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IT TOOK THE BETTER part of two hours to fill Frank in on all that had transpired during the short period he had been unconscious. Near the end of the chaotic conversation, in which everyone finished everyone else’s sentences and talked over each other, Frank finally broke in. He had been lying quietly trying to soak in all the amazing facts being poured into his brain by a fire hose of information.
“Who’s this guy?” he asked, pointing at Uriel.
“I’m Carl, de head custodian heah at de hospital,” he explained. “And dis heah’s...” he started, making sure Frank was still looking straight at him. Carl’s eye flared golden, and Uriel said, “My name is Uriel. Carl has graciously allowed me to manifest in his vessel, and Raquel is my sister. It was through our concerted efforts we were able to teach Hamilton and Priscilla how to heal your many and grievous wounds.”
Frank’s mouth dropped open, and his heart monitor rhythm changed from a gentle waltz to a salsa. Within seconds, the door burst open and the charge nurse stepped in, sliding to a halt when she saw the group gathered around her patient’s bed.
“Who are all you people? What are you doing in my room? You can’t all be in here at once...” she was about to continue, and then she saw Frank was awake. “How long has he been awake? Who’s in charge here?” she nearly bellowed.
She spun to leave the room, apparently intent on calling security, but a motion from Raquel had her spin back around.
“I know you,” the nurse said quietly, as if recognizing an old friend. “You’re Frank’s wife. I’ve seen you on television, when you helped Frank find that sick man who was hurting those young boys.”
“Yes, I’m Clara the Clairvoyant,” she said with a self-deprecating grin.
The nurse’s grin changed to a grimace as she asked Clara, “Who are all these people? Did Dr. Pashteen permit you to visit because of Frank’s...condition?” she faltered, not sure yet how to reconcile a lucid, communicating patient with one she had been told was unofficially being classified as terminally brain-dead.
“Yes, they’re all friends of the family. I’m sure you’d like to meet them all, but don’t you think Dr. Pashteen needs to know Frank is awake?” Clara suggested pointedly.
“Well, yes, but, I don’t think he’ll want all of you in here when he comes to examine the detective,” she said, still faltering between her overwhelming instinct to revert to her years of training and the influence being wielded by Raquel.
“Sister, let her be,” Uriel commanded softly.
The nurse looked questioningly at Uriel before turning toward the door. “I’ll need you to clear the room by the time the doctor arrives,” she called over her shoulder.
Frank looked at Uriel and asked, “You’re an Archangel as well?”
At Uriel’s nod, he looked at his wife. And you’re his sister, Raquel?”
At her nod, he glanced around the room at the others. “Any additional angels, Archangels, demons, unicorns, pixies, or other supernatural beings in here I should know about?”
Ham barked a short laugh. “Good one, Frank.”
“I’m serious, young man,” he replied deadpan. “If you ask them outright, they have to tell you.”
All heads turned to Uriel, who smiled and nodded. “He is correct, although that’s not a fact we like to make common knowledge. How did you come by this information?” Uriel asked Frank.
Dr. Pashteen chose that moment to enter the room. “I’ll need you all to leave, please. Carl, what are you doing in here?” the doctor stopped and asked, spying the custodian who stood out from the group because of his uniform and size.
Before Carl could respond, Frank took charge. “Doctor, I need you to discharge me right away and certify I’m capable of returning to duty. There are many bad people in our city who intend serious harm or death to all these people, as well as the the general populace, and I’m in charge of the investigation. Let’s get to it, shall we?”
The others had slowly filtered out of the room, Carl leading the way. Clara was last in the line, and she stopped near the door.
“I’ll ask the nurse where I go to take care of whatever paperwork is required, just to speed things along,” she said before rolling out of the room.
Dr. Pashteen had started to rebuff her statement when Frank called after her, “You do that, sweetheart. This shouldn’t take long.”
The doctor turned back to Frank and began. “We must run several tests to confirm your requests, detective, and I won’t be able to order them until the morning,” he said, pulling a pen light from his breast pocket. “I’ll get the paperwork started as soon as I finish my preliminary examination,” he paused, flicking the light into Frank’s eyes one at a time to check dilation and response.
“And if all is well, you should be going home tomorrow afternoon. Please watch my finger with just your eyes, keeping your head stationary,” he requested, holding up his right index finger. Frank dutifully did as requested, and when he finished, Dr. Pashteen looked puzzled. “This is highly irregular,” he began, picking up Frank’s hands in his own and placing his first two fingers against Frank’s palms. “Squeeze my fingers with equal pressure from both hands,” he directed.
The exam took another 10 minutes, with the doctor using every physical examination protocol he could remember to check Frank’s neurological function. He could tell by the growing impatience on Frank’s face that he would have to fight to keep his patient any longer.
