and hundreds of thousands of dollars) training to do something she didn't love, all to impress a father who would never be impressed by anything. That was before Jane pushed all the buttons on the elevator when the orderlies were trying to take him up for his x-ray. It was before Jane started writing fake names on the surgical dry-erase board: "B. Merry," "C. Ulater," "Dr. Dontnojack."
By this point, both Lisbon and St. Michael's Regional Medical Center had had a significant change of heart. They'd given Jane plenty of IV fluids, a shot of antibiotics, and three prescriptions, which Rigsby was currently having filled at the hospital pharmacy. There were six stitches in Jane's hand, and eight in his hip. A bright blue cast was drying on his leg. One of the nurses had brought him a pair of aluminum crutches, which Jane instantly began to use for everything except walking. Lisbon had already been poked twice.
Even now, sitting out in the hallway, she could hear him drumming a beat against the side rails of his bed.
Penny Jorsten had been examined, treated and released almost an hour ago. Sheriff Hamilton had finally managed to contact the girl's father, and arranged for him to meet them back at CBI headquarters. The only thing they were waiting on was Jane.
Lisbon bent low over the clipboard, scribbling out form after form, just trying to get done so everybody could have some peace. The scent of rubbing alcohol was strong in her nostrils. Jane's incessant percussion attempts were making her skull throb. She checked off the last few boxes on the release papers, stormed into Jane's room, and thrust the clipboard at him.
"Sign it," she ordered.
"I haven't read it," he complained.
Lisbon took a menacing step closer, looming over the bed. "Jane, so help me God, if you don't—"
He propped the crutches against the railing and held up his hands. "All right, all right…No need to get bent out of shape."
Jane scrawled his signature in the numerous spaces she had marked for him. The instant his pen left the last page, Lisbon snatched the clipboard back and strode briskly for the nearest Nurses' Station.
The sooner she could escape this Hell, the better.