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I would find him all right.

CHAPTER
8
    Room 501 South, Boston City Hospital. In spite of the fresh white paint and the red and blue poppy-splattered curtains, I’ve seen prison cells a whole lot cheerier. It was a double room, the size of a large closet. Sliding curtains were ominously closed around the bed of the occupant who’d arrived first and copped the window view of the trash dumpster.
    Margaret’s eyes were closed, too, one of them swollen shut, purpling nicely. Breath rasped through her nostrils. An IV bag dripped colorless fluid through a thin tube connected to the veins in her left hand by needles and tape. The elevated hospital bed dwarfed her. White lab coats surrounded her. All that white, all that machinery—the combination made my stomach quake.
    A broken collarbone, abrasions, contusions, probably a concussion. An impossibly young and cheerful doctor said she was lucky she hadn’t broken a hip.
    Hospitals and prisons both make me sweat. Maybe it’s the smell. More likely, it’s something about places that hold you against your will.
    At least prisons don’t have doctors who tell you how lucky you are.
    Margaret had briefly regained consciousness in the ambulance.
    In a shaky voice, she’d informed the EM”I that she had a mess to clear up at home, and he could just stop at the corner and she’d be on her way, thank you very much. And all the time, you could see she was hurting like hell, barely able to squeeze the words out of her swollen mouth. I hope I’ve got half that much spunk when I’m her age.
    1 waited in a dismal antiseptic-smelling hallway while two cops I didn’t know tried to question her. A pimply blond teenager in hospital greens slid one of those heavy buffing machines in lazy arcs across the linoleum floor. Over the hum, I could hear the cops’ voices. I couldn’t hear Margaret.
    Every once in a while a loudspeaker would cough out a doctor’s name or a room number, “Code Red” or “Code Blue,”
    and a sudden rush of white uniforms and scuffling feet would follow. Otherwise it was just the floor-buffer man and me. We exchanged brief smiles.
    When the cops came out, I introduced myself. One of them knew Mooney.
    “He sends his best,” the guy said. He was long and lean and wore the uniform well. ‘Too busy to take the squeal himself.”
    “Yeah,” echoed the second cop. He was older, short and potbellied, with a jutting chin. Didn’t do a thing for the uniform.
    I
    nodded toward Margaret’s door. “She tell you anything?”
    “Too
    woozy,” the fat cop said immediately, with a
    warning glance at his partner. He wasn’t the type to give information to mere civilians.
    “Said she fell downstairs,” the lean cop said softly.
    A hefty blond nurse breezed into 501 carrying a tray with a glass of chipped ice and a straw. I excused myself and followed.
    The
    closer I got, the worse she looked, and believe me, the view from the doorway window had been bad enough.
    From two feet away, her skin, the part of her skin that wasn’t bandaged, or raw and red, or purple from the bruises, was gray. The bandage across her forehead was neat enough, but a brownish stain was seeping through on the left side. All the tubes and drains made her look like some helpless old marionette, controlled by the huge mechanical bed and the display of instruments on the wall behind her head.
    The nurse addressed her as if she were awake. I wasn’t sure, but I figured the nurse ought to know.
    “I hope those policemen didn’t upset you,” she said briskly, smoothing an offending wrinkle out of the top sheet.
    “They have to ask their questions, I suppose.” She glanced at her wristwatch, then at me. “I’m sure your, uh, granddaughter can help you with the ice water.”
    I nodded obediently, and tried to look young and earnest.
    The beating had added years to Margaret’s appearance.
    The tray also held a syringe. The nurse uncapped the needle, lifted it to the light, checked something