Page 96 of Fallen

Despite the headache pulsing above my left ear, I find myself grinning. “Decent enough.”

I’m embarrassed because I’m pretty sure my smile is lopsided. Not only did the doc numb my scalp before applying a the staples, but they gave me some pain medication that’s a little stronger than I expected.

When the men hesitate, Mona pushes her way past them and thrusts out a pretty bouquet of flowers she probably bought at the hospital gift shop. “How’re you feeling?” she asks.

“I’m fine.” Ignoring the thickness of my tongue, I watch my other three officers crowd in behind her, the men feeling awkward, trying not to show it.

“Nice mohawk, anyway,” Skid says.

Mona elbows him. “Dude.”

He shoots her a what-did-I-do look.

All of it for my benefit, which I appreciate more than they can know.

“Any word on Loretta Bontrager’s condition?” I ask.

“They airlifted her to Cleveland Clinic in Akron,” Glock tells me. “No word on her condition, but they think she’s going to pull through.”

No one looks at Skid, including me. We’re following that unwritten script. The one that tells us to give him some space, and a little time to shore up before you talk about it. Even if your suspect is going to be all right, having to fire your weapon at another human being is a traumatic experience that takes a toll.

Mona hefts the flowers and looks around for a place to put the vase.

Glock taps the side of his head with his index finger. “How’s the head?” he asks me.

“The proud recipient of nine staples,” I say, deadpan.

“That’s pretty impressive.” He looks at Skid. “You just got your departmental record beat.”

He shakes his head, whistles. “Guess I’m going to have to up my game.”

I turn my attention to Pickles. The old man is frowning at Mona, who’s set the flowers atop a shelf that’s too small and likely used for medical supplies.

“I owe you a big thank-you, Pickles,” I tell him. “Situation would have turned out a lot differently if you hadn’t gotten there when you did.”

The old man raises his gaze to mine. He’s a surly guy. He doesn’t like the fact that he’s getting old. That he can’t move as fast as he once did. That he’s past putting in long hours and being in the thick of things.

“Just doing my job, Chief.” He can’t quite meet my gaze. And in that moment, I see how much my recognizing him before his peers means to him.

Glock grins. “Don’t let that go to your head, old man.”

Skid follows suit. “Can’t run worth a damn,” he says good-naturedly.

Pickles huffs a laugh, but not before I see the flash of emotion in his eyes.

The curtain whooshes aside. All of us look that way, guilty because too many visitors have crowded into an otherwise quiet ER. Tomasetti stands there a moment, looking from person to person, and then offering me a look that’s part smile, part scowl.

“Evidently, I’m late for the party,” he says.

Glock clears his throat. Pickles brushes at a nonexistent speck of lint on his uniform. Skid looks down at his cell phone. Mona fiddles with the vase of flowers.

“I’ll see if I can get a status on Loretta Bontrager,” Glock says.

Nodding at Tomasetti, Mona makes a beeline for the still-open curtain. “Glad you’re okay,” she says.

“See you around, Chief.” Skid offers a mock salute.

I look past Tomasetti to see Glock holding the curtain open and the rest of my team file out.