What the doctors did not tell her at the time was that they thought she was going to die. The waste in her lower bowels had spread throughout her abdominal cavity and she was a cesspool of bacteria. The antibiotics they pumped into her veins were losing the war. Her fever bordered on 105 degrees—brain damage zone. Tony, Anna, and Charlie came to visit and she remembered talking to them but she could not have said about what. There were whole days when she was only conscious of the morphine drip, the fire in her head and guts, and the blank expression of the Acid Man as he had poured his cocktail onto her belly. For the longest time she did not even remember to ask if she had killed him or not.

Then, by some miracle, the infection retreated and her fever went down and she began to gain strength. Charlie explained the Acid Man was in the same hospital, alive but paralyzed from the neck down. That made her feel real safe. Tony visited and said that nothing mattered except her health. Then she asked about his girlfriend and somehow the conversation turned to divorce and suddenly her injuries were not so important as the question of when she could move out.

No, that was not fair. Tony had not wanted to discuss their relationship until she was feeling better. She was the one who had insisted on laying it out on the table. If only she had waited until she was home, maybe they would have had time to patch it up. Hey, maybe he would have fallen in love with her again. She was a nice girl; she had a lot going for her. So she had a shit bag attached to her belly. It wasn’t a permanent fixture.

Unfortunately, the day she left the hospital was the day she was told she was not allowed back inside her own home. The girlfriend had already moved in. Her name was Claire. She taught grade school, had a B.A. in art from Long Beach State, and was always available by three o’clock to watch after Anna.

Slate visited her that first night in her apartment. Charlie was staying over to help take care of her but Slate sent him out for a long walk. Slate sat on a chair near the couch where she rested on her back. It would be another two months before her colon would knit together enough that the doctors could sew the last stage of her colostomy. Slate was sympathetic to her condition but still a hard man. He did not mind bringing bad news.

“Agent Fienman,” he said. “Professor Banks has pleaded guilty to five counts of murder one. There’s not going to be a trial. He’s unable to move from the neck down. He’s no longer a threat to society. He’ll remain under house arrest for the remainder of his life.”