Zero at the Bone (10 page)

“Well,
here’s
your problem,” Jack joked, showing D the bullet.

“Damn. Barely felt that. Sure are fast, doc.”

“I’m a professional. Don’t try this at home.” He put the bullet in the ashtray on the nightstand and went back into the bathroom for another washcloth. He sat at D’s side and washed the wound, then took another ampoule out of his bag.

“What’s this one?”

“Ampicillin. Just an antibiotic. Don’t want you getting infected.” He injected the drug into D’s arm. “That oughta do it, but we can always get you some pills if we need to. Come on, sit up.” He helped D sit up and washed the blood from his chest and back.

Neither of them spoke. Jack was glad that D couldn’t see his face as he touched him, the muscles of D’s back tight and defined under his hands, and he was pretty sure he wasn’t imagining the little jumps and flutters of muscle where his fingertips grazed D’s skin.

“No stitches?” D finally asked.

“Not a very big wound. Shouldn’t need them. Unless you’re worried about scars for your Playgirl shoot.”

D snorted. “Smartass.”

Jack began bandaging the wound with gauze, folding it into squares and wrapping strips around his shoulder, secured with adhesive tape. “It always amazes me that handguns, even at that range that you were shot, don’t cause more damage.”

“Handguns’re low velocity, Jack. But it ain’t the velocity, it’s the energy transfer. If ya hit something hard, like a bone, or a tough muscle like the heart, you get fast ’n’ hard energy transfer with lotsa damage. If ya don’t, like this shoulder bit where I got shot, not much transfer.”

“Huh. I guess I always thought handguns were really bad.”

“They’re bad ’cause they’re easy ta hide, and ya don’t know who’s carryin’, but in terms a lethal wounds it’s rifles ya gotta watch out for. Rifle bullets got three, four times the velocity of a handgun bullet. Lucky fer us rifles aren’t too convenient ta carry round on yer person.”

“Well, I saw plenty of handgun wounds during my ER rotation, but no rifle wounds that I remember. The handguns did damage enough.”

“Yeah. Some of ’em pack a wallop. Lemme see the bullet.” Jack handed him the bloody, deformed projectile. “Looks like a thirty-eight. Nothin’ fancy.” D’s expression shifted slightly as he stared at this murderous little piece of metal that had until recently been lodged inside his body. “Huh. Coulda killed me if he’d had better aim.”

“Then let’s be glad he didn’t,” Jack said, grimly.

D was watching him. “That bother you? Blowin’ them guys up like I done?” 40 | Jane Seville

Jack sighed. “No. Not really.” He met D’s eyes. “It should have. Maybe I’m getting used to all this.”

“It happens,” D said. He sounded a little sad. He flexed his shoulder experimentally.

“Huh. Thanks, Jack. Feels okay.”

“Wait ’til the Lidocaine wears off and then tell me how good it feels.” Jack looked around. “What now? Stay here? Move on?”

“Think we oughta move on, but I don’t know where. Stockton don’t feel safe no more. Too close. Don’t wanna turn around and head south again.”

“Well… you know, I might know a place we can go.”

“Yeah?” D shook his head. “I ain’t gonna be much use ta you for a little while,” he said, glancing ruefully at his shoulder.

“I think we’ll be safe there. It’s my ex-wife’s father’s cabin on Tahoe. Only uses it during ski season.”

D seemed to consider this. “Lotsa neighbors?”

“None. It’s way the hell out in the woods.”

“Could possibly get traced ta you, through yer ex.”

“Well… there aren’t any records tying him to the place. The place is still in his sister’s name.”

“That’s good.” D nodded. “Okay. Tahoe’s only three hours.” Jack stood up and looked down at him. “As your physician, I’d like to recommend that you rest for a little while.”

D stood as well, swaying a bit and still pale but clear-eyed. “I’m fine, doc. I’ll rest when we’re far away from here.”

Zero at the Bone | 41

JACK pulled up to the cabin, relieved that he’d actually remembered where it was. Surely it ought to be getting dark any minute now. Surely this day would be over soon, and he could retreat from everything into dreamless (he hoped) sleep. But no, it was only 3:00 in the afternoon. He was far too exhausted for it to only be 3:00 in the afternoon. Although, to be fair to himself, kind of a lot had happened.

