I started laughing. It wasn’t that funny, but it was too absurd for my present state of mind.

“Let me see,” Cordelia said. I offered one of my wrists, still laughing. She unwrapped the bandage, examined my wrist for a minute, then wrapped it back up. “Sorry, my mistake.”

“Don’t worry about it. Better people than you have thought Micky Knight to be crazy,” Ranson charitably explained.

“I’ve got to go,” Cordelia said. She left, shaking her head.

“How do you two know each other?” I asked Ranson.

“Danny introduced us a while back,” she answered. “Anything new on Barbara Selby?” It was my turn to shake my head no.

“I’m posting a guard. There are people who would prefer she never come out of that coma,” Ranson said.

I shuddered. It wasn’t a pleasant thought.

“Ballistics has cleared you. Turner with a .38. Barbara with a .22.”

“Did you come all the way down here just to tell me that?” I asked.

“No, I came here to check on Barbara Selby and to give you your gun and to tell you to carry it.”

“What a nice idea.”

“At all times. It wouldn’t be a bad idea for you to take a vacation. Someplace like Nepal would be perfect.”

“Paid?” I asked. She ignored the question.

“What I’m saying, Micky, is be careful.”

“Gosh, thanks, Joanne. It’s nice to know you care,” I replied. “You had me fooled with that efficient, no-nonsense, businesslike exterior, but underneath, a heart of, golly, purest gold.”

She looked at me for a long time, then finally spoke, “Right. I do care. I don’t like hospital vigils. I don’t want to do one for you.” Ranson turned on her heel and walked out, leaving me no chance to reply.

Not that I could think of anything to say. I’m not real good at being serious. So in the unlikely event that someone should tell me that they care about me or that they really worry about me or that they love me, like Danny did a long summer ago, I’m not very good at replying. The last person I said “I love you” to was my dad and I was ten at the time. “You’re nice, I like you” is about as far as I go. It’s not something I’m proud of. Someday maybe I’ll be able to afford a shrink and find out why.

I decided that it was Ranson’s job to be concerned about people she worked with. She was a good cop because she really cared, but I wasn’t more important than anyone else.

It was time to get out of this hospital. If I stayed here much longer I would probably run into both Cordelia and Aunt Greta. Together, no doubt. Besides that, I had a cat that was, by this point, keeping the whole neighborhood awake with her famished cries.

Chapter 13

Fortunately, my keys were in the canvas bag that Ranson had returned. I let myself in and slowly trudged up the three flights. It was already starting to get dark outside, making the stairs very dark, since the light on my landing had burned out again. I would have to call my landlord and tell him that for the outrageous rent I paid, I was entitled to service. So far no starving cat cries. I put my key in the lock, turned it, and pushed the door open. I groped for the light switch.

I know my office quite well. That’s why I was very surprised to crash into something. I was even more surprised to realize that I had hit it hard enough to force me sprawling back out the door and down the stairs. I landed with a heavy thud, at the half-flight landing.

The object that I had hit, or more accurately, that had hit me, was coming down the stairs after me. I couldn’t see very well, since my nose was bleeding, and having landed more upside down than not, the blood was running into my eyes. But I could see that there were two objects tromping down the stairs and Hepplewhite wasn’t coming to my rescue. I had no idea where my bag with the loaded gun had landed.

Object one kicked me in the side. I started yelling, more in pain than as a clever move to attract attention. That kick hurt like hell. So did the next one. I rolled away and tried to get up, to at least get the blood flowing out of my eyes. I managed to get to my knees, but I was in a corner, with object two blocking my way downstairs. Number one pulled a knife out of his pocket and clicked the blade into place. Did I really want my eyes clear enough to see this? It looked like their orders were to rough me up, not kill me. For that, a quick gunshot would have sufficed. However, that knife didn’t look like a wonderful alternative to me. Number one took a swing at me. I managed to duck it. Then he made a lunge for my face. I got an arm up to block it, but the blade easily sliced through Danny’s gray sweater. It left a deep gash on my forearm. If I could get to my feet, I might make it. A couple of well-placed and lucky kicks were the only chance I had. Number one took another swing with the knife. I avoided it by hitting the floor. I tried to throw myself down the stairs with my hands, but they slipped in blood. I wonder whose? I slid down two steps, on my stomach, leaving my back exposed to the knife. Number two put his foot on my shoulder, none too gently, and pinned me down. I braced myself for the blade in my back.

There was a thunderclap in the stairwell. Plaster and sheet rock fragments poured over me.

“I’ve called the police and they’re on their way,” called an old woman’s voice from above us.