Page 84 of Manner of Death
“We had your hospital room under guard around the clock,” Bashir said as evenly as he could. “And there’s cops outside my place, too.”
That wasn’t a lie, but it was somewhat of a half-truth. They were partly there to monitor anyone coming and going in case someone made a move on Sawyer… but also to monitor Bashir and make sure he didn’t try anything cute.
Sawyer rubbed his hand over his face and sighed. “God, what a shitshow.”
“I know. And I’m sorry. Nan and I—we’ve just been trying to let you heal without freaking out. We made sure you weren’t vulnerable, though. I promise.”
“I know,” Sawyer whispered. “I just hate feeling…” He chewed his lip.
Bashir could imagine what he was trying to say. It sucked, being scared. Being targeted.
Being lied to.
His own thought made him wince. Maybe Sawyer deserved some more honesty.
“They’re, um…” Bashir cleared his throat. “The cops outside—they’re not just there to keep an eye out for Dr. Boyce and protect you.”
Sawyer’s eyebrows climbed.
Bashir squirmed uncomfortably. “They’re also keeping an eye on me.”
“What? Has he threatened you, too?”
“No.” Bashir scratched the back of his neck. “No, it’s, um…” He sighed heavily and dropped his hand to the table. “Tami’s pointing the finger at me.”
Sawyer straightened. “She what?”
“She’s claiming everything that—she says I put her up to it all to help hide the fact that I was killing people.” He filled Sawyer in on that part, including the parts where she claimed he was choosing increasingly elaborate ways of killing people in order to make himself look like the hero at the autopsy table.
“That…” Sawyer furrowed his brow, which seemed to hurt. “That doesn’t even make sense. After all the noise she made about how I was trying to make it sound like you did it? And… It…” He exhaled. “Am I just really badly concussed, or does this make zero sense?”
“It makes zero sense,” Bashir admitted. “I have no idea why she’s suddenly pointing the finger at me.”
“Unless she’s being compelled to by an outside source.”
Bashir tilted his head. “Go on.”
“I mean, she knows something.” Sawyer sat back against his chair, idly tapping his fingers on the side of his coffee cup. “Whether she actually killed anyone or even knew what was happening, she’s involved somehow. And she knows we know that.”
“So… what? She’s trying to do damage control?”
Gazing at the table between them, Sawyer pursed his lips. After a moment, he shook his head. “Not in the way you’re thinking. Like I don’t think she’s trying to take the heat off herself.” He flicked his eyes up to meet Bashir’s. “I think she’s covering for whoever’s had her doing the dirty work.”
“And you think that’s Dr. Boyce.”
Sawyer’s shrug was slight, as if the movement hurt. “I know you don’t like the idea, but all roads keep leading back to him.”
“No, I don’t like the idea, but I’m hard-pressed to think you’re wrong.” Bashir sighed. “The problem now is that we can’t find him.”
Sawyer shuddered, then winced. He shifted again in his chair.
“Do you want to move to the couch?” Bashir asked softly. “Might be a little more comfortable.”
A mix of stubbornness and pride clearly tried to keep Sawyer where he was, but then he sighed and nodded. “Yeah. Good idea.” Pushing himself to his feet, he groaned. “God, I don’t know what I’m more sore from—the crash or that fucking hospital bed.”
Bashir laughed softly. “They still haven’t installed those Sleep Number things, have they?”
Sawyer made an unhappy sound, and he shuffled into the living room with Bashir on his heels. After they’d settled onto the couch with a pillow under Sawyer’s broken arm for some extra support, he exhaled. “Ugh. This is some bullshit. The pain, and your colleague trying to fucking murder me. Again.”