Dark Reservations (32 page)

The young officer struggled with each breath, spitting blood. The bullet had entered through the top of his chest, at the clavicle.

So much blood.

“It's going to be okay,” Joe kept saying. “The EMTs are almost here. You're going to be fine. We'll be laughing about it next week. You'll see. Just hang in there.” He found himself repeating
hang in there
over and over again as he searched for the right words, any words.

Two sheriff's deputies arrived first. After Joe told them what direction the shooter had gone when he fled the scene, one deputy stood guard, securing the tree line; the other brought over a trauma kit and applied compresses to Bluehorse's injuries, pulling away the wadded-up cloth that had once been Joe's shirt.

When the EMTs arrived, Joe insisted they treat Bluehorse first, threatening the one EMT who wanted to look at Joe's wounds. Everything after that blurred. His last clear memory was of fluorescent lights passing overhead and a woman's voice asking him if he knew his name. He couldn't remember if he'd answered her.

Now he checked himself over, wanting to know his injuries. He tried to sit up, but a bolt of pain electrified his left arm and shoulder. For a moment, he couldn't move. Tremors coursed through his body. His upper arm was wrapped in a bandage, preventing him from assessing the injury. He remembered very little from the previous evening in the ER and then later in surgery. He touched his cheek. His fingers caressed gauze and medical tape. He pressed the call button on the side rail of his bed. A few moments later, a nurse entered his room.

A sheriff's deputy standing outside the door looked in.

“Glad to see you're awake, Agent.”

Joe nodded cautiously, anticipating another jolt of pain. Not too bad. A little soreness in the neck, but that was all.

The nurse told him she, too, was glad he was awake. She checked his vitals and gave him some water. His cheek hurt with each gulp. She said the doctor would be in soon. He asked about Bluehorse. His cheek protested, but he got the words out. She told him again that the doctor would be in shortly, then left.

A few minutes later, the doctor arrived. A squat Hispanic man whose smile seemed larger than his face.

“Welcome back, Agent Evers. How are you feeling?”

Joe told him it hurt like a son of a bitch. And then he told him it hurt like a son of a bitch to tell him it hurt like a son of a bitch.

The doctor found that amusing, which hadn't been Joe's intention.

“How's Randall, Doc? The other officer?”

The doctor's smile disappeared. “I'm sorry. He didn't make it. He died early this morning. Lost too much blood.”

Joe's breath caught. He turned away, ignoring the pain in his cheek.

The doctor checked his patient's chart, made some notes.

Joe used the time to get his mind right. He felt new pain, a throb in his chest. And it wasn't from any physical injury. Twenty-two years, he'd never lost another agent—or another officer. Why now, so close to retirement? Why couldn't it have been him? That would have been so much easier. All his miseries, over. All his time away from Christine, over. All his failures as a husband, a father, an agent … over.

But what about Melissa? How would she feel if he were gone? She would be alone.

Selfish bastard.

The doctor was talking.

“… guessing a ricochet?” He waited for a response. When Joe didn't answer, he continued. “We found a fragment on your vest.” He stabbed a finger at the right side of his own chest. “We removed several fragments from your cheek. There will be some scarring.” He pointed to the right side of his own face, an inch or two below his temple. “There was combined soft-tissue damage, mostly to your zygomaticus muscle, which some folks call the ‘smile muscle.' Some nerve damage, too, but I don't think that's as serious. The puncture wound to your left arm nicked your humerus and tore your bicep and tricep. With appropriate wound care and some restrictions for a few weeks, it should be fine. Not bad, considering. I'm actually more concerned about your cheek. We'll give it some time, but you might consider consulting a plastic surgeon.”

Joe nodded, half-listening.

The doctor removed the bandage on Joe's cheek and had him perform what he called a ‘facial animation test,' requiring Joe to make expressions: a big smile and a little smile, a look of surprise and a frown, an open mouth, a closed mouth.