“I cannot in all good conscience release you tonight, Frank, even though you seem remarkably recovered,” he offered, puzzled at his patient’s astounding condition. “Please, slowly, stand up at the side of the bed. If you experience any dizziness, lightheadedness, or dimming of vision; sit back down immediately.” Frank did as asked, and was clear-eyed and focused when he met the doctor’s gaze.
“Raise your right hand over your head, and hold your left hand out in front of you,” the doctor directed. When Frank did so with ease, the doctor continued.
“Slowly, raise your right foot off the floor, just an inch or so.” And again, Frank easily complied.
“Place your left hand over your navel, and your right hand flat on top of your head,” was the next test.
“Shall I rub my stomach and pat my head?” Frank asked sharply, doing so as he asked.
“Or shall I do the Hokey Pokey and turn myself around?” he continued, doing this and twisting his IV line around his body in the process.
“Perhaps I should perform some light calisthenics?” Frank growled, holding his hands out at his sides and spreading his feet shoulder-width apart. “Side-straddle hop?”
“No, no, detective, please stop,” the doctor said in a panic. “You’re twisting your IV line, and you may crimp it or even pull it out.”
“Well, I can fix that,” Frank said, his patience exhausted. Reaching down with his left hand, he pulled the IV line from his right forearm, dripping a stream of clear fluid across the floor as he dropped the rubber line and needle onto the bed.
“Doctor, I’ve never felt better in my entire life, and I’m not just saying that. I feel like I’m 25 years old again, and I don’t hurt anywhere,” he fumed. “Did I have any bruising, lacerations, or broken bones when I was admitted?” The doctor reached for the chart at the foot of the bed, and keeping one eye on Frank, glanced over the attached forms.
“You had bruising on your back on the left side, a large contusion on your right shoulder, what should be a bruised right kidney or worse, and a laceration requiring five stitches on your right knee. We’re still waiting for the lab to tell us if there’s any blood in your urine. Speaking of which, I should call someone to remove your catheter if you’re absolutely determined to leave.”
The look on Frank’s face spoke volumes, and he reached under the gown to feel for himself. “Can I just pull it out as well, or is there some special process?” He asked cautiously. Apparently, Frank wasn’t as ready to yank out a catheter as he was an IV line.
Dr. Pashteen sighed. “Just pull gently and slowly with steady pressure,” he started, then hurriedly finished, “As soon as I get a clamp to close the line.”
Once clamped, the collection bag and line were placed on the bed as well, and Frank wasted no time disrobing. Looking down his length, his gaze fell on his unblemished right knee. “Five stitches, huh?” he quipped.
Dr. Pashteen wasn’t listening. Frank was turned partially away, whether out of modesty or circumstance was uncertain. The doctor could see Frank’s left torso; and he could also see it was complete free of any mark or blemish. Walking around him, Dr. Pashteen touched his right lower back where his kidney would be and pressed gently.
“Any pain or discomfort here?” the doctor asked softly.
“Nope,” Frank replied. Then he reached behind himself, placing his hands flat in the small back. Arching backward, he laughed. “I haven’t been able to do that in eight years,” he chuckled in amazement.
“I’m a doctor, and I believe in science,” Dr. Pashteen spoke softly, almost reverently. “But I’m also a man of faith, and I believe I’ve just witnessed my first miracle healing. There is no outward evidence of any injury on your body, and even the stitches are gone from your knee.”
Eyes wide in amazement, he reached and flung down the sheet on the bed, covering the collection bag and almost knocking the IV line onto the floor from where it lay in a spreading stain of nutritive fluids. There on the stark white sheets were five tiny black wads of thread, still tied in perfect surgical knots.
––––––––
FRANK WAS DRESSED IN the clothes he had been wearing during the fight at his house and standing downstairs at the ER entrance 25 minutes later. His clothes were much worse for the wear, but he was more concerned with his missing sidearm.
“They told me they gave it to Sergeant McElroy, but I have no way to reach him, if he’s even still in the hospital,” he informed no one in particular.
Frank might have thought he was finished with surprises for the night, but another one was forthcoming. Marrisa reached into her shoulder bag and pulled out the radio which Ham had caused to fly around the room earlier. They hadn’t told Frank that part yet.
“Sgt. McElroy, this is Mrs. Benson. Are you still in the hospital? Lieutenant Kratos would like to speak to you.”
The radio crackled to life immediately. “I’m on my way to the ICU right now,” was the excited reply.
“He’s not in ICU, he’s being discharged. We’re in the ER; could you meet us there, please?” A double break on the squelch was the only reply.
When Marrisa raised the radio to repeat her request, Frank held his hand up. “That double squawk was the standard response for affirmative.” He held his hand out, and Marrisa handed him the radio willingly; almost eagerly.
“Pat, have you still got my service revolver?” Frank asked.
“Yes, sir, I have it on me. I’ll be there in two minutes,” he replied.
“Don’t kill yourself getting here,” Frank said, nervously glancing around the room at realizing his faux pas, but everyone was laughing.