She rushed down the stairs. “No.”
What wasn’t she telling him? She reached the front doors, but he grabbed her before she could go any farther. “When we’re outside you stay close to me. Understand?”
“Yes.”
They stopped by his car in the lot behind the hotel first so that Michael could put her bag in the trunk. It was a dark four-door sedan, big enough for him to drive. Then they walked on to her rental car.
“It’s the red one, just down by the corner.”
The closer he got, the more Michael wanted to laugh. The car was the size of a go-kart. With his long legs there was no way he could get behind the wheel. His concern for the dimensions of the car, however, was quickly erased when he saw the scratches. They etched the driver’s door and spread in
a winglike pattern across the passenger door in back. He had a feeling there were matching scratches on the other side. Curious, he walked around the car to find out if he was right. He was. There was a small dent in the fender as well.
Isabel stood on the sidewalk, hands folded, anxiously waiting for him to comment. She didn’t want to fight, but she would if he said anything sarcastic.
“Did you leave anything in the car?” he asked.
“No.”
“Doors locked?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, let’s leave it here, and we’ll drive my car to the body shop and drop off the key.”
“I could drive it over there.”
God, no. “Let’s leave it here,” he said instead.
Something else wasn’t quite right about the car, but it took him a minute to figure out what it was.
In his defense, the deep scratches and dent had held his attention and had distracted him.
“Where are the side mirrors?”
She answered without hesitation. “In the backseat.”
Since Michael didn’t seem to have anything to say about that, Isabel felt she needed to explain.
“The roads are extremely narrow up here.”
As they walked back to his car, he draped his arm around her shoulders. “Good to know,” he said.
TWENTY-THREE
DETECTIVE CRAIG WALSH FINALLY DECIDED TO WAKE UP.
Nurse Terry happened to be in his ICU room checking his IV when her patient suddenly opened his eyes, grabbed hold of her arm, and bolted upright. He called for Grace over and over again, his agitation increasing until he was gasping for air. His voice was raspy and raw from the breathing tube the doctor had removed the day before.
“Oh my goodness, you gave me a shock,” Terry said, her voice soothing despite the fact that he’d all but scared the curl out of her hair when he’d jumped at her out of the blue. “We’ve been waiting for you to come back to us. Do you know where you are?”
Walsh fell back against the pillows and closed his eyes. He was desperately trying to clear the thick fog clouding his brain.
“No,” he answered.
“You’re a patient at St. Margaret’s Trauma Center in Boston,” she told him.
“Why?” he asked, genuinely confused.
“You were shot, and you’ve been unconscious for quite a while.”
Frowning, he repeated what she had told him. “I was shot.” He tried to pull up the memory, but it was beyond his grasp.
“Yes,” she said. “You don’t remember?” He didn’t answer her. “You were calling for Grace. Who is she?” Terry asked as she tucked the cover around him.
“I don’t know,” he said, his frustration showing on his face.
She patted his arm. “Your memory will come back to you. Just give it a little time. Rest now while I page the doctor and tell her the good news. She’s going to be very happy to hear you’re back with us.”
There were other people Terry had been asked to call: Special Agent Nick Buchanan; Boston Detective Samuel; the patient’s daughter, Kathleen, who had just gone home to catch a couple hours of sleep; and Isabel MacKenna.
Terry was happy that Isabel had been added to the call list. She had shown so much compassion for Detective Walsh. Her call immediately went to voicemail, so, just to make certain Isabel would get the message, she also texted her.
Two hours later ICU was swarming with FBI agents, Boston detectives, and policemen. Because of the chaos they were creating, Walsh, along with his IV and monitors, was moved to a private room
adjacent to the unit. Only Nick Buchanan, Noah Clayborne, and Detective Samuel were allowed in.
Nick thought Walsh looked pretty good, given all he had been through. His eyes were clear, and he seemed fairly alert, considering. The fact that he was lucid after his ordeal was amazing, though his memory of the event was spotty at best. It seemed he could recall only bits and pieces up to the actual shooting.