SHOULD HAVE STAYED IN BED

Chapter 1

It was raining as Horatio headed for work. It suited his mood. He felt so rough he debated turning round and going home. The cough/cold he had had for a couple of days was turning rapidly into something worse. He felt feverish, vaguely sick. His head ached and his joints were sore. Hardly surprising… Half the lab was down with flu. The rain increased and he switched the wipers to 'fast'. Well, perhaps he could leave work early… He thought about the comfortable bed he had just left. Then he thought about the current case load, the number of absentees, and decided an early night was unlikely.

He glanced at the clock on the dash. He was late. He put his foot down.

He felt the skid start, the car hydroplaning. He cursed himself, took his foot off the throttle, resisted the urge to touch the brakes. Rode it… waiting for the tires to bite. It took a lot to make the Lexus skid – it had every kind of traction control and safety feature. He knew he'd been driving like an idiot. The car jinked and side-swiped the central barrier. He heard the expensive crunch of metal, but the vehicle found traction. Too much, even for its sophisticated mechanics, with only one wheel on the rough surface. It hit the barrier again, firing the airbags.

He was temporarily stunned, but distantly conscious of the car veering across three lanes, before overturning at the side of the road.

The engine was still running… roaring… Stiffly, he reached over and switched it off. Everything became oddly silent, but for the sound of the rain. He shook his head, trying to clear it – mistake – a jagged headache, which, admittedly, he'd had before the accident. He became aware of something dripping on him and looked up. He was looking up through the driver's window, which was smashed. The car was resting on the passenger side. And it was still raining. He sensed he wasn't badly hurt. He was held in an uncomfortable position by the seat belt, on his right side, wedged against the central console, and not sure how to get out. He reached up to open the door, but it was jammed. He went to brace himself with his right hand and gasped with pain. Not badly hurt… but a broken right arm, he thought. He toyed with releasing the seat belt, but couldn't face the crash down to the passenger side which would follow.

A face loomed over him.

"Jesus, buddy… That truck missed you by inches!"

He hadn't been aware of a truck. He tried to speak, and coughed instead.

"Are you okay? No, silly question. You can't be."

"I am." His voice was a hoarse whisper – nothing to do with the accident. "Don't think I can get out though."

"I've called the emergency services."

He wanted to say it wasn't necessary, but maybe it was. A wave of dizziness swept him. "Okay. Thank you."

His rescuer caught sight of his badge. "You're a cop?"

"Yeah. Embarrassing, eh?"

There was the sound of sirens, and within seconds he was surrounded by police, then, minutes later, by paramedics.

He tried to put some authority into his voice. "I'm not hurt – just a broken arm, I think… Can you get the door open?"

They tried, but failed. Then one of the police officers had more success with the back door. He heard them talking among themselves, excluding him. We could let the seat back… Slide him out backwards… Need to support him from underneath… No, don't move him… His back might be injured… And someone, more firmly… We need to do something quickly, before he goes into shock.

He felt impotent. He was shivering, as the relentless rain soaked through his clothes, but it wasn't shock. Yet. Just cold, coupled with fever. He twisted in the seat, testing his back, ignoring commands to stay still.

"I'm really not hurt. Just pull me out."

He heard one of the policemen say, "That's Lieutenant Caine, from the Crime Lab."

"Who's that?"

A Hispanic face appeared, one he vaguely recognised. "Santangelo, Sir. What do you want me to do?"

He forced a smile. "Tell these guys I'm okay to be pulled out."

The young man returned the smile, and nodded. He could hear the muttered conversation in the background. He wondered if he could reach the seat belt latch – risk the fall. At least get things moving.

A paramedic leant over him. "All right, Sir… Someone's going to squeeze under you and take your weight. We'll lower the seat, and get a board under you. You just lie still, and let us do the work. Won't take long." In the background, he heard someone murmur, 'If it doesn't work, the Fire Department will have to take the car apart.'

He closed his eyes against the growing headache, and let them work. It went smoothly. Someone managed to climb through to the passenger side and support him. There was still a jolt as the seat belt loosened and he yelped as his right arm crunched against the center console.

"It's all right," he said quickly, as his rescuers froze. "Just my arm."

They carefully lowered the seat back, and maneuvered him out through the back door. In the event, there was no room for a back board, and he found himself, surprisingly, on his feet, leaning on his wrecked car.

They were worried about the breach of protocol… Immediately felt his neck, and spine. "Any tingling? Numbness?"

"Really okay…" he said quickly. "Few bruises, nothing worse."

"Let's get you in the ambulance, before we all drown."

He found, to his disgust, that he was too shaky to walk unaided, and allowed himself to be helped into the waiting ambulance. Santangelo was hovering, as if protecting a fellow police officer. Horatio nodded to him.

"Yes, Sir?"

"Will you take my gun and badge…? To the Crime Lab? I don't want the hospital to…" He almost said 'lose them'. "To have to look after them." He glanced at the paramedic. "No offense. Can you take them off for me?"

The man took them carefully off his belt and handed them to Santangelo.

"Find Eric Delko – tell him what's happened." He forced a smile. "And tell him I'm all right." He broke off, coughing.

