Tess Gerritsen: Bloodstream

“I just want to make sure you’re not bleeding to death. We can settle up some other time. Can I look at your foot?”

“If you really want to,” he said, and limped back into the house.

“This should be a treat,” said Rachel.

It was warm inside the kitchen. Rachel threw a birch log into the wood stove, and sweet smoke puffed out as she dropped the cast iron lid back in place.

“Let’s see the foot,” said Claire.

Elwyn hobbled over to a chair, leaving smears of blood on the floor. He had his sock on, and there was a jagged hole at the top, near the big toe, as though a rat had chewed through the wool. “Hardly bothering me,” he said. “Not worth all this fuss, if you ask me.”

Claire knelt down and peeled off the sock. It came away slowly, the Wool matted to his foot not by blood but by sweat and dead skin.

“Oh God,” said Rachel, cupping her hand over her nose. “Don’t you ever change your socks, Elwyn?”

The bullet had passed through the fleshy web between the first and second toe.

Claire found the exit wound underneath the foot. There was only a little blood oozing out now. Trying not to gag on the smell, she tested movement of all the toes, and determined that no nerves had been damaged.

“You’ll have to clean it and change the bandages every day,” she said. “And you need a tetanus shot, Elwyn.”

“Oh, I got one of them already.”

“When?”

“Last year, from ol’ Doc Pomeroy. After I shot myself.”

“Is this an annual event?”

“That one went through my other foot. ‘Tweren’t a big deal.”

Dr. Pomeroy had died back in January, and Claire had acquired all his old medical records when she’d bought the practice from his estate eight months ago.

She could check Elwyn’s file and confirm the date of his last tetanus shot.

“I guess it’s up to me to clean that foot,” said Rachel.

Claire took out a small bottle of Betadine from her medical bag and handed it to her. “Add that to a warm bucket of water. Let him soak in it for a while.”

“Oh, I can do that myself,” said Elwyn, and got up.

“Then we might as well just amputate right now!” snapped Rachel. “Sit down, Elwyn.”

“Gee,” he said, and sat down.

Claire left a few packets of bandages and gauze wrappings on the table. “Elwyn, you come into my office next week, so I can check the wound.”

“But I got too much to do-”

“If you don’t come in, I’ll have to hunt you down like a dog.”

He blinked at her in surprise. “Yes, ma’am,” he said meekly.

Suppressing a smile, Claire picked up her medical bag and walked out of the house.

The two dogs were in the front yard again, fighting over a filthy bone. As Claire came down the steps, they both spun around to stare at her.

The black one trotted forward and growled.

“Shoo,” Claire said, but the dog refused to back down. It took another few steps forward, teeth bared.

The tan dog, spotting opportunity, snatched the bone in its teeth and began dragging away the prize. It got halfway across the yard before the black dog suddenly noticed the thief and streaked back into the fight. Yelping and growling, they thrashed around the yard in a tangle of black and tan. The bone lay, forgotten, beside Claire’s pickup truck.

She opened the door and was just sliding in behind the steering wheel when the image registered in her brain. She looked down at the ground, at the bone.

It was less than a foot long, and stained a rusty brown with dirt. One end had broken off, leaving jagged splinters. The other end was intact, the bony landmarks recognizable.

It was a femur. And it was human.

Ten miles out of town, Tranquility Police Chief Lincoln Kelly finally caught up with his wife.

She was doing about fifty in a stolen Chevy, weaving left and right, the loose tailpipe kicking up sparks every time she hit a dip in the road.

“Man oh man,” said Floyd Spear, sitting beside Lincoln in the cruiser. “Doreen got her snookerful today.”

“I’ve been on the road all morning,” said Lincoln. “Didn’t get a chance to check up on her.” He turned on the siren, hoping that would induce Doreen to slow down. She sped up.

“Now what?” asked Floyd. “Want me to call for backup?”

Backup meant Hank Dorr, the only other officer on patrol duty that morning.

“No,” said Lincoln. “Let’s see if we can’t talk her into pulling over.”

“At sixty miles an hour?”

“Get on the bullhorn.”

Floyd picked up the mike and his voice boomed out over the speaker: “Hey, Doreen, pull over! C’mon, Sweetheart, you’re gonna hurt someone!”

The Chevy just kept dipping and weaving.

“We could wait till she runs Out of gas,” Floyd suggested.

“Keep talking to her.”

Floyd tried the mike again. “Doreen, Lincoln’s here! C’mon, Sweetheart, pull over! He wants ta ‘pologize!”

“I want to what?”

“Pull over, Doreen, and he’ll tell you himself!”

“What in hell are you talking about?” said Lincoln.

“Women always expect a man to apologize.”

“But I didn’t do anything!”

Up ahead, the Chevy’s brake lights suddenly lit up.

“See?” said Floyd as the Chevy rolled to a stop at the side of the road.

Lincoln pulled up behind it and climbed out of the cruiser. Doreen sat hunched behind the steering wheel, her red hair wild and tangled, her hands shaking.

Lincoln opened the door, reached over his wife’s lap, and removed the car keys.

“Doreen,” he said wearily, “you gotta come back to the station.”

“When are you coming home, Lincoln?” she asked.

“We’ll talk about that later. Come on, Honey, let’s get in the cruiser.” He reached for her elbow but she shook him off and slapped his hand for good measure.

“I just want to know when you’re coming home,” she said.

“We’ve talked about this and talked about this.”

“You’re still married to me. You’re still my husband.”

“And there’s just no point in talking about it any more.” Again he took her elbow. He already had her out of the Chevy when she hauled off and slugged him in the jaw. He staggered back a few steps, his whole head ringing.

“Hey!” said Floyd, grabbing Doreen’s arms. “Hey now, you don’t wanna go doing that!”

“Lemme go!” screeched Doreen. She broke out of Floyd’s grasp and took another swing at her husband.

This time Lincoln ducked, which only made his wife madder. She got in one more swing before Lincoln and Floyd managed to get her arms secured.

“I hate to do this," said Lincoln. “But you’re just not being reasonable today.”

He snapped the handcuffs on her wrists. She spat at him. He wiped his sleeve across his face, then patiently guided his wife into the backseat of the cruiser.

“Oh man,” said Floyd. “You know we’re gonna have to book her.”

“I know.” Lincoln sighed and slid in behind the wheel.

“You can’t divorce me, Lincoln Kelly!” said Doreen. “You promised to love and cherish!”

“I didn’t know about the bottle,” said Lincoln, and he turned the car around.

They drove at a leisurely speed toward town, Doreen cussing a purple streak the whole time. It was the drinking that did it; it seemed to pop the cork off her bottle of demons.

Two years ago, Lincoln had moved out of their house. He figured he’d given the marriage his best effort and ten years of his life. He wasn’t by nature a quitter, but the despair had finally gotten to him. That and the sense that, at forty-five, his life was racing by, joyless and unfruitful. He wished he could do right by Doreen, wished that he could recapture some of that old affection he’d felt for her early on in their marriage, when she’d been bright and sober, not bubbling over with anger as she was now. Sometimes he’d search his own heart for whatever trace of love might still linger, some small spark among the ashes, but there was nothing left. The ashes were cold. And he was tired.