TWENTY-THREE
Detective Craig Walsh finally decided to wake up.
Nurse Terry happened to be in his ICU room checking his IV when her patient suddenly opened his eyes, grabbed hold of her arm, and bolted upright. He called for Grace over and over again, his agitation increasing until he was gasping for air. His voice was raspy and raw from the breathing tube the doctor had removed the day before.
“Oh my goodness, you gave me a shock,” Terry said, her voice soothing despite the fact that he’d all but scared the curl out of her hair when he’d jumped at her out of the blue. “We’ve been waiting for you to come back to us. Do you know where you are?”
Walsh fell back against the pillows and closed his eyes. He was desperately trying to clear the thick fog clouding his brain.
“No,” he answered.
“You’re a patient at St. Margaret’s Trauma Center in Boston,” she told him.
“Why?” he asked, genuinely confused.
“You were shot, and you’ve been unconscious for quite a while.”
Frowning, he repeated what she had told him. “I was shot.” He tried to pull up the memory, but it was beyond his grasp.
“Yes,” she said. “You don’t remember?” He didn’t answer her. “You were calling for Grace. Who is she?” Terry asked as she tucked the cover around him.
“I don’t know,” he said, his frustration showing on his face.
She patted his arm. “Your memory will come back to you. Just give it a little time. Rest now while I page the doctor and tell her the good news. She’s going to be very happy to hear you’re back with us.”
There were other people Terry had been asked to call: Special Agent Nick Buchanan; Boston Detective Samuel; the patient’s daughter, Kathleen, who had just gone home to catch a couple hours of sleep; and Isabel MacKenna.
Terry was happy that Isabel had been added to the call list. She had shown so much compassion for Detective Walsh. Her call immediately went to voicemail, so, just to make certain Isabel would get the message, she also texted her.
Two hours later ICU was swarming with FBI agents, Boston detectives, and policemen. Because of the chaos they were creating, Walsh, along with his IV and monitors, was moved to a private room adjacent to the unit. Only Nick Buchanan, Noah Clayborne, and Detective Samuel were allowed in.
Nick thought Walsh looked pretty good, given all he had been through. His eyes were clear, and he seemed fairly alert, considering. The fact that he was lucid after his ordeal was amazing, though his memory of the event was spotty at best. It seemed he could recall only bits and pieces up to the actual shooting.
Nick stood on one side of Walsh’s bed, with Samuel on the other side. Noah stood in front of the door and tapped his phone to record the interview.
Samuel began the questioning. “Your Captain Perez told us that you came to Boston to do a favor for a friend.”
Walsh shook his head. “I was already in Boston. I fly back and forth from Miami whenever I get the chance. I’m going to retire in a couple of years, and I’ve been looking for a place close to my daughter.”
“Your friend wanted a favor?” Samuel asked, trying to guide Walsh back to the important topic at hand.
“Yes.”
Walsh closed his eyes and sighed as though speaking took more energy than he could summon. A long minute went by without a word being spoken. Then Walsh said, “Donal Gladstone is his name. We went to college together here in Boston.”
They could all see that Walsh was struggling to remember.
“And you’ve kept in contact with this man?” Noah asked.
“Yes.”
“Do you trust him?” Nick asked.
“Yes, absolutely.” From the look on his face, they knew the question had surprised him. “He’s a good friend.”
“What was the favor he wanted?” Samuel asked again.
“I’m trying to remember,” Walsh said. “May I have some water? My throat is dry.”