Chapter 49 - The Pickup

Chapter 49: Chapter 49 - The Pickup

Carrie was halfway across the floor of Marlowe’s with two plates of pancakes balanced on her arm when her phone buzzed in her apron pocket.

She set the plates down in front of a couple at table six, smiled, wished them a good breakfast, then ducked into the waiters’ station and pulled out her phone. It was an unknown number.

Three minutes later she was still standing there, staring at the dark screen.

McQuise Hospital. Upper East Side. Come now.

And then he’d hung up on her.

She replayed the call in her head. He’d asked whether she could drive, as if that were the most important question in the world. He’d sounded tired and a little stuffy, like someone with a bad cold. He’d said hospital, and when she asked what happened, the line had gone dead.

Two nights ago she’d left him bleeding at the doors of St. Nicholas. Yesterday he’d walked into Marlowe’s without a scratch on him. Now he was in a hospital again.

Had Angus found him? Had someone else?

"Car?"

Evie was leaning in the doorway with a coffee pot in her hand, frowning.

"You’ve been standing there like a statue for five minutes. Table nine wants their check, and Mr. Petrakis is asking for you." She looked at Carrie’s face, and her frown deepened. "What’s wrong?"

"Evie, can you cover my tables?" Carrie shoved her phone back into her apron. "Something came up. It’s urgent. I have to go right now."

"Right now? It’s the middle of the breakfast rush." Evie lowered her voice. "Is it Aileen? Is she in trouble again?"

"No. It’s not Aileen." Carrie was already untying her apron. "But I really need to get there fast. Please."

Evie looked at her for a long second. Then she sighed and held out her free hand for the apron.

"Go. I’ve got you. Tommy’s in the back doing inventory. If he asks, you got your period and threw up in the bathroom."

Carrie grabbed her hand and squeezed it.

"Thank you. I mean it, Evie. I’ll make it worth your while. I promise."

"You’d better. I’m thinking dinner. Somewhere with cloth napkins."

Carrie was already running.

She pushed out through the front door, waved down the first yellow cab she saw on Ditmars and climbed into the back seat, still in her white blouse and black uniform skirt.

"McQuise Hospital," she said, breathless. "Upper East Side. As fast as you can, please."

The driver pulled out into traffic.

Carrie sat back and pressed her palms against her knees to stop them from bouncing.

Her phone buzzed again. It was a text from the same number.

Front desk. Tell them you’re here for Harold Temple. Don’t use my name.

She read it three times.

Harold Temple. Who on earth was Harold Temple?

She watched the bridge rise up ahead of them, the river flashing silver beneath it, and wondered what kind of man needed a fake name to leave a hospital, and why, out of everyone in this city, he’d called her.

---

Twenty minutes later, a nurse in pale blue scrubs led Carrie down a quiet hallway lined with framed watercolors and stopped in front of a door at the end.

"He’s ready for you," the nurse said, and opened it.

Carrie stepped inside and stopped dead.

Jesse was sitting in a wheelchair beside a large bed, dressed in dark sweatpants and a loose gray sweater. A fresh white dressing wrapped the middle of his face. It covered his nose completely and ran across his cheekbones, taped down at the edges. Only his mouth and jaw were left uncovered below it. Above it, a pair of wraparound protective glasses with tinted lenses hid his eyes.

What she could see of the skin around the dressing was swollen and mottled purple and yellow.

He looked like someone had hit him in the face with a brick.

"Oh my God." Carrie’s hand flew to her mouth. "Jesse. What happened? Who did this to you? Was it Angus? Did he find you? Are your eyes okay? Why are your eyes covered? Can you see? Why are you using a fake name? Jesse, what—"

"Carrie."

She stopped.

"Don’t ask so many questions," Jesse said. His voice came out thick and nasal under the dressing. "Just help me get out of here."

She opened her mouth, then closed it again.

Behind her, two nurses came in. One carried a white paper bag stapled shut at the top. The other went around behind the wheelchair and unlocked the brakes.

"These are his medications," the first nurse said, handing Carrie the bag. "Pain medication, antibiotics and two kinds of eye drops. The schedule’s printed on the front. Cold compresses on the face, twenty minutes every hour while he’s awake. If there’s any heavy bleeding, fever or sudden change in his vision, you call the number on the sheet immediately."

Carrie took the bag like she’d been handed a live grenade.

"Okay," she said faintly.

The second nurse stepped aside and nodded at the handles of the wheelchair.

Carrie looked at them. Then at Jesse.

He tilted his head toward the door.

She took hold of the handles and pushed.

They went down the hallway, into the elevator and through a side exit at the back of the hospital that opened onto a small private parking area. Jesse’s black Porsche sat alone in the nearest space, gleaming in the morning sun.

One of the nurses had followed them out. She stopped beside the wheelchair and touched Jesse’s shoulder.

"Take it easy, Mr. Temple. No bending over, no heavy lifting and no blowing your nose. I mean it."

"I’ll be good," Jesse said.

He gripped the arms of the wheelchair and pushed himself up slowly. He swayed on his feet for a second. Carrie dropped the medication bag and grabbed his elbow on instinct. He let her hold it for a moment, then steadied himself, opened the passenger door and lowered himself carefully into the seat.

Carrie picked up the bag, thanked the nurse and walked around the front of the car.

She stopped beside the driver’s door.

It was a Porsche. The one she’d ridden in two nights ago, with half a million dollars of clothes stacked in the back seat. She’d never driven anything nicer than her roommate’s dented Honda Civic back in college.

She took a breath, opened the door and slid behind the wheel.

The seat was too far back for her. She found the controls and moved it forward. Then she sat with her hands resting on the steering wheel, staring through the windshield at the hospital wall.

Her mind was replaying everything that has happened between her and Jesse and none of it fit together, none of it made sense.

Every time she thought she understood this man, he pulled the ground out from under her again.

She turned to look at him.

Jesse had his head tipped back against the headrest, the tinted glasses facing the roof. He didn’t turn toward her.

"What’s the delay?" he said. "Start driving."