“Just peachy?’
“There’s also a chance you’ll need surgery,” Tad finished. “The x-rays show some possible involvement of the metacarpals—the little bones in the back of your hand that run from your wrist to your fingers—and that can mean tendon or ligament damage that can’t be fixed as easily as bone. We won’t know for sure, though, for another couple of days. There’s been a lot of bleeding in the hand, making damage assessment by x-ray a little more complicated.”
“So you’re gonna have to knock me out?” Mark asked. There was an edge of hope to his voice.
Tad nodded. “It’d be pretty tough getting bones set any other way.” It was time to push. “Why do you suppose only two fingers got broken instead of your whole hand?”
Even through the haze of his pain, Mark instantly spotted the hole in his story. Shit. He suspects something. But suspicions were different from knowledge, and he was in too deep to change his story now anyway. “I have no idea,” he said. “Just lucky, I guess.”
“You can do without too much more of that kind of luck,” Tad joked, his eyes probing Mark’s face for the truth, and getting a “kiss my ass” in response. “It’s interesting, too, that the fractures angulate in different directions. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear that your hand was deliberately broken.” That was smooth as gravel, he chided himself.
“Well, you’re the doc, Doc. Maybe you can write me up in a medical journal or something.”
“You’re sure that’s how your hand got broken—a jack fell on it?”
Stick with medicine, Doc, Mark thought. This police work just ain’t for you. “A jack? God, no. The whole goddamn car fell on it. You don’t think I’m lyin’ to you, do ya?”
Tad stared just long enough to convey his true thoughts. “Of course not. No sane person would lie to his doctor. To do that would just delay recovery.”
Piss on it, Tad thought, its your hand and your life. I’ve done my part. He clicked the ballpoint back into its casing, and stuffed the pen into the breast pocket of his lab coat.
“Rest quietly for a little longer, Mr. Bailey. The orthopod will be here in a minute to work on you. I’ll see you later.”
It was just after seven-thirty, and Monique Michaels was surprised to hear the sound of Warren’s car in the garage. Most nights he didn’t get home until nearly seven, and she’d assumed that his investigation of the Bailey thing would keep him much later than that. After fourteen and a half years of marriage, she could tell just by the way he slammed the door of his patrol car that he’d had something less than a good day. Having heard a good portion of The Bitch that morning, followed by continuing coverage not only of the Bailey boy’s escape but of his media appearance as well, she couldn’t blame him if he was a little cranky. Plus, it had been a long time since he’d had to play policeman for real, and he probably was exhausted.
The meal of the day had been spaghetti, and the kids had snarfed up all but a thimbleful of what she fixed. Even as the doorknob turned, she was already pulling a frozen Mexican dinner out of the freezer.
Warren’s look said it all as he entered the kitchen. Rigidly well-postured by nature, and normally energetic even in the evenings, he looked as though he’d slept fully clothed in a windstorm. Monique nearly laughed at the sight of him. “Boy hunt getting you down, dear?” she teased.
A wry smile brightened his face. “Don’t you start with me. I’m getting too old for this shit.”
“Is my baby tired?” Monique mocked in a little-girl voice as they hugged and kissed. “Not enough sleep last night?”
As part of a well-practiced ritual, Warren went directly to the cabinet over the stove and pulled down a gray lockbox, the kind secretaries normally used to store their petty cash, and thumbed the combination. When it opened, he slid his. 38 caliber Police Special, holster and all, off of his belt and deposited it in the box. He still preferred the five-shot snub-nose over the bulky cannons selected by most of his subordinates. Next came the speed loader he carried in his suit coat pocket. After locking the box again, he placed it back in its assigned spot over the stove. As a young, newly married police officer many years before, he’d balked at the notion of being separated from his weapon. In the end, Monique had prevailed, of course, and in the succeeding years, he had come to be far more satisfied knowing that the kids couldn’t become a statistic than he was paranoid that he wouldn’t be able to repel an attack on his family.
There just was no denying it anymore. He had become the old fart he’d always feared.
“It’s been a zoo, hon,” he explained as he put his weapon away. “Just an absolute zoo. You’d think Al Capone had escaped, instead of some kid.”
“Do you think you’ll catch him?”
“Oh, we’ll catch him, all right,” Warren said. “Once we figure out where to start looking for him.”
Monique led her husband into the living room and sat him down on a chair, where she moved around behind him and began massaging his shoulders. “I guess that means you don’t have many leads.”
“Leads,” Warren snorted. “It’s not that we don’t have many leads. We don’t have any leads.”
“What about your man Thompkins?” Monique teased. “He seems hard-charging enough to turn up some clues.”
Warren dramatically dropped his chin to his chest and rubbed his forehead. “You heard that, did you? Could you believe it? He was supposed to get their permission, not beat them into submission. What a bonehead.”
“Now, Warren, I’m sure he was just trying to do his job and make a good impression.”
Warren snorted again. “Yeah, well, so was Barney Fife. And I can assure you that Patrolman Thompkins made an indelible impression on a lot of people. The county executive even called me today and asked me to send his regards. I have a meeting scheduled tomorrow afternoon for just that purpose.”
Monique hugged him from behind and kissed his ear, crossing her forearms under his chin. “Now, you go easy on him. It wasn’t so long ago that you were a stupid rookie.”
“I was never that stupid,” Warren grumped.
“Oh yeah? How ’bout that time you shot at yourself in that lady’s house?”
Warren’s head sagged even further. He laughed. He reached up and rubbed the back of her head as she rested her forehead on his shoulder. “You just don’t forget anything, do you?” That incident had occurred fifteen years before, when he was in the process of tracking down a prowler in an old woman’s house. As he swung into the bedroom in a full crouch, he saw a man crouched down on the other side of the door, aiming a pistol directly at him. Not until Warren had squeezed off three rounds did he realize that he was facing down his own reflection in a full-length mirror. The woman nearly had a heart attack, and he was suspended for a week while Internal Affairs did an investigation. Worst of all was the merciless ribbing to which he fell victim for years after the incident. Unbeknownst to him, the ribbing continued to this day, only now it was always behind his back.
“Tomorrow should be interesting,” Warren said, changing the subject. “I understand Petrelli’s taking the radio station to court tomorrow with an emergency petition to compel release of the telephone records:’
“Do you think it will work?”
“Hell, no, not a chance. I’d pay a thousand dollars, though, just to see Petrelli get trashed one more time in front of the cameras. The only good thing about my day today has been the thought of how really shitty a day he’s had.”
Monique slapped his arm playfully and stood up straight again. “You’re terrible,” she scolded. “What happens if the judge says no?”
“Then we’re left with plain old police work. I think the kid’s holed up somewhere. He can hang loose for a day or two, but sooner or later he’ll have to move, and when that happens, he’ll start leaving another trail. That’s when we’ll get our next good shot.”
Monique came around the chair and kneeled down in front of her husband, resting her elbows on his knees. “Do you think he killed that guard—or supervisor, or whatever—in self-defense?”
Warren shrugged and closed his eyes. “Doesn’t really matter right now. He still has to go back.”
“But what do you think?”
“Honestly? In my heart of hearts?”
“Yes.”
“I really don’t care. I think it’s a red herring, something I have no business thinking about. At least not until we get him back in custody and he goes to trial for killing the supervisor. The escape and the murder are separate issues.”
From out of nowhere, their conversation was interrupted by the thunder of footsteps coming down the
