A Treasure Deep by Alton Gansky Page B

blame
her. She had just heard horrible news.
    “Unknown right now, Mrs. Henri. There are
many things to consider, and many enemies to overcome.”
    “Enemies?”
    “Blood clots, renal failure, another heart
attack.”
    “I want to see him.”
    “Of course, but I need to tell you one more
thing first. Your husband is not breathing on his own. We’ve had to
put him on a breathing machine. When you see him, there will be a
tube down his throat.”
    “So he won’t be able to talk,” Claire
said.
    “That’s true, but for now he won’t even
recognize you. We have sedated him. It’s often called twilight
sleep. He’s not fully out, but he can’t respond. Feel free to speak
to him. Let him know you’re there, but don’t expect him to respond
in any way.” The doctor paused and looked at the young man standing
inches from Claire’s right shoulder. “Is this your son?”
    “Yes,” Claire said.
    “Developmentally disabled?” Reddy
inquired.
    Claire nodded. “He’ll be all right. He shows
very little emotion.”
    “Okay, this way, please.” Reddy turned and
led them to the back corner of the ER and pulled back the curtain.
He entered first, followed by Claire and her son. Perry entered
last, the satchel still in his hands.
    When Perry had first seen Henri, he had been
lying on the wet pavement, looking up through terrified eyes at a
gunman. With the attacker gone, Perry had approached and found a
man in vicious pain. He’d looked as bad as anyone Perry had ever
seen.
    Here in the hospital, Dr. Jamison Henri
looked worse.
    Machines surrounded the bed, beeping and
whooshing. A chrome metal stand held several plastic IV bags. A
clear tube, held in place by a thin piece of white medical tape,
ran from a high-tech looking machine into Henri’s throat. A
catheter, used to empty the bladder, ran from beneath the covers to
a bag that was hanging at the bottom of the bed. A heart monitor
kept track of the heart rhythms. Taken as a whole, it reminded
Perry of some absurd scene from an old science fiction movie.
    Claire inhaled deeply and took a step forward
to hold her husband’s hand. He remained motionless.
    “I’ll let you have some time with him. We’ll
be moving him to ICU in about fifteen minutes. You can visit up
there as well.” Dr. Reddy left, closing the curtain behind him.
    Claire turned to Perry. “You’re the one who
did CPR?”
    “Yes,” Perry said. “I happened along at the
right time.”
    “I see,” Claire said. She moved closer to
Henri’s head, leaned over, and kissed his forehead. It moved Perry
to his core.
    She said to her husband, “The satchel is
here.”
     
    THERE WAS A pounding. Perry tried to ignore it, but
it repeated itself, worming its way through his sleep. It took a
moment, but he realized that someone was knocking on his door and
knocking hard. He sat up, turned, and set his bare feet on the thin
carpet, then attempted to shake the cobwebs loose.
    The banging returned.
    “Who is it?”
    The only answer was more knocking. He rose on
wobbly legs and peered through eyes still bleary from sleep. The
clock said he had been napping for only forty minutes. Before lying
down, he’d laid out the work clothes he planned to wear when he
returned to the site. Certain that no one wanted to see him in his
underwear, he slipped on his jeans and donned a brown long-sleeved
work shirt. The shirt he left unbuttoned.
    More knocking.
    Perry gritted his teeth, took two long
strides to the motel room door, and snapped it open. “What?”
    Not a gracious greeting, but the incessant
pounding coupled with his groggy mind drowned his normal genteel
attitude. Before him stood a pleasant looking woman with short,
blond hair and a determined look on her face. The determination
gave way to surprise as the door sprang open, and she took a step
back, treading on the toes of a brown-haired man. Both looked to be
in their late thirties. The man released a yelp of pain and backed
up a step