Stealing the Countess (18 page)

“I thought it would hurt more, getting shot,” Heavenly said.

I looked up at the crowd and found a familiar face.

“Ellis,” I said. “Ellis, come here.”

She knelt next to Heavenly.

“I need your help. Can you help me?”

Ellis nodded.

“Where's the nearest hospital?”

“I'm not—”

“Where's the nearest emergency room?”

“Ashland. Memorial Medical Center in Ashland.”

“Where is that?”

“South of here about twenty-five miles.”

“That's too far. Can't wait for an ambulance. I'm going to take her. Help me.”

“Are you sure—”

“Help me.”

I slipped my hand behind Heavenly's shoulder to brace it. There was no exit wound. The bullet was still inside her.

Ellis and I gathered her up and hauled her upward. Heavenly winced; tears filled her eyes.

“Now it hurts,” she said.

With Ellis helping to steady her, I was able to remove a hand from Heavenly's shoulder and open the car door. We stuffed her into the seat. I locked the seat belt in place. Blood was still seeping from her wound, yet it wasn't flowing freely. I took that as a sign neither a major artery nor vein had been blown.

“I'm getting blood all over your car,” Heavenly said.

“Don't worry about it.”

“Is this new?”

I shut the door and circled the Mustang.

“I need you to do two things, Ellis,” I said. “Can you do them?”

“What?”

“Tell Memorial Medical that we're coming. Tell them it's a gunshot wound. Do you have a cell phone?”

“I'll call them.”

“When you're done with that, tell Chief Neville what happened.”

“I don't know what happened.”

“I saw it,” a man in the crowd said. “I saw everything.”

“Tell the chief,” I said.

“You're fleeing the scene of a crime,” someone else said.

“Tell the chief.”

I entered the Mustang, slamming the door behind me. I adjusted the seat belt at the same time that I pressed the start button. The engine roared to life. I pulled away from the curb without bothering to look for traffic, probably a foolish thing to do, but I was in a hurry. I drove straight up the street until I hit Highway 13, hung a left, and accelerated.

“McKenzie, did you see?” Heavenly said. “Someone shot me. Did you see?”

Her face was ghastly pale beneath the few streetlights that we passed, and for some reason I thought of the Ghost Lady.

“I saw,” I said.

“Who? Who was it?”

“I don't know.”

“Then you didn't see.”

“Shhhh, don't talk.”

“Why not? Do you think I'll stop bleeding if I keep quiet?”

We were out of the city by then; there was nothing but darkness all around us, punctuated by the occasional light far off in the distance. My headlights were on high. The speed limit called for fifty-five miles per hour. I was pushing the Mustang over seventy-five and would have been going faster if not for the dips and curves.

“I've never been shot before,” Heavenly said. “Never been hurt even. You have.”

“Shot, knifed, blown up, had my head fractured twice.”

“Occupational hazard.”

“Something like that.”

“Still, I never thought I'd be shot. Never even occurred to me. You should be very happy. You and Jack.”

“Why?”

“The last two men who will ever see me in a bikini.”

Heavenly chuckled at that. I didn't think it was funny.

“You'll be back on the beach in no time,” I said.

She glanced down at her hand pressed against her wound. Her soft blue sweater was now saturated with blood.

“I don't think so,” she said. “Still, I can't complain. I've been lucky. Always been pretty. Never needed anyone to tell me; I've always known. Pretty all through school; one of those girls. I took advantage, too. Walked through doors closed to others. Knew it wouldn't last, though. The women in my family, at forty they start going downhill. Genetics.”

“Not you.”

“Why not me?”

“Diet. Exercise. Stay out of the sun. You take care of yourself.”

“I've been shot. How's that for taking care of myself? McKenzie?”

“What?”

“I don't think my wound is life-threatening. Your driving is, though.”

“Clearly, you're delirious from the pain.”

“Slow down. Please, McKenzie.”

