Eleven

IT WASN’T like waking up. It was more like floating to the surface of an ocean after a drowning that hadn’t been quite fatal. Bonner drifted upward; waves smelling of formaldehyde washed over him. Then he was up in the open, his lungs sucking in pure air like bellows. He rocked in the swells for a time. Then the surface of the ocean steadied. It became a bed under him.

He opened his eyes. Above him was the cracked white ceiling of a hospital room.

He lay quiet for a while, staring upward, while his senses slowly returned to him. He hurt all over. His limbs felt limp, strengthless. His face pained as though all its skin had been burned off.

Bonner cleared his dry throat. Instantly, a nurse came into his line of vision, leaned over looking down at him.

“Mr. Bonner? How do you feel?”

He tried to moisten his lips with the tip of his tongue. But his tongue was dry, too.

“Thirsty,” he croaked.

The nurse went away, returned with a tumbler of water that had a bent glass straw in it. With one hand, she gently raised his head so that he could suck water through the straw. Avidly he sucked up half the water in the glass. The nurse lowered his head back to the pillow.

“Now how do you feel?” she repeated.

“Like everything’s broken.”

“It’s not,” she told him. “Nothing’s broken. You were very lucky, Mr. Bonner. You’re a mass of bad bruises, that’s all. And a possible concussion; the doctor isn’t sure of that yet.”

The burning sensation in Bonner’s face became sharper. He raised a hand to feel himself there. The nurse caught his hand, firmly pulled it away.

“No,” she told him. “You mustn’t touch your face. It’s all gashed. The doctor swabbed medicine on the cuts but didn’t bandage your face. The cuts will heal faster if left open to the air. But if you start touching, we’ll have to put on bandages. You’re lucky about your face, too, Mr. Bonner. I suppose the cuts are from broken glass. But it missed your eyes.”

For the first time, Bonner remembered what had happened to his face.

Remembered Max Orr.

He turned his head and gazed at the window in the room. It was still dark out. He looked at the nurse again. “What time is it?”

“Just a few minutes before midnight.”

So it was just a few hours since the car had.…

Bonner got his elbows under him, raised himself a little. He felt curiously listless, dizzy.

The nurse put her hand against his chest. “Don’t try to sit up yet,” she told him. “The thing for you to do is just lie back and relax for a couple days, till we’re sure you’re all right.”

Bonner lay back. “What’s the matter with me?” he mumbled. “I feel funny. Can’t focus right.”

“That’s the sedative the doctor administered,” the nurse informed him. “Without it, you’d feel a good deal worse. A couple of your friends are waiting to see you. Feel up to visitors?”

Bonner shut his eyes. His heart began to thud sickly. But he couldn’t put it off. There was something he had to know.

He opened his eyes, whispered, “All right.”

The nurse smiled, left the room. A few seconds later Ben Travis and Lieutenant Ferguson came in together.

Bonner felt a surge of relief at the look on Ferguson’s face. The lieutenant was grinning at him.

But Travis wasn’t grinning. There was a curious blankness in the way he looked at his partner. Bonner wondered about that.

“How do you feel, hero?” Lieutenant Ferguson kidded as they came to his bedside.

“Hero?” Bonner frowned at Ferguson.

“Sure. You got Max Orr, all by yourself, didn’t you?” Ferguson beamed down at him. “I got only one gripe against you. Why’d you have to hog all the glory for yourself?”

Bonner forced a weak grin.

Travis did not join in the mirth. His face was dead serious, guarded. “How’d you get your hands on Orr, Walt?”

Bonner closed his eyes, opened them again. He’d have to take advantage of his condition to be vague about it, stalling till he could think up a good answer to that question.

“I … I’m not sure,” he said weakly. “Can’t remember all of it. My head feels funny.”

“I’ll bet it does,” Ferguson said, still smiling. “The way your car looks, you’re lucky you’ve still got a head.”

“Max Orr,” Bonner whispered, “he’s dead?”

“No,” Travis told him. “Not yet.”

Bonner felt suddenly cold.

“He’s in a room up on the next floor,” Lieutenant Ferguson said, “with one of our boys standing by. Orr hasn’t got long, according to the doctors. But they say he might regain consciousness before he dies.”

“He might be able to talk some,” Travis said in the same quiet, controlled voice, “if he does come to.”

Ferguson asked, “You didn’t by any chance find the bank money, along with Orr, did you?”

Bonner was unnerved by the news that Max Orr was still alive, and might talk. “No,” be whispered. He wished that Travis wouldn’t keep looking at him like that. As though he knew.…

“I was afraid not,” Ferguson said. “Since we didn’t find it in your car. Maybe Orr’ll tell us where it is, if he comes around before he dies. The money won’t be any use to him where he’s going.”

Bonner turned his head slightly on the pillow, so that he wouldn’t have to keep seeing Travis’ face. He stared at the night through the window, fighting against the effects of the sedative in his veins. He had to think more clearly, be ready to move if.…

Travis was fighting a battle of his own, inside himself. His suspicion about Bonner—strengthened by the fact that Bonner and Max Orr had wound up in a car smash-up together—dashed with the strong ties that had bound Bonner to him over the years of working together. He was remembering the time when Bonner had saved his life, in a gun battle during which the two of them had taken on three members of a truck highjacking gang.

“Cora phoned here a few minutes ago to find out how you were,” he said. “She’s on night duty over at Memorial Hospital, or she’d be here now. Too bad you weren’t taken to her hospital, where she could take care of you. She’ll be here to see you as soon as she gets off duty.”

“No need for that,” Bonner said, not looking at Travis. “Give her my love when you call her back.”

A uniformed cop came hurrying into the room.