When he finished, the doctor said, “Some people are waiting to see you. Are you up for company?”

O
CTOBER
8

F
RIDAY
, 9:50
A.M.

G
ALLUP
I
NDIAN
M
EDICAL
C
ENTER
, G
ALLUP
, N
EW
M
EXICO

“Hey, buddy,” Stretch said. “How you feeling?”

The entire squad stood around the bed.

“Is that a smile?” Cordelli said. “You look like you're trying to take a shit.”

Tenny laughed.

Ginny shoved a motherly elbow into Cordelli's gut.

Cordelli pretended to double over. “What? He does.”

“The FBI sent a shooting review team out there,” Dale said. “I called and let them know you were awake. They're sending someone over to talk to you.” Joe had never been involved in a shoot-out before, but he knew the shooting review team would consist of investigators and evidence technicians who would try to reconstruct what happened.

Joe nodded.

“Don't take this the wrong way, but do you need a lawyer?”

Joe met Dale's eyes. “What for?”

“You were involved in a shooting. I need to ask.”

“Do you think I did something wrong?”

“I don't know. I wasn't there.”

Tenny shook his head. “That's kinda rude, boss. The man's been shot.”

“I wasn't implying anything,” Dale said. “An officer lost his life out there. I'm only covering the bases.”

Joe felt a pang in his stomach. He had screwed up. Eddie had felt wrong to him. He should have called it off. Or had more backup. They'd walked into an ambush. He needed answers.

“Is Andi out there?”

“Been out there all night. Said she won't go home until they get every trace of the shooter collected.”

“What'd they find?” Stretch asked.

“They followed the bike tracks for several miles to truck-tire impressions. They took molds. They also collected all the shell casings and some blood. Looks like you hit the son of a bitch. Maybe you killed him. But all that may be unnecessary if you can ID the shooter.” Dale paused. “Can you?”

“He called himself Eddie. Male. Wore a cap and sunglasses.” He felt the room deflate. The squad had been hoping he could finger the shooter.

Sadi said, “Eddie? You're not saying it was Eddie Begay, are you?”

“The guy didn't sound native, but it was hard to tell,” Joe said. “I don't think so.”

Sadi visibly relaxed.

“Where's my phone?”

Everyone but Joe looked around the room. Ginny found it in the drawer of the bedside table.

Joe scrolled through the call history. He found the private number and showed it to Dale. “The guy called to set the meet.”

Dale handed the phone to Cordelli. “Get his incoming calls. Let the FBI know what you're doing. Make sure they get copies.”

“Got it, boss,” Cordelli said. He took out a notepad and jotted down the call information.

“You made CNN,” Tenny said.

“Yeah, big news,” Dale said. “I got a call from that Chris Staples guy again. Apparently, the shooting is stirring up more conspiracy theories. I like the one about Edgerton trying to bump you off so you won't find him. Staples's worried. He asked me to put out a press release saying Grace Edgerton wasn't involved.”

“Did he at least ask how I was doing?”

“Eventually.”

“Did anyone call Melissa?” Joe said in panic. “If she saw it on CNN, she's probably freaking out. Where's—”

“Calm down.” Stretch put a hand on his shoulder. “I spoke to her last night and this morning. The doctor assured us you would be fine, and I told her that. She wanted to fly out right then, but I told her to wait until she spoke to you. She wants to come home. You can't blame her, Joe.”

No, he couldn't. “How about Bluehorse's family?”

Several pairs of eyes avoided Joe's.

“They were here last night,” Dale said. “They're taking it pretty hard, of course.”

Of course.

They spoke for another half hour. Joe gave them an account of the incident. When breakfast arrived, they agreed to let him eat in peace.

“What's up with the guard on my room?”

“The sheriff's department offered. I accepted,” Dale said. “We didn't know what happened and didn't want to take chances.” He followed the others to the door. “The doctor told me you're being released tomorrow. Stretch will pick you up.”

