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“Fired three or four times, dropped the gun, walked right past me. Went out to the street and sat down on the curb and waited for the cops. In a movie I would have tackled him, but the truth is I face-planted beside my motorcycle at the first gunshot. Sorry.”
“Okay,” Danny says. “You… okay.”
“Thanks for saying that. We’ve got a real suit now, Danny. Soon as you get better.”
Danny tries to smile. He closes his eyes.
Darkness.
58
Is it Jesse next time? Or a dream? They’re giving him a lot of dope, so he can’t be sure. But he’s positive (almost positive) that he sees a dark brown hand over his white one.
59
Next time he surfaces it’s Ella Davis. He’s a little stronger and she looks a little younger in faded jeans and a boatneck tee. Her hair is down. And she is smiling.
“Danny? Are you awake?”
“Yes.” A bare croak. “Water. Is there—”
She holds a glass for him. There’s a bendy straw sticking out of it. He drinks and it’s heaven on his throat.
“Danny, we got him.”
“The kid?” His voice is a little stronger. “I think Edgar told the cops—”
“Not the kid, him. The man who killed Yvonne Wicker. He… are you getting this? Do you understand what I’m telling you?”
“Yes.” Does he feel relieved? Vindicated? He can’t tell. He’s not even sure how badly he’s hurt, or if he’ll ever be really well again. What if he has to spend the rest of his life shitting into a bag?
“He’s confessed, Danny. Confessed to Wicker and two others. Cops in Illinois and Missouri are looking for the bodies.”
“All right,” Danny says. He’s very tired. He wants her to go.
“I went to Mass and prayed for you.”
“It helps if you believe,” Danny says.
He feels her take his hand, her skin cool on his. He thinks he should tell her he doesn’t blame her, but the very idea of blame seems pointless right now. He turns his head. Floats away.
Darkness.
60
By the third day he hurts bad but he’s back in the world. He understands he’s at Regional Hospital in Great Bend, and he’s going to be here at least a week, maybe ten days. The bullet perforated his stomach. He’s been repaired and sewed up, but Broder, the doctor in charge of his case, says if he tries to walk, even to the bathroom, he’s apt to open it up again. “Be grateful it wasn’t a soft-nosed slug and a bigger caliber. That would have done a lot of damage. You’ll be on soft food for awhile. I hope you like scrambled eggs and yogurt.”
Being in bed means the bedpan, but the indignity of that is mitigated by the fact that he’s been spared the catheter and colostomy bag. He learns that Margie was allowed to see him early on because she claimed to be his wife, which wasn’t true. Edgar Ball was allowed to see him because he claimed to be his lawyer, which was. Ella Davis was also allowed in, because she was a KBI officer and because she said she had good news to share—very good. And Jesse? That might have been a drug-induced hallucination, but Danny doesn’t believe it. He thinks Jesse slipped in somehow, and took his hand. At some point he’ll have to ask him.
Stevie doesn’t know, and that’s good. It would upset him. Danny will have to tell him at some point, but that’s for later.
Late in the afternoon of his fourth day at the hospital, he’s allowed to sit by the window in his room—two steps, supported by a pair of orderlies. While he’s enjoying the feel of the sun on his face, Edgar Ball comes to see him again. He sits on the bed and asks Danny how he feels.
“Not bad. The dope is primo.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Everything.”