“Lieutenant,” he told Ferguson breathlessly, “Max Orr’s coming to. The doc says you better hurry if you want to talk to him. They can’t keep him alive much longer.”

Ferguson, an eager look on his face, told Bonner, “We’ll be back later.” He hurried out of the room with the uniformed cop.

Travis started toward the door, stopped and gave Bonner a strange look. “Take it easy, Walt,” he said gently. Then he went out after Ferguson.

As soon as Travis was gone, Bonner sat up and swung his legs off the bed. A wave of dizziness hit him. He sat on the edge of the bed, clutching the mattress with both hands, till the wave subsided. Then he forced himself off the bed. He was shaky, and every part of him ached. The sedative made his movements sluggish, uncertain. But he had to get out of the hospital—fast. As soon as Max Orr talked, he was cooked. They’d know then that he had the money, and that he’d helped in the stealing of it—which had resulted in Mike Dirckson’s death. And they’d know he hadn’t shot Orr in the line of duty, which made it murder.

Barefoot, wearing only the white hospital gown, Bonner shuffled to the closet of his room. His clothes were in it. His gun was also there, on the shelf inside.

Leaning against the wall for support, fighting pain and dizziness, Bonner got into his trousers. He stuffed in the bottom of the hospital gown, then buckled the belt. Getting on his shoes was harder; he didn’t waste precious time with the socks, just put them in his pocket.

A fresh wave of dizziness hit him. He had to sit down on the chair for a moment, cursing himself silently, till it ebbed. Then he got into his jacket, put on his trenchcoat. Time was slipping by too fast. And he knew he was moving too slow. At any moment Ferguson and Travis would be coming back; and now they’d know all about him.

He got his gun, stuffed it into his trenchcoat pocket, started out of the room. The sight of his reflection in the mirror over the hospital bureau stopped him.

His face was a ghastly mess—a horror of deep gashes, welts and livid bruises from Orr’s belt buckle, now further discolored with smears of iodine.

He knew how small his chances were of getting free, with that face. He would be ridiculously easy to identify. There was no way he could hide it, and it would be a week at least before he could grow enough of a beard.…

Bonner set his teeth and shuffled out of the room. He was finished for good if he stayed here. There was nothing to lose by trying.

He got out into the hospital corridor, holding on to the wall for support as he stopped and flashed a look around. He spotted a fire-exit door down to his right and started toward it, still hugging the wall. His legs were threatening to collapse under him; his head began to throb, his skull feeling as if it were rasping against the top of his brain.

Behind him somewhere, a nurse called in alarm, “Mr. Bonner! Stop! You mustn’t—”

He kept going, staggering as he tried to hurry, and reached the fire-exit door. The door felt very heavy and stiff-hinged. But he got it open and slipped inside. The door slammed shut behind him. He turned and snapped the lock. A second later the knob was rattled from outside. Then the nurse was banging on the other side of the door. Her voice reached him dimly, strained through the metal of the door. “Mr. Bonner, come back! Your condition—”

Hanging onto the iron rail, Bonner stumbled down the concrete fire-exit stairway. Each step sent agony lancing up through him, into his brain, threatening to knock him unconscious. Desperately he fought against it, kept going.

 

In the corridor above, Lieutenant Ferguson came out of the elevator, his face grim and shocked, followed by Ben Travis. Max Orr was dead. But he had talked before he died. Told them about Bonner.

Together, Ferguson and Travis strode down the corridor to Bonner’s room. Saw it empty.

The nurse came hurrying to them, distraught. “Mr. Bonner ran away—I don’t know what could have—”

“Which way?” Ferguson snapped.

She pointed. “The fire-escape stairwell. But he’s in no condition—”

Ferguson and Travis rushed to the fire-exit door, found it locked from inside.

“Walt must be crazy,” Travis muttered.

Two uniformed cops had come into the corridor, were hurrying toward them.

Lieutenant Ferguson yelled at them, “Bonner’s run for it. The fire stairs. Try to get him at the bottom.”

The two cops turned and sprinted away. Ferguson ran toward the window at the rear end of the corridor. Travis saw him drawing his revolver, hurried after him. Uncertainty muddled his thinking. He’d suspected Bonner before, but knowing for certain made it different. He could only think of Bonner now as sick—dangerously sick.

He reached the end of the corridor as Lieutenant Ferguson threw up the window. Below was a narrow alley cutting between hospital buildings. Bonner suddenly appeared at the bottom of it, staggered, leaned against a wall under the glow of the light bulb over the fire-exit door.

“Walt!” Travis shouted down at him. “Stay there! Wait for me!”

Below, Bonner looked up. Then be pushed himself from the wall and staggered away.

Beside Travis, Ferguson raised his gun, taking careful aim at Bonner’s retreating back.

“No!” Travis whispered. His reaction was instinctive, without thought. His hand shot out, seized Ferguson’s wrist and wrenched it upward just as the lieutenant fired.

The shot went high. With a curse, Ferguson tried to pull free of Travis for another shot. Travis’ steel fingers tightened on his wrist, twisted. Ferguson gasped with pain, the gun spilling from his hand onto the floor.

By then, Bonner had vanished around the corner of the building. Travis let go of Ferguson, wiped a shaking hand across his eyes.

“You know what you just did to yourself?” Ferguson asked furiously.

Travis nodded. “I just couldn’t let you.…” He didn’t finish. It was something he couldn’t explain, even to himself.

Ferguson stooped and picked up his gun. When he straightened, most of the fury was gone from his face. He even looked a little sorry for Travis.

“If Bonner gets away,” Ferguson told him, “you can turn in your badge. You’re through.”

The lieutenant strode off up the corridor to the phone in the nurses’ alcove.