Page 96 of Sting
“Liar!”
“Have you ever known me to lie to you, Josh? Think about it. I’ve always leveled with you even when I didn’t want to.”
“Panella’s in South America.”
“Possibly, but I brought him up to speed on what’s going on here.”
“You’re just trying to scare me.”
“You decide if you should be scared or not.”
“What’s that mean?”
“When I told Panella that Kinnard was in custody and that Jordie was alive and well, he said the F word. And the tirade didn’t stop there. I had to look up some of the words.”
“That’s not scary,” Josh said. “He always says the F word when he’s mad, and he was mad because his plot to kill Jordie failed.”
“This time. I figure he’ll try again, because…well, here’s the thing, Josh. I sorta let it slip that you were once again trading his secrets to get on our good side.”
“Oh, Jesus.”
“Are you scared yet? You’ve got good reason to be.”
Josh began to blubber.
“Be smart, Josh. Tell me where you are.”
Shaw resented sleep. He considered it a waste of time and disliked the vulnerability that necessarily accompanied it. He slept only when he had to and never for more than a few hours.
But he hadn’t been conscious for long before wishing he could slip back into oblivion. Any given morning a hospital was a busy place, but it seemed that everybody on staff at this one had some business in his room.
Probably they just wanted to take a gander at the man handcuffed to his bed.
His vitals were taken. Twice. His blood was drawn. At least a quart. His floor was mopped. The guy seemed to delight in banging the mop into all four wheels of his bed. His IV was checked a dozen times by a dozen different people. His dressing was changed. The row of staples, like a miniature railroad track holding him together, was probed to test its durability. His piss output was measured and recorded before the bag was replaced.
Shortly after that humiliation, a male nurse showed up to give him a bed bath. He bent Shaw like a pretzel, causing him to swear viciously. “Where’d you get your training? Guantanamo?”
The next guy who breezed in was dressed in blue scrubs. “Remember me?”
“No.”
“Didn’t think you would.” Skinny and spry, he introduced himself as the surgeon who’d worked on him the day before. “We did several X-rays and scans, didn’t find any organ damage. Your large intestine was missed by this much.” He left a half inch between his thumb and index finger. “You also got by without a major blood vessel being cut. The wound was nasty, getting infected. I cleaned it out. Could have been a lot worse.”
Shaw said, “What’s the bad news?”
“Your oblique was sliced through like a steak. Using a dull knife. Had to take lots of stitches, layers of them, starting deep inside and working out. So it’s gonna be sore for a while. Take it easy. No heavy lifting. No strenuous exercise.”
He seemed to remember the restraints keeping Shaw secured to the bed, and looked like he wished he could take back that last bit. He continued briskly. “You were given a tetanus shot. If you start running a fever, get checked for infection. We’re giving you IV antibiotics, and you’ll leave here with a butt-load of them plus capsules to last several weeks. Take them till they run out. Any questions?”
“When will the staples be removed?”
“Tomorrow if all is looking good. They’re only a safety net. A physical therapist will get you up today, start you moving around.”
Shaw rattled the handcuffs.
“They’ve stationed a deputy outside the room,” the surgeon said. “He’ll be on hand to…assist.”
“When can we pull that thing out of my dick?”
