“I can hear him saying if you want to blow out Wyatt Porter’s brains, you’ve got to shoot him in the ass.”
“That’s him, all right,” I agreed.
“They think it was meant to be the coup de grace, after he was already down, but maybe the shooter lost his nerve or got distracted. The bullet only grazed Wyatt’s scalp.”
I was in denial: “Nobody would want to kill him.”
Karla said, “By the time I dialed nine-one-one and managed to get downstairs with my pistol, the shooter was gone.”
I pictured her coming fearlessly down the stairs with the gun in both hands, to the front door, ready to trade bullets with the man who had shot her husband. A lioness. Like Stormy.
“Wyatt was down, already unconscious when I found him.”
Along the corridor, from the direction of the elevators, came a surgical nurse dressed in green scrubs. She had a please-don’t-shoot-the-messenger expression.
CHAPTER 41 (#ulink_615ccd0a-7011-54a5-8547-e6c14fba5509)
THE SURGICAL NURSE, JENNA SPINELLI, HAD been one year ahead of me in high school. Her calm gray eyes were flecked with blue, and her hands were made to play piano concertos.
The news that she brought was not as grim as I feared, not as good as I would have liked. The chief’s vital signs were stable but not robust. He’d lost his spleen, but he could live without that. One lung had been punctured, but not beyond repair, and none of his vital organs had been irreparably damaged.
Complex vascular repairs were required, and the physician in charge of the surgical team estimated that the chief would be in the OR another hour and a half to two hours.
“We’re pretty sure he’ll come through surgery good enough,” Jenna said. “Then the challenge will be to prevent postoperative complications.”
Karla went into the ICU waiting room to share this report with the chief’s sister and Jake Hulquist.
Alone in the hallway with Jenna, I said, “Have you swung both hammers, or are you holding one back?”
“It’s just the way I said, Oddie. We don’t soften bad news for the spouse. We tell it straight and all at once.”
“This blows.”
“Like a hurricane,” she agreed. “You’re close to him, I know.”
“Yeah.”
“I think he’s eventually going to make it,” Jenna said. “Not just out of surgery but all the way home on his own two feet.”
“But no guarantees.”
“When is there ever? He’s a mess inside. But he’s not half as bad as we thought he’d be when we first put him on the table, before we opened him up. It’s a thousand to one odds that anyone can survive three chest wounds. He’s incredibly lucky.”
“If that’s luck, he better never go to Vegas.”
With a fingertip, she pulled down one of my lower eyelids and examined the bloodshot scenery: “You look wrecked, Oddie.”
“It’s been a long day. You know—breakfast starts early at the Grille.”
“I was in with two friends the other day. You cooked our lunch.”
“Really? Sometimes things are so frantic at the griddle, I don’t get a chance to look around, see who’s there.”
“You’ve got a talent.”
“Thanks,” I said. “That’s sweet.”
“I hear your dad’s selling the moon.”
“Yeah, but it’s not a great place for a vacation home. No air.”
“You’re nothing at all like your dad.”
“Who would want to be?”
“Most guys.”
“I think you’re wrong about that.”
“You know what? You ought to give cooking classes.”
“Mostly what I do is fry.”
“I’d still sign up.”
“It’s not exactly healthy cuisine,” I said.
“We’ve all got to die of something. You still with Bronwen?”
“Stormy. Yeah. It’s like destiny.”
“How do you know?”
“We have matching birthmarks.”
“You mean the one she got tattooed to match yours?”
“Tattooed? No. It’s real enough. We’re getting married.”
“Oh. I didn’t hear about that.”
“It’s breaking news.”
“Wait’ll the girls find out,” Jenna said.
“What girls?”
“All of them.”