Goodnight, Irene by Jan Burke Page A

I?”
    “In a word, no.”
    “Well, hell.”
    “This isn’t something I take lightly. I’m about to compromise the hell out of my journalistic ethics. I don’t like Wrigley, but that doesn’t make me feel any less like a double agent, working with you on this. The only way I’m going to be able to face myself in the mirror is by telling myself that this is beyond reporters versus cops. That, and I trust you.”
    “Thanks, but I also happen to know you see yourself as O’Connor’s Avenging Angel.”
    “I’ve never been any kind of angel, Frank.”
    “Hmph.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “Look, I’d better get going. All hell will be breaking loose at headquarters. I’ll call you at Lydia’s tonight.”
    I watched as he walked off, then went back to the ER waiting room. I walked over to the counter, where Sister Theresa was concentrating on something on her desk. I looked down and noticed she was doodling — a fairly good caricature of one of the nurses I had seen going in and out of the ER. She had captured the nurse’s semimilitary bearing and grim facial features rather well.
    “Remarkable resemblance,” I said.
    She gave a start and then two bright red spots appeared on her cheeks.
    “Not very Christian of me, I suppose,” she said.
    “I won’t tell.”
    She smiled. “You want to find your sister.”
    “No, I don’t think she really wants to see me, at least not now. I just want to know if she’s okay and where she’ll be later on — I know she’ll want to stay with her husband as much as possible.”
    “Yes, I’m afraid your sister is the kind of person who will exhaust herself with dedication. And you’re wise to let her have some time to, well, to get used to things. It’s very hard to adjust to extensive, critical injuries to those we love. She may not be herself for a while.”
    “I understand.”
    She looked at me with those gentle eyes. I grew up thinking nuns had X-ray vision where your guilty conscience was concerned, so I never really enjoyed getting the old eyeball from them; but I didn’t feel uncomfortable with Sister Theresa.
    “Don’t worry,” she said, “you’re a good sister to her.”
    Damn. X-ray vision after all.
     
9
     
    B EFORE I LEFT , I learned from Sister Theresa that Kenny was in a coma, had multiple fractures and facial injuries. Both collarbones and several ribs had received bone-breaking whacks from the bat. Brain damage might or might not be permanent. She explained that most of the beating had been on his face, which gave him a better chance of recovery than he would have had if the blows had landed on other parts of his head. Most of the blood probably had come from his face — especially the mouth and nose. He was also lucky that the broken ribs hadn’t punctured his lungs. His condition was listed as critical.
    It was late afternoon when I got back to Lydia’s place. Cody was starved for attention and gave me a grand welcome, prancing and yowling and purring loudly. The phone rang.
    I let the machine get it, but listened in, then picked up the receiver when I recognized Lydia’s voice.
    “What’s up, Lydia?”
    “I’ve been worried sick about you! Do you know what’s happened to O’Connor’s son?”
    It dawned on me that as assistant city editor, she would have heard the police and paramedics’ calls on the scanner and sent some general assignment person out to check out the beach-house story.
    “Yeah, I know. That’s where I’ve been, down at St. Anne’s.”
    “Is he going to make it?”
    “Don’t know. He’s a mess, but he’s hanging in there so far. Can’t get nuns to quote odds. How are things going with Wrigley?”
    “He wants to take us both out to dinner tonight.”
    “Are you game?”
    “For an evening with Wrigley? Now we’re talking sacrifice. But I wouldn’t send my worst enemy out alone with that wolf.”
    “I take it he’s not in the newsroom.”
    “You’ll make a fine newspaperwoman