Sally shakes her head as she stares at the wound. “He needs a hospital.”
“Think of this as a hospital,” Melissa says. “Think of yourself as a doctor and me as your assistant. Think of this as the test run you’ve always wanted. You keep the patient alive and you fix him up and you get a gold star. You get promoted from a victim to a survivor.”
Sally shakes her head. She’s being stubborn. Melissa doesn’t like stubborn people. “He needs a hospital,” she says again.
“And you need to start doing your job,” Melissa says.
“You’re not understanding me,” Sally says. “He’s already lost a lot of—”
“Sally?” Joe says, opening his eyes and looking up at her. “Sweet, sweet Sally,” he says, and Melissa instantly feels a pang of jealousy, until he follows it up with, “Sally with the wobbly belly.” Then he grins, laughs for a couple of seconds, and closes his eyes again.
Melissa smiles. Good ol’ Joe. “Fix him,” she says.
“Even if I can, this isn’t a sterile environment. He’s going to be prone to infection, and we don’t have—”
“Sally,” Melissa says, saying the name in an abrupt voice that makes Sally turn from Joe and toward her. “Just do the best you can. I’m sure you’ll be fine.”
“And if it’s not fine?”
“Then I’m going to shoot you in the fucking head.”
Chapter Seventy
Schroder refuses the ambulance ride. He sees no point. A broken arm—so what? But he does accept the bandaging applied to the top of his forehead and the bandaging to his leg. The cuts aren’t deep. They’ll need stitches, but he doesn’t care. At least the bleeding has stopped. Hell, for a few minutes last year he was dead—the broken bones and torn flesh life throws his way aren’t a big deal.
“Can I have something for the arm?” he asks.
The paramedic is a guy in his sixties who looks like he spent his twenties and thirties as a professional wrestler. Big and with a disfigured nose, his voice is deep and gravelly, one of those Don’t mess with me voices. “You can have the break set and a cast applied,” he says.
“And I will,” Schroder says. “Later today. But I need something for the pain right now.”
“That pain is only going to get worse,” the paramedic says. “I can put it in a sling and I can give you some painkillers, the kind of thing you’d buy at the pharmacy, but nothing stronger, and they’re not going to do a hell of a lot. You want something stronger, then climb in the back of the ambulance and let me take you back to the hospital.”
“I’ll take what you can give me,” Schroder says.
Both camps of protesters, along with the students, have broken up, and the crowd mostly dispersed so Schroder isn’t banging into anybody as he walks back toward the courthouse. His arm is in the sling and already feels a whole lot better than having it hanging by his side. Hutton is carrying a police radio. There are reports of witness sightings of the ambulance leaving the scene, but there were and are lots of ambulances, and pulling them over is putting lives at risk, and as of the moment nobody can rightly say which one they should be looking for. Joe is out there in the back of one of them, though he doubts that’s the case anymore. He wonders if the serial killer is dead and hopes that he is.
“So far there’s two confirmed deaths,” Hutton says. “Jack Mitchel,” he says. “He was a good man.”
“He was . . . ah, shit,” Schroder says. “He was trying to help the paramedic. He didn’t know it was Melissa.”
“She shot him,” Hutton says.
“Christ, I didn’t even see him there. Who’s the second?”
“The second is the driver of the first car that exploded. We were able to run the license plate. Car belonged to Raphael Moore.”
Hutton is puffing a little, struggling to keep up. Schroder is walking like a man on a mission who was just half blown up, which is exactly what he is. The painkillers aren’t helping yet, and he’s not sure they even will. He pauses and turns toward the detective. The courthouse is fifty yards away. “Raphael Moore?”
“Yeah. I know you knew him.”
“I just spoke to him,” Schroder says, and he thinks back to Saturday and the conversation they had, and to the one on Thursday night too. He thinks of the bad feeling Raphael gave him. Now he knows why. Soon he will revisit those feelings and question what he could have done differently. He should have made more of an effort to convince Kent there was something wrong. Or he should have just followed him.
He reaches into his pocket with his good arm for his caffeine pills, but they’re not there—they must have fallen out either while being propelled through the air or on impact. “Melissa must have known him,” he says, searching his pocket.
“Could just be a coincidence,” Hutton says. “She just planted a bomb in a car she saw in the area. Could be—” he starts, and then his cell phone starts ringing.
Hutton takes the call, leaving Schroder to think of what Hutton’s could be was going to be, adding a lot of his own could bes to it. The two men start walking again. Mostly what Hutton says are a lot of Uh huhs and a few Okays. Schroder is thankful it’s not going to be his job to talk to the woman who was in the process of becoming Raphael’s ex-wife, a woman who is now technically a widow. He thinks of Raphael’s grandchildren and wonders how much they’ll feel the loss, and wonders if the loss of their mother was so strong that losing a grandfather won’t make much of an impact. Then he thinks of Jack Mitchel, and he thinks back to the day they arrested Joe Middleton and how much Jack was itching to put a bullet into the serial killer. That’s not a could be, but a could have been. That could have been would have given today an entirely different outcome. His imagination takes another trip down the path not taken. No Joe, no trial, no protests, no gunshots and bombs. Tonight when the adrenaline has worn off, there’s going to be a whole lot of guilt waiting for him.
They pass Raphael’s car. The scene has started to clear of people and the police presence has grown. The small remaining crowds have been pushed back a block, but they are gathering back there with police officers trying to keep the scene contained. They’re not doing as good a job as they’d like, because there are still a few people within the cordon, those who aren’t cops or victims or paramedics are mostly media. No longer are the decoy cars surrounded. They walk through the intersection and turn left at the end of the block and head around to the back of the courthouse, where there are four patrol cars all with sirens off, but lights flashing.
“That was an interesting call,” Hutton says. “Witnesses have said the man getting into Raphael’s car was a police officer.”
Schroder pauses again and turns his back to the courthouse and looks at Hutton, who is framed by the image of Raphael’s smoldering car. “What?”
“That’s not all,” Hutton says. A couple of reporters start arguing a few yards away from them with a pair of officers trying to push them back. Schroder and Hutton carry on walking. “We got a report that it was the same person in the car that came out of there,” he says, pointing over at the office building where currently a steady stream of forensic technicians is pouring into.
“Can never reply on witness reports,” Schroder says.
“I know that, but the person who saw him getting into the car is one of us.”
“So . . . so what are we saying here?”
Hutton shrugs. Schroder wonders how much time has passed. It feels like five minutes, but it’s longer because he spent time unconscious and time watching over Rebecca as the paramedics worked at saving her. He looks at his watch, but it didn’t survive the blast. For this amount of cops to be here and the crime-scene tape already up, it has to have been at least fifteen minutes. It could even be half an hour. He needs to phone his wife. Needs to tell her he’s okay.