The Edge

her.

    "Good night, Mac. I'm glad Jilly woke up." She lightly patted my cheek, turned, and walked away. I watched her push open the exit door and ease through a small crowd of off-duty hospital personnel and a couple of late visitors. I couldn't stop myself. I came up behind her, my hand out to stop her when she suddenly turned back to me and said, "I understand from the sheriff that you're FBI. You're a big federal cop. She said you were here to help find out what happened to Jilly that night. Ask her. Find out what happened. Then tell me, please. You might consider believing me about Paul. Actually, truth be told, the only man I've met in the past year or so that I'd even consider going to bed with is you. Good night. Grubster is waiting for his pill. Nolan has probably torn the bars off his cage."

    "He's sure been on those pills a long time," I called after her.

    "Now you're a veterinarian? Give it up, Mac. I'll be back tomorrow to see Jilly."

    "Why didn't Paul call you to tell you what had happened to Jilly?"

    "I don't know," she shouted back, not turning. She kept walking. "Ask him. He's your damned brother-in-law. Don't you know him?"

    I let her go. What else could I do? I watched her walk to her car without another word, without a backward glance at me. She was looking down as she walked, her shoulders slumped. I stood in the middle of the parking lot, staring after her until her Toyota turned out of the gated opening and disappeared into the night.

    I found Paul in Jilly's room, sitting beside her bed, holding her hand. "I wish they'd kept her awake," he said.

    "It's like she's back in a coma. It's like she's gone again. I don't care what Dr. Coates said. I don't think any of them know much of anything. Why didn't you stop them, Mac?"

    "She had a killer headache, Paul. They hadn't expected her to fall asleep so quickly, but Dr. Coates said it wasn't anything to worry about. Knowing the hospital routine, they'll be here to give her a shot in the butt at about three A.M."

    "Yeah," Paul said, looking up at me. "You'd know, wouldn't you? How long were you in the naval/hospital in Bethesda? Two, three weeks?"

    "Too long, however long it was," I said, knowing that it was exactly eighteen days and eight hours. "I don't like to think about it. Jilly's awake now, Paul. Everything will be all right." He looked so painfully hopeful that I dropped my hand to his shoulder and squeezed. "Jilly's back with us. She'll tell us exactly what happened. It's over now, Paul." He looked like he was going to cry. For the life of me, I couldn't bring myself to demand that he explain Laura.

    "Well, you look tired yourself, Mac. It's been a long day. You've been pushing yourself too hard. Why don't you have the doctors here check you out?"

    I declined and sent Paul home. He looked ready to pitch forward onto his face. I'd nail him about Laura tomorrow. I wanted to know about the damned party on Tuesday night, the same night Jilly drove her Porsche off the cliff.

    I realized that I didn't have to know any more about anything right now. Who cared what Paul had told me, what Laura had told me? It didn't matter. Jilly would live. She was the only reason I was here.

    I was so tired my eyes hurt but I was too restless to sleep. I ended up wandering the hospital corridors, looking into every room that had windows, except for the morgue in the basement. I had a tough time dealing with the morgue anytime, but now, not a chance.

    I went back to Jilly's room a little after one A.M., still wide awake, still restless. I sat down at the small table in front of the window, pulled out my notebook, and began to write. I wrote down what people had told me. I wrote down some of the questions I still had.

    I laid down my pen. I shook my head. My written questions sounded like a soap opera. Was Jilly sleeping with some other guy? Who is Laura Scott, really?

    I wrote one final question: Jilly's awake. What the hell am I still doing here?

    When Jilly awoke at two A.M. I was in a semi-stupor, feeling a strong pull from my cracked ribs because I was stretched out in a long deep chair pulled from the doctors' lounge, alongside her bed. I was holding her hand.

    "Ford?"

    It was her voice and it sounded to me like old knotted threads, ready to unravel at the first pull. She spoke again, and I knew she'd heard the weakness in her own voice and was concentrating on sounding stronger. "Ford?"

    I gave her a big smile, which I didn't know if she