“Okay.” Bobby was determinedly patient. “Let’s have who you’ve talked to.”

I looked at the water stains on the ceiling. “There’s young Art Jurshak. You know, the alderman’s son. And Curtis Chigwell, the doctor who tried killing himself in Hinsdale the other day. And Ron Kappelman—SCRAP’S counsel. Gustav Humboldt, of course. Murray Ryerson—”

“Gustav Humboldt?” Bobby’s voice went up a register.

“You know, the chairman of Humboldt Chemical.”

“I know who you mean,” he said bitingly. “You want to share with me why you were talking to him? In reference to the Cleghorn woman?”

“I wasn’t really talking to him about the Cleghorn woman at all,” I said earnestly, turning to look at Bobby’s clenched jaw. “That’s what I meant—I didn’t talk to any of these people about Nancy. But since they were all more or less unpleasant, any of them might have wanted to dump me in the swamp.”

“For two cents I’d get someone to put you back there. It’d save a lot of time. You know something and you think you’re going to be a hotshot again, go looking without saying squat to me about it. They almost got you this time. Next time they will, but until they do I have to waste city money by having someone keep an eye on you.”

His blue eyes glittered. “Eileen’s all upset about you being in here. She wanted to send over flowers, she wanted to take you home with her and fuss over you. I told her you just ain’t worth it.”

25

Visiting Hours

After Bobby left I lay back down. I tried to sleep, but the pain in my shoulders had moved to the foreground of my mind. Angry tears prickled under my eyes. I had almost gotten killed, and all he could do was insult me. I wasn’t worth the bother of looking after, just because I wasn’t a blabbermouth who would tell him everything I knew. I’d tried mentioning Gustav Humboldt’s name, and all I’d gotten for my pains was an incredulous shout.

I twitched uncomfortably. The knot in the hospital gown was digging into my sore neck-muscles. Of course I could have given him chapter and verse on all my activities for the last week. But Bobby just wouldn’t have believed that a big-shot like Gustav Humboldt could be involved in bonking young women on the head. Although maybe if I’d tried giving it to him straight … Was he right? Was I just hotdogging, hoping to thumb my nose at him one more time?

As I lay still, letting images flow through my mind, I realized that this time, at least, wanting to give the powers-that-be a Bronx cheer wasn’t what had kept me quiet. I was well and truly scared. Every time I tried sending my mind back to the three black-slickered men I shied away from the memory like a horse frightened by fire. There were a lot of parts of the assault I hadn’t told Bobby, not because I was trying to hold back on him but because I couldn’t bear to touch the memories. The hope that some forgotten phrase or cadence would give me a lead to who they worked for wasn’t enough to force the memory of that terrifying near-suffocation.