Hardbingers

24

The hospital's official title was New York Presbyterian Hospital-Cornell campus, but no one called it anything but New York Hospital.

Jack pulled into the semicircular entrance drive at the eastern end of 68th Street. The complex had a classic medical-center look—twenty or so stories of vaguely art-deco design with a clean granite face and tall arched windows. He was ready to abandon his car in front of the canopied entrance. If they towed it, so be il. But if they checked the tags first and found Vinny the Donut's name, they might leave it alone.

Then he saw the valet parking sign and screeched to a halt in front of the Latino attendant.

"How long you gonna be?" he said as Jack hopped out of the car.

"Forever. Where's emergency?"

He pointed over Jack's shoulder. "Right over there where it says EMERGENCY."

Jack looked. How had he missed that?

He ran inside and came face-to-face with a uniformed security guard.

"Can I help you?"

"I need to check on two emergency patients."

He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at a windowed alcove.

"There you go."

Jack fairly leaped toward it and slid back the glass.

"A woman and a little girl! Just brought in by ambulance! Where are they?"

The mocha-skinned clerk behind the desk took her time looking up from her computer screen. Her name tag read MARIA.

"What are their names, sir?"

"DiLauro and Westphalen."

He spelled both for her and watched as she did some tapping on her keyboard. He couldn't keep still. His fingers kept up a chaotic tattoo on the counter, his feet shuffled back and forth.

She shook her head. "No… no one by that name. But we did have two Jane Does brought in, an adult and a child. MVA."

Jack looked around. "Where are they? How are they?" He had to force out the next question. "Are they alive?"

"I can't say."

He felt his fingers stop fidgeting and ball into fists.

"Why the hell not?"

A look of alarm flashed across her face—maybe she'd heard something in his tone.

"Because I don't have that information. They were taken directly to the trauma unit."

He pushed away from the counter.

"Where's that?"

"You can't go there, sir."

"Why the hell not? I'm their husband and father!"

He prayed they wouldn't ask him to prove that.

"You still can't go. Not until they've been worked up and stabilized. No non-staff can be present during resuscitation. You can't—"

"Resuscitation?"

She checked her screen again.

"CPR was under way when they were brought in."

The room did a quick spin. He folded his arms on the counter and pressed his head against them while he quelled a surge of nausea.

He felt a hand on his wrist and when he glanced up he found the clerk looking at him with sympathetic eyes.

"Have faith, Mr. Westphalen. They're in good hands."

Westphalen? Oh, right—he'd said he was the child's father and her name was Westphalen. Gia had dropped her ex's name.

"We have a level-one trauma center here," she was saying. "Trust that everything possible that can be done for your wife and child is being done."

"I've got to see them. Just once. Just for a second."

She shook her head. "I'm sorry. Please have faith."

Faith? Faith was why they were getting CPR. Men with faith who thought they were doing the right thing because they believed some supposedly unimpeachable source had put Gia and Vicky here.

No more faith. He had to see them. He had to know that a mistake hadn't been made. Two Jane Does? Could be anyone. He had to stick his fingers in their wounds—figuratively, anyway—before he could accept this nightmare as real.

Maria frowned at him. "Don't even think about it."

What was she—a mind reader?

"What?"

"Don't try to sneak up. Security is tight there. And if you cause a ruckus you'll be arrested. And then where will you be?"

If she only knew. Arrest would involve a lot more than a fine and a warning. Once the cops learned he didn't exist, he'd be spending his time in a jail cell instead of the waiting room.

Shit.

"Here's what I can do," she said. "I'll call the trauma unit and let them know you're down here. Once your wife and daughter are stabilized, one of the doctors will come down and talk to you."

He nodded, silently thanking her for not saying if they're stabilized.

He realized he had no option but to wait.

With limbs of lead, he did a slow turn and looked for a waiting area. He saw three, but only one—the nearest—was unenclosed. He shuffled toward that. He felt a hundred years old.

Not many seats left, but that didn't matter much. Doubted he could sit anyway. The only thing a chair would be good for right now was tossing through a window.