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“He’s alive.” The doctor, a cool-eyed man with saffron skin, continued to make notes. “There was oxygen deprivation, and some minimal brain damage as a result. If we keep him alive, it’s correctable.”
“Are you going to keep him alive?”
“That’s why we’re here.” He slipped his memo pad back into the pocket of his lab coat. “His chances are good. Another few minutes dangling there, he wouldn’t have had any chance. We’ve come a long way in medical science, but bringing the dead back to life still eludes us.”
“When can I talk to him?”
“I can’t say.”
“Hazard a guess.”
“He may be functional by tomorrow, but until we complete the tests, I can’t gauge the exact extent of the brain damage. It may be several days, or weeks, before he’s capable of answering any but the most basic of questions. The brain finds ways to bypass damage, to reroute if you will, and we can help that process along. But it takes time.”
“I want to know the minute he can talk.”
“I’ll make sure you’re informed. Now, I have patients to see.”
“Lieutenant.” Clark stepped up. “This is the nurse you wanted to see.”
“Ormand,” Eve said, reading the ID badge. “Talk to me.”
“I had no idea he meant to try self-termination. I wouldn’t have believed he was capable of it, physically I mean. He was weak as a baby.”
“A man wants to do himself, he finds a way. Nobody’s blaming you.”
She nodded, relaxed her defensive stance. “I was in there for a routine check of his vitals. He was conscious, and he told me he wanted to confess. I thought he meant to a priest. We get a lot of that, even from patients who aren’t Catholic or Egatarian. But he became agitated, and asked for you by name. Said I was to tell you he wanted to confess.”
“To what?”
“He didn’t say. I thought he killed that other actor. Richard Draco.” When Eve didn’t respond, the nurse shrugged. “I calmed him down, promised to find you. Then I told the guard after I arranged for the patient’s afternoon nutrition. I don’t know anything else.”
“All right.” She dismissed the nurse, turned back to Clark. “I need you to stand by up in the ICU. I’ll arrange for a relief in an hour. If there’s any change in Stiles’s condition before that, I want to know.”
“Yes, sir. His own sheets,” Clark murmured. “That takes balls.”
“It takes something.” Eve turned on her heel and strode to the waiting area where Peabody had taken Areena.
“Kenneth?” Areena got shakily to her feet.
“They’re moving him to Intensive Care.”
“I thought he was…when I saw him, I thought…” She sank to her chair again. “Oh, how much more can happen?”
“Eliza Rothchild said tragedies happen in threes.”
“Superstition. I’ve never been overly superstitious, but now…He’ll be all right?”
“The doctor seemed optimistic. How did you know Kenneth Stiles was here?”
“How? Why, I heard it on the news just this morning. They’re saying he was injured while trying to leave the city. That he’s the prime suspect in Richard’s death. I don’t believe that. Not for a moment. I wanted to see him, to tell him that.”
“Why don’t you believe it?”
“Because Kenneth’s not capable of murder. It’s coldblooded and calculating. He’s neither.”
“Sometimes murder’s hot-blooded and impulsive.”
“You’d know more about that than
