"What day is this?"

The nurse replied, "First you tell me your name, then I'll tell you what day it is."

Keith thought that was a fair deal, so he said, "Keith Landry."

She smiled. "Today is Tuesday. You got here Sunday night — Monday morning, really."

Keith looked at the sun outside the window. "Is it morning or afternoon?"

"My turn. Who is the president of the United States?"

Keith told her and added, "He's a delightful man. I had a chat with him last week."

She frowned.

Keith realized this was not what she wanted to hear from a head injury patient, so he added, "Just kidding."

She nodded.

He tried to sit up, but she put her hand on his shoulder. "Lie still, Mr. Landry."

He regarded her a moment as she hovered over him. She was about mid-thirties, plump, friendly face, but with enough experience, he guessed, to be stern if he got frisky. He asked her, "What time is it?"

"It's eight-fifteen A.M. You've been unconscious for about thirty-six hours."

"Oh..."He felt a little foggy, and his head and body ached, but otherwise he thought he was all right. He tried to remember exactly what had happened, and he recalled parts of it, but it was like a piece of broken china whose fragments had to be fitted together.

The nurse asked him, "What is your address?"

He told her, and she kept asking those kinds of questions, and he saw now that she was marking a sheet of paper as he responded. He wanted to think about what happened, but she was going on and on with the questions. Finally, he remembered the last minute or two before he blacked out, and his hand went down beneath the covers and between his legs. He said, "I'm okay."

"You're fine. Good vital signs, good responses, good..."

"Good. I'm out of here." He sat up again, and again she put her hand on his shoulder.

"Lie down, Mr. Landry, or I'll have to call an attendant."

"Okay. When can I check out?"

"When the doctors sign off on you. The neurologist is making his rounds now."

"Good. Where are my things?"

"In that closet."

"Does this telephone work?"

"No. Do you want me to have it turned on?"

"Yes, please." He asked her, "Do you know what happened to me?"

She didn't reply immediately, then said, "I understand you were assaulted."

"That's right. I was with my girlfriend. Do you know anything about her?"

"No, except that there are a few items of women's clothing in your closet." She added, "A police ambulance brought you here, and the police inventoried all the personal items that were found with you and brought everything here. I can go through it with you later, if you're concerned."

"No. I just need my wallet. Can you get that for me?"

"Later."

He thought a moment, then asked her, "Do the police want to question me?"

"Yes, they've asked that we notify them when you're up to it."

"Okay. But not today."

"We'll see."

"What is my prognosis?"

"Well... favorable."

"Did they do a CAT scan?"

"Yes. You have a hairline fracture, some internal swelling... I should let the doctor speak to you about that."

He questioned her further, but she was reluctant to give him specific medical information and only described his injuries in general terms — trauma to the midsection, the right shoulder, the left forearm, and to the head, no internal bleeding, a few contusions, lacerations, and so forth. He concluded that, if he could stand and get dressed, he was well enough to leave.

He asked her, "Where am I, exactly?"

"The Lucas County Hospital, outside of Toledo."

He nodded to himself. He was in the hands of the local government, and that included the local police, who considered him either a victim or a fugitive, or both.

She said to him, "I'll ask the doctor if you can have solid food. Do you want breakfast?"

He did, but it was time for him to play sick and feeble. In fact, he felt weak, but not too bad otherwise except for the headache. He said, "I just want to sleep."

"All right. I'll be back later with the neurologist."

"Fine. But I need some sleep now."

She left, and Keith sat up. At some point, the police would ask the hospital to sign a fit-for-confinement slip, and he'd be transferred to a prison sick bay or similar facility. He didn't know his legal status and wasn't completely clear on his medical status, but he had no time to waste finding out or straightening it out to other people's satisfaction. Headache and fogginess notwithstanding, he knew he had to get out of where he was, and get to Spencerville and find Annie.

He pulled out the two IVs, and his veins bled. There was gauze and tape on his bed stand, and he quickly wrapped the punctures. He put his legs over the side of the bed and stood slowly. His knees buckled, but he raised himself up and took a few tentative steps around the room.

There was an elderly man in the next bed, and Keith saw he was sleeping. Keith pulled the curtain around both beds to partially block the view from the open door. He could see the nurses' station off to the left.

Keith opened the wall locker and saw his suitcase and overnight bag wedged inside, along with his briefcase and a large plastic bag filled with assorted pieces of male and female clothing and toiletry items. He pulled his suitcase out, took off his hospital gown, and dressed himself quickly in his blue Italian silk suit.

Inside the plastic bag that the police had used to gather loose items, he found the jeans, shirt, and windbreaker he'd been wearing on Sunday, but couldn't find his wallet or his license plates. Obviously, these items were in the hands of the local police. At the bottom of the plastic bag, he saw the brown and white teddy bear. He held it a moment, then dropped it back in the bag.

Keith opened his briefcase, which was still unlocked from when Annie had opened it. The police had undoubtedly looked inside, but everything that was visible seemed innocuous enough. He pushed down on the false bottom of the case, and it sprung loose. He lifted the bottom and saw that his passport was still there, as well as several hundred dollars in various denominations. He put the money in his jacket pocket, then stuffed everything except the briefcase back inside the locker and shut it. Keith carried the briefcase and walked quickly and purposefully into the hallway, glanced left and right, and located the elevators to his right. He went directly to an open elevator, stepped inside with hospital staff, and rode down to the lobby.

In the lobby, he saw a uniformed policeman sitting in a chair, reading a magazine, and across from him a man in a suit who Keith figured was a detective.

Keith went outside and spotted a taxi dropping someone off. He got into the rear of the taxi and said to the driver, "Airport, please."

The driver got onto the airport highway. It was still rush hour in both directions, Keith noticed, but they were making decent time heading away from Toledo. The commercial strip looked different in the daylight, and he noticed the Chevrolet dealership on the right, but didn't spot his Blazer. Further down, on the opposite side of the highway, he saw the sign for the Westway Motel.

He wasn't certain how Baxter had found them, but he assumed that the manhunt had been intense enough to finally turn up the only two clues he had left: the conversation with the security man at the airport, which led to an area search and eventually to the Westway Motel, the dark sign notwithstanding. America was, by no means, a police state, but it had far more policemen with far more advanced gadgetry, mobility, and resources than any police state Keith had ever been in. Nevertheless, it was only a bad break at the airport that changed the outcome of that evening so quickly and completely.