They filed out of the room. Stretch hung back.

“I got a call from a woman this morning. Said she was concerned about you.”

“Gillian? Did she want me to call her?”

“No. Not her. She said her name was Sierra.”

“Sierra Hannaway?”

Stretch nodded.

“Let me guess. She wanted to know who was going to work her sister's case while I was laid up in bed.”

“Actually, she didn't talk about the case. She asked how you were and if she could visit you.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, really.”

“What did you tell her?”

“I told her yes.”

Joe said nothing.

“From that stupid look on your face, I take it I made the right decision.”

“I have to call Melissa. I'll see you tomorrow.”

“Yeah, I thought so. See you tomorrow.”

O
CTOBER
8

F
RIDAY
, 1:24
P.M.

G
ALLUP
I
NDIAN
M
EDICAL
C
ENTER
, G
ALLUP
, N
EW
M
EXICO

“Is it okay to come in?”

A woman's soft voice brought Joe out of a light sleep.

Sierra Hannaway stood at the door.

“Sure.” He used the bed control to raise himself to a sitting position. His pain meds were working.

She held a small bouquet of flowers set in a
Get Well
coffee mug. “Sorry, they didn't have much of a selection.”

She placed it on the end table next to his bed.

“Thank you,” he said. “For the flowers … and for coming.”

“I'm sorry about the other officer.”

Joe didn't want condolences. He wanted to give them. To Bluehorse's family. He wasn't sure if the young officer had been married. He didn't think so, but maybe he'd had a girlfriend. He should know that.

“I feel bad,” Sierra said, her voice gentle, almost inaudible.

“So do I.”

“No, not about him—I mean, I do feel bad about him, of course, but I feel bad about you. About the way I treated you when I first met you. I accused you of not doing anything, and … and I don't want to repeat some of the things I said about you to other people.”

Joe had no idea where this was going.

“I don't mean I was bad-mouthing you specifically,” she said. Her hands wrestled each other almost as much as she seemed to wrestle with her words. “I mean, I was talking about the police in general. You know, how sometimes they don't care about victims or the families.”

“Wow. Thanks for coming and making me feel good about my job.”

“That wasn't what I meant.” She looked around. “I'm not good at this.”

“At what?”

“This.” She gestured toward him and the nightstand. “All this.”

“The flowers? They're great. I really appreciate them.” He motioned to the empty room. “They're my first.”

She gave an embarrassed smile. “I mean talking to people. I'm not good at talking to people. I work with old bones, so I don't have to talk to people. I didn't want to be the chief preparator at the museum, because I knew that then I'd have to talk to the volunteers. And that's not me. But they pushed me to take the position. And I hate it.”

“I see.”

“So, every time we've met, I came off…” She searched for the words. “I came off mean. And I'm really not. But I did it again today. I'm sorry.”

“I don't think you came off mean. I appreciate your visit. I really do. I'm surprised and pleased by it. Believe me. There's no reason to apologize. And besides, you've perked me up. I was starting to feel sorry for myself, lying here in bed, shot, not knowing if I was going to make it. I'm glad you set me straight.” He smiled, or tried to. He hoped Cordelli had been joking about what the effort looked like. “I'm a good-for-nothing cop.”

She giggled, then broke into a genuine laugh. “I know you're making fun of me, and I deserve it. You really were shot, and I come in here insulting you. Then tell you about my own troubles. And there you are in pain, and yet … so nice.”

Joe started to laugh and then stopped, clutching his cheek.

“Are you okay?” She started to move to the door. “Should I get the nurse?”

He laughed harder, pressing against the bandage, trying to push down the pain. “No. No. I'm fine. Laughing hurts. Go back to insulting me. Please.”

She covered her mouth. He guessed part of the reason they were laughing was due not to the humor, but to the awkwardness of the situation. She was innocent. And so vulnerable.