The Viper

AS SOON AS a modicum of rationality returned, Gurney went to the Albany General Hospital’s website, got the patient-information phone number, and called it. He asked about Hardwick’s condition, was told only that he was in ICU, that HIPAA regulations prohibited the sharing of other information, and that no visitors beyond immediate family could be admitted.

He wondered if word had gotten to Esti. He knew there was no landline, and he had no cell number for her. Should he drive to Dillweed, in the event that she didn’t already know? Or was it more likely that someone who knew her cell number had already called her? Surely, one or more of her state police contacts would do so. Chances were she was already at the hospital.

He called the hospital again, and this time asked for the ICU.

When someone at the nursing station picked up, he said, “I need to reach Esti Moreno, who I believe is visiting Jack Hardwick.”

A harried female voice replied, “She stepped out for a moment. Try later.”

Now he knew that she knew, and he knew where she was, but he wasn’t sure what to do next. Wait a few minutes and call again? Call back now and leave his number, so she could reach him? Or forget about calling and just drive to the hospital?

It was the last option that seemed right. The point wasn’t just to get information or express his concern. He should go there. Be there.

He slipped his phone back in his pocket and went to the kitchen.

Madeleine was stirring a pot of something on the stove.

“I have to go out,” he said. “Albany. The hospital. Jack’s been injured.”

She looked at him. “How?”

“He was shot.”

“Shot?”

“In a parking lot. Near Albany. I need to go. I’ll call you.”

HE ARRIVED IN the main parking lot of the hospital at 6:28 p.m. in a nervous daze. On the radio, the local Albany station was reporting on the fatal Garville clash.

“Today’s violent confrontation has now claimed a second life,” the reporter said. “Dominick Vesco suffered cardiac arrest following a surgical procedure and was declared dead at five forty-five this evening. We’ve been informed that Jack Hardwick, the other participant in the confrontation, has emerged from surgery and is being maintained in an induced coma to increase his chance of survival.”

Gurney turned off the radio. He tried to organize his thoughts but found that his brain wasn’t operating in linear fashion. The simple dictum that so often put him back on track—just do the next right thing—wasn’t working. He had no idea what the next right thing might be.

With Hardwick in a coma, there was no point in trying to visit the ICU. Besides, either Garville PD or the NYSP would have personnel on site, since it now appeared that Hardwick was involved in two homicides. And it was possible that Cam Stryker, aware of Gurney’s relationship with the man, had sent her own people to the hospital to be on the lookout for him. He sank down a little lower in his seat and gave the parking lot a careful once-over. As his gaze returned to the front of the hospital, a woman was coming out through the main revolving door. Despite the freezing temperature, she was wearing just jeans and a sweater. She had a cigarette in one hand and a lighter in the other. When she turned halfway toward the door to shield the flame from the wind, he recognized her profile.

It was no surprise that Esti Moreno would be there, but the actual sight of her gave his nerves a jab. He felt some resistance to the idea of approaching her, but he knew it had to be done. Figuring any cops assigned to the situation would be in the building, he got out of the car, turned up the collar of his jacket against the wind, and walked quickly across the parking lot.

She was in the middle of a long drag on her cigarette.

“Esti?”

She stared at him, slowly blowing out the smoke, her expression hardening.

“What are you doing here?” Her voice was hoarse, angry.

He blinked, taken aback by her tone. “I heard . . . on the radio . . . about the shooting.”

“Go away! Just leave! Now!”

Gurney took a small step backward. “I don’t understand.”

“He may not make it. He may die. You hear what I’m saying?”

“My God, Esti, I—”

She cut him off. “You dragged him into this fucking case! You did this, you fucking son of a bitch! Get away from me! Now!”

62

GURNEY RETREATED TO HIS CAR. WHERE HE JUST SAT, battered by the growing impact of Esti’s outburst.

A man he’d naively come to believe was indestructible was just as destructible as any other human being. And it was his own cajoling, his importuning, that had put him in the literal line of fire. If Hardwick should die . . .