“What the hell?”
As she lowered the bed guard to sit on the side of the bed, taking his hand, he took stock. Machines and monitors, the annoying discomfort of the IV needle in the back of his hand, the raging headache, the sour, metallic taste in his throat, and a score of other irritations under the full-body pain.
“She shot me. Patricia Hobart—driving a white Honda Civic, Maine—”
“You gave us all of it already.”
His brain wanted to shut down again, but he pushed through it. “You get her? You get her?”
“We will. Are you up to telling me what happened?”
“Cloudy. How long?”
“This is day three, heading to four.”
“Shit. Shit. How bad?”
She shifted. They’d had pieces of this conversation before, but he seemed more lucid this time. Or maybe she just wanted him to be.
“Good news first. You’re not going to die.”
“Really good news.”
“You took two hits. The one in the shoulder tore some things up, but the docs say you’ll regain full mobility and range of motion with PT. You can’t screw around with the PT, no matter how much it hurts, or how boring. Got it?”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“The second, torso, right side, fractured a couple ribs, nicked your liver on the way down. You had internal injuries, and you lost a lot of blood, but they patched you up. You’re going to feel like shit for a while, but if you’re not an asshole about it, you’ll make a full recovery.”
“She didn’t hit the, you know, fun factory, did she? Because it doesn’t feel right down there.”
“That’s the catheter. It’ll come out when you can move around.”
“So I’ve been mostly dead for going on four days, but not dead yet.”
“Leave it to you to do a mash-up of two movie classics. How’d she get the drop on you?”
He shut his eyes, made himself bring it back. “Blond wig, blue contacts, an appliance—sexy little overbite. Said Renee had … Renee.” His eyes opened, and he saw it. He saw it before Essie told him.
“I’m sorry, Reed. We found her in her house. Two shots to the head. TOD’s estimated at roughly two hours before she shot you. From what we’ve pieced together, Hobart—as a redhead going by the name of Faith Appleby—connected with Renee a few months ago. She claimed she was house hunting, and it looks like she followed your footsteps on properties. She got friendly with Renee, so she must have known about the appointment, saw that as her opportunity to take you out.”
“She said Renee was delayed, and asked her to show me through the house. I didn’t make her straight off, but her voice … I watched some interviews, and I recognized her voice. Took too long to put it together.”
“Partner, if you hadn’t put it together, you’d be really most sincerely dead.”
“And yet another movie classic. She got the drop on me, Essie, and let me just add: Getting shot hurts like a motherfucker. She came around the bar, the kitchen island deal, to finish me off. I couldn’t use my right arm, but I got my weapon out with the left. I think I got three rounds off. I know I hit her. I fucking know I hit her.”
“You did. Blood trail led out the front door.”
“Good.”
“We just missed her, Reed. She had to have an escape plan worked out. She killed her grandparents before she walked out the door.”
“Come on.”
“The bitch dropped her grandmother off her walker, took her grandfather out in his goddamn Barcalounger. We froze their accounts—they all had her name on them—but she’d been systematically clearing them out for what looks like years, and must have millions.”
She rubbed his hand between hers. “I owe you a big, giant apology.”
“She’s the one. She’s been killing people her brother and his buddies missed.”
“We found her war room, her kill lists, photos, data she’s accumulated. Weapons she left behind, more wigs and disguises, maps. No computer. We have to figure she worked on a laptop and took it with her. The car she drove to the house was stolen that morning, and she left it at her grandparents’. We’ve got an APB out on the car registered to her, and since she’s now the prime suspect on unsolved cases across state lines, that’s national.”
“The feds pushed in.”
“I’ll take them. She’s smart, Reed. She’s canny and she’s crazy. It’s our case, but we’ll take the help. You have to get back on your feet, partner. That means rest and meds and PT, and whatever the docs say it means, and no bullshit from you.”
“In my apartment, bedroom. I’ve got a case board going, comp files. Don’t let the feds confiscate it. I’ll share, but don’t let them confiscate the work. Go get it.”
“You got it. Look, I’m going to go get a nurse, since you’re staying awake longer than you have. And your mom and dad, who’ve been here pretty much round-the-clock, even with your sibs taking rotation.”
Needing to touch, she rubbed her hand over the four-day scruff on his face. “You look rough, Reed, but you’re pulling it out. That button there? It’s your personal-decision morphine drip.”
“Yeah. I’ll think about that. There’s one nurse—I think nurse—unless I was hallucinating. Really pretty, brown eyes, great smile, skin the color of the caramel my mom used to melt to coat apples on Halloween.”
“Trust you. That’s Tinette. I’ll see if she’s on.” Then she leaned over, laid her lips lightly on his. “Scared the shit out of me, Reed. Try not to do that again.”
He went in and out for another twenty-four, but as much in as out. They wanted him up, taking short walks—and the lovely (unfortunately for him, married) Tinette cracked a velvet whip. She added, if he wanted the catheter removed—oh yes, please—he had to be mobile.
He shuffled, pulling his IV along, usually with one of his family or another cop beside him.
It touched him that Bull Stockwell didn’t miss a day, even if Bull harangued him about getting his skinny, malingering ass moving.
In the ten days since steel met flesh, he had lost eight pounds and could all but feel his muscle tone dissolving.
His mother brought him meatloaf, his father snuck him pizza. His sister baked him cookies. His brother slipped him a beer.
His first PT session left him covered in cold sweat and exhausted.
His hospital room, full of flowers, plants, books, and a ridiculous teddy bear outfitted with a detective’s shield and a nine mil, began to feel like prison.
The only plus there was that getting in was as hard as breaking out. The one time Seleena McMullen slipped through, Tinette—now Reed’s hero—kicked her right out again.
She managed to get a shot of him with her cell phone. When he saw it posted on the Internet, he decided maybe everyone lied to him, and he had died.
He sure as hell looked like a zombie.
Bull lived up to his name and bullied him into getting up and moving after the second round of PT when all Reed wanted to do was sleep off the misery.
“Quit your bellyaching.”
“It’s not my belly that aches.”
“Bitch, moan, whine. You want to be a cop again?”
“I never stopped being a cop.” Reed gritted his teeth as they walked. At least they allowed him cotton pants and a T-shirt now, instead of the humiliating hospital gown.
“They’ll put you on a desk, and keep you there if you can’t draw and fire your weapon like a man.”
“Essie’d kick your ass for the ‘like a man.’”
“She ain’t here.”
He walked Reed out to a small garden area where at least the air smelled like air.
“She ain’t giving it to you straight, either. Doesn’t want to put stress on your poor little feelings.”
“What’re you talking about?”
“The feds. They’re pushing us back, taking over.”