But the suspense to know about Jordie was killing him. Yielding to temptation, he returned to the kitchen, picked up the phone, and tapped in Joe Wiley’s number. After three rings, the agent answered, sounding groggy, as though the call had woken him up.
“I heard about Jordie. Is she really all right?”
“Hi, Josh. I wondered when you’d break down and call me. I had a bet going with my wife that you—”
“Is she?”
“She’s fine. But why don’t you come see for yourself? I’ll come get you, drive you straight over to her.”
“Is her kidnapper dead?”
“Last I heard, no. But you’re not the only one who hopes he’ll die.”
Josh recognized that statement as a dangled carrot. Nevertheless, he couldn’t resist it. “I’m sure Jordie does. Did he do something to her? Hurt her?”
“She says no. But I wasn’t referring to her. I talked to Billy Panella tonight.”
Josh snorted. “Liar.”
“A few hours ago.”
“Liar!”
“Have you ever known me to lie to you, Josh? Think about it. I’ve always leveled with you even when I didn’t want to.”
“Panella’s in South America.”
“Possibly, but I brought him up to speed on what’s going on here.”
“You’re just trying to scare me.”
“You decide if you should be scared or not.”
“What’s that mean?”
“When I told Panella that Kinnard was in custody and that Jordie was alive and well, he said the F word. And the tirade didn’t stop there. I had to look up some of the words.”
“That’s not scary,” Josh said. “He always says the F word when he’s mad, and he was mad because his plot to kill Jordie failed.”
“This time. I figure he’ll try again, because…well, here’s the thing, Josh. I sorta let it slip that you were once again trading his secrets to get on our good side.”
“Oh, Jesus.”
“Are you scared yet? You’ve got good reason to be.”
Josh began to blubber.
“Be smart, Josh. Tell me where you are.”
Shaw resented sleep. He considered it a waste of time and disliked the vulnerability that necessarily accompanied it. He slept only when he had to and never for more than a few hours.
But he hadn’t been conscious for long before wishing he could slip back into oblivion. Any given morning a hospital was a busy place, but it seemed that everybody on staff at this one had some business in his room.
Probably they just wanted to take a gander at the man handcuffed to his bed.
His vitals were taken. Twice. His blood was drawn. At least a quart. His floor was mopped. The guy seemed to delight in banging the mop into all four wheels of his bed. His IV was checked a dozen times by a dozen different people. His dressing was changed. The row of stapl
es, like a miniature railroad track holding him together, was probed to test its durability. His piss output was measured and recorded before the bag was replaced.