Chapter Thirty Four

Link fought through the cotton that cloaked his mind. All about him was white or pastel. Tubes pulled at his body when he tried to move. Where was he? What had happened?

As the haze slowly ebbed from his confused mind, he realized he was in a hospital room. He had no memory of how he arrived. When he tried to speak, to call out, no words came from his parched throat and swollen lips.

He heard distant voices, voices he knew he should recognize. Ah, now he knew one--Gary Don Clayton. Why was the quarterback outside his door? What ball game had they been in?

He fought the almost overwhelming urge to give in to the comforting cushion of sleep and tried to focus. Wait. No, not a game. It was something else. Something more serious.

If only his mind would function, concentrate. The thought was almost there, then slipped away. Now he could understand Gary Don’s words, yet they made no sense.

"And no one goes in or out except me and the doctor and nurses, got it? I mean no one. And you check anything that goes into the room or comes out, no matter who carries it."

An unfamiliar voice answered, "Yes, sir. No one but you goes in. I'll check anything that goes in or out. Yes, sir, I've got it, Sheriff."

Sheriff? That's it. Damn, Gary Don's the sheriff now. Memories came flooding back. Running through the rain and darkness. Struggling against the swollen Brazos River while clinging to a log. Angelic Maureen O'Hara helping him into a car. Why would she be here, in Spencer County? And how did she become young again?

Wait. That other man, a wounded man who’d saved his life. Where was that man now?

Gary Don's voice came again, and Link strained to hear the words.

"This is a dangerous man, Deputy. Dixon's a local hero gone bad, so don't be fooled by him. He's responsible for two deaths we know of and he'll try anything to get away, say anything to gain your sympathy. Be on your guard at all times."

"I will, Sheriff. You can count on me. What about the other man?"

Link strained to hear each word, to learn the fate of the man who had helped him.

He heard the sheriff continue, "He's still in ICU, and in no condition to move on his own. We don't who he is. Looks like he's a goner anyway. He was with Dixon, so he must be cut from the same cloth."

The buzzing in Link's head whirred again. He had trouble thinking, but he knew Gary Don had just labeled him as a criminal and the man who helped him as his accomplice. How could that be?

"Don't be listenin' to any sob stories from the family or friends, either. We don't want anyone helpin' him escape. That's why no one but me or the doctor or nurses goes in. Got it?"

"Yes, sir, Sheriff. I’ve got it."

When Link tried to sit up, his head buzzed and pain radiated throughout his body. He fell back against the pillows and sweat beaded on his forehead.

Okay. Maybe a bit more rest to try and sort the mishaps that landed him here.

He was in a hospital room, and he thought it must be Spencer County General. And Gary Don thought him a criminal. Why? Slowly, as if in a dream sequence, the pattern of events from the previous day flowed back.

The letters, what happened to the letters he’d left for Eddy and Maggie? By now Travis should be here, everyone should know he worked with the Feds as well as for the Sheriff. Something had gone very wrong somewhere because he had a guard outside the door.

That meant under arrest, to be taken to jail as soon as he could leave the hospital.

He inventoried his body. First he flexed his hands and toes, then moved and shifted until certain he suffered no broken bones. Other than aches and pains from the beating he took from Boo and that other crazy, Link found a bandage on his right arm where he’d been shot. It would be his right since he was right handed. Apparently nothing major there, though. No sling, no cast.

His ribs hurt like a son of a gun. He remembered Boo and the other man kicking him in the ribs and back. The little man had laughed like a kid playing a game of kickball. Cracked or broken ribs must not have punctured a lung. Probably be pissing blood for a week.

Very slowly, he raised himself part way using the rail at the top half of the bed as lever. After a few moments in a sitting position, the dizziness lessened. He swung his legs over the side of the bed.

Easy does it, just a few movements at a time.

He disengaged himself from the IV tubes. He felt a tug and looked down. Damn, a catheter. Oh man, he hoped this didn’t damage him. Bracing himself, he removed the offending paraphernalia. When he observed no damage to one of his most valued body parts, he sighed with relief.

After disconnecting the monitor, he had succeeded in freeing himself from tubes and no one alerted nurses at a central station. With this small victory came a feeling of reclaiming himself. Other people depended on him and he must get in touch with Travis.

