Steven Havill - Heartshot

“He did that, as a matter of fact.”

Holman asked, “Did Hewitt make a buy from any of the kids?”

Estelle Reyes shook her head. “Apparently not. We’ll have to ask him, to be sure. But those kids were scared enough about the whole thing that I think they would have told me. I get the impression they thought he was some kind of big-city freak. He made them nervous.”

“He enjoyed playing the undercover role to the hilt,” I said. “Maybe too much so. He had nowhere near enough experience. We should have realized that. I should have monitored what he was doing much more closely.”

Holman slapped the arm of his chair lightly. “This is no time for self-flagellation, Bill. Sure, maybe he was inexperienced. Maybe you should have confiscated Fernandez’s gun. But that’s all wonderful twenty-twenty hindsight. What we need to know is what triggered Fernandez. When he left you, he was mellowed out and homebound. What, about an hour later? About that? You had time to go out to the airport for a while. An hour later, he dashes into a park, charges into a gang of kids, and blows one of them away. We have to know exactly why.”

“There’s only one person who saw Fernandez before he ran into the park, and that’s Art Hewitt,” I said. “He was able to tell me that he saw a person he thought was Fernandez talking to someone on the sidewalk on the east side of the park. Now, Doc Sprague lives over there, in those new apartments, and he says that he heard the shots. But there was no reason for the doc to be looking out beforehand. He says he didn’t see anyone.”

Holman looked up at Estelle Reyes, and he put his fingers against his lips, deep in thought. We waited, and finally the sheriff said, “But there’s no reason for Hewitt to make something like that up. So what do you plan to do?”

Even though the question wasn’t addressed to me, I was ready to answer, but Estelle put her small notebook back in her pocket and said, “Until we know exactly what happened, we keep digging. There are a lot of people who live around that park. We’ll talk to all of them. And somebody might come to us.” She turned at the sound of footsteps coming up the polished hallway behind her. Dr. Alan Perrone’s gown was blood-spattered, but he was obviously too tired to care. With him was Eva Young, a middle-aged surgical nurse who would manage to look stylish and groomed in the middle of a volcanic eruption.

She nodded at us and headed off toward the nurses’ station.

“We’re transferring Mr. Hewitt to Albuquerque,” Dr. Perrone said. He held a manila envelope in one hand, and motioned down the hall with it. “Come on into the office for a minute.”

The three of us obediently followed, and he closed the door behind us.

“How’s he going to do?” Holman asked, and Perrone pulled out the X ray and snapped it into the wall light.

“We’ve got some real problems,” Perrone said, facing the X ray. “But to give it to you in a nutshell.” He pulled a pen from his pocket and used it as a pointer. “You can easily see the largest fragment in situ way over here, right behind the heart.”

“Christ,” Holman muttered.

“The point of entry was over here, exactly under the last rib on the right side. There was minimal damage to the ascending colon, but considerable to the right kidney. About this point, the bullet began to shatter.” He shot a quick glance at Holman, frowned and turned back to the X ray. “Considerable damage to this lobe of the liver. Then tearing of the central tendon here. The diaphragm.” His index finger traced a diagonal, upward path. “Most worrisome, of course, is the cardiac damage. This is the bullet’s center core and part of the brass jacket. It shows up very plainly. We’ve managed to achieve some stability with the patient, but arrangements have already been made to fly him to Albuquerque. They have far more advanced facilities there, and in addition”-Perrone raised an eyebrow-”they have Dennis Chatman. He’s the best cardiac surgeon I’ve met. Luck was with us because he was in Las Cruces, and he agreed to meet the air ambulance and ride over. That way, he can be with the patient en route.”

“Odds?” Holman asked.

Perrone shrugged. “It’s hard to imagine how a single pistol bullet could have been fired to inflict more damage. But the prompt emergency assistance certainly helped. We were able to stabilize the patient, and he seems to be responding well. He lost an incredible amount of blood, as you can imagine, but by good fortune, our blood bank has an adequate supply of his type.” He made a wry face. “Or at least it did.” He put the pen away and slid the X rays back into the envelope. “One of the Medivacs is in Las Cruces, by good fortune. I imagine it will be here before we have Officer Hewitt transported to the airport. Sheriff Holman, I can’t give you odds. I am optimistic. We have a few things in our favor.”

“A few.”

“That’s right.”

“Is there any chance that we’ll be able to talk to him?”

“That’s very unlikely. He’s just been through almost six hours of surgery. He won’t even be out from under the anesthetic for some time. On the flight north, he’ll…well, you don’t need to know all that, but I can appreciate your concern. I’m also aware of the investigation and the delicacy, no doubt, that is warranted by that. If one of you needs to ride in the airplane, by all means do so. I would suggest to you that they probably have room for only one of you.”

“Bill?” Holman asked, and I nodded.

“You’ll need to be out at the airport now,” Perrone said, glancing at his watch. “Although the patient hasn’t yet left the hospital, it will only be a couple of minutes. They won’t wait for you, believe me.” He nodded at us and left abruptly.

“Let’s move,” I said.

Estelle Reyes paced me out of the building and in the parking lot handed me a small tape recorder. “You might need it if he comes around for a minute or so. We want to know who was standing with Fernandez before the shots were fired.”

“I know what the hell we need, Estelle,” I snapped and climbed into 310.

“Sorry, sir,” Estelle said quietly.

I slammed the door and buzzed down the window, already sorry I’d barked at her. “Have someone come out to the airport and pick up three-ten so it doesn’t get a stone through the windshield,” I said. I tried a smile, but it didn’t work.

“You want me to make arrangements for your trip back?”

“No, I don’t know when or how that’ll be.” I looked in the rearview mirror and saw the ambulance lining up at the hospital’s emergency doorway. At the same time, we could hear the synchronized moan of the air ambulance’s engines as it circled over the mesa and turned toward Posadas County Airport. Such goddamned good timing, I thought. The plane would arrive exactly on time, and would still have its engines idling for a quick transfer. Why was it, I thought, that timing, or fate, or whatever you chose to call it, couldn’t work in our favor beforehand? Why couldn’t Art Hewitt’s frantic roll on the ground to dodge the bullet have been better timed, or Benny Fernandez’s gun hand been less lucky?

“Just don’t miss anything, Estelle. Don’t overlook a goddamned thing,” I said, and then the ambulance began to move. The detective stepped away from the car, and I pulled out onto the street, lights and siren in concert.

The transfer was flawlessly executed. The ambulance pulled up alongside the airplane as I was trotting across from the patrol car. It took a moment of careful jogging and shifting of the gurney, and then patient, medical staff, and paraphernalia were aboard. The ambulance pulled away promptly. I recognized everyone except a rail-thin nurse and a man who was almost tiny in stature. There was no time for introductions, but I guessed, correctly, it turned out, that the diminutive man was Dr. Chatman. Even as the door locks were thudding into place, the boarding-side engine came back to life.