"Is your chest hurt?" The paramedic frowned.

"No, I've got flu. Nothing to do with the wreck."

The man nodded. "I'm just going to support your arm, and then let the hospital look after you. I don't think you're going to die on me. Lie down though. More comfortable while we're travelling."

Horatio did so, huddling gratefully under the blanket that was tucked round him. He was shaking badly, and unsure how much was shock. He felt terrible, but he hadn't felt good before the crash, and now he was wet and cold too. His head was splitting, and he wondered if he'd cracked it on the car roof – not hard, obviously – he hadn't been knocked out. And his face was stinging – from the airbag presumably. He closed his eyes, as the vehicle moved off.

"Someone to see you, Eric…"

Eric Delko looked up, surprised to see a rather damp police officer, whom he recognised from Frank Tripp's department.

"Santangelo, Sir. I was asked to give you these…" He held out the badge and gun.

"Horatio's? Why? How?"

"He's had a car wreck. I was one of the first on the scene."

"Dear God! How bad?"

"Not too bad, I think. They're taking him to hospital, but he says he's just got a broken arm. He wanted his things kept safe."

"Has he? Just got a broken arm?"

"Well, he was… er… protesting about the fuss…"

"That's Horatio…"

"And he was on his feet… Kind of… He looked pretty shaken up, to be truthful."

"Okay. Thank you. Dade Memorial? I'll go and find him." Eric reached for his coat. "Where's the car?"

"On its way to the scrapyard, by now."

"Write-off?"

"I'd say so. It rolled, so the roof's bent."

Eric chuckled. "He'll be pissed. What about the accident? Whose fault?"

"Only him involved. He skidded, I gather. Flipped it. It was raining hard."

It was still raining hard, as Eric drove to the hospital. He was surprised at what Santangelo had said. Horatio was a good, if fast, driver. And his car was highly rated, safety-wise. Still, anyone could have a lapse in concentration. Or maybe he'd been avoiding something in the road. As long as he wasn't badly hurt…

The traffic had slowed, backed up by another accident, and it took him nearly an hour to reach the hospital. He parked and walked into the ER.

"Horatio Caine?" He showed his badge, which usually stopped any arguments.

"He's gone for X-rays. Shouldn't be long. I'll let you know when he's back."

"Tell him I'm here. Eric…"

He waited restlessly for ten minutes, before they fetched him. Horatio was just easing himself onto a bed. His jacket lay across the foot of the bed, and his shirt sleeve had been cut, revealing a temporary bandage on his lower right arm. His hair and clothes were soaked. His face was ashen, apart from an airbag burn on one cheek. And he was shivering.

He flashed a wan smile at his colleague. "What a mess…" The voice was a husky whisper.

"God, you sound rough."

"He is." A doctor came into the cubicle. "He tells me he's got flu. Hence a fever and a respiratory infection. Quite apart from the accident damage."

"Yeah, we've all had flu." Eric looked at Horatio. "You should have stayed at home."

"I know that, now."

"So what's the damage, doctor?"

"Well, broken arm – nasty open fracture near the elbow. We're going to have to operate on it. Mild concussion. Airbag burn. Lots of bruising. You got off lightly."

"If you say so," Horatio muttered. "Can't say it feels like it."

"Better than the car, I gather. Write-off…" Eric put in.

"Damn." He broke off, coughing.

The doctor said sympathetically, "I can't give you anything to ease the flu symptoms yet. Nor pain relief, until we know when we're operating. Will you be okay while I go and see if we've got a slot today?"

"I'm fine."

The doctor left, and Eric sat down. "What on earth happened?"

"Nothing. I was driving too fast in the rain. Not concentrating. It hydroplaned. I feel like a fool."

"Don't. Accidents happen. Do you want me to do anything?"

"Yes. Find the car, and get any stuff out of it. I don't think there's much… but my leather jacket's in there, I think."

"Will do. What else? Fresh clothes?"

"If you don't mind. Take my keys." He gestured towards his jacket. "God, my head hurts."

"Not your arm?"

"Not a lot, really. Wish they could just put a cast on it, but apparently the break's too near the elbow."

"Let them do what they want. It's your shooting arm, among other things."

Horatio raised his eyebrows, then said, "I can shoot left-handed… Not all that well. And my writing's illegible." He smiled weakly. "Oh Eric, what a screw-up!"

"Come on, it could be a lot worse. Look, I'll let you rest… Go and see about things."

The doctor came back. "We can do you this afternoon. I've spoken to my orthopedic colleague and he thinks a metal plate's the best option." He smiled. "Don't look so horrified. It's better. No cast, so you can use the arm almost straight away. It'll be weak, but not for long. I told you you were lucky."

Eric got up. "What time shall I come back?"

"Fiveish?"

He walked out with the doctor. "He's really okay?"

"Yes. It's the flu that's knocking him out. It'll be a bit tricky putting him under with his breathing bad, and a fever, but we can't leave the arm while he gets better. Once he's over the anesthetic, we can make him feel better. Don't worry – he'll be fine."

Eric nodded. "Look after him."