Invasion of Privacy Read Online Free PDF Page B

The door opened, but Mary didn’t move. She remained where she was, her father’s baritone loud in her ears.
    Order refused, Admiral
.
    Mary was no longer invincible.
    Queen Mary the Lionheart was ready to give up her throne.
    —
    She saw Joe through the window—the sole patient in the ICU, eyes closed, respirator protruding from his mouth, more tubes than she could count running in and out of his body. An army of machines monitored his vital signs. There was a heart monitor. An automatic sphyg-momometer to measure blood pressure. An electroencephalograph for brain function. And many more, all of which Mary knew by name.
    “Do I need a gown or mask?” she asked, eyes never leaving her husband’s inert form.
    “That won’t be necessary,” said Dr. Alexander.
    Mary stepped inside the room and approached the bed. “Joe,” shesaid softly, as if there were others there she might disturb. “It’s me. I came as soon as I heard. You doing okay?”
    Dr. Alexander had been forthright in his explanation of Joe’s injury and his prognosis for recovery. He’d been shot in the chest by a high-caliber weapon. The bullet missed his heart by an eighth of an inch, nicked an artery, then struck the spinal cord before exiting his back. Paralysis below the neck was a foregone conclusion. The bigger issue was loss of brain function because of oxygen deprivation from the prolonged cardiac arrest.
    “The paramedics estimate that your husband’s heart had stopped for thirteen minutes when they found him. It’s a miracle he’s alive at all.”
    To every profession a code, thought Mary. The FBI had its own vocabulary. Debriefings went sideways. Snitches were CIs. And families didn’t have a “need to know.” Doctors were no better. They spoke of prolonged cardiac arrest and cerebral oxygen deficiency and significant tissue damage. Mary spoke their language, too. She knew the doctor meant that Joe was brain-dead, unable to breathe on his own, and that he had a hole in his back the size of a softball.
    What were you doing in Dripping Springs?
she inquired silently as she ran a hand through his hair.
Why did you call me instead of Don Bennett? Who’s Sid?
    A married couple has its code, too.
Everything’s copacetic, baby
. Meaning “I’m in deep shit and need your help.”
    Mary pulled a chair close to the bed and sat. “I’m here, baby,” she whispered in Joe’s ear. “Me and the girls, we know you love us. Take your time. Rest and get better.”
    In the elevator she’d asked Dr. Alexander a question: “How many patients have ever come back after being dead for thirteen minutes?”
    “None that I’m aware of.”
    Mary didn’t like the answer, but at least there was no BS.
    She threaded her arm through the protective railings and took her husband’s hand. She looked at the EEG. The gray line ran flat. Pulse: 64. Blood pressure: 90/60. She listened to the wheezing of the respirator.
    “But if you need to go, I understand,” she went on. “I’ll make sure Jessie gets to MIT or Caltech or wherever geniuses like her learn all that stuff. You know, she unlocked my phone on the way back from the hospital today. Where does she learn that? And I’ll take care of Gracie. The doc said the spike in white blood cells was just temporary.The blasts haven’t come back. He’s not sure why, but he said we shouldn’t worry. She threw up on the way home. It might have been carsickness. Jessie wouldn’t help clean up. She said she didn’t do floors or windows. That girl knows how to push all my buttons. You two couldn’t be any more alike. Anyway, three more years and Grace is over the hump. Maybe you can give me a hand and watch over her.”
    Joe’s hand squeezed hers.
    Mary jumped in her chair. “Joe!”
    Her eyes locked on the EEG monitor. She willed the gray line to move, to assume its jackhammer pattern, but it remained flat. There was no spark of electrical activity in Joe’s brain. His heart rate didn’t budge, nor