کتاب 07-19

19

—light shining into her face. She blinked and sat up, one hand lifted to shield her eyes from the glare. Bile stewed in her throat.

She peered past the beam of the flashlight. Nick stood behind it, his eyes wide in his small, handsome face, his hair a delightful mess. He lifted one finger to his mouth—shh—and then pointed to Father Storey.

Whose eyes were open and who was smiling at her, showing her his old, soft, kindly, Dumbledore smile. His gaze was perfectly clear and alert.

Harper sat up and turned to face him, hanging her legs off the side of her cot. A candle guttered in a shallow dish at his bedside.

In a quiet, fragile voice, Father Storey said, “From time to time my friend John Rookwood has teased me by saying the study of theology is as pointless as a hole in the head. I understand from Nick you saved my life with a quarter-inch drill bit through the back of my skull. I think that puts me one up on John. We’ll have to let him know.” His eyes glittered. “He also liked to tell me that religious people are closed-minded. Who has the open mind now, eh?”

“Do you remember who I am, Father?” she said to him.

“I do! The nurse. I’m quite confident we were friends, although I’m afraid I’m having trouble recalling your name just now. You cut your hair, and I think that’s throwing me off. Is it . . . Juliet Andrews? No. That’s . . . that’s wrong.”

“Harper,” she said.

“Ah!” he said. “Yes! Harper . . .” He frowned. “Harper Gallows?”

“Close! Willowes.” She touched his wrist, took his pulse. It was strong, steady, slow. “How’s your head?”

“Not as bad as my left foot,” he said.

“What’s wrong with your left foot?”

“It feels ant-bit.”

She went to the end of his cot and looked at the foot. In between the big toe and the second toe was an infected lump, where it did indeed look like he might’ve been bitten by a spider. There were other, older red marks where he had been bitten other times, and all of it was encircled by a yellowing bruise.

“Mhm,” she said. “Something got you. Sorry about that. I was probably preoccupied with looking after that hole in your coconut. You suffered a serious subdural hematoma. You nearly died.”

“How long have I been out?” he asked.

“A little over two months. You’ve been in and out of consciousness the last few days. After your head injury, there were . . . serious complications. You suffered at least two seizures, several weeks apart. At one time I doubted you’d recover.”

“Strokes?”

She sat on the edge of his bed. In sign language, she asked Nick to get her “heart-ear-listen-to-him thing” and he went to the counter to find her stethoscope.

“Are you talking to my grandson in sign language?” Father Storey asked.

“Nick is a good teacher.”

He smiled at that. Then his brow furrowed in thought. “If I had a stroke, how come my speech isn’t slurred?”

“That doesn’t always happen. Likewise, partial paralysis. But you have feeling in both hands, your feet? Your face isn’t numb?”

He stroked his beard, pinched his nose. “No.”

“That’s good,” she said in a slow voice, thinking it over. Seeing in her mind the swollen red spider bite between his toes, then dismissing it.

Nick brought her the stethoscope. She listened to Father Storey’s heart (strong) and lungs (clear). She tested his vision, asking him to follow the head of a Q-tip with his gaze, moving it in toward his nose and then out.

“Will I slip back into coma?” he asked.

“I don’t think so.”

“Where did the IV come from?” he asked, looking over at it.

“That’s a long story. A lot has changed in the last few months.”

His eyes brightened with excitement. “Is there a cure? For the ’scale?”

“No,” she said.

“No. Of course not. Or we wouldn’t still be hiding at Camp Wyndham and you wouldn’t be treating me in the infirmary.” He studied her face and his smile became something sad and worried. “Carol? What has she done?”

“Let’s keep the focus on you for now. Would you like to try a sip of water?”

“I would. I would also like to have my question answered. I believe I could manage both at the same time.”

She did not ask Nick to get the water, but went and poured some herself. Wanted the time to think. When she came back to the bed, she held the cup and waited while Father Storey struggled to get his head off the pillow to take a sip. When he was done he slumped back and smacked his lips.

“I think it would be best for Carol to speak to you herself,” Harper said. “She’ll be relieved to know you’re awake. She’s been—at her wit’s end without you. Although she’s had the support of Ben Patchett and his team of Lookouts, and that’s meant a lot. They’ve kept things going, anyway.” She thought that was a politic way to put it.

Father Storey wasn’t smiling anymore. His complexion was pale and sickly and he was starting to sweat. “No, I better see John first, Ms. Willowes. Before my daughter is notified I’m awake. Can you bring him to me? There are matters that won’t wait.” He paused and then his gaze met hers. “What was done with the person who attacked me?”

“We don’t know who attacked you. Some think it was one of the prisoners, a man named Mark Mazzuchelli. But he insists that you split up in the woods and when he left you, you were fine. I raised the possibility you might’ve been assaulted by the camp’s thief, who wanted to shut you up before you could—”

“Expose them over a few cans of Spam?” Father Storey asked. “Anyway, what do I know about the thief?”

“You told me you knew who it was.”

“Did I? I don’t . . . I don’t think I did. Although I suppose I might’ve and forgot. There are several things I don’t recall, including who decided to thump me in the head.” He pursed his lips and his brow furrowed, and then he shook his head. “No. I don’t think I ever figured out who the thief was.”

“You told me in the canoe that someone would have to leave camp. Do you remember that conversation?” Harper asked. “The night we rowed to South Mill Pond together?”

“Not really,” Father Storey said. “But I’m sure I wasn’t talking about the thief.”

“Who do you think we were talking about, then?” Harper asked.

“I imagine we were discussing my daughter,” Father Storey said, as if it should be obvious. “Carol. She called a Cremation Crew on Harold Cross. She set him up—arranged the whole thing, so when Ben Patchett shot the poor boy, it would look like he had to, to protect the camp and keep Harold from giving information to our enemies.”