Page 102 of Sharp Force

We walk through the orthopedic unit and I’m aware of rooms occupied by patients, most of them with visitors. I hear people talking, televisions playing. Someone is sobbing, and I catch glimpses of limbs in bandages and casts. A young woman wears a metal halo brace for a fractured neck.

Zain’s room is in a corner, two Secret Service agents sitting outside the closed door.

“Is he still in there?” Benton asks right off about Calvin Willard.

“Sure is,” one of the agents says.

“Any problems?” Benton tucks his phone in a pocket.

“He’s not the easiest to deal with.” The other agent lowers his voice. “He smiles. But he’s not smiling inside, if you know what I mean.”

“I’ve been around him before,” Benton replies.

He opens the door, and we enter a room with a view of parking lots. The foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains are a bruised rolling haze on the faraway horizon, the sun bright, the room painted in light. For hospital accommodations, Zain’s are luxurious. A bathroom, a couch.

Benton and I take off our coats, placing them on a chair with my briefcase and medical kit. I introduce us and the senator doesn’treact. His back is to us as he stands by the window looking at his phone. He doesn’t want us here. I feel it like radiation.

“Good morning,” I say to Zain.

“I’ve had better.”

He’s sitting up in bed tethered to IV lines, his neck and left arm thick with gauze. I don’t know how I’m going to examine him. I’m not sure what I’ll be able to see.

“We’ve met before,” Zain says to Benton. “But not you.” He looks at me as if pleased that I’m here. “Benton’s probably told you that he and I are acquainted.”

I’ve noticed right away that Zain has dried blood in his hair. I’m careful not to stare.

“Yes, we’ve been around each other many times over the years,” Benton says, and Calvin Willard turns away from the window, staring at us. “At the White House and other places. I’m very sorry about all this, Zain.”

“You need to make this quick. As you can see, Zain’s been through a lot and is exhausted.” The senator says this to me, his strong-featured face ashen.

Tall and lanky, he’s in a dark blue warm-up suit and snow boots. A shock of slate-gray hair is combed over to hide his baldness.

“We’re going to need a few minutes alone with your nephew, Senator,” Benton says.

“Not happening in a million years. Our attorney is on his way here, and you need to wait outside until he arrives.”

“It’s okay.” Zain’s blue eyes are laser focused on me, and he sounds sedated. “I’ve got nothing to hide. I’m a victim. I don’t need a lawyer. What’s most important is catching the monster who did this before he does it again to someone else.”

“Yes, you do need a lawyer, son.” His uncle’s demeanor softens when he looks at him. “I don’t think you understand what can happen. You’ve never understood it.”

“I know exactly what can happen, and I’ve got nothing to hide. Because I didn’t do anything wrong,” Zain insists. “We need to do everything we can to help catch the Slasher. I don’t want him and his ghost coming back to finish me off.”

“We won’t let that happen,” his uncle promises. “Nobody’s going to hurt you again. I’ll make sure of it.”

A spike of anger, and Calvin Willard fixes his attention on Benton as if I’m not in the room.

“The house on Mercy Island has an alarm system,” the senator says. “How the hell could she let something like this happen? How did someone just walk into the house? How did she let someone follow her there?”

He’s talking about Georgine Duvall and doesn’t seem the least bit sorry that she’s dead. I sense his hostility and resentment as Benton explains that the Phantom Slasher uses a signal jammer when he shows up to murder.

“It wasn’t her fault or Zain’s that the alarm system wasn’t working,” Benton says.

“I always worried about her judgment. It wasn’t that long ago I stopped by, and the front door was unlocked, the alarm off.” The senator continues blaming the victim.

“If you’d give us a few minutes?” Benton says. “Maybe wait outside the room?”

“I’m not going anywhere,” the senator replies, sitting down on the brown Naugahyde sofa.