the rest of the night, but I'll be checking out first thing in the morning. I have to find something closer to the hospital."
"How is Mr. Lang doing?" Deneise asked, and I told her he was going to be all right.
"Oh, that's good news!" She seemed relieved on several different levels, and I didn't blame her a bit.
Now that the motel situation was settled, I was anxious to get into a room and get clean. The manager called Cynthia on her cell phone and told her to take our luggage directly to room 203.
"I thought you might feel better if you weren't on the ground level," she explained as she hung up.
"You're right," I said. I thought of the black hole of the window, and I shuddered. My face and shoulders were hurting, I was covered with dried dots and smears of blood, and suddenly I began shivering, now that I had the luxury of time for myself. Now that I thought Tolliver would be all right.
Matthew appeared in the office doorway. "Your stuff's in your new room, and I don't think anything is missing. Everything seems to be in your purse."
I didn't like the idea of Matthew having access to my purse, but he had been a real help tonight, and I had to give the devil his due. I told Deneise I was grateful she'd been so thoughtful, and with my new key card in hand, I went out to the lobby with Matthew to get in the elevator.
"Thanks," I said, as it rumbled up to the open area with snack machines and the ice maker. A couple coming up the stairs glanced at us curiously, and when they'd absorbed my bloody state, they hurried away to their room.
"That's okay," Matthew said. "I heard the shot, and I heard you scream. I ran across that parking lot pretty damn fast." He laughed.
I hadn't even realized I'd screamed.
"You didn't see anyone in the parking lot?"
"Nope. And it makes me nuts, because the shooter had to have been really close to me."
I stowed that idea away to think over later. "Well, I guess I'll see you at the hospital tomorrow, if you can get off work," I said. Abruptly, I wanted to be alone more than anything.
"You want me to call Iona?" Matthew asked.
When I said, "No!" he laughed, a choky sort of laugh that made him sound like Tolliver for a moment.
"You don't mind me saying so, you're pretty dependent on my son," Matthew said, chiming in with my thoughts so neatly that I was instantly angry.
"Your son is my lover and my family," I said. "We've been together for years. While you were gone."
"But you need to be able to function on your own," Matthew said in the righteous tone of someone who's had counseling; and because he was trying to sound gentle, I was even angrier. I may not be your garden-variety person, but I am not as fragile as I seem. Or maybe I am, but that wasn't any of Matthew Lang's business.
"I don't believe you have the right to tell me how I ought to live, how I ought to be," I said. "You have no rights over me. You never did. You never will. I appreciate your help tonight. I'm glad you finally did something for your son, though it took him getting shot for you to do it. You need to go now, because I have to shower." I used the key card, and the door to the new room swung open. The lights were on, and the room was warm. Our suitcases sat on the floor beside the bed.
Matthew nodded to me and walked away without saying one other word, which was a very good thing. I looked at Tolliver's suitcase and began to cry, but I made myself go into the bathroom and shed my blood-speckled clothes. I took a very careful bath, mindful of my scores of cuts and nicks. I put on my pajamas.
I called the hospital again, and found Tolliver was still the same. I reminded them again to call me instantly if there was any change. I put the phone on the charger, and lay in bed, and listened for it to ring.
But it didn't. All night.
THE next morning as I went through a McDonald's drive-through, I realized I had to call Iona to tell her what had happened. Otherwise, she might read it in the papers. I didn't expect anything from her, and it was a