D was either asleep or passed out in the passenger seat. Jack had given him the last of the ampicillin he’d had in his medical bag, and he hoped to hell it’d be enough. He reached out and touched the back of his hand to D’s forehead, which felt a little warm, but without a thermometer it was hard to say if he was really feverish, or if he was just warm from the sun beating in the window of the car onto him. “Hey,” Jack said, shaking him gently on his gunshot-free shoulder. “D?”

He opened his eyes, groggy but alert. “Wha?”

“We’re at the cabin. How do you feel?”

D blinked and sat up straighter. “Uh… okay, I guess.”

“Come on; let’s get inside. You need to rest that shoulder.”

“I’m fine,” D said, flapping a hand at him. Jack kept an eye on him as he hauled himself out of the passenger seat, his left arm done up in a makeshift sling Jack had fashioned from a towel. He paused and looked up at the cabin. “Huh. Nice place.”

“Yeah. Caroline’s father is very well off. Just ask him. He’ll tell you all about it.” Jack shouldered his bag and went up the walk to the front door. The spare key was in a fake rock half underneath the porch. He heard D snort in derision at this half-assed attempt at security. He shot him a look. “Not everyone’s on their guard against armed assassins and drug lords, you know. A fake rock’s good enough for most people.” D followed him into the cabin. It was a nice place. Two bedrooms that shared a big bathroom, with another bathroom off the kitchen. Cozy living room and a deck that looked out over Lake Tahoe a few miles away. “Where are we, exactly?”

“About halfway between Carnelian Bay and Tahoe City.”

“Still in California, then.”

“Yeah. No one’s around. Closest neighbor is two miles off to the east; you can’t even see the lights through the trees.”

“Good.” D sat down heavily while Jack went back to the car for the aluminum cases.

“So… we’re sure we weren’t followed?” Jack said, shutting the door behind him and flipping the deadbolt.

42 | Jane Seville

“Pretty sure. Unless there’s another tracker on the fuckin’ car.” D winced and let his head fall back against the couch.

Jack leaned over him and undid the top two buttons on his shirt, pulling it aside and lifting his bandage. He tried not to show it, but the sight of D’s wound didn’t reassure him. It was angry red around the edges and suppurating slightly. He was out of antibiotics. “When was your last tetanus shot?” he asked.

D looked at him like he was crazy. “Tetanus shot? Fuck if I know.”

“You don’t remember?”

“Shit, no. Got ’em regular in the Army, not since.”

“So more than ten years, is what you’re telling me?” Jack straightened up and ran one hand through his hair.

“Is that bad?”

“Bad? D, you got shot! You could get tetanus!”

“Thought that was from rusty nails.”

“Anything metallic penetrating the body is a possible source of infection and that does include bullets. It’s not too likely you’ll get it, but if there was ever a time for better safe than sorry, this is it.” He shook his head. “I’m going to have to get some tetanus vaccine somewhere.”

“I’m fine. I ain’t gonna get tetanus.”

“You don’t know that. And if you develop symptoms it’ll be too late to administer the vaccine. Tetanus has a fifty percent mortality rate, D. You like those odds? Because I don’t.” D looked a little troubled by this. “I can’t take the risk. And your wound… it isn’t looking good. You’re not looking good, either.” D was pale and clammy.

“I feel kinda feverish. Didn’t like ta say nothin’.”

“You don’t do that, you hear me?” Jack said, rounding on him. “You tell me how you’re feeling! I can’t take care of you if you’re hiding things from me, and I can’t have you dying of sepsis or tetanus or fucking necrotizing fasciitis because you didn’t tell me you felt feverish in time for me to do anything about it!” D just blinked at this tirade. “Fine. You the boss, doc. So let’s hear yer big fuckin’

plan. You gonna waltz right inta some ER and walk out with pockets fulla drugs? ’Cause I hear they crackin’ down on that shit.”

“I’ll think of something.” He sighed and fell back into the corner of the couch, watching D. “But not until tomorrow. I want to see how that wound does, and if you need more antibiotics. It takes at least two days to develop symptoms from tetanus so it’ll be fine for me to go tomorrow.”

