Steven Havill - Final Payment

“Tell me,” she said.

He bent down close, brushing her cheek with his lips. “Tell you what?”

The thought was easy to consider, but for a moment the words wouldn’t form. Eventually she whispered, “Am I going to die?”

The grip of the bony little hand was ferocious, but her mother said nothing. “No,” her physician-husband said. “No, you’re not. The docs here did a first-rate job of putting you all back together. You’re going to hurt a lot, querida . But you’ll be okay.”

“Just okay?”

“You’ll be fine.”

“You’re not lying to me?”

He looked askance, and his touch on her right hand was light but insistent. “When did I ever do that?”

“I’m sorry. What happened? I need to know.”

“The first bullet hit your vest and gave you a nice bruise. The second one missed the vest.”

“Tell me.”

“You just need to concentrate on resting and healing, querida .”

“Tell me. Every gory detail.”

“What’s the benefit of that?” the physician asked. “There’s time for that later.”

“Now is fine. I have nothing to do.”

“Caramba,” her husband sighed. “A 9mm slug found a way past the edge of your vest just under your right arm, right at the back of your armpit. You must have been twisting away somehow.”

“I need to know,” she whispered. For a moment he didn’t move, then he gently touched her forehead. “I’ll be right back.” In less than a minute he returned with a large X-ray sheet. He held it horizontally over her face so she could study it without moving, the ghostly images floating against the ceiling tile.

“Clouds,” she said. She’d seen enough X-rays to know what should or shouldn’t be there. She could see small fragments where the bullet had punched two ribs, the clouds of hemorrhage along the bullet’s path, and more fragments where the slug had busted out through the ribs in front.

“Nasty.” He lowered the X-ray. “Like I said, my guess is that you were pivoting away. Do you remember that?”

“I don’t remember any of it.”

Francis regarded the sheet of film. “Well, it hit you right where your vest wasn’t,” he said. “The path was across and down a bit. Some lung damage, some liver damage. Busted ribs coming and going.” He looked at her affectionately. “You’re a mess.”

He put the X-ray somewhere out of her sight, then returned and rested his right hand on hers. He touched a strand of hair away from her eyes. She concentrated on reading his expression and concluded that he was telling her the truth.

“ Ay , that’s nothing, then,” she said.

“Absolutely nothing,” he said. “What were they always saying in the old movies? Just a flesh wound. ”

“But I’ll be okay?”

“Yes, you will. They spent seven hours patching your insides together to make sure of that.”

“ Ay . I’ll be a little bit ugly, then.”

He grinned. “A few dramatic touches, maybe. You’ll have a long scar that follows the body contour, more or less.”

“You didn’t do the surgery?”

“No, but you had a team of the best.”

“Not if you didn’t do it.” She squeezed his hand. “Tell me about Manolo Tapia.”

“He’s dead.”

She remembered the image of Sheriff Torrez walking across the prairie, rifle in hand. “Bobby?”

“One long-range shot, I’m told. He took it the instant that he was sure you were clear of the airplane.”

Ten seconds sooner would have been nice, she thought, and then dismissed that. Robert Torrez would have entertained exactly the same thought, she was sure, and no one needed to dwell on it.

“Hector?”

“INS has him in their custody now.”

“Okay.” She closed her eyes, and felt the drug-induced fog move a step closer. “Los dos?”

“We’re all enjoying a big-city vacation,” Francis said. “They’ll be in to pester you in a little bit. But not right away.”

“Soon, though. I need to see them soon.”

“Sure. Soon. Francisco wants to bring in his new practice keyboard so he can play you his latest creation.”

“Practice keyboard?”

“ Padrino has been keeping them busy. Apparently they found this wonderful gadget at a music store. It allows fingering and it’s got the touch of working keys, but doesn’t make any noise. Thunk, thunk. ”

“The best medicine,” she said.

“He wants another recital, of course,” Francis said with a laugh. “He’s working on his own composition for it. That’s what he wants to play for you, so the sooner you heal, the better, because the kid is impatient.” He let his left hand rest motionless on her forehead. “But we gotta give all those tiny little sutures time to do their thing.”

She gripped her mother’s hand with her left, and his with the right. Just that simple muscle twitch woke up the demons, and she said nothing for a long time, waiting for the war to reach an uneasy peace.

“I’ll wait right here,” she whispered.

A major triumph came when Estelle could turn her head enough to find the window-without bracing for the blinding stab of pain that lurked somewhere in the cavern under her right shoulder. The blinds were drawn, but she could see edges of bright light drawn around the periphery. Her room was quiet. She vaguely remembered being transferred to this room, the transfer from the rolling bed to this one the most memorable event. When that had happened, she wasn’t entirely sure.

“It’s twenty minutes after six,” her mother’s voice said. Estelle felt the tiny hand on hers again. “And you know, it’s Saturday. You’re getting to be a real lazybones.”

“Maybe that’s my true calling,” Estelle said. Her voice was soft and husky, little more than a whisper after the assault of the various tubes and drugs. She shifted her feet with care. From the waist up, she felt wooden. “Can you open the blinds a little?”

“I don’t know.” Teresa Reyes made her way to the window, taking her time to maneuver her walker. Estelle watched her mother’s tiny figure, aching for her as one gnarled, arthritic hand reached out in slow motion to find the pull strings for the window blinds. “Maybe we’ll ask one of the nurses. They’ll be along any time now.” She persisted until she found the right combination. Light blasted into the room.

Estelle flinched, and the sudden motion brought reminders. She turned away, and saw for the first time that another hospital bed shared the room. It was lower, and she recognized one of her mother’s wraps lying at the foot. “You’ve slept here,” she said, but it came out as a gurgle, and she carefully cleared her throat and repeated herself.

“What do you think I would do?” Teresa said. She turned from the window. “One of those doctors says that you have to get out of bed today sometime. They’re not going to let you rest, you know.” That was exactly what she wanted to do, and understood the conflict of opinions that irked her aging mother. Teresa was old school-rest until the bad humors all went away, perhaps driven off by sheer boredom. Modern surgery’s method of convalescence often was the opposite: “Up and at ’em, you slacker.”

“That’ll be memorable,” Estelle said. “I feel like my insides will fall out if I move too fast.” A week gone. Just like that. Like turning a clock ahead in the spring. The hour is gone as if it had never been.

“Then move slowly, hija .” Teresa chuckled. “Take a lesson from this old lady.” She reached out a hand to the lower bed beside Estelle’s, guiding herself to a slow-motion landing on the edge.