Уильям Макгиверн - Odds Against Tomorrow

“How does it look? Bad?”

“I don’t know. I can make a guess after I’ve taken your blood pressure. Have you coughed up any blood?”

“No.”

“Maybe you were lucky. The bullet entered the pectoral muscle, but obviously missed the lung.” He had filled a hypodermic needle as he talked, measuring the liquid with frowning attention. “Okay, give me your arm.”

“How long’s this going to take?”

“Half hour to an hour, depending on what I find.” He hesitated then, and looked up at Ingram. “I’m going to do my best, but I can’t promise a damned thing under these circumstances. I should have a sterile operating room and sterile instruments. In a wound there’s the danger of shock and infection, in addition to the rupturing effect of the bullet, and the damage done to flesh and bone, capillaries and arteries. I’ll try like the devil — that’s all I can promise.”

Earl put a cigarette in his mouth, studied the doctor with a little grin. “How do you rate yourself as a sawbones?”

“I’m good.”

“Well, don’t worry then. I’m tough. I took a town in Germany once with a bullet through my leg. Had the Krauts making coffee for me when the rest of the platoon showed up. So start chopping away.”

The doctor loosened the rubber band he had strapped to Earl’s arm. “Your blood pressure is good,” he said. “It’s damned near fantastic.”

Earl grinned. “I told you, Doc.”

The doctor worked with swift, efficient precision, taping tubes to Earl’s arm for intravenous feeding, cleaning the surface of the wound and dusting it with sulfa powder. “The bullet was deflected downward,” he muttered. “Probably grazed a rib without shattering it. Turn over a little. That’s it.” He probed Earl’s side with the tips of his fingers, alert with professional curiosity. “Here it is,” he said at last. “I can cut it out easier than going down the bullet track after it.”

“How about me having a drink?”

“Well—” The doctor shrugged and nodded to Ingram. “Give him whisky with a little water. If he can hold it down it might help.”

Ingram shifted his weight from foot to foot as the doctor picked a scalpel from the saucepan of boiling water he had brought in from the kitchen. Earl’s face was damp with sweat, and the muscles were tightening in his throat, but he made no sound at all, just sipped whisky and stared without expression at the doctor’s intent, frowning features.

With the bullet out, the doctor turned back to the chest wound, packing it with powders and salves, then strapping dressings in place with broad lengths of adhesive tape.

“How do you feel?” he asked Earl.

“Kind of tired.”

“Any pain at all?”

“No. I feel fine.”

“When can he travel, Doc?” Ingram said.

“If he were in a hospital, they wouldn’t let him out for a week. He needs rest.”

“Balls,” Earl said. “I got hit twice in the Army and it hardly slowed me down.”

“You were a lot younger then.”

“What do you mean younger? I’m only thirty-five now.”

“That’s a long way from twenty.”

“Of all the crap,” Earl said. “Look at Ted Williams! Supposing you needed a hit, who’d you send up? Williams or some twenty-year-old jerk of a kid?”

“I’d go with Williams, I suppose,” the doctor said, shrugging. “But not if he had a bullet in his shoulder.” He worked quickly for another three or four minutes, stitching and dressing the incision in Earl’s side.

Finally he rubbed the back of his hand over his forehead and said, “Well, that does it. You’re loaded with penicillin in a beeswax solution. That will keep you going for twenty-four hours. Then you’ll need more. And you’ll need to have those dressings changed. I’ve done all I can for you.”

“You’re good,” Earl said. “You called it. Damned good.”

“And you’re tough,” the doctor said, repacking his bag. “I’ll give you that in spades.” He straightened and glanced at his daughter. “Okay, honey. We’re ready to go now.”

“I’ll have to put the blindfold on you, Doc,” Ingram said. “Then we can start.”

“Now hold it a second,” Earl said gently. “They’re not going anywhere, Sambo.”

“What do you mean?” Ingram said. “I promised them I’d, take them home.”

“The minute he gets to a phone he calls the cops. Didn’t you think of that?”

“What can he tell them? Just that he’s been riding around somewhere in the country. He and the girl were blindfolded all the way. And they’ll go back like that.”

“No,” Earl said, shaking his head slowly. “They’re staying here till we pull out. That’s final.” He felt charged with confidence, ready to run this show. It was like the Army, he thought, where everything went smoothly if one guy made the decisions and the rest snapped to and carried them out.

The doctor stared at Earl without fear or anger, a stubborn ridge of muscle knotting along his jawline. “Now you get this,” he said slowly. “We’re going home. I’ve patched you as well as I could. Now I’m going home and I’m taking my daughter with me. Get that through your head.”

Earl shook his head again. “You’re staying, Doc. Until we leave.”

“They’ve been decent to us,” Ingram said hotly. “He saved your life, you know that. We made a deal, and he’s done his part. Now I’m doing mine.”

Earl laughed softly. He was feeling fine, light and heady. The gun was close to his hand; that was what made him laugh. Ingram had left it in the overcoat he had thrown over his knees. “You’re way out of line, Sambo,” he said. “I told you I was running this show, didn’t I?” He sat up on the sofa and pulled the gun out from the pocket of the overcoat. “You’re careless about weapons, Sambo. In any army you’d get court-martialed for that.”

“What in hell is wrong with you?” Ingram said angrily. “Stop talking about the Army. This isn’t no goddam barracks.”

The girl stood uncertainly, a little cry of terror coming through her lips. “Dad? Dad, where are you?”

The doctor put an arm tightly about her shoulders. “We’re going home, baby,” he said. “I promise you.”

“It just can’t be, Doc,” Earl said, letting the gun swing lazily in his hand. He felt great; the combination of drugs and alcohol had started a bland confidence flowing in his veins. “I’ve got to keep you here. You’re a smart guy. You understand.”

“Now listen,” the doctor said in a tight strained voice. “If we’re not home soon, my wife will call the State Police. Is that what you want?”

“Well, we can’t have her doing that,” Earl said thoughtfully. He nodded at the doctor. “You think way ahead, don’t you?”

“I’m trying to be reasonable. You won’t gain anything by keeping us here.”

“Yeah, that’s right,” Earl said. “Keeping both of you is no good. So we’ll just keep the girl. That’s better, isn’t it, Sambo?”

“You’re talking like a fool.”

“What would I tell my wife?” the doctor said wearily. “Can’t you think, man?”

“You could say she stopped for the night at some friend’s house.”

“Her mother would know I was lying.”

“Then tell her the truth,” Earl said. “That’s reasonable, isn’t it? Just tell her to pretend nothing is wrong. Just call her school and say she’s sick or something like that. We’ll keep her here until we’re ready to leave. You won’t go running to the cops then, will you, Doc?”

“My wife hasn’t been well,” the doctor said. “I couldn’t tell her the truth. The shock might kill her.”

“That’s your problem,” Earl said harshly; anger was building up inside him, pounding for release. “She’s your wife, not mine. Tell her any damned thing you want. But keep her quiet. Otherwise you may not see this cute little kid of yours again.”