Unsolved (Invisible #2) - James Patterson Page 0,57
people sipping coffee and watching the banner across the bottom of the screen: STILL NO SUSPECTS IN CHICAGO BOMBING. Two hundred are dead—two hundred homeless people.
Her mother must be popping Rolaids one after the other right now.
Just before ten, she enters the fitness room and finds her first Wednesday appointment—the lieutenant—seated in his wheelchair, curling thirty-pound dumbbells. She feels the anxiety swim through her.
“Hello, Lieutenant,” she says. That’s the way her partner, Tom, told her to address him.
“Ah.” He leans forward and sets the dumbbells down on the mat. “The new girl. Your name escapes me.”
Girl? She bristles but lets it slide. Any physical therapist has her share of older, and old-fashioned, men. Her job is to improve their physical condition, not their political correctness.
He uses the wheelchair’s joystick to turn and face her. Sweat has darkened the neckline of his gray T-shirt. His upper body is pumped from the weight lifting, his biceps popping from the short sleeves like small melons.
“It’s Michelle,” she says, trying to keep her voice strong.
“Yes, Michelle, the new girl.” Repeating that phrase. Testing her. He stares through her, as he did the last time she met him, every inch the military man except for the long gray hair pulled back into a ponytail. That makes him look more like the wounded vet he is.
“Lieutenant!” Tom Miller rushes in, wearing a red Nationals T-shirt and jeans. Tom has been great so far, showing Michelle the ropes, easing her transition, and his entry cuts the tension that seems ever present around the lieutenant. Tom claps his hands. “Ready to get loco?”
The lieutenant keeps his stare on Michelle, slowly moving toward Tom. “The Lokomat, yes, Tommy.”
“Let me see you on your feet first,” says Michelle. She can’t hide behind Tom forever; she has to have some authority in here or she can’t do her job.
The lieutenant turns to her again. “I’m sorry?”
“I’ve read your file,” she says. “The incomplete SCI. I understand you can stand and walk with assistance. I want to see your progress.” She catches Tom’s eye. His smile has vanished.
“And am I here for what you want or what I want?” asks the lieutenant.
She draws in a breath, steels herself. “I’d like to see how you’re progressing, Lieutenant, rather than reading about it in a file.”
“C’mon, Lew,” says Tom, “she’s new and wants to see what you can do. Show off for her.” Michelle can hear the thread of fear in Tom’s voice.
The lieutenant blinks and holds his stare on Michelle. “Some mettle,” he says. “I like that. Get me a walker.” He puts out his hand. Tom grabs a walker and rolls it over to him.
The lieutenant, making a production of it, locks the wheels of the wheelchair, grips the arms, and pushes himself to his feet, trying not to show the strain on his face. His arms are powerful, but his legs, covered by black sweatpants, are not.
“Let’s use the belt,” says Tom.
“No.” Patients resist their therapists all the time, but the way Lew says it and the way Tom immediately complies tells Michelle that this particular patient is different.
The lieutenant, keeping his eyes on Michelle, grabs the walker. He staggers forward, one difficult step after another, Tom hovering nearby but not getting too close. Heel and toe, Michelle thinks instinctively. Heel and toe…
Six plodding, painful steps later, the lieutenant reaches Michelle, his piercing eyes on her. It’s all she can do to stand her ground.
“Did I pass your test?” he whispers, his face a shade of crimson from his exertion, highlighting the gray crescent-moon-shaped scar by his eye.
“Here you go, Lew.” Tom brings the wheelchair over to him. “Sit right down. Great job. Hey, how was Chicago last weekend?”
Lew settles himself back in the wheelchair.
“I guess not so good,” Tom says, answering his own question.
The lieutenant spins around and heads toward the Lokomat—the walking harness suspended over a treadmill. Michelle goes over and starts to adjust the straps.
“Why would you guess that Chicago was not so good?” asks Lew.
“Well, I mean—with the tragedy there, the bombing.”
“Two hundred people off the welfare rolls? I wouldn’t call that a tragedy. I’d call it a good start.”
Michelle’s head snaps around at those words. “What did you say?”
“Oh, the lieutenant was just kidding. Weren’t you, Lew?” says Tom, ever the peacekeeper. “We’re running a little late here. We need to get started on the gait training.” He catches Michelle’s eye and waves her off. “His bark is worse than his bite,” he whispers to her