I slowed, but not so much that I couldn't pass the vehicle in front of me like it was standing still.

“Now Nina—she's what?” Heavenly asked. “Forty? Forty-five?”

“Somewhere in there.”

“She looks thirty. When she's sixty, she'll look forty. When she's dead, she'll be the most beautiful corpse in the cemetery.”

“That's something to aspire to.”

“I've always been jealous of her. She has such a perfect life.”

Heavenly coughed hard into her palm. She looked down into her hand afterward. If there was blood there, she didn't show it.

“How are you doing?” I asked.

“I've been better. McKenzie, I'm sorry.”

“For what?”

“For not being better.”

Heavenly slumped in the seat.

“Hey,” I said. “Sweetie? Talk to me, sweetie.”

Heavenly didn't answer.

I downshifted and stomped hard on the accelerator.

*   *   *

According to my odometer, it was seventeen miles to Washburn. The Ghost Lady had told me that it was four times the size of Bayfield, yet it looked to me like it was deserted as I sped through it on Highway 13. From there it was six miles to Ashland, population 8,216 according to the sign. Google Maps said the trip should have taken thirty-two minutes. I managed it in twenty-one.

I followed the highway along the south shore of Lake Superior down along Chequamegon Bay and up again. I became confused when I hit the traffic circle where 13 intersected with U.S. 2, yet I managed to keep going in the right direction until I found Sanborn and went south and then Maple Lane and went east. There were empty fields on both sides of the street, which didn't boost my confidence any. Nor did the flat, dull building on the right.

I turned in and came to a stop in front of the entrance. There was a large sign that read
MEMORIAL MEDICAL CENTER
next to the sliding glass doors and another in red and white that read
EMERGENCY
directly above; there were potted plants and benches on both sides of the door. If not for the signs, I'd swear it looked like a bus terminal.

I turned off the engine, slipped out the door, and ran around the car. The sliding glass doors parted. Doctors and nurses approached in a hurry; they all seemed to be pushing the same gurney.

“Are you McKenzie?” someone asked.

“Yes.”

“Get out of the way.”

One of them pushed me aside—literally.

Another asked, “How long has she been unconscious?”

“Ten minutes,” I said.

They slid Heavenly out of the front seat and placed her on the gurney. There was a man wearing his steel gray hair in a ponytail. Except for the white coat over blue scrubs, he looked like a fifty-year-old hippie.

“Everyone knows their job,” he said. “No mistakes.”

They wheeled Heavenly past me into the hospital. I made to follow her. A nurse pressed her hand against my chest.

“You need to move your car,” she said.

 

TEN

The waiting room was as drab and joyless as the hospital building. I sat alone on a chair, my legs outstretched and crossed at the ankles, my arms folded, my chin resting on my chest. Heavenly's wicker bag was next to me. I had removed it from the Mustang after parking in the near-empty lot across the street. I searched her wallet for a health insurance card and found only a Wisconsin driver's license and credit card, both in the name of Caroline Kaminsky. That's the name I gave to the admitting nurse. I also told her that I would be responsible for all hospital costs; I signed a paper to prove it.

I had never been in a hospital so quiet. There were no announcements made over the PA system, no paging of hospital personnel, no soothing music piped in. I could hear the pages being turned on the magazine the receptionist was reading. They sounded to me like pistol shots.

Twice I asked the receptionist for news. Twice she said she'd tell me when someone told her.

I knew guys who punched walls in moments of frustration—major league pitchers risking their careers, for God's sake—guys who would throw cell phones through windows, smash perfectly innocent HDTVs. Not me. I'm the guy who sits down and carefully runs revenge scenarios through his head, starting with the most violent and ending with the most satisfying, although sometimes they were the same.

That's what I was doing when the doctor with the ponytail rounded the reception desk—and a deputy wearing the uniform of the Bayfield County Sheriff's Department came in through the front door. I stood up. They both reached me at the same time.

“Are you McKenzie?” the deputy asked.

