Fifty-Five

I’ve had all sorts of hangovers: little hangovers from sampling fifteen different types of beer at the Sunset Cafe; big hangovers from a night that started in beerworld, traveled through whiskeyland, and ended in tequilaville; and vomity hangovers from drinking a bottle of triple sec on a dare. All these hangovers came with a headache, and none of those headaches were as bad as the one that I had right now in a hospital bed at Mass General.

My eyes fluttered open.

Somewhere Lieutenant Lee said, “He’s awake.”

I said, “Water,” and Jael handed me a cup with a bendy straw. The water tasted like plastic, but it washed away the cotton in my mouth.

Bobby’s face loomed before me. “Holy crap, Tucker. I hope you feel better than you look.”

“I don’t.”

“That’s too bad, because you look like shit.”

“Thanks.” I reached up and touched a bandage across the back of my head. The hair around the bandage was gone.

“Stitches?” I asked.

Bobby said, “Yeah. Seven or eight. You were bleeding all over the place when they brought you in.”

“Where’s Lucy and Uncle Walt?”

Lee said, “You were alone.”

“No, I left them on a bench. I was getting Uncle Walt’s car because he was so drunk.”

Jael said, “I went to the bench after the ambulance arrived. They were gone.”

Lee said, “Jael tells us that Lyla Black tried to kill you.”

“Lyla Black?”

“A suspected professional killer,” said Lee. “She’s thought to work for the Rizzos.”

A spike of pain shot through my head. I winced and said, “What?”

Lee said, “This Lyla woman has been known to work for the Rizzos. Sal Rizzo tried to have you killed.”

Bobby said, “C’mon, Lee, that’s a stretch.”

Lee asked, “You haven’t seen the pattern here?”

“Which pattern?”

“Someone has been killing his family—”

Bobby said, “Shut up, Lee.”

Lee said, “One by one. I don’t think it’s an outsider.”

A blast of pain in my head squeezed my eyes shut and forced a groan out of me. Someone said, “You all have to leave. Mr. Tucker is spending the night.”