“No White Knight anymore,” Val agreed, nodding.
“Great,” Crow said glumly.
Weinstock sighed and rubbed his eyes. “I’m keeping Connie in so my counseling staff can tag-team on her and try to break through at least the initial layers of the gunk that’s formed over her perception of herself and of her husband.”
Val looked skeptical. “You think you can do that in a couple of days?”
“Sadly, no. I think Connie’s going to need a lot of therapy for a long time. As for Mark? In a way he’s lucky he had some teeth knocked out because it gives me a tenuous medical reason for not kicking him loose. Between us, though, I’m keeping him in for ‘observation’ mainly because I’m hoping the therapists will help him realize that this was beyond his control—and that its okay because some things are beyond our control. All in the hopes that he and Connie will reconnect in a way that will rebond them and start some mutual healing.”
“That’s a lot to expect,” Crow said. “You might have to knock a few more teeth out.”
“Also, to send him home now, without Connie, would mean that he would have no choice but to interact with you two. I don’t know if he can handle it.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Val said. “We’re family.
Weinstock looked at Crow. “What about you, sport? You up for being there for Mark and Connie?”
Crow reached over and took Val’s hand, lifted it to his lips, and kissed the engagement ring he had given her. “Like she said…they’re family.”
Weinstock cleared his throat, finished his apple, and walked into the adjoining bathroom to wash his hands. When he came out he pulled his chair over closer to Val, his face composed. “Your turn, missy.” Val had a bandage wrapped around her head and a thick gauze pad covering her right eye. Weinstock removed the wrapping and examined the bruising. He shined a light in her eye and asked her to follow it as he moved it around. “Hmm,” he said. “Some good news for a change. The eye is fine, no loss of motor function, pupils dilate correctly, visual acuity appears to be unimpaired, tear ducts seem to be functioning normally. As you know, there is a hairline crack of the orbit but that’s not as bad as it could have been. What did he hit you with, anyway?”
“Just his hand,” she said.
Weinstock whistled.
“You wouldn’t believe how strong that son of a bitch was,” Crow said.
“Overall,” Weinstock said, “I’d say that you’ll be fine and with no lasting ill effects. Headaches for a while, of course, and I’ll leave you some stuff for that. Bruising looks bad, but that’s in the nature of bruising—it looks bad and then it looks worse and then it goes away.”
“Do I have to keep wearing that bandage over my eyes? My depth perception is so crappy I keep walking into walls.”
“Nope, but just take it easy. Use ice a couple of times a day, and you might want to wear sunglasses when you go out—there may be some light sensitivity. As for your ribs—all those years totin’ barges and liftin’ bales has done you some good. You have hairline cracks of two ribs, but you’re so darn fit that your obliques are acting like natural splints. I doubt you’ll get more than a twinge out of them, and they’ll heal fast.”
“Okay. What about my shoulder?”
“Ah, that’s kind of a metza-metz thing. Initially you had a sprain of the shoulder, but after that second attack…well, I had Billie Whitby take a look at the second set of MRIs and you have a minor partial thickness tear of the rotator. Very minor, luckily, but when things here settle down we can schedule you for an arthroscopy. You’ll be playing tennis by the spring. In the meantime I’d leave that Viper of yours in the garage,” he said. “Speed shifting is not going to feel very comfortable. And—”“Can I shoot a gun?” she said, cutting him off.
“What?” Crow and Weinstock said it together, and both rather more loudly than they had intended.
Val’s dark blue eyes were fierce and with the bruising around her face and her crooked nose and black hair, she looked absolutely ferocious. “Boyd is still out there. People keep dying on my farm. I have guns, and you know I can shoot…the question is, is it safe for me, for my shoulder, to shoot a gun?”
“Val,” Crow began, “it’s not going to come to that…”
“Hush,” she snapped, and he did hush. She tapped Weinstock’s chest with a stiff forefinger. “Tomorrow I’m moving back home. To my home. I can only do that, though, if I can safely carry and use a gun.”
“Val, I don’t think—”
“Yes or no, Saul?”
He folded his arms and sat back in his chair, glanced over at Crow, who held both hands up, palms out, and sighed. To Val he said, “Okay, here’s the situation and you do with it as you please. Can you fire a gun without doing further damage to your shoulder? My answer—probably. A pistol, small caliber. Shotgun—out of the question. No big-caliber pistols, either. A .25 or even a .22.”
“Sissy guns,” she said, flicking her hand dismissively.
