Campbell Young Mysteries 3-Book Bundle. J.D. Carpenter

Jamal?”

      “He’s at his friend Ryan’s house.”

      “Oh.”

      “I brought you tomorrow’s Form. I know how you like to keep up.” Debi put the Racing Form on the bed near Young’s hand.

      “Is he really at Ryan’s?”

      She looked at him. “Yes, he’s really at Ryan’s.”

      “Did he know you were coming to visit me?”

      She hesitated. “Yes.”

      He nodded. “He didn’t want to come.”

      “Daddy, you have to understand. When he saw you the other day, it was very frightening for him. It was frightening for me.”

      “Do I look any better now?”

      She looked at him critically. “A little, I guess.”

      “Do you think he’s ... I don’t know ... traumatized? Maybe he’ll never want to see me again, if I scared him that much.”

      She put her hand on his arm. “It wasn’t just the way you looked, it was that you didn’t seem to know him. You didn’t respond. That really affected him.”

      “I tried to, but I couldn’t talk.”

      “Anyway, I’ve told him you’re going to get better, and he’s praying for you.”

      “He’s what?”

      “He’s praying for you. As you may or may not be aware, Eldridge is very religious, and he’s got all three of us down on our knees in Jamal’s room at bedtime, and we pray. Eldridge has us pray for all sorts of things: that he won’t fall off a horse or be involved in a bad spill; that Jamaica will have a soccer team for the next World Cup; that Bob Marley will show up someday, not really dead after all. Right now, we’re praying for you. You should hear Jamal, Daddy, he’s so sweet. ‘Dear God, please make my Poppy better.’ It makes me cry.”

      “It’s the tube up my nose that freaks him, right?”

      “No, Daddy, it’s—”

      “One of the nurses taught me how to disconnect it so I can go for a walk. Maybe if I’m out of bed the next time he comes, he won’t be so scared. We could go for a walk around the ward. Of course, I’ll still have the IV in my arm and the little trolley I have to drag around behind me. But the tube shouldn’t bother him. There’ll just be about six inches of it coming out of my nose, tied in a knot so nothing leaks out.”

       Sunday, June 18

      When Wheeler and Trick entered room 614 at East General Hospital, Young was sitting up in bed reading the Racing Form.

      Trick said, “What’s that tube up your nose for?”

      “I shit through it,” Young said.

      “Nice,” Trick said, “and it’s transparent, too.”

      “They think of everything around here. Stick around long enough and you can watch me go. It’s kind of like TV, only different. How’s Reg?”

      “Good. We seem to get along.”

      “Is she getting enough exercise?”

      “Well, she runs around my apartment almost constantly, and I take her to the park.”

      “How often?”

      “Once or twice a day, depending. She’s fine, Camp, but I wish she wouldn’t drag her ass across my carpet.”

      “You giving her milk and cereal in the morning? A small amount?”

      “No, I’m giving her Louisiana Hot Sauce on a bed of peppers.”

      “You’re a laugh riot.”

      Wheeler said, “How are you feeling?”

      Young turned to her. “Not bad. Well enough to do a little reading.” He rattled the Racing Form. “Speaking of which,” he said, turning to Trick, “you going to the track today? It’s Sunday.”

      “No, it wouldn’t be any fun without your sorry ass there for amusement. Besides, who’d cart me around?”

      Young nodded. “I’m the only one stupid enough.” He reached for a tattered Sports Illustrated on his bedside table. “You two might be interested in this. There’s an article in here about The Sandman.”

      Trick said, “The who?”

      “The Sandman. He’s this guy in the States that killed horses for a living. We were talking about him a while ago, before you came aboard, but I forgot all about it.”

      Wheeler said, “But The Sandman’s in jail, right?”

      “Right, somewhere in Illinois, I think.” Then he turned to Trick. “Do you remember Alydar?”

      “Of course. Only horse to finish second in all three Triple Crown races.”

      “Beaten by Affirmed in all three.”

      “That’s right.” said Trick. “By a length and a half in the Derby, a neck in the Preakness, and a head in the Belmont. One more race and he would have got to him.”

      “Well, Alydar died in 1990, and now they’re saying he was murdered.”