Middle Of Nowhere

   A fogged plastic tube, inserted through a surgical hole at the base of her throat, supplied Maria Sanchez's oxygen. Her torso was held fast by a white plastic brace that was itself connected to the bed frame, preventing movement of any kind. Too many tubes to count. A modern Medusa. Blinking lights and flashing green numbers in black boxes on rolling stands of stainless steel. A bag of intravenous fluids. Drip, drip, drip. A blue plastic clip over her index finger ticking out her pulse and measuring her blood oxygen. The glare of tube lighting. The hum of machinery and the disturbingly symmetrical rhythm of her computer-controlled breaths.

   Boldt's throat constricted. His chest seized in a cramp. This wasn't just a woman lying there; she was also a police officer. A friend. Family. Liz had once lain in just such a bed. He knew the things they could do to a person in here. He had seen Liz's roommate being wheeled out, and she had never been wheeled back in. The thought of Liz returned him to his concern over the threatening phone calls. He didn't trust where this Flu was headed. He wanted out of that room.

   Maria Sanchez's bloodshot eyes showed through small slits, and Boldt could detect slight movement in them as she tracked their entry into the room. Boldt recalled her on the couch with his two kids. Sitting up. Laughing. Goodnight Moon in her lap. He could envision her hugging his children with two arms that worked. But it was that laugh of hers he remembered. Her time with his kids had helped in her recovery from grief— she had learned to laugh again in his house. To live. And now this.

   "Officer Maria Sanchez," Daphne said, seeing Boldt struggle, "I'm Daphne Matthews, the department psychologist. You know Lieutenant Boldt—Homicide."

   "Matthews is lead on your assault," Boldt managed to say. "I'm playing Watson." He had wanted to inject humor. He'd failed. Again he realized he had spent too many hours in hospital rooms of late. There should be quotas, he thought. He foresaw pain and hardship in that bed. Time. Waiting. For eighteen months of cancer treatment his family had suffered. Now they still waited, hoping Liz's remission held. The waiting hurt most of all. Sanchez would feel the full force of it.

   His voice broke as he said, "I'm sorry for your situation, Maria."

   Daphne offered, "We don't pretend to know what you're going through, but we are going to put away whoever's responsible." She added, "We're told the doctors plan some experimental surgery and that the prognosis is good. Be strong, Maria. We're pulling for you."

   "The whole department," Boldt said. Adding, "What's left of it."

   The patient blinked once. At first it appeared to be a reflex, nothing more. But it drew their attention.

   Boldt carefully chose his words. "We've been over to the scene just now . . . your house, Maria. Looks a lot like you interrupted a burglary. Stereo gear and at least one TV appear to be missing."

   "We'll need for you to confirm as much of this as possible—as soon as you're able," Daphne added.

   "The report is sketchy at best," Boldt said. "When you're better, we'll work on this one together, okay?" His attempt at positive thinking sounded hollow and fell flat. Boldt didn't know quite how to act, so he decided to just stick to business. "We're pursuing this as a firstdegree burglary. I guess we just wanted to say it goes without saying that we're not sitting on this one, that the Flu isn't going to delay this in any way. Matthews got the call—the lead—and that's a good thing. We're going to chase down this offender and lock him up. Guaranteed."

   "We need you, Maria," Daphne encouraged her. "You're going to pull out of this."

   Another blink. A tear slithered from her eye, down her pale cheek and cascaded to the pillowcase. When her eyelids opened again fully, Sanchez's dark pupils were lodged to the left of her eye sockets.

   "Maria?" Boldt inquired, the eye movement obvious. He checked with Daphne.

   "We're watching your eyes," Daphne stated firmly to the woman. "Are you trying to signal us, Maria?" she asked. For Boldt, the air in the room suddenly seemed absolutely still. The sounds of the machinery seemed louder. He felt cold, chilled to the bone.

   Another blink. Reflex or intentional? Her pupils faced right.

   "Oh my God," he mumbled, letting it slip. He glanced toward the door and the freedom it offered.

   "Right is 'yes'; left is 'no.' Is that correct?" Daphne inquired.

   The woman closed her fluttering lids with great difficulty. When her eyes reopened, her pupils remained locked to the right.

   Daphne met eyes with Boldt, her excitement obvious.

   "We're going to ask you some questions," Daphne suggested tentatively. "Okay?"

   The eyelids sank shut. As they reopened a crack, the pupils faced left, her answer a solid no. Her eyes fluttered shut and remained so. Boldt felt a wave of relief.

   "She's too tired," Boldt said, indicating to Daphne they should leave the room.