“.22’s are the weapon of choice of your professional hitman,” Crow observed sagely, but they ignored him.
“Now,” she said, “if I were to use a heavier caliber, say Dad’s old .45, what would be the downside?”
“Well, two things…first, you might have trouble lifting it. The shoulder isn’t bad, but it’s not one hundred percent…and the recoil from something that heavy could—and probably would—exacerbate the injury to the rotator, in which case you’re looking at a far more invasive and extensive surgery.”
Val got up and walked across the room to the far window, and though her face was set and stern, she did trail her fingers lightly across Crow’s shoulders as she passed him. She chewed her lip for a minute, looking out at the leaves blowing around in the backyard, pushed by the early evening breeze. Without turning, she said, “I’ll risk it.”
(3)
Vic’s pickup truck was dark blue and in the shadows cast by the east wing of the hospital it was invisible, snugged back as it was between the two massive air-conditioner fan units. The engine was idling quietly but the lights were off. Vic had picked up a pack of Tiparillos and had one of the cheap cigars, unlit, between his teeth. His tongue constantly flicked the open end of the plastic stem as he watched the part of the parking lot that he could see from where he had parked. The east wing was mostly labs, the morgue, maintenance, and storage. There were two truck bays for deliveries, closed and locked now. There was a wire fence with two gates, one for entry, the other for exits. The entry gate was closed and locked. The exit gate was still open and there was a single vehicle parked just inside of it. Hospital security staff in their little putt-putt golf cart. Two men in it. Denny Sturges and Al Antowiak. Vic knew them both. Couple of mouth-breathers who would never amount to anything more than night shift at the ass end of a hospital. Both of them wore guns, but Vic was sure neither had ever fired them, and if they ever tried they’d probably blow each other’s dicks off. He smiled. Beyond the fence a Pine Deep police unit shot by, lights flashing but no siren. Vic didn’t give it much thought. The whole bunch of them—local cops as well as the crews from other towns that had come in like gunslingers to help with the manhunt—were chasing their own asses. They’d never find Boyd, Vic was sure of that, and his smile thinned, went colder.
Behind him, in the bed of the truck, there was a soft, heavy sound as something turned over. He glanced in the utter blackness of the rearview and saw nothing but could imagine the heavy tarp tenting as something shifted under it. Impatient asshole, Vic thought. Well, that’s okay. He pressed a stem on his watch and the time glowed in green LED digits: 10:58. If Polk’s intel was correct, then the Two Stooges over there in the golf cart would lock up the parking lot in two minutes. After that they’d drive by once every half hour and check that the locks on both gates were still engaged. Half an hour was plenty of time. Vic figured it would take maybe half that time. Plenty of room for error.
He waited out the two minutes patiently. At the stroke of eleven the guards drove their cart outside the gate and Sturges hopped out, looped the chain through the poles, hung the big Yale in the links, clicked it, and climbed back into the cart. By 11:02 they were gone. Vic nodded, appreciating efficiency and good timing, even in wetbrains like those two. As soon as the golf cart vanished around the corner, he jerked open the door of his truck—no light came on, he’d taped the button down—got out and walked to the tailgate.
“Rise and shine, cupcake,” he said, tapping the metal rim of the truck bed softly. By the time he’d lowered the tailgate, the thing under the tarp had crawled down from its nest behind the cab. Vic grabbed a corner of the tarp and whipped it back as Kenneth Boyd lumbered down off the bed, eyes glaring rat-red in the darkness. “Jeez, you stink!” Vic said, wincing and waving a hand in front of him. He pulled a small plastic tub of Vicks VapoRub from his pocket, unscrewed the cap, and daubed a little under his nose.
Boyd wrinkled his nose at the smell. Maggots wriggled in the deep cuts on his face and three layers of dried blood were caked around his mouth. He was as tall as Vic, and heavier, and could have ripped Vic’s arm right out of his body, but when Vic took a single step toward him, Boyd recoiled. When Vic had returned the Vicks to his pocket with one hand he’d drawn his Luger with the other. He pointed it at Boyd’s head. Boyd’s eyes were feral and wary. Vic saw that Boyd recognized the danger in that gun, and nodded.
“I guess you really are getting smarter in your old age, Boyd ol’buddy, ’cause you’re not giving me any of that snarl and hiss shit. Good, because now is not the time for me to be getting into a pissing contest with Night of the Living Dead, you dig? The Man’s been in my head just like I’m sure he’s been in your head—such as it is—and you know what we got to do. Clock’s running, so get to it.”