Crow called the hospital security and put Mike’s name on the entry list and then made a few calls to friends who had sent flowers, assuring them that he was not at death’s door. They all asked him to pass along their concerns and condolences to Val, Mark, and Connie, which he promised to do. When he finished the obligation calls he then punched in Terry’s number. The cell rang and rang and Terry didn’t pick it up.
A small flicker of concern tickled the edges of his awareness. He asked his nurse if she’d seen him and was told that the mayor had left for a meeting, though he said he would be back. He didn’t say when.
Crow gave it a half hour and then called again. This time Terry picked up on the second ring.
“Yes?” His voice was harsh, abrupt.
“Terry…Crow. Did I catch you at a bad time?”
Terry gave a short laugh. “Anything after the doctor said ‘it’s a boy’ and smacked me on the ass would have been a bad time.”
“That bad, huh?” Crow was still processing the fact that Terry had just said “ass.” It was the first time he’d ever heard Terry use even so mild a curse.
“Bad? For the last hour I’ve been wrangling with the selectmen, trying to convince them that the whole town isn’t falling down around our ears. This after spending all day with the cops and listening to the autopsy report on one of Ruger’s chums. No sleep in going on forty-five hours now, and I’ve got a case of the shakes so bad that if someone gave me a pair of drumsticks I’d be able to do a jazz improvisation that would make Hal Roach look like a beginner.” Though he tried hard to make a joke, there was no humor in his voice.
“Hey, how about this? Go the hell home and get some sleep. The town will still be here in six or eight hours.”
“Yeah,” Terry said, “but will I?”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, nothing. I’m rambling. Look, Crow, I have to go. I’ll drop by later and check in on you.”
“I’d rather you went home to bed.”
“See you later,” Terry said and disconnected.
Crow frowned at his cell phone for a while, unhappy with the tension he had heard in his friend’s voice. Terry saying “ass.” Sure, it was a small thing, but it spoke volumes to Crow about how out of character Terry was acting.
He was mulling this over when Officer Jerry Head walked into his room carrying a paper bag. He paused in the doorway for a second, rapping on the door with a knuckle.
“Mind if I come in?”
It took Crow a second to place him, and then he waved the man in, indicating a chair. The big Philly cop sat down gratefully, looking spent and tired. He still wore his uniform, but his tie was loosened and he had the “off- duty” air about him.
“Mr. Crow—” he began.
“Just Crow.”
“Cool. Crow — I only caught the tail end of what happened last night. I didn’t see you kick the shit out of Ruger, but I heard the details, and I did see you help that girl, Rhoda. You stood your ground, man, can’t nobody say otherwise.”
Crow didn’t know how to respond to that, so he just shrugged.
“So, I wanted to come in, see how you were doing, and…” Here he paused as if a little embarrassed.
“And what?”
“Well…I guess I just wanted to shake your hand.” He extended his hand to Crow, who stared at it for a second, and then, half smiling with his own embarrassment, he reached out and took it. Out of courtesy for the IV, Head had offered his left, and the cop’s hand was like a piece of unsanded wood — hard, dry, and rough. “And I also brought you something.” Head opened the paper bag. “I’ve spent my share of time in hospitals — two car wrecks, a couple of knee surgeries, and a knife wound on the job — so I know you must be climbing the walls by now.” Out of the bag he pulled two thick paperbacks — a Keith Ablow mystery and Dean Koontz’s latest in paperback — and three magazines.
Crow was touched. “Jesus, man, you are a saint.”
“Least I could do,” Head said. “Even though it was just for a couple of hours, Rhoda was my partner last night.”
Crow nodded. “Sit down — sit down and keep me company. Open these cupcakes for me and let’s have a feast.”
They lapsed into a conversation about the job, Crow relating some stories about small-town police work and Head talking about the streets of Philadelphia. Their rhythm was almost immediately comfortable and friendly, and Crow found he liked the Philly cop quite a bit. He was touched by the big man’s thoughtfulness, and by his loyalty to Rhoda.
“So, where do you guys stand with all this?” Crow asked.
“Shit if I know.” He told Crow about Boyd being spotted. “So with Macchio dead, that just leaves Ruger.”
“Yeah.”
“Which kind of brings me to the other reason I wanted to talk with you.”
Crow nodded his encouragement.
Head said, “I was on the porch and just caught the tail end of the firefight between you and Ruger. As you may remember I fired off some rounds myself.”
“Vaguely remember something. I was pretty well out of it by then.”
“My question is — did you hit Ruger? I mean, are you sure you hit him?”
“Your boss, Ferro, asked me the same thing. So has everyone else, and I’ll tell you what I told them.”
“Which is?”
“I’m absolutely fucking positive I hit him. At least three times, and maybe as much as five times.”
“No doubts?”
“No doubts. I saw the impacts, saw his body jerk with each shot.”
“What about a vest? Could he have been wearing body armor?”
“No way in hell. I fought him hand to hand before that, Jerry, and I know damn well I was hitting meat and muscle, not Kevlar.”
Head nodded and sat back, sipping his Coke. “Yeah, that was my read on it, too. I saw you shoot him. I’m pretty sure I missed, but I’ll go before a judge and swear that I saw at least two or three of your shots nail him.”
They looked at each other in silence for a moment.
“You want to ask it, or shall I?” Crow said.
“You mean…with a hundred searchers and five teams of dogs, how did a man with five bullets in him disappear?”
“Yep.”
“Man, I don’t even know. Fucker’s painted with magic.”
“Yeah.”
At that point the door opened again and Mike Sweeney poked his head into the room. He saw the officer and stopped, silent.
“Come on in,” Head said, rising. “I’m leaving anyway.” He reached out again and shook Crow’s hand. “I hope your lady and her family come through this okay.”
“Thanks,” Crow said. “That means a lot.”
Head turned and as he passed Mike he gave the boy a quick appraising glance, taking in the bruises. He turned briefly to Crow, eyebrows raised significantly, and then left without comment.
Mike came over and sat down, dragging the chair closer to the bed.
“Dude!” Mike said. “Look at your face!”
“Yeah, well, look at yours, too. What the hell happened to you?” And as soon as he asked the question Crow wished he could take it back. He remember Barney’s account of how Vic had beaten Mike when he picked him