“Go where?”

“I haven’t figured that part out yet.” He smirked a little. “C’mon, D. Trust me.”

“Well… I guess I owe ya that much, don’t I?”

The cabin was pretty well stocked with canned goods, so Jack put the microwave to good use. He hadn’t really realized how hungry he was until he smelled the chili, crappy sodium-laced canned chili though it was. They sat at the little round table in the kitchen; Jack wolfed down his food while D picked at his. “You need to eat,” Jack said.

“Ain’t too hungry.”

Jack paused. “You should be; we haven’t eaten all day.” D glanced at him. “Feel kinda… mashed up.” The admission of physical vulnerability seemed to embarrass him.

“How’s your shoulder?”

“Hurts like a sumbitch.”

Zero at the Bone | 43

“Hurts how? Is it a sharp pain, an achy pain, or a burning pain?”

“I gotta pick just one?”

Jack stood up and put his hand to D’s forehead. He definitely felt warm. He went to his bag and pulled out a digital thermometer. “Under your tongue,” he said, and D

obliged him, though he didn’t look happy about it. Jack withdrew the probe. “Well, you’ve got a one-and-a-half-degree fever. That’s not so bad but it isn’t good.” He went to the stove again. “Go sit on the couch and wrap up in that afghan. I’m going to make you some tea.”

D stood up slowly. “Ya sound like a fuckin’ grandmother.”

“Grandmothers were doctors before doctors were doctors. You need fluids.” When Jack came back to the living room, mug in hand, D was on the couch, wrapped up in the afghan as Jack had instructed. “Thanks,” he said, taking the tea. Jack sat on the far end of the couch. D was looking around the room. “This place secure?”

“Secure?”

“The windows lock? Got a second entrance?”

“Everything has a lock. There’s just the front door and the patio door.” D grunted, sipping his tea. “You seem nervous.”

D shrugged. “If I’m laid up, you ain’t got no defense.”

“You’ll be fine.”

“Best hope is that no one finds us here.”

Jack nodded, curling up into his corner of the couch with another afghan. He studied D’s face, flushed now with heat from the tea. “How’d you get into this business?” he asked.

“Jus’ kinda happened.”

“A person can’t ‘jus’ kinda’ become a hired killer.”

“Well, I did.”

Jack tried another tack. “Why did you join the Army?” D shrugged again, as if these questions had no importance. “I was eighteen, didn’t have no prospects, hadta do somethin’.”

“You must have liked it to stay in as long as you did.”

“It was okay. It liked me pretty well. Officers said I had the attitude for it, the right kinda personality, whatever the hell that means.”

“You were in during Desert Storm, right?”

“Yep. Spent two years over there.”

“Seriously?”

“Yep.”

“What was it like?”

“I don’t wanna talk no more.”

“Come on, D. You know everything about me.”

“Don’t think that’s so.”

“Well, ask me. I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

“Ain’t nothin’ I wanna know. Know enough. Ya saw a lady murdered and yer gonna say so in court, and ya don’t deserve ta die. That’s all I care about.” Jack said nothing, hurt more than he would have expected by D’s lack of interest.

He couldn’t abide silence for long, though. “So… how does it work?”

“What?”

“The whole hired-killer thing. How does it work?” 44 | Jane Seville

D sighed wearily. “Got a handler. Contracts come ta her, she shows me the files, I take jobs I wanna take, client pays her, she takes a cut, pays me. Real simple. I work when I want, no more ’n’ no less.”

He didn’t want to ask, but he knew he had to. Eventually, he had to, and he might as well do it now. “How many?”

D’s face turned slightly toward him, his eyes still focused toward the fireplace. He didn’t hesitate. “Sixty-seven.” He said it without pulling the punch, like he wanted the blow to strike Jack hard.

Sweet Jesus
. “How many of those were while you were in the Army?”

“None.”

“None?” Jack asked, incredulous.

“Never even fired my weapon. Army trained me ta kill, but hadta leave it ta become a killer.”

Jack was determined not to look away. “Who were they? These sixty-seven people?”

“You don’t wanna know this, Jack.” D was staring down into his mug again.

“I do. Tell me who they were.”