Final Justice Part 41

He smiled at the memories of other of the previous evening's activities.

However, a moment later, when in an habitual act he reached inside the shower stall to open the faucet that would long moments later bring hot water all the way from the bas.e.m.e.nt to the garret apartment, his hand really hurt him.

s.h.i.+t! The G.o.dd.a.m.n-what did she say?-"puncture wound."

When he came out of the shower, the d.a.m.ned thing still hurt, and it looked angry.

"s.h.i.+t!"

He had two thoughts, one after the other.

Maybe Olivia would know what to do with it. Do I put a bandage on it? Soak it in hot water? What?

Maybe, if I called, she might say, "I'll come by on my way to work and have a look at it."

That's a very interesting prospect.

He went naked and dripping into his bedroom-which his father also compared unfavorably to a sleeping compartment on an old Pullman car-and picked up his cellular from the bedside table, where it lay beside his Colt Officer's Model .45.

Twenty seconds later, a sleepy female voice said, "La.s.siter."

"Good morning."

"Oh, G.o.d!"

"I was calling to inquire whether your schedule is free for breakfast."

"Oh, G.o.d! What time is it?"

"A little after six."

There was no immediate response.

"For reasons I can't imagine, I'm ravenous," Matt said.

"I don't even want to think about breakfast," Olivia said. "My G.o.d, Matt!"

"My G.o.d, what, Olivia?"

"I haven't even had time to think, and you want breakfast?"

"Think about what?"

"Oh, for G.o.d's sake! Everything!"

"What is there to think about?"

"You know I didn't want that to happen."

Oh, s.h.i.+t!

"Do I detect a slight tone of regret?"

"I didn't say that, Matt," Olivia said. "Oh, G.o.d!"

"May I infer, then, that it was not an entirely disappointing experience for you?"

Olivia giggled.

"Not entirely," she said. "My G.o.d!"

"You keep saying 'My G.o.d.' "

"I keep remembering what happened," she said. "My G.o.d, I can't believe I behaved like that!"

"For my part, it was an entirely delightful experience."

"Was it?"

"Couldn't you tell?"

"Oh, Matt! What are we going to do?"

"That brings us back to breakfast."

"No. For one thing, I'm not hungry, and for another, I don't want anyone to see us together."

"Why not?"

"You know why not."

"I don't give a d.a.m.n who sees us together. Anyway, we're working together."

"I do. I want to stay in Homicide."

"Oh."

"I need time to think, and if I see you, I won't be able to think clearly." She paused. "Matt, will you do me a big favor?"

"Name it."

"Forget what happened last night."

"How the h.e.l.l am I supposed to do that? It happened, and at the risk of repeating myself, I found it to be an entirely delightful experience."

"I'm not saying it wasn't," she said. "My G.o.d, couldn't you tell? What I'm saying is that I don't want anybody even to guess about it until I can think about it, really think about it. Will you do that for me?"

"Whatever you say, Mother."

"Thank you."

"I suppose your having a look at my hand is entirely out of the question?"

"What's wrong with your hand?" she asked.

That's genuine concern in her voice.

"I believe you described it as a 'puncture wound.' "

"And I also told you to stop at an emergency room on your way home. You mean you didn't?"

"I seem to have forgotten that instruction. I must have had something else on my mind. Bleeding to death didn't seem important at the time."

"You're bleeding now?"

More genuine concern.

He looked at his hand.

"No, but it looks unhealthy."

"Matt, go to an emergency room, please. Right now. I'll see you at work."

"How about doing me a favor?"

"If you want me to come there, I will," she said after a moment.

"What I want you to do is tell me now if you're trying to . . . let me down gently."

"Oh, G.o.d! If I was trying to dump you, kindly or otherwise, I would not have offered to come there."

"You mean that?"

"You think last night was a one-night stand for me?"

"Oh, G.o.d, I hope not," he said, and laughed.

"What's funny?"

"I seem to have acquired your penchant for 'Oh, G.o.d!' "

"Are you all right to drive with your hand?"

"Sure."

"Then go to an emergency room and I'll see you at work. Okay?"

"Okay."

"And we won't look in each other's eyes. Agreed?"

"With great reluctance."

"Oh, G.o.d!" she said, and then there was the hiss that told him she had pressed the End key on her cellular.

[TWO].

Matt pulled the Porsche into the Emergency Trauma Center of Hahnemann Hospital on North Broad Street and parked beside a Sixth District wagon in the area with the sign POLICE AND EMERGENCY VEHICLES ONLY.

A man of about his age, wearing hospital greens and what looked like twenty-four hours of beard growth, stopped him as he was walking toward the hospital entrance.

He pointed wordlessly at the sign.

"I'm on the job," Matt said, and pushed his jacket away from the badge on his belt with his sore hand.

"What did you do to the hand?"

"Fell over a fence," Matt said.

The man waved his hand in a signal for Matt to follow him inside.

"You're a doctor?" Matt asked.

"No, I wear this stuff because I like pastel colors."

The paperwork didn't take long.

The doctor was waiting for him in a treatment room.

"That's nasty," the doctor said. "Puncture wounds can be bad news. How'd you do it?"

"Going over a fence," Matt said. "The top of the fence- the twisted ends of the wire?"

The doctor nodded. "Your teta.n.u.s up to date?"

"I suppose so."

"Suppose doesn't count," the doctor said, as he opened a gla.s.s door in a white cabinet.

"This is going to hurt," the doctor said.

It did.

And so did the injection of an antibiotic "as a precaution" in the other b.u.t.tock.

"I hope you can shoot right-handed, Sherlock," the doctor said. "For the next three, four days, that paw is going to be tender."

"I'm right-handed. You going to put a bandage on it?"