“He’s a cop,” the driver said.
“He’s a dumbass deputy from New-fucking-Mexico.”
Ogden wasn’t offended. Given his situation, he was in complete agreement with the passenger’s description of the deputy all tied up in the back.
“I want that money,” the passenger said. “If I don’t get that money, then I’m a dead man.”
Ogden looked around the bay. He could not see much in the dark. But he could see that he had access to the door. If he’d had hands, getting out would have been an easy-enough matter. The floor was cluttered with cans and empty cups and some tools. None of the tools was useful and everything else promised to make too much noise if moved.
The van was stopped at a red light. Ogden could hear traffic outside. This was his chance, he thought, even though he wanted to listen in case they said something interesting. But then he remembered that people never said anything interesting, especially when they already knew their story.
He threw his body at the back doors. He made a lot of noise and failed to grab the handle with his hands behind him. The passenger turned to see Ogden and then moved toward him. Ogden saw the tube-sock-covered nub. He gripped a hammer in his left hand. Ogden pushed himself up and back with his bound feet and slammed into the door. He felt a sharp pain in the small of his back as the door handle jabbed him, but it went down. The doors opened and Ogden fell out as the van lurched forward. He hit the pavement hard and looked up to see headlights shining in his face. He closed his eyes, then looked forward, hoping to catch the license plate of the van. The bright lights had blinded him and now all he could see were green afterimages. He lay back and waited for people to run to him and make a fuss and save his life. He closed his eyes. He could feel blood in his mouth. He was pretty certain his left shoulder was dislocated, if not broken. His tailbone was at least bruised. He’d been banged up worse, but not for a long while. He listened to the voices around him while they waited for help, none of them thinking to untie him.
The doctor was just pulling away from Ogden when Detective Barry stepped into the room. Ogden was sitting on the examination table in his underwear. His left arm was in a sling.
“Lucky man,” the doctor said.
“We already had this conversation,” Ogden said.
“I was talking to her.” The doctor walked out.
“So was I,” Ogden called after him. He looked at Barry. “We’re going to have to stop meeting here or people will talk.”
“Let ’em talk,” she said. “You okay?”
“Better than I might be.”
“What happened?”
“Just like I told the officer. Don’t you hate hearing that line? I got whacked on the head, tossed into the back of a van, then fell out onto a busy street.”
“I hate it when that happens.”
“ ‘No concussion,’ they say. I don’t believe them.”
“How would you tell?”
“Funny.”
“At least you get to wear that enormous bandage on your head,” Barry said.
Ogden reached up and touched the wrapping. “I did get hit pretty hard, I guess. Hit it again when I fell out the van.”
“What now?” she asked.
“Well, I know it’s about money.” Ogden laughed. “Told you I’m a sleuth.”
“How’s the arm?”
“Dislocated. Looks worse than it is. My ass hurts like a son of a bitch. It hurts worse than it looks.”
“So you say.”
“Are you flirting with me, Detective Barry?”
“My husband and two sons wouldn’t approve if I were.”
“Well, I can’t tell you anything helpful. But would you mind if I talked to Ivy again?”
“I’ll ask her.”
Ogden was in his room at the Motel 6. He’d filled a plastic bag with ice, stuck it in a pillowcase, and was holding it to his head while he talked on the phone.
“Time to head home,” Bucky Paz said. “Sounds like you were lucky to get out of this in one piece.”
“Not yet,” Ogden said. “And don’t say anything to my mother.”
Bucky sighed. “You need anything?”
“Nothing I can think of.”
“Warren’s on his way.”
“What?”
“He got on a bus an hour ago. He’ll be there in the morning.”
“Jesus.”
“His idea. If nothing else, he can help you drive back.”
“I wish I could tell you I know more than I did the last time we talked. Anything on the doctor in Dallas?”
Paz rustled some papers on his desk, paused, and ate something crunchy. “Sorry, carrot stick,” he said. “Here it is. Doctor Terrence Douglass, seventy-one years old, BA Rice, MD from University of Texas, 1968. Wife’s name is Leslie, sixty-five, maiden name Ortega. No children. Well, no children together; wife has a daughter, Christina.”
“Where’s the daughter?”
“Don’t know.”
Ogden met Warren Fragua at the Greyhound station the next morning at six. He looked like he’d been on a bus.
“That was hell,” Warren said.
“Thanks for coming,” Ogden said.
“How are you feeling?”
“I’ve felt better.”
“You look like shit.”
“That helps, thanks.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I know exactly what you mean.”
“How bad is that arm?”
“I don’t really need this sling, but it gets me sympathy from the waitress at the Waffle House.”
“Works for me.”
“You’re not going to ask about my head?” Ogden put his hand to the bandage.
“No, I don’t think so.”
Ogden laughed.
“Where to?” Warren asked.
“Hospital.”
Detective Barry met Ogden at the hospital, at the desk of the ward where Ivy Stiles had been put. Ogden introduced her to Warren.
“You going in with me?” Ogden asked Barry.
“Yeah, I think that’s best.”
Ogden nodded. “How is she? Have you been in there yet?”
“I have. She looks pretty bad and I’m sure she hurts all over, but she’s not going to die. She knows that. She knows there’s a guard stationed at her door.”
“That make her feel good or bad?” Ogden asked.
“Both, I think. I haven’t asked anything. I was waiting for you.” She waited for Ogden to look at her. “Professional courtesy.”
“Thank you.”
Ogden followed Barry into the room. Ivy did look bad. The right side of her face was completely bandaged. The left side sagged, with exhaustion perhaps, maybe fear, maybe injury; it was difficult to tell.
“Hello, Ivy,” Ogden said. “I suppose you remember me.”
Ivy stared at him with her working, uncovered eye. She tried unsuccessfully to rearrange herself on the two pillows behind her.
“I’m sorry this happened,” Ogden said.
She looked at the bandage on Ogden’s head and at his sling. “Me too, I guess.”
“Do you feel like answering two or three or twenty questions?” Ogden asked.
Ivy looked at Detective Barry, maybe because she wanted her there, maybe because she didn’t, but Barry remained.
“She’s my friend,” Ogden said. “Where’s Petra?”
“Dead.”
Ogden looked at Barry.
“I’ll start writing this down,” the detective said.
“You mean dead dead, as in no longer alive dead?” Ogden asked.
“Yes.”
“Start at the beginning.”
“That’s not a question,” Ivy said.
“Would you mind starting at the beginning?”