I wielded my rolled magazines, using them alternately as a shield and as a sword. And I screamed. As. Loud. As. I. Could.
Skully’s roomie woke and groggily asked what was going on. Skully never asked a question. He awoke ready to fight. Lying in bed strapped to machines didn’t stop him in the least. If he could reach it, he threw it at Rowena. The water pitcher hit her squarely in the back of her head, knocking the shower cap askew. I don’t know which disoriented her more, the hit in the head or the ice water dripping down her back, but she threw the shower cap to the ground and growled like a wounded bear. Before she could recover, Skully threw an apple, the television remote, even the tiny canoe still wrapped in cellophane. He threw that kidney-shaped plastic thing that seemed to come with hospital beds, and followed it with the toothpaste tube and the toothbrush.
Over the loudspeaker a voice implored, “Security to the second floor. Repeat. Security to the second floor. Stat.”
The call for help enraged Rowena to the point she wasn’t sure who she wanted to kill. She turned away from me and back to her original target. Skully picked up the telephone, but the tangled cord rendered it a useless weapon. Rowena grabbed Skully’s intravenous tube and jabbed it with the needle. I jumped on her back, wrapped my elbow around her neck and grabbed a fistful of her hair, jerking her backward.
Two floor nurses came through the door and, seeing a patient attacking a nurse, tried to subdue me.
Skully’s roomie yelled, “Not her. The other one.”
I looked at them and said, “She injected something into his IV tube.”
The nurses ran past me and ripped the intravenous out of Skully’s hand. In the confusion, Rowena edged toward the door, inching into the hallway.
“No you don’t!” I shouted and grabbed at the gray roots of her purple hair. I held on for dear life. She shook her head wildly from left to right and I countered by shaking her scalp up and down. Rowena elbowed me in the ribs and I kneed her in the back of her legs, trying to throw her off balance. Then strong arms enveloped me and a soft voice whispered in my ear.
“Calm down, tiger. The cavalry has arrived.”
Ryan Mantoni had Rowena’s arms pinned firmly to her sides. So, who was holding me? I turned my head slightly and looked directly into the big blue eyes of Frank Anthony.
Then I fainted dead away.
Chapter Thirty-five ||||||||||||||||||||
It was another two days before I was released from the hospital. Bridgy and Ophie alternated sitting at my bedside, lamenting how close they came to “losing” me.
Even my mother (the real one in Brooklyn) wanted to come down to help me heal, no doubt bringing enough of her various herb remedies to mandate a thorough search by TSA officials. She was miffed but finally agreed she’d wait to come to Florida after the doctor cleared me as totally fit for the evening beach walks she loved so much. That sent her scrambling for the Farmers’ Almanac to check the full moon calendar.
The best thing about being hospitalized was that it gave me an easy out to avoid Cady’s colleagues in the print press, the well-coiffed television reporters and even self-described “murder bloggers” who all requested an interview. Still, I wanted to get back to the turret, the Heap-a-Jeep, the Read ’Em and Eat and my normal life.
The doctor sent me home with a long NOT-TO-DO list. Basically I could stay at the turret, but except for fifteen-minute walks twice a day “sidewalks only; walking on the beach is too strenuous,” I was pretty much confined.
A couple of days after I was released, to keep me from going stir-crazy, Bridgy drove me over to Miguel’s for a playdate. Between Miguel’s leg in a cast and my patched-up head and bruised arms and face, we looked like we’d survived the worst hurricane to hit the coast in centuries. Hobbling around on crutches, Miguel insisted on making torrejas, sweet bread similar to French toast. When he picked up the rum bottle, I said, “Whoa. The doctor has me off alcohol for seven days.”