Better get up and get out of here.

A speedy survey of the room showed no telephone in sight. He had to do this on his own. First, he needed water. Pouring water into the glass was hard. His left hand trembled at the effort.

He sipped the liquid through his throbbing lips. Hard to swallow. Take it slow. He almost retched, managed to keep the water down. No time to be sick now.

Within what seemed like hours, but must have been only a few minutes, Link worked his way to the cabinet serving as a small locker-like closet. No clothes. Nothing personal of any kind.

Quickly he searched the room, hoping for something besides the backless hospital gown. Double damn. Not that they would be presentable after his battle and the river, but none of his belongings had accompanied him to this room. What could he do?

He couldn't make his great escape waving his backside to the world. A look out the window placed him on the third floor—too far to jump. The most he could accomplish was mooning the people in the rooms of the facing hospital wing. Not even a ledge to walk along to another room.

Well, shit, in the movies there's always a ledge.

As he dropped into the bedside chair to think, he winced as the cold vinyl against his skin reminded him of his vulnerability. He had to get clothes and get out. And he had to do so quickly before a hospital staff member came in to check on him and alerted the guard outside.

A plan would be good about now. Any plan.

From the cabinet beside the bed Link grabbed the metal bedpan. Quickly he disassembled the base of the stand that held his IV, then pulled the privacy curtain around the bed. This screened the empty bed from the doorway. Next he took his place behind the door.

Lord help me.

With luck, only the officer on guard would come in. With luck, he wouldn't pass out before he got the officer's gun. With luck, he wouldn’t have to hurt the deputy. Executing a toss to please any coach, he sent the bedpan across the room and let out a moan.

The door flew open and the officer rushed in.

One whack with the metal bar from the IV stand collapsed the young deputy.

Damn, it was Turner. Bit eager, but a nice kid. Link stripped the shirt and pants from the unconscious man, then trussed him with the tubing from the IV.

With the man safely handcuffed to the bed and a handkerchief in his mouth, Link dressed himself in the fallen Deputy's clothes. He emptied the pants pockets of the man's wallet and keys, but kept the badge and ID.

He made a quick check of the other man's wristwatch. After eleven. Soon the eleven to seven shift nurses would be making rounds.

Link stood taller than the other man by a good three inches and smaller in the waist. When he wedged his long feet into the shoes, they pinched painfully. He grimaced and shoved harder. He had to have shoes to complete the uniform. Trying a few steps, he found he could walk by pressing the backs of the shoes down with his heels.

He shuffled as if they were slippers or clogs. Even then they pinched his toes. Surely he could tolerate the small shoes long enough to get out of the hospital.

He hitched up the belt and permitted himself a quick look in the mirror.

Dear God in heaven, could that be me?

He hardly recognized himself beneath the swollen and bruised skin. Nothing to do about it now, he thought, got to get moving.

No one would mistake him for a well-dressed officer. With the hallway lights lowered for nighttime, he could move if no one got a good look at him. He grabbed the man's western uniform hat and tilted it to shade his face.

A furtive look out the door revealed a nurse and LVN in conference down the hall near the nurses' station. Two orderlies shot the breeze nearby. Link slipped out the door and walked away from them. With no idea which way led to the stairs, he looked from side to side at each intersecting hallway.

He thought it best to avoid the elevators and he had to keep away from nurses’ stations. One look at his battered face would call attention to his identity.

Link's legs wobbled, his knees like Gumby the rubber man. If only he could sit down for ten minutes. Actually, he needed to lie down—and for a lot longer than a few minutes. He forced himself onward, carefully measuring his gait to appear as normal as possible for his compressed feet.

Do nothing to call attention to yourself.

When he felt hopelessly lost in the maze of hallways and certain of recapture, he spotted an exit sign only a few steps ahead. Finally, stairs. At least he’d made it off this floor.

Soon the nurses would find the unconscious deputy and sound the alarm. He must force himself to hurry down the stairs and out of the hospital. Then what?

One step at a time. First get out of the hospital, then decide where to go afterward.

At the ground floor, he turned toward the day clinic. Those doors would be locked until morning, but their safety latch insured they always opened from inside. If his luck held, he could slip out unnoticed.