Read Striking Out for Free Online

I used paper towels dipped in warm water and soap to scrub the garden grime off my hands and knees as best I could.
    When I got back to the second floor, Flanagan was sitting there, staring into middle distance, picking his nose. I sat one chair away from him.
    “Where’s Jim?”
    “He’s down talking to Stimac. Carol brought his clothes. She said she’d be back to see you later.”
    “What’s he talking to Stimac about?”
    “It’s just procedure. There’s got to be an investigation to keep the civilians off our backs. I figure, he takes out one more punk, he deserves a medal.”
    “How come you’re not there? Aren’t you part of the team?”
    “I’m assigned to Andy. I’m with you until he comes to and can talk.”
    I leaned my head back against the wall and closed my eyes.

Chapter 9
    The doors to the operating rooms swung open twice in the first hour we sat there. Ghastly-looking people were wheeled past, eyes at half-mast, by a whistling orderly with dreadlocks wrapped up in an enormous snood. He handled the stretcher with the smooth flair of a pro, crooning a little song to tell his patient that everything was going to be all right. Obviously a man who enjoys his work, he made me smile, for which I was grateful.
    After an hour or so, Jim came back, along with Carol, his wife. We’re not close, but, inevitably, we’ve spent time together over the years Jim and Andy have been partners, and she’s the woman I’ve talked most with about the fears. She’s another one who shuts her eyes, covers her ears, and hopes for the best.
    When she came off the elevator, she simply hugged me and held on tight. It didn’t, for a surprise, send me over the edge again. I think I was cried out. Having let my emotions ride me for a while, I was back in control.
    “I talked to Andy’s mum,” Jim said. “I had to convince her not to drive down tonight, but she’ll be here in the morning. And I told Meredith I’d call as soon as there was any news.”
    It was comforting, having them there. They’d brought coffee and sandwiches, which I couldn’t touch. We talked a bit, but mainly we sneaked glances at our watches.
    When they finally brought Andy out, after he’d been in there almost three hours, there were several attendants with him, hanging on to various bottles and tubes running in and out of his body. He was as pale and still as a mannequin. He was also quite bloody. That took me by surprise. I gripped Jim’s hand hard enough to make him exclaim, and watched the stretcher being wheeled through doors marked “Surgical Intensive Care Unit.”
    The operating-room doors opened again, and two men came out, looking weary, dressed in those green pyjama things they wear on all the TV shows. One of them was Dr. Usman. The other might have come from one of those shows, a doctor so reassuring to look at that I almost volunteered to have surgery myself just so he’d take care of me.
    He was in his late fifties, early sixties, with greying hair, slightly tousled, and a face that was just on the trustworthy side of handsome. As he walked towards us, with a slight limp, the wild thought crossed my mind that this was just a prop doctor from central casting, brought out after all operations to reassure loved ones. The real surgeons were all grotesque and shifty-eyed, with green teeth and shaky hands. I pushed the thought away as he introduced himself as Dr. Griffith.
    “The surgery went well,” he said. “He’s strong, and there were no complications we couldn’t handle. We’ll just keep him in Surgical ICU overnight, to be sure, but I don’t anticipate any problems.”
    “Can I see him?”
    “Any time you want. He probably won’t make much sense until at least tomorrow, but if you want to sit with him, that’s fine.”
    I had this ridiculous urge to kiss his hands.
    “Do you have any more questions?”
    “About a million, but I can’t think of them now,” I said.
    “Well, I’ll be by in the morning, and Dr.