Minutes later Hess lowered his burger and stared at the monitor. “Goddamnit. It’s Flynn. The fucker survived.”
CHAPTER 4
The clock was ticking. An alarm buzzed in the next room jarring Ridge from a deep, deep dream. Sweat coated his neck and upper chest. Disoriented, he moved his head slowly, spotted the black and white wall clock. Tick. Tick. 9 o’clock. He blinked and tried to think, clear his head.
Monday morning.
Hospital room.
Redondo Beach.
USA.
Like finding the way home.
To Ridge’s left, a nurse with glasses, a furrowed brow, and flowered scrubs scribbled a note on a chart. She looked up and smiled, picked up a mirror from the breakfast cart and handed it to him. Ridge lifted the glass to his face and winced. A raccoon with frontal lobotomy stared back. Ridge counted twelve stitches across his head and studied the areas around his eyes—plum, burnt orange, going black. Nice. Ridge handed the mirror back. “I’m a mess. The sweaty hospital gown…sorry.”
“We’ll get that all cleaned up,” the nurse said in a reassuring tone. “But first, have some breakfast. And I’ve good news for you. Your scans look good.”
“That’s something.”
“By the way, a well-built white man in his early 20s with a bald head asked about you early this morning. Do you know him?”
“Strange. Not ringing bells. What’d you tell him?”
“That there’s no morning visitors’ hours today. He mentioned he had to get to work anyway, and just wanted to make sure you were OK. I assured him things were fine.”
“OK, but still weird. Maybe he mixed me up with someone else?”
“Maybe. But now you should have your breakfast.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m on it.”
After eating, Ridge decided to assess his situation. Looking in the mirror with fingers to his forehead, he whispered, “OK, minimal swelling. No broken nose. No cracked skull. All in all, not so bad.”
“Not bad indeed,” said the redheaded doctor as she entered the room. “You’re a lucky man. A few more consultations, and you can probably leave today, around 2, if you promise to go slow and easy.”
Ridge’s military time at hospitals, and later as a lawyer with injured clients taught him a big lesson: No matter how good the hospital, unless a loved one stands by like a hawk, get the hell outta there. Too much room for error. Too much confusion. And anyway, hospitals sucked. Ridge smiled and said, “A deal. Thanks Doc.”
“Should we call anyone? To tell them you’re here?’
“No thanks. I’ll do that.”
“OK then. By the way, your clothes have been laundered. They’re in the closet.” The doctor waved and headed toward the door, pausing to look back to Ridge. “Don’t forget now—take it slow.”
“Roger that.”
After washing his face and neck, Ridge made two calls: The first to his wife Jayne. He knew her presentation was over. She picked up right away. So he jumped right in and explained his latest exploits.
“Jaynie, really, I’m fine. A few stitches, but I’m headed home soon.”
“What are you not telling me?”
“I need to call the office right now to get a ride home, but I promise I’ll explain everything in more detail later.”
“Do you need me to come home?”
“Absolutely not. There’s no reason to short-circuit your business trip.” But Jayne being Jayne, pressed for more information—information he didn’t want to get into over the phone. “Sweetheart, you stay put and do your job. I’ll be fine as soon as I get out of here.”
“Call me right away when you get home and we’ll talk more then,” she said, “and I’ll decide whether to come home or not. No matter what, I’ll be back on Friday. Then, if everything is really OK, I’ll return here Sunday afternoon.
Ridge smiled. “Fine, love ya.” He’d learned years ago never to argue about such things.
Next, he phoned Katarina Adler, his office manager. Kate could run the place on her own, which was fine with him because administrative paperwork was not his thing. But he needed to make sure his associate lawyers and paralegals had everything under control.
After discussing some pressing issues, Ridge asked, “Anything else boiling over?”
“The rest is good here.”
“Super,” said Ridge. “Thanks. Is Kapow around? I need to talk to him about our new cases.”
“Why do you call him Kapow?” asked Kate. “Because he’s good-looking?”
He laughed. “Terry? Hardly. You know we go back a long, long way and so does the nickname. It’s an old joke. Pao—pronounced p-o-w—pow. And, you know, he’s kind of a dynamic dude. Like Batman or Superman. Pow! Wham! Get it?.”
“That’s pretty lame, but OK. Wanted to ask for a while.”
Ridge’s right eyebrow raised, squeezing the sutures in his forehead. “OK, but is he there?”
