C. Box - Endangered

“I’m purely speculating. Who else would want him dead? I’m surprised they even knew that quickly he was out. Unless, of course, someone on the inside let them know.”

That possibility gave Joe an instant headache. “You mean like someone in your building?”

“Like I said, I’m speculating,” Coon said.

“Who else could it be?”

“Gee, I don’t know,” Coon said. “Maybe someone at DOJ tipped Templeton off. Maybe Templeton acted a lot more quickly than the bureaucracy thought possible and they weren’t prepared yet. Have you thought of that? We’re a big agency and we move slow. Someone may have started something that quickly went over their head.”

“They wouldn’t want anyone to know that,” Joe said. “There would be some big-time CYA action going on right now.”

Joe drove on. He could hear Coon breathing on the other end.

“Are you done?” Coon asked.

“I guess so. I’ve got a lot to think about.”

“You do.” Then, with his voice softening, Coon asked, “How’s your girl, Joe? I hear she’s in the same hospital.”

Joe brought Coon up to speed, and told him briefly about the calamity in the courtroom that morning.

Coon said, “It’s a good thing you’ve got Marybeth. If I had all that going on . . . I don’t know what the hell I’d do.”

Joe agreed.

“Chuck,” Joe said before punching off, “please let me know if you hear anything about Nate or Templeton.”

“Not officially,” Coon said. “But I may give you a call from time to time on your cell phone.”

“Thank you.”

“Hang in there, man,” Coon said.

12

April’s hospital room was dimly lit and quiet except for the muffled hum of the HVAC and an occasional soft click from one of the many electronic monitors hovering over her bed. Thin wires from embedded catheters coiled up from her head. She was being fed intravenously through a tube, and other tubes delivered hydration and medication. Additional tubes carried waste away into receptacles underneath the bed. Because she was so still, it seemed to Joe she was simply serving as a disinterested processing center for the transfer of incoming fluids.

Marybeth was with him when he entered the room and she stood behind him as he approached the bed.

“I haven’t seen her since she left,” he said, reaching out and brushing April’s cheek with the back of his hand. She was battered but sleeping, her expression untroubled. He could not tell from looking at her that she had brain trauma. Her hair was brushed neatly, although the part was wrong. How would the nurses know?

Joe listened as Marybeth explained the procedure the doctors had undertaken, and she pointed out what the readings on the monitors meant. She showed Joe the all-important readout that would indicate an increase—or decrease—in brain activity when she was brought out of the coma.

He found April’s limp hand under the blanket. It was warm but unresponsive.

“I’ve seen her eyelids flutter a couple of times,” Marybeth said softly. “That’s not supposed to happen unless there’s brain activity. But when I asked, I was told the monitors didn’t pick it up. But I swear I saw it happen.”

Joe looked over. He believed her, of course. But he didn’t want to read too much into it.

“She’s got great doctors and nurses,” Marybeth said. “They’ll look out for her. They know to call or text me the minute they determine they want to bring her back, or if her situation changes in any way. I want to make sure I’m here if either happens.”

Joe nodded. He had trouble speaking. His job was to take care of his family, to protect them. He hated it that there was nothing he could do to help April now. Her fate was up to doctors he didn’t know, to April herself, and to God. He could only hope that somewhere in her sleeping body she had the ability and the will to get better.

He leaned down close enough to April that he could smell her hair. It smelled medicinal, not like it used to smell. She belonged to the hospital now. He started to say something, but his throat was constricted.

He rose and took a deep breath. Then two.

After a few moments, he leaned back down to her and said, “I just wish you could wake up and tell me who did this to you. I’ll get the man who did it.”

He hoped against hope for a fluttering of her eyelids or a sign—any sign—of a reaction.

Nothing.

Marybeth reached under the covers and gently placed her hand on Joe’s. She whispered to him, “Don’t you dare lose hope.”

—

IN THE HALLWAY, Joe said to Marybeth, “Do you know where Nate is?”

“They haven’t let me see him.”

“Who told you that?”

She said, “There’s a special agent in charge. Kind of an unpleasant man, if you ask me. I know there are rules about only family members in ICU, but . . .”

“Is his name Stan Dudley?”

“He didn’t introduce himself.”

Joe said, “Let’s go find him.”

—

SHRI RECKLING had just come on the night shift and she agreed to help them. She used her key card to open the secure ICU door. When the nurse on duty looked up to see three people come into the hallway, Reckling said, “It’s okay. They’re with me.”

“We’re here to see Nate Romanowski,” Joe said.

Before the ICU nurse could respond, a portly man in an ill-fitting suit leaned out from the waiting lounge and said, “Forget it. He’s back in surgery again. Patching this guy up just so he can die in a couple of days is going to bust my budget.”

Joe said, “You must be Stan Dudley.”

Dudley looked Joe over carefully, from his lace-up outfitter boots to his Wranglers to his red uniform shirt and weathered Stetson. He said, “And you must be Joe Pickett.”

“I’m Marybeth,” she interjected, stepping forward.

“The two of you, then,” Dudley said. He seemed to be contemplating what he’d say next. Then: “Well, it doesn’t really matter that you’re here, because there’s no chance to see Romanowski. They took him back into surgery about half an hour ago. More internal bleeding, I guess. He hasn’t regained consciousness and he hasn’t said a damned word since we found him. It wouldn’t do anybody any good to try and see him now anyway. The doctors won’t let you into the room.”

Joe said, “I hope their bedside manner is better than yours.”

Dudley puffed out his chest. “I don’t sugarcoat things. I’m a straight shooter.”

“I think you’re an ass,” Joe said.

Marybeth shouldered past Joe and stood in front of him so he couldn’t advance on Dudley.

Her voice was calm. “How long will he be in surgery?”

Dudley shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine. He’s been in there twice already. The doctors removed something like seventeen hunks of buckshot. There are a couple near his heart they may just leave there because it’s too dangerous to try and get them. Plus, he lost a lot of blood. One more hour of him lying in the dirt on that ranch and we wouldn’t even be talking here right now.

“So,” Dudley said, gesturing with his hand at Joe and Marybeth as if shooing them away, “you two should just scoot on out of here. You can’t see him, and he’s not likely to ever sit naked in a tree again, or whatever it is he supposedly does for fun.”

“Not so fast,” Joe said, lowering his voice.

“Come again?” Dudley said, glancing back inside the lounge, where, Joe guessed, there were a couple of backup agents.

“Who bushwhacked him?” Joe asked.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Dudley said. “But my guess includes the name Templeton.”

“How would he know Nate would be there?”

“The guy probably has his tentacles in everything,” Dudley said. “Somebody must have tipped him off. But I do know who could probably answer that question. Do you know Olivia Brannan?”