“Who’s your usual?”
“I don’t want to say.”
“Tommy Finley?”
She looked up, eyes wide.
“We know he deals over there.”
“I don’t want to get anyone in trouble,” Marla said.
Harper leaned forward. “Marla, Tommy was murdered last night.”
She recoiled.
“Along with his entire family.”
“No, oh no.” She rocked back and forth. “Why? Who?”
“That’s what we want to find out.”
Her eyes glistened. “I don’t believe this.”
“Unfortunately, it’s true,” Cain said.
She wiped one eye with the back of her hand. “Did his dealing have anything to do with it?”
“Probably. But we don’t know for sure.”
“Back to our question,” Harper said. “Who did you buy from last night?”
“He couldn’t have had anything to do with this.” She sniffed. “He and Tommy are friends. Have been for years.”
“Let me guess,” Cain said. “Jason Epps?”
Even more surprise erupted on her face. “How’d you know?”
“So it was him?” Harper asked.
She stared at her, then slowly nodded.
“Do you know where he is?”
A glance toward the window, a shrug, but no response.
“Look, Marla, all we want to do is talk with him,” Harper said. “We can keep you out of it.”
Her internal debate lasted less than a half a minute. “Probably over in the park.”
CHAPTER 25
For the past couple of hours, Dennie had slept soundly. No murmuring or restlessness, just the soft whispers of his respirations. His vitals had stabilized and now his blood pressure and pulse were normal and steady. No evidence of residual bleeding. The only potential setback was a slight increase in his temperature to 101. The normal post-op elevation, or the first sign of infection?
It was very common for post-op patients to develop a mild fever. Somewhere between 99 and 101 or so. Had to do with the stress response and the bloodstream’s reabsorption of the protein-rich body fluids that always leaked into the traumatized tissues. Proteins that worked on the hypothalamus of the brain and stimulated a rise in body temp. No real concern. Common, almost expected.
But the rise could also herald a wound infection. The first sign, well before it became detectable as swelling, redness, and tenderness in and around the surgical site, and well before pus formation could be seen. Gunshots like Dennie had suffered were always dirty. Grime and bacteria from clothing and skin are dragged into the wound by the bullet. Not to mention Dennie had pressed his hands, and a dirty towel, over the wound as he attempted to slow the bleeding. Rolling around in the back of a vehicle hadn’t helped either. Plus the location where Buck had performed the surgery wasn’t exactly the greatest example of sterile technique. On a dining table, in a cabin—every surface, and even the air, teeming with bacteria. It would be a miracle if Dennie didn’t develop an infection given this cascade of events.
But right now, except for the slight fever, all looked good.
Buck was cleaning the incision site with Betadine when Dalton came in.
“How’s he doing?” Dalton asked.
“Not bad.”
“But not good?”
Buck looked up from his work. “As good as one could expect under the circumstances.”
“So he’s going to be all right?”
As Buck applied a smear of antibiotic ointment along the suture line his mind raced. What was the right answer here? Say he was going to be okay? Would that make Dalton believe Buck was now expendable? Say that he was in dire danger? Would Dalton read that as overly melodramatic? Truth was, either of those could be correct. Dennie was somewhere between recovery and beginning a downward spiral and it all depended on a bunch of microscopic organisms that might or might not have taken up residence within Dennie. Buck decided middle of the road, the non-answer, was the best answer.
“Maybe. He has a slight fever this morning.”
Dalton’s eyes narrowed. “That’s not good is it?”
Buck shrugged and then explained that the fever could be normal or could be the first sign of an infection. He finished by saying, “His best bet is to be in a hospital.”
“So you’ve said. And as soon as you say he can travel, we can make that happen.”
Buck layered several four-by-four gauze squares over the wound as he spoke. “Why would a hospital in Memphis be better than the one down the road?”
A moment of confusion flashed over Dalton’s face. Buck could almost see his wheels spinning. Finally Dalton said, “Let me worry about that. We have, uh, uh…someone over there who can take care of him.”
Buck caught his gaze and held it. “Timing is important here. The sooner he gets to a proper facility the better his chances are.”
“Facility,” Dalton said. “That’s the word I was looking for. Let’s just say I know a facility where he’ll get good treatment.”
Translation: Dalton had some quack, or maybe a veterinarian, or an old military medic, back on his home turf in Memphis. Someone who helped out Dalton and whoever he worked with in just such situations. Buck knew of a similar set up back in Charlotte. Some vet that did procedures in his clinic for criminal types when they got shot or injured. Apparently it paid well and he had managed to stay off the radar for years until a group of miscreants brought in a cop killer who had caught a slug from the fallen officer. The local PD pulled out all the stops on that one and ultimately—through snitches, if Buck remembered correctly—tracked down the vet turned surgeon, and ended his career. Or began another one. Who knows? He could be a prison doc by now.
Was this situation any different? No doubt Dalton and crew had done something illegal, and probably lethal. Dennie had caught a slug. Now Dalton only wanted to get Dennie to his personal quack.
And clean up the mess, of course. With Buck being part of the mess.
“I assume this facility, as you say, isn’t a real hospital?”
“I don’t see that that’s any concern of yours.”
“Actually it is,” Buck said. “If he’s going to a hospital, he can do so much sooner than if he’s going to some back alley butcher.”
“Back alley butcher?”
