“Barrel … switched.”
Sturgeon sat back with a smug grin. “You’ve got it.”
“Toscana.”
Sturgeon’s eyes widened. “How did you figure that out?”
“Only ti … me didn’t have.”
“Ah. The one time your gun was out of your possession. But how did Toscana get at it?”
“Range.”
Sturgeon nodded. “Anyway, the way Gayle and Angie figured it out was that the gun cleaning solution on the barrel differed from your other gun, and the frame. Yesterday when we tested Toscana’s gun, the cleaning solutions matched.”
Brad nodded, gave a thumbs-up, and eyed the milkshake.
Sturgeon figured that was as close to a thank-you as he’d get.
Brad awoke with a start in darkness. He felt something around his arms but realized he could still move them. A faint light glowed from his right. He tried to call out, but his mouth wouldn’t move. A wave of panic flashed over him. He could barely breathe. Where was he? He remembered fighting with Toscana—Dice. She shot, he shot. He was sure she missed. Did he miss? Did she still have him captive? What about Michael?
“Brad. Are you okay?”
Brad’s vision was blurred. A priest hovered over him. I’m dying. But why a priest? I’m not Catholic. But, hey, if it’s my time, might as well do all I can to get to the right place.
“Brad. It’s John Branton.”
Branton? Not a priest. Preacher or reverend or something.
“Bran … ton.”
Branton smiled. “Ah, you’re awake. I was worried for a while. You were having flashbacks or nightmares. I was about to call my friend, a priest, so he could do an exorcism.”
Brad’s chest heaved as he contained a laugh. “Saw … the …movie. Scared … me.”
“I hope they didn’t serve you pea soup.”
Brad held up a hand.
“Right,” Branton said. “I won’t tell any further jokes. I won’t stay long. It’s well past visiting hours, but my dark suit and collar get me free access in the hospital. I wanted you to know I enjoyed our talk, and you know where to find me.”
Brad blinked. The one part of his face that didn’t hurt, despite the swelling.
Branton clasped one of Brad’s hands in both of his. “Is it okay if I say a prayer?”
Brad nodded and closed his eyes. As Branton prayed, Brad felt the burdens that had been weighing him down lift away. Then he slipped into the deepest sleep he’d had in over six months.
Brad’s eyes popped open. He struggled to sit up. A hand pressed gently on his chest. “It’s okay. Lie back. You’re in the hospital.”
Brad blinked a couple of times and his eyes adjusted to the dim room. The light from the corner backlit the face peering down at him. A soft hand stroked his cheek, then came to rest on his hand.
“Sadie?”
“I’m going to put the oxygen back on your nose. I know it’s hard to breathe, and I know it’s hard for you to understand, but the oxygen canula you keep knocking off is helping you. Leave it alone.”
“Nose.”
“Yes, your nose was broken. They’ve straightened is as best they could. You’ll have a cute hook to it now. But the blood is cleaned out, so don’t breathe through your mouth, only your nose.”
Paws pounced onto the other side of the bed and Lobo’s head popped up.
“He’s barely left your side since last night. The cops had to drag him out to pee.”
“Las … night?”
“This is your third day in the hospital. Annie and Briscoe smuggled him in yesterday.”
Brad remembered that, now. Lobo lay on the bed for hours, edging Brad toward the floor. The nurses were not impressed with Lobo barking every time they came into the room. He got particularly angry when around needles.
“Time?”
Sadie yawned. “About four in the morning.”
“How … long … you … here?”
“I came after my last show at ten.”
“All night?”
“Yup. You’ve been out cold since I got here. I slept for an hour. Then listened to you snore, wheeze and whistle. I read a novel. Briscoe told me about it. He said I’d get an insight into cops.” She held up the book. “The Choirboys by Joseph Wambaugh.”
Brad tried to grin. It hurt. “Favorite.”
“So I’m told. It’s, um, interesting reading. Especially the choir practices. Briscoe said where they found you has been used for choir practice.”
Brad glanced away.
“I figured so,” Sadie said.
Brad chewed his lip for a moment. “Desk. Saw … papers.”
Sadie nodded then stared out the window at the shadows of the downtown skyline. “I wondered if you had. My whole desk was messed up. And all without a search warrant.” She tried to laugh, but instead sniffled.
“Sorry.”
“That part of my life is over.” She shrugged. “Now’s not the time to talk about it. I don’t want to, and you can’t talk.”
“You … okay?”
She grabbed a tissue and wiped her eyes. “I’m better than you.” She forced a smile. “You should sleep.”
“Not … tired.” Lobo’s head lifted. He stared at the door and growled.
Then a nurse strode into the room. “You don’t scare me, Lobo.” She scratched behind his ears and he rolled his head toward her. “You’re a baby.” She gave him a digestive biscuit.
She checked Brad’s blood pressure, replaced an IV bag, and withdrew medication into a syringe. “We’d like you to sleep a few hours longer.” She injected the medication and patted his hand. “Nighty night.”
Brad’s eyes grew heavy, fluttered, then closed. Brad rolled onto his side up against the bed rail. Sadie grabbed her red coat, black gloves, and white wool hat. She stood over him. “Sleep tight.”
Then Sadie set the coat back on the chair and removed her knee-high boots. She climbed onto the bed and curled next to Brad. Lobo shifted and positioned his head across Sadie’s ankles as he kept watch on the door, daring any nurse to interrupt.
To The Reader
T
13 Days of Terror is my second novel released this year. Perhaps there will be three or four novel releases next year!
Credits:
I have an exceptional team ...
Valerie West
Valerie has supported
