Steven Havill - Bitter Recoil

He stopped and rubbed the door pull with his thumb, idly polishing the chrome finish. “I’m surprised he gave you a second chance, Bill. When it comes to killing, he’s no beginner.”

“He used Arajanian,” I said. “I’m sure of it. The boy did exactly as he was told. Cold-blooded as a goddamn lizard. I’m beginning to think that it’s when Finn had to act on his own that he started making mistakes.”

“I want to know what other connections he’s had,” Tate said. He pulled open the door. “We’re going to find out who Finn is, Bill. And when we catch him, I’d straddle him over an anthill and let him take about three weeks to die, if the law would let me.”

“Keep me posted,” I said. He nodded and had almost closed the door behind him when my memory played a tape I didn’t even know I had. “Pat!”

He peered back in the room and lifted his chin in question.

“When Finn came back to the tent, he picked up the little girl, Daisy.”

“And?”

“He called her Ruth.”

“Ruth?”

I nodded. “His pet name for her. I don’t know why. The first time we talked with him at the springs, he called her that. Ruth. We didn’t think it was important then. But now…it’s something… it might lead somewhere.”

Pat Tate frowned and I could see the wheels turning. No easy answer held up its hand. “When I find the son of a bitch, I’ll ask him,” he said.

“I want to be there when you do.” He nodded and I took that as a promise.

By late afternoon of the next day I was stir-crazy. Worse, I hadn’t seen Francis Guzman, hadn’t heard about Estelle…I was god-damned marooned in that stupid little room. There was nothing wrong with me other than a few stitches. “Admitted for observation” might be a nice way of saying that I’d been sidelined on purpose.

The manhunt for H. T. Finn was centering on the western half of the state…it was top-of-the-hour news on both radio and television and splattered a headline across both the evening and morning papers. No reporter had sought me out. Sheriff Pat Tate had hidden me away.

Shortly after 3:00 p.m., I was sitting in the hard vinyl chair by the window of my hospital room. I’d had a fitful night’s sleep and, for want of anything better to do, a short morning nap. The only medication they forced on me was a mild painkiller and I took that gladly. My back hurt worse than my shoulder.

The first rifle bullet had blown through my vest and skinned across my back just below my shoulder blades. The projectile had never broken the skin, but the bruise and burn on my back was two inches wide and nine inches long.

I’d been lucky with that one. The other bullet had done more damage, ripping first through the edge of my vest and then through the muscle over my right upper arm bone. The bullet hadn’t actually hit the bone, although the shock wave had caused all kinds of “neurological confusion,” as one of the doctors put it. An hour in surgery had put stitches in all the right places. One of the doctors told me that in two weeks I wouldn’t even know I’d been nicked. Two weeks was forever.

There I sat, newspaper folded on my lap, looking ninety years old, when the door opened. Dr. Francis Guzman looked about as old as I did. And now that we were face-to-face, I wasn’t sure I wanted to see him. He closed the door behind himself and leaned against it. He may have needed to. The bags under his eyes were black and deep.

I rose and he waved a hand at me. “No, don’t. Sit.”

“I’ve been doing nothing but sitting all day, Francis.”

He pushed himself away from the door, walked slowly across the room, and shook my hand. His grip was firm and he hung onto my hand for just a moment. “How’s the shoulder?”

“Fine. What’s the word?”

He grinned-barely that…just a weary twitch of the lips and a little dance of light in his eyes.

“I’m sorry I haven’t had a chance to get up here more often to see you,” he said. “I looked in on you a couple times yesterday, but you were either under the anesthetic or asleep. Sheriff Tate told me last night you were getting antsy.” He grinned. “I dropped in this morning and you were sleeping in that chair.”

“Yeah. The hell with that. How’s Estelle?”

“She’s doing as well as we could hope.”

He started to say something else, but he was sounding just like a goddamned doctor. I interrupted him. “That doesn’t mean a damn thing to me, Francis. Just tell me in simple English.”

“She’s going to live, barring complications.”

“Complications?” Francis looked around the room for something to sit on. “Take the bed,” I said. He flopped down and fell back, arms over his head. After a moment he pulled himself up to a sitting position.

“Whenever the brain is injured, there’s all kinds of problems,” he said. “It’s a hell of a lot harder making sure all the bleeders behave themselves.” He pointed his finger as if it were a pistol. “Apparently the bullet hit the point of her skull right here.” He tapped the rear crown of his head. “A glancing blow, but…” He took a deep breath. “With a high-powered rifle there’s just so damn much force involved. She has a serious skull fracture.”

I waited while he decided what he wanted to say. “At first they thought that some skull fragments might have penetrated the dura, maybe damaged the brain tissue itself.”

“And?”

“She was in surgery a long time. She’s strong, and the docs did a fine job. The wound is clean. No chips. Hell of a lot of bruising, and that’s always worrisome with the brain. But they did a fine job.” He grinned with a little more energy. “I was there to make sure they did.”

“Any paralysis?” I said, and my voice was husky.

He shook his head. “Not that we can tell yet.”

“Is she conscious?”

“In and out, but that’s to be expected for a couple days.”

“I’d like to see her.”

Francis Guzman nodded but held up a hand. “It’d be best for both of you to let it wait until tomorrow.” He stood up and rolled his head around, trying to loosen the neck kinks. “Give her a few more hours of rest. We’ll know more then, anyway.”

“Francis…”

He looked at me, one eyebrow cocked-just like his wife.

“What about the baby?”

The young physician smiled, and my relief was like ocean surf. “She told you, huh, Padrino?”

“Yeah, she told me. She didn’t lose it, did she?”

“No. She’ll be fine. Tough stuff. She really is.”

“I’m sorry this happened,” I said, sounding lame and dumb.

“Hindsight is a wonderful thing,” he said. He stuck out his hand again, and I got up. “We’d all be geniuses if our foresight was as good. Who knows what might have happened if you’d waited. But she’ll be fine. So will you. And the next time you have a vacation, we’re all going to go to Lake Tahoe or somewhere where neither one of you can get into trouble.”

“It’s a deal.” His spirits sounded upbeat, but I knew he was working at it. I followed him to the door, my shuffle just about as fast as his.

“And by the way…remember Nolan Parris?” Francis asked.

“Uh-huh.”

“He’s downstairs in one of the reading rooms. They won’t let him up. He spent the night, I guess. But Tate set some tight rules on this one. Takes an act of Congress to see anyone or find out anything. You want to see him?”

“I don’t know if I do or not.”

“As I said, he spent the night. He must be pretty worried. Nobody’s talking and he’s concerned about the little girl. He means well, I think.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Finally, he’s worried. We all are. But I don’t know what it would accomplish to see him or…” and I stopped. My brain was beginning to work. I shrugged like I was making a hell of a concession. “Yeah. Send him up. No, wait. Forget it. I’ll take care of it. I’ve got a phone.”