It was only in the evening of his fifth day at the Nogales hospital that Sunderson felt he had a real inkling of who he was though he was unsure it mattered. He had received a subdural hematoma from the large rock that had struck him in the back of the head, also a minimally depressed fracture that likely wouldn’t require surgery. The hardest symptoms of his post-concussive state were more vague: the anxiety and depression, the inability to concentrate, and the disequilibrium when he toddled out a back door to have a cigarette. Another smoker, a Mexican orderly, pointed to the south of the hospital and told Sunderson that he was real close to the border. This was the best part of his disaster so far as nearly all of the various employees of the hospital spoke Spanish with each other, which meant he didn’t have to struggle with comprehension, which was beyond him anyway. He also liked the pure music of the language. One of the only memories he could recapture was of his Mexican friend in Frankfurt saying “hola,” so Sunderson muttered “hola” to anyone who entered his hospital room. A slight problem was that neither the ER doctor nor the regular doctor Berenice had secured him believed that his injuries came from a fall. They didn’t say why and Sunderson didn’t really give a shit. What could they do, throw more rocks at him? When an attendant, a roly-poly female, had helped him take a shower she kept whispering “muy malo” as he looked at himself in a full-length mirror and discovered that his predominant body color was blue.
Another slight problem was the visit of a plainclothes officer on the third day. There was buzzing in Sunderson’s ear so he hadn’t heard the details when the man introduced himself. The man was short and squat, of Mexican descent, and looked powerful and feral like some of those Detroit detectives who daily brushed against death. The man asked to see his ID, which Sunderson said was locked in the drawer of the nightstand beside his bed. When Sunderson struggled with the key the man said “never mind” and that he had read the report filed by the Cochise County deputy.
“What are you doing here?”
“Visiting my mom in Green Valley.”
“What were you doing near Elfrida? No one goes to Elfrida except for a purpose.”
“I was looking the country over. I like history. I wanted to see where Geronimo surrendered.”
“Oh bullshit. The Michigan State Police said that you retired last week. A lot of people who retire from our line of work have someone they want to get even with. That’s not you?”
“Nothing to do with the drug or illegal migrant problems?”
“No.”
“The doctor said you didn’t fall down a canyon. Your palms are fine. If you had fallen they would have been torn up trying to stop your fall.”
“Who gives a shit?” Sunderson watched a fine-looking vulture fly by the window.
“I do. You’re in my homeland. It’s easy for me to run you out of here.”
“I’m looking into a religious cult. A friend’s daughter lost some money to them.”
“Oh fuck me!” The man laughed explosively. “Those daffy fucks are all over Arizona. They’ve probably blown the money on vegetables.”
“I suppose so.” Sunderson was relieved at the man’s reaction.
“Well, take care,” the man said getting up to leave. “It’s obvious your cult doesn’t have a sense of humor. If you shoot anyone you won’t be treated like an officer. Even the cults down here are armed to the teeth. At least most of them don’t do drugs. I guess religion is their drug, you know, the Marxian opiate of the people.”
When he left Sunderson regretted having to explain himself even minimally but then it was a courtesy between detectives. He already felt he was too old to play for keeps and would likely back away from the Great Leader.
His biggest problem was Berenice who visited twice a day. When he told her every other day was enough she began to cry. Bob was loitering out in the hall and Sunderson added that she shouldn’t bring her asshole husband. “Everything gives me a headache in my condition.”
“I’m so sorry about you and now we think Mom had a little stroke. She’s slurring her words.”
“She’s eighty-five and she drinks too much.”
“That doesn’t make it easier.”
He dictated an e-mail to Mona saying, “I’ve been injured. I’ll be okay. I’ll be in touch in a few days. Don’t send anything to Berenice.” He didn’t want Berenice to read anything Mona might send. When he got out he’d find a Kinko’s store for that.