His hand was resting on his Glock.

“Yes,” I said.

“I'm Dr. Rockman,” the medic said. “Daniel Rockman. Caroline asked me to give you a message. She told me to call her Caroline.”

“Are you armed?” the deputy said.

I reached behind my back and pulled the SIG Sauer. I handed it to the deputy butt first. If the doctor was surprised, he didn't show it.

“What did Caroline say?” I asked.

“She said—sorry about making a mess of your car,” Dr. Rockman said.

The things women worry about,
my inner voice said.

“How is she?” I asked aloud.

“You're coming with me,” the deputy said.

I raised my hand, showing him the palm, letting him know that he was second on my list of priorities at the moment.

“How is Caroline, Doctor?” I asked.

“Lucky,” he said. “There was no major injury to her subclavian artery or vein, and the hematoma is not expanding. Chest X-rays were negative. There's no fluid building up in her lungs; it's all good.”

“It's all good? Doctor, pretend that you're talking to a complete moron.”

“All right. The patient was shot in the upper chest, left side. The bullet entered”—he put his finger against his own collarbone—“and chipped the clavicle, causing a hairline fracture. It continued behind the clavicle, where it transected a branch of the subclavian artery. A CTA indicated that the transected artery had already retracted and clotted; it stopped bleeding on its own. The vessel is, for all practical purposes, starting to heal itself. Basic lab work indicates that the patient's hemoglobin is ten, so we're not giving her blood. We'll continue checking her hemoglobin every six hours to make sure it doesn't start trending downward.”

“Wait,” I said. “But she lost a lot of blood.”

“We estimate a pint, perhaps a pint and a half. But at this level, it's like giving blood at the Red Cross. The body will take care of itself. What else? BUN testing indicates that her kidneys are functioning properly—”

“What about the bullet?”

“We left the bullet where it is.”

“What?” the deputy said.

“We rarely go after the bullet if we don't need to. We can cause much more damage, more injury, more bleeding by looking for the bullet. First, do no harm.”

“We need it for evidence,” the deputy said.

“Tough.”

“You're leaving the bullet inside her?” I said.

“Best place for it.”

I'll be damned,
my inner voice said.

“She was concerned about the scar,” I said aloud.

“The bullet left a mark; what can I say?”

“Can I see her?”

“No. She's lost a lot of blood, as you said. I gave her something to help her sleep. You can speak to her in the morning. We'll contact you when she wakes. Where will you be?”

“Bayfield Sheriff's Department,” the deputy said.

“Right here,” I said.

“It'll be a long night,” the doctor said.

Not as long as the last ninety minutes,
my inner voice told me.

“You're coming with me,” the deputy said.

“Were you instructed to arrest me?” I asked.

He stumbled over his answer.

“I'm not going to answer any questions until Chief Neville arrives anyway,” I said. “I'm sitting right here. You can sit over there and watch me sitting right here. There's coffee.” I gestured at the setup in the corner. “I don't recommend it.”

The doctor said, “Neither do I.”

“I'm in your debt,” I told him.

“Not at all,” he said.

He patted my upper arm and walked back behind the reception desk. I sat down. The deputy stood in the middle of the room looking confused. He spoke into the mic attached to his shirt, seeking instructions. I didn't hear what his superiors told him, but a moment later he sat down across from me. He set the SIG on the chair next to him.

I thought about calling Nina. It was nearly 1:30
A.M.
, which meant she was probably just getting home from the club. Except I didn't want to make a call in front of the deputy, making him anxious about whom I was talking to and why. Instead, I closed my eyes …

*   *   *

“McKenzie.”

My eyes snapped open and I saw Chief Neville hovering above me. He didn't look happy.

I stretched myself awake, no sudden movements. A gray light was pouring through the windows. The deputy was still in the chair across from me, his elbow on the armrest, his head propped in his hand. If he had slept, he didn't show it.

“Chief,” I said. “What time is it?”

“Why? Do you have a date?”