34
I drifted in and out of sleep after that, occasionally aware of the monitors I was attached to and hospital personnel stopping in to check on me. The wound was a dull throb in my side; it didn't feel much different from broken ribs, although that was probably thanks to painkillers. I got a look at the front of it when a nurse changed the dressing-a ragged little hole where the bullet had entered, surrounded by a blackish purple bruise. The exit wound was worse, but I couldn't see that. Still, it wasn't too serious, she informed me; assuming I was able to get up and take care of myself, I might go home as early as tomorrow.
I drifted in and out of lucidity, too; it came in brief spells before the haze would creep back and put me under again. I recalled getting shot with detached vividness, as if I was watching a movie. I even did some thinking about the events leading up to it, and about where this was headed. And a part of my mind that acted on its own tried to make sense of it all, although I couldn't keep track of that very well.
Long ago, I'd started believing that everybody had a sort of cosmic bank balance where commodities like luck were stored up, and I had no doubt that I'd just made a heavy withdrawal from mine. Paulson's aim had been almost as bad as my own, and he'd used a.40-caliber pistol, popular with cops, which fired a fast powerful round. He'd clipped the lower right side of my chest, splintering ribs both on entry and exit. But the jacketed bullet had passed under my lung, barely grazing it, and had punched straight through instead of blowing out a big chunk like a.357 or my own.45 would have, or glancing off bone and turning inward as lighter ammunition sometimes did.
Then there was the real luck. A killer who'd gone free for twelve years-who had certainly committed rape in the interim, and maybe worse-was finally on his way to prison for good. Like a hidden viper, he'd been the more dangerous because nobody had known about him. That threat was ended, and so was Renee's personal nightmare.
As for me, I was going to have some time on my hands, and I wouldn't be able to fill it with the usual upkeep around my place. It would be a couple of weeks before I could take on physical work, and then only light tasks. I'd have other things to keep me busy, like dealing with the police about the assault and filling in the rest of the Paulson story.
But I was still going to be up against something I dreaded-a deep-seated reason why my life had ended up the way it had. I'd never been able to explain or quantify this, which was part of the problem. It was an inner absence, which brought a feeling along the lines of waiting endlessly at a bus stop, in a strange and bleak industrial city, on a cold night; a flaw in your being that darkened everything you saw, saddened everything you felt, slowly crushed the life out of an inmost part of you. It wasn't depression, it was the root of depression. For years, the single thing that I had crave. most was oblivion, the complete annihilation of consciousness. But I believed that was something you had to earn, and I didn't know how to-only that I hadn't.
I'd tried to resolve the issue in various ways and failed. With that frustration piled on top of the rest, I'd ended up running. That was a major reason for the job I'd settled into; it allowed me to keep moving hard through the days and wear myself out. Then when I got home at night, fatigue and, too often, alcohol reduced my worries to nothing weightier than getting my boots off and filling my belly. There was nothing commendable about that, but it worked.
Renee's fear of being an emotional cripple wasn't a one-way street. Even if she did offer her light to me, I wasn't sure I could ever be fair to her, either.
35
I woke up again and spent the usual groggy moment figuring out where I was. The outdoor light filtering through the window blinds seemed stronger than last time I'd looked, but if there was a clock in the room, I hadn't yet located it. My sense of time was too out of whack for that to matter, anyway.
My throat was dry and scratchy, as it seemed to be every time I came to. Maybe it was the hospital air, maybe medications. I'd learned by now to maneuver water from the bedside stand without disturbing either the tubage that pierced me or my own torn flesh. I drank greedily; it was cool, soothing, and it freshened me like it was the first thing I'd really felt since I'd been here. I was stronger, even hungry. I decided that when a nurse stopped by again, I'd get myself disconnected and try to make it to the bathroom without weaving like a drunk while somebody held on to my arm. Then I'd see about scoring some breakfast, or lunch, or whatever they'd let me have.
But the next person who pushed open my room door wasn't a nurse. It was Renee.
She peered in cautiously. 'I came by earlier and you were asleep,' she said in a half-whisper. 'I don't want to disturb you.'
'It's fine.'
'I'm so glad you're going to be all right.' She came to the bedside and kissed me, a brief but intense touching of lips. Then she stepped back, looking anxious.
'Ian flew in this morning,' she said. 'He's here with me. He'd like to meet you.'
'Ian?'
'My fiance.'
'Oh, right. Sorry, I'm sort of goofed out on the meds.' I shrugged, attempting nonchalance, but it brought a stitch of pain in my side that made my mouth twist. 'Sure, bring him in.'
She leaned over me again and spoke close to my ear, this time in a real whisper.
'I haven't told him anything about us.'
I nodded thankfully. At least his jealous anger wouldn't be in the equation.
I knew that Ian must be a decent guy, and I admired people who did the work of healing; that was a hell of a lot more demanding than anything I'd ever taken on. But from what Renee had mentioned, he was also sure of himself, maybe to the point of arrogance. I wasn't interested in dealing with that, particularly now.
But the man who stepped into the room was anything but cool. He had a rawboned build and a kindly face that was on the homely side, with jug ears and a big nose. He did give off quiet self-assurance, but it was the sort that stemmed from competence.
'This will sound dumb, but I don't know how to thank you,' he said.
I started to shrug again, but caught myself. When it came to pain, I was a relatively fast learner.
'Renee's the one who took the chance-dangled herself on a hook till the sucker hit,' I said. 'All I did was get in the way.'
She put her hands on her hips and gave me her teacher-to-bad-schoolboy look.
'There's a little more to it than that,' she said.
'Yeah, I shot up your house, too.' I took another sip of water. 'Heard any more about where things stand?'
'I talked to Gary Varna this morning,' Renee said. 'Paulson still swears he didn't commit the murders.'
'Big surprise. So how else does he explain waiting for you with a gun?'
Renee lowered her gaze. 'He had something else in mind. It almost would have been worse.' She turned away uncomfortably.
'He was going to force her to drink rohypnol,' Ian said, putting his arm around her. 'He had handcuffs, tape- and a camera.'
At first I was stunned. Then a wave of rage swept over me, bristling my hair and heating my face. If I could have gotten hold of Travis Paulson just then, I'd have crushed his throat and savored watching his eyes dim out.
I realized that I'd risen up off my pillows. I settled back and took my best shot at smiling.
'Hey, Renee,' I said. 'It's over, and you cleared your father.'
She smiled back, and Ian gave me a grateful look.
Before they left, they made it clear that they'd be glad to do anything they could for me. Ian had already talked to hospital personnel about my treatment; in his judgment, I was in good hands. He also insisted on paying any medical expenses that weren't otherwise covered. I had no intentions of taking him up on it, but it was damned
