Page 25

“How’s she doing?” I asked Bree, handing her a coffee I’d picked up on my way back.

“Beeping along,” Bree said. “They took her for another scan about an hour ago. Her vital signs are within normal limits.”

“The swelling? The bleeding?”

“Sydney is supposed to come by soon to give us an update,” she said just as Dr. Ames came in carrying a chart and smiling.

“The CT scan doesn’t show any new ischemic areas,” she announced.

“And the swelling from the fall?”

“Not subsiding yet, but not increasing either,” she reported. “I expect we’ll see the inflammation going down in the next four or five hours. If all goes well, we might try to bring Ms. Regina up out of the coma as soon as this evening. But again, that’s if all goes well.”

I wanted to hug her, but so did Bree, and she got to the surgeon first. Dr. Ames laughed. “We’re not in the clear yet.”

“You and the neurosurgeon got her this far,” I said, throwing my arms around her after Bree did.

Dr. Ames said more scans would be done over the next ten hours to see if the swelling in my grandmother’s brain started to subside. “We’ll have a much clearer picture after that.”

Not long after Sydney Ames left, John Sampson came in. We brought him up to speed on Nana Mama’s condition, and he told us about his early-morning trip to the Bridge to Nowhere.

“Choir Boy?” I said.

“That’s what Locket says they call him. Apparently he was thrown out of a seminary.”

“And what do you know about this Hawk guy?” Bree asked.

“Just that he has mental and addiction issues, surrounds himself with thugs, and runs a Lord of the Flies kind of camp on the south embankment.”

“Run checks on him and Locket,” Bree said, her background as a former Metro chief of detectives coming through.

Sampson nodded. “I pulled her fingerprints off her shotgun, which I said I’d return to her this afternoon,” he said. “With luck and a little help, I’ll get Hawk’s prints, and we’ll have a better sense of who we’re dealing with on both sides.”

Bree said, “How come you didn’t want to talk to Hawk right then?”

“I got a pretty strong sense that Hawk was more likely to respond to a show of force than a reasoned argument.”

Bree looked at me. “You’re antsy. Why don’t you go with John and talk to this guy? I’ll stay here until you’re back.”

She was right; I’d been feeling caged sitting here in the hospital room waiting for news. “You’re sure?”

“Positive,” Bree said. “And you’ve got me intrigued about this Bridge to Nowhere. Who owns it?”

Sampson said, “I think the District does.”

“Or the feds,” I said. “I’m pretty sure federal highway dollars paid for it.”

“I’ve got my laptop here,” Bree said. “I’ll look into the ghost ramp while you boys go have a chat with Hawk and Choir Boy.”

24

THE SUN WAS BLAZING in the sky when we returned to the encampment, me for the second time, Sampson for his fourth visit in a little over twenty-four hours.

“You’re getting to be a local,” I said as the ghost ramp and the Bridge to Nowhere graffiti art came into view.

“Destined for a spot on the council of high trolls.”

“Is there such a thing?”