Free Left for Dead by Kevin O'Brien Page A

her.
    “Am I butting in?” the woman asked, peeking past the doorway into the room. “Are you two making out?”
    Claire recognized her friend, Linda Castle, whose frosted, light-brown hair was cut in a Dorothy Hammill style that had been popular in the late seventies. At forty, Linda was a couple of years older than Claire. She’d been best friends with Harlan’s first wife, and she was Tiffany’s godmother.
    “The natives are getting restless out there,” she announced, breezing into the room and closing the door behind her. “I think they want ‘in.’”
    She wore a pink pullover and khaki pants. A ribbon was tied around her wrist, holding a foil helium balloon of Garfield saying, You’re Sick! on one side, and Get Well Soon! on the other.
    She turned to Claire, and put a hand over her heart. “Oh, Claire, you’re a sight for these sore ones. I can’t believe we finally found you—and up here in Bellingham! You should see all the “Missing” fliers we posted all over Seattle. That’s where we thought you were. Huh, only ninety miles off!”
    She hurried to Claire’s bedside and planted a kiss on her cheek. “I’m so glad you’re sitting up, and—and, well I thought you’d have the IV tube in your arm and another tube up your nose. Y’know, half in a coma and drooling. Ha, ye gods, listen to me!” Linda squeezed her hand. “Anyway, I pictured you looking a lot worse, sweetie.”
    “Well, thanks, Linda,” Claire said, working up a chuckle. “You should have seen me before my nurse-friend outside helped me get made-up. She also found this robe for me.”
    Linda laughed. “Huh, she should stick to taking temperatures and changing bedpans.”
    “I think she looks wonderful,” Harlan piped up.
    Linda tied the balloon ribbon to the railing at the foot of the bed. She gave Claire a wink. “I’ll come by tomorrow with some of your things. So—how soon will they spring you from this joint? You must take this husband of yours off my hands. He’s been an absolute baby this whole week.”
    “We’re still not sure when she can come home,” Harlan explained.
    Claire managed to smile at them both. She imagined Linda bringing over dinners for Harlan and Tiffany. She was a terrible cook too, suffering from the delusion that her runny, fatty casseroles were just about the living end. Her husband, Ron, didn’t seem to mind though. He was a heavy-set man with a boyish face and a thick dark brown toupee that combed over to the side. Claire always thought he looked like Bob of Bob’s Big Boy. They didn’t have any children.
    “Harlan, my head is splitting,” Linda said. “Could you be a doll and run down to the gift shop? I need aspirin, one of those pocket-size ones ought to do.”
    “I’m sure the nurse could give you something—”
    “I’m trying to get rid of you, knucklehead,” Linda said, rolling her eyes. “Claire and I need to get in a little girl-talk before that flatfoot, the doc and the nurse traipse in here. Do you mind? All we need is a couple of minutes alone.”
    With a sigh, Harlan got to his feet. “You still want the aspirin?”
    “No. Just keep them out for a minute or two, and I’ll be your slave for life.” Linda pulled Harlan’s chair even closer to Claire’s bed. “And don’t worry, Claire and I aren’t going to talk about you.”
    Harlan gave Linda a wry smile, then he gently kissed Claire on the forehead and stepped outside,
    Linda sat down. She took hold of Claire’s hand. “I wanted to talk before they come in and it all starts getting official with the questions and statements,” she whispered. “Really, how are you doing, kid?”
    Claire nodded. “I’m okay, but I’m worried about Brian. I don’t remember him running away.”
    Linda stared at her. “And you really can’t remember anything else that happened?”
    “Well, it’s all kind of muddled.”
    “You don’t remember the—plans to go into Seattle with me? You know, our shopping