Page 54 of Rage

I stare up at him, manage to shake my head. “It’s about the case,” I croak, and I’m vastly relieved when my words don’t slur.

He looks at me as if he’s not quite sure my answer can be trusted. “You mean the Yutzy case?”

I nod. “Someone drugged me.”

He curses beneath his breath. “Ambulance is on the way. Okay? Just be still.”

I take physical inventory as he barks something into his radio mike. My head hurts. My mouth tastes like dirt. No other pain that I can identify. I look around, concentrate on getting my bearings. I’m lying on the ground about twenty feet away from the trailer. I remember the male accosting me. Punching me. Warning me off the case …

My temper kicks and I struggle to a sitting position. “Suspect is male,” I manage. “Ski mask. Black T-shirt. He jumped me.”

T.J. repeats the description into his radio.

“How long was I out?” I ask.

T.J. motions toward a young couple standing a few feet away. “They found you ten minutes ago. Said you were bleeding and out cold.”

I look past him, see the young male and female, looking at me. Early twenties. Jean-clad. Concerned expressions.

“Did you see where he went?” T.J. asks.

“No.” But my brain cells are starting to spark. “The bartender,” I say. “He served me coffee. Go get him.”

He hesitates as if uncertain about leaving me, then tilts his head and speaks into his mike. “Where’s my damn ambulance?” he snaps.

“Pulling in now,” comes Margaret’s voice over the airwaves. “Glock, too.”

I give T.J. a firm look. “I’m fine. Go get that son of a bitch.”

Grinning, he gives me a quick salute. “My pleasure.”

A few years ago, I read an article that outlined the top twenty-five most dangerous jobs in the U.S. I was surprised to find that police officers ranked pretty close to the bottom of the list, just below garbage collectors, farmers, and roofers. I’m thinking about that article tonight as I lie on a gurney in the ER at Pomerene Hospital, trying to recall details about what happened at The Cheetah Lounge.

In the last hour, I’ve been poked, prodded, injected, scanned, and X-rayed. Much to my relief, nothing is broken. Even so, I know this particular incident is going to stay with me awhile.

I called Tomasetti from the ambulance. Though by then I was able to speak without slurring, he knew immediately that something was terribly wrong. I don’t know how much sense I made when I explained what happened. My brain kept misfiring and, of course, Tomasetti kept asking questions I didn’t know how to answer. The one thing I do know for certain is that I scared him. I hated doing that to him; John Tomasetti doesn’t scare easily and he didn’t like it one bit.

I’m trying to decide what approach to take upon his arrival when the curtain surrounding my gurney is ripped aside and he’s standing there, looking at me as if I’ve just stuck a knife in his gut.

“Kate.” His face is indecipherable as he starts toward me.

I sit up straighter, tug at my gown, and then he’s beside me, his arms going around me, pulling me close, and for the first time in hours I feel safe.

“I’m okay,” I tell him.

“Yeah, the blood around your left nostril is a dead giveaway,” he mutters, and holds me a little tighter.

I fumble the IV drip as I struggle to get closer to him. I’m not a crier, but I feel the heat of tears behind my eyes. Instinct tells me to crack a joke. Make light of this. Something to reassure both of us that this latest brush with violence is over and we’re good to go.

Neither of us says anything.

After a moment, he pulls away, easing me to arm’s length, and frowns. “We picked up the bartender. He’s in an interview room at the Tuscarawas sheriff’s office.”

“Did you talk to him?” I ask.

He looks at me a little more closely. “That’s a no go.”

Belatedly, I realize his being there would have been against policy because we’re married. My mind takes me back to the moment the bartender served the coffee. “If I recall,” I say slowly, “the bartender who served me went by the name Robbie.”