Marty met my eyes, searching. He knew I wasn't convinced, but he let it drop. Instead, he reached out and put a big hand on my shoulder.
"Look, whoever it was, we'll get them. We got CSU combing that warehause for evidence. Maybe something will turn up. Right now, you need to rest, heal up. You can't do Marlene or her memory, any good ending up in a body bag."
I almost flinched at that, but he was right. Marlene's memory was all I had... unless, by some insane twist, she really was alive. But that way lay madness. I just nodded. "Yeah. Alright."
Marty stood with a heavy creak of his knees. "I'll check in tomorrow. I'll try to swing by the warehouse too, see if the techs got anything. You sure you're gonna be okay tonight? This place isn't exactly Comfort Suites." He glanced around at the peeling paint, the single flickering light overhead. Then he looked back at me, more serious now. "Bale… you know the protocol. They're going to have questions and this case isn't easy. But first, you gotta be honest with me. All of it."
I managed a tight grin. "Fine Marty. I'll live. Not like I haven't crashed in worse holes."
"Hah. True." Marty stepped to the door. "If you need anything, use the call button for the nurse, okay? Don't go on any walks." He wagged a finger at me like I was a stubborn kid.
I lifted my hand in a half-salute. "Sir, yes sir."
He gave me one last long look then left. The door clicked shut and I was alone again with the quiet whine of my malfunctioning arm and the distant drip of water from the bathroom faucet.
I lay back against the flat pillow, staring at the ceiling. The adrenaline of seeing Marty had ebbed, and exhaustion rolled over me heavy and bleak. Every part of me hurt. The monitor beside me showed my heart rate was still too high; a restless zigzag on the screen. I closed my eyes, trying to will myself into a little sleep. But sleep was a stranger in a place like this. Every time I started to drift, I saw Marlene's face behind my eyelids and jolted awake again.
A couple hours passed, or so I guessed by the slow crawl of the IV drip and the shifting shadows from the window. At some point a nurse came in or at least I think she did. A dim shape checking my dressings, replacing an IV bag. I was half-under then, caught in that haze of painkillers and fatigue.
I mumbled something, maybe "thank you," maybe nothing at all. She was gone before I could fully surface, and I slipped back into a fitful doze.
I don't know what woke me. The ward was quiet now, graveyard shift dead. The lights in my room had been dimmed, leaving just a weak amber glow from a wall-mounted lamp. For a second, I thought maybe some sound pulled me out of sleep... A thump, a scrape? I held my breath and listened.
Nothing. Just the low hum of the ventilation and the faint beep...beep of the heart monitor. I exhaled and rubbed at my eyes. My throat was parched again. I reached for the water cup, sipping what was left. It did little for the dryness in my mouth. The rain outside had picked up; I heard it pattering against the narrow window.
Something felt off.
Call it a cop's intuition, or paranoia, but an uneasy prickle crawled up the back of my neck. Maybe it was the silence. Even in an understaffed, run-down hospital, you expect something: a nurse making rounds, another patient coughing, distant chatter from a TV. Now there was only the rain and my own heartbeat.
I glanced to the door. It was closed, same as Marty left it. A tiny rectangle of safety glass set in the upper half showed the dark corridor beyond. No movement. Still... I couldn't shake the feeling that I wasn't alone.
I swung my legs carefully over the side of the bed. My bare feet met cold linoleum. The sudden motion sent a wave of dizziness through me; I had to grip the mattress until it passed.
Gritting my teeth, I slowly peeled the sensor pads of the heart monitor off my chest one by one. The machine protested with a flatline drone. I jabbed the power button to silence it. Hopefully no one heard that at the nurse's station, if there even was anyone out there. My left arm gave a treacherous spasm as I moved, the cybernetic fingers twitching.
Useless. I'd have to rely on my flesh and blood for now.
Gingerly, I stood up. The room tilted and I almost sat right back down, a sharp pain tearing at my stitched-up wound.
"Easy," I hissed to myself. A bandage on my forearm tugged where the IV line was taped; I yanked the IV needle out. A trickle of blood ran down to my wrist, but I hardly felt it. I was running on instinct now, and every nerve was screaming that danger was close.
I shuffled to the small closet where a pile of my belongings might be. The door hung half open. Inside, on a shelf, I saw my trousers, folded and caked with dried blood. My shirt and coat were another torn, bloody heap. Whoever cut me out of them probably figured I wouldn't be needing them again. There was also a standard-issue hospital gown. I was wearing one already, thin and open in the back. And a pair of flimsy paper slippers.
No weapon, of course, my gun was gone, likely secured as evidence or lost.
I had to improvise. My eyes landed on the metal IV stand by the bed. I grabbed it, wheeling it silently as I crept toward the door. It wasn't much, but it was heavy steel; I could swing it like a bat if it came to that. My heart was thudding in my ears as I reached the door and eased it open a crack.
The hallway beyond was dim, lit mostly by a few flickering bulbs and the green glow of an EXIT sign at the far end. Shadows pooled in the corners. I saw the nurses' station empty, a single desk lamp illuminating a mess of papers and an old mug. Not a soul in sight. On my left, the corridor stretched toward more patient rooms shrouded in dark. On the right, it led to an intersection where the elevators and stairs were.
That uneasy feeling only grew stronger. Something was definitely wrong: the quiet was now heavy.
I heard it. A scuff of a shoe, somewhere around the corner to the right, near the elevators. My grip tightened on the IV pole. The sound came again: a hush of movement, then a low whisper. I couldn't make out words.
Someone was out there. Maybe more than one and I was willing to bet they weren't hospital staff. My mind flashed back to the ambush, to the burning pain in my side.
I slid back into my room, heart was pounding.
What to do? Running was a joke in my condition. I could barely stand straight. Calling for help? There was no one. This ward was practically deserted; even if I could reach an outside line, the cavalry wouldn't arrive in time. and if those goons out there got to me, I'd be dead before I could say please.
My eyes darted around the small room, searching for options. Window? Third floor, reinforced glass, likely sealed shut; not an option. Hide? Only place was maybe under the bed or behind the privacy curtain, but they'd find me in a heartbeat. Fight? Two of them, judging by the whispers and one of me, half-crippled. Not great odds, but surprise might tip things a little. I'd have to make it count.
I positioned myself behind the door, pressing back against the wall where the hinges would cover me when it opened. I propped the IV stand in my good right hand like a spear. My left arm hung at my side, fingers still twitching intermittently. I hoped it wouldn't give me away with some errant metallic clank.
Footsteps approached my door. I could hear two distinct sets of breathing now. A gentle rattle as someone tested the door handle. The door began to open inward. I held my breath and flattened myself behind it as it swung wide with a faint creak.
Through the gap between door and frame, I saw a man in a pale green orderly's uniform step inside. He was slim, sharp-featured, a surgical mask covering half his face. He carried a small tray of instruments that rattled softly to an unsuspecting ear, he might pass as a nurse on rounds.
But I wasn't fooled. Behind him, a second man waited a pace back. This one was bigger, with broad shoulders bulging under his ill-fitted scrubs. They both had the too-alert stance of people who were definitely not here to change my bandages.
The smaller man crept further in, holding the tray. I glimpsed a syringe on it, needle glinting in the low light. A syringe filled with something. Maybe a sedative or maybe poison. Either way, I had no intention of finding out by example.
He looked toward the bed. Thanks to the dim lighting, maybe he couldn't immediately tell it was empty. I saw him hesitate. "He's not-" he began to whisper over his shoulder.