She recognized him and Axton for cops and scarcely glanced at their badges; her nod at their request was only confirmation of what she already knew. “The other officers couldn’t get much out of him, and he may still be sedated. Would you register here, please?” Wager signed his and Axton’s names and the time on the visitor’s log, then followed her directions down the wide hall to the third door. Woodcock’s bed was surrounded by a clutter of equipment. Most of it stood unused, but a tube ran into his nostril, and his right arm was slung and strapped firmly to his bandaged chest. Another tube ran liquid into his left arm. His swathed head rested in a padded brace that lifted his chin awkwardly, and the purple, egg-shaped lumps and crusted dots of stitching across his face almost hid the pulp that had been his nose. The heavy door thudded softly as it closed, and the man on the bed made some kind of sound. “Woodcock—can you hear me?” A stuttered moan between dry, puffed lips.
