“You got it, l’ami,” the big Cajun said.
Garcia touched his shoulder, letting her fingers slide off slowly. “You go take care of her. We’ll check it out over there.”
“We’re ready to go, sir.” A burley paramedic with slicked black hair waved Quinn inside. “It’s a good idea if you ride along.”
Quinn looked out the window of the ambulance as they pulled away, watching the thick line of cedar trees on the hills across Academy Drive. He ground his teeth. The trauma of working on Kim had knocked his tactics for a loop.
He pulled the cell phone from his pocket and pushed Thibodaux’s number.
The big Cajun picked up immediately. “Talk to me, beb.”
“It’s only been minutes, Jacques,” Quinn said. “There’s a good chance the shooter hasn’t made it off the campus.”
“Way ahead of you,” the Cajun said. “Security Police just arrived. They’re lockin’ down the gates as we speak.”
Quinn hung up, torn between the urge to run down the person who’d shot Kim and the responsibility to stay by her side. He took her hand and gave it a squeeze. Her eyes were closed and the oxygen mask covered her face, but he felt her give him a weak squeeze in return.
“Dammit!” The heavyset paramedic watching the monitor wiped the sweat off his brow with the back of an arm.
“What?” Quinn held his breath.
Kim’s hand fell away.
CHAPTER 3
Rick Bedford’s eyes snapped open. He groaned and smacked his lips, trying to figure out where he was. The sheets were soft and free of dirt, and the room was a comfortable temperature — sensations he found completely foreign to recent experience. It took a few seconds for reality to seep back into his addled brain and bring the realization that there was a naked woman clinging to him under those soft sheets.
He sighed, letting his body relax again. The smell of his bride so close now after such a long absence was balm for his wounded soul.
His arm tingled from the weight of her head on his shoulder. Muscles cramped in his leg where her thigh draped across his, damp, sweating from skin-to-skin contact. He didn’t care and would have happily drifted back to blissful sleep. Still, he didn’t want to have his arm amputated.
“Sorry,” he whispered, lifting Marta’s hand. He sighed again as her body slid away from his.
“It’s all right.” From the sound of her voice, Bedford could tell she’d been awake for some time — probably never even gone to sleep. “The girls will be home from Kendra’s anytime now.” She smiled, hair mussed from the nap — and other things. “They’re pretty smart teenagers, so I should have a shower before they get home.”
“I’ve been gone the better part of a year.” Rick laughed. “If they’re all that smart, having a shower won’t hide much from them.”
Marta batted her eyes. A sure sign that she wanted him to stay in bed a few minutes longer.
“I hired a new girl at work,” she said.
“Do I know her?” Bedford asked, as much to hear his wife’s voice as to learn about any new employee. He’d never really thought about it, but these little “afterward” talks were something he’d missed.
“Not unless you’ve had a pedicure in China.” Marta yawned. She threw her arms above her head in a shuddering stretch. “She just arrived in the U.S. and needed a job. Her name’s Haifa.”
“Haifa doesn’t sound Chinese.” Bedford took a long look at his wife across the pillow. He had to pee but couldn’t quite bring himself to leave her.
“She’s something else besides Chinese.” Marta shrugged. “Anyway, customers are eating up these pedicures. You should try one.”
“I thought you warned me about letting foreign women touch my feet.” Bedford swung his feet to the floor, wincing as his hip brushed across the sheets. Naked, he craned his neck to try to see what was causing him so much pain. “Whew!” he gasped, swaying like he might pass out as he moved to the closet mirror. It felt as if something had stung him right above his tailbone. “Take a look at this, sweetie. I can’t really see what it is.” He flipped on the overhead light, then turned so Marta, too, could see.
She sat up in bed, letting the sheets slide off.
“Oh, my heck, Richard.” She whispered the strongest language that ever came out of her mouth. “That’s the biggest boil I’ve ever seen. You should have Doctor Todd take a look at it.”
“Hmmm,” Bedford said, still craning to look for himself. “First you want some Chinese woman to touch my feet and now you want the man that married your sister to check out my butt.”
“This is serious, Rick.” Marta put on her best pouty face. “Abraham Lincoln’s son died from a boil.”
“It was his grandson,” Bedford corrected. “And the poor kid died from complications after doctors lanced his boil — which is exactly what your cutthroat brother-in-law will do if I go to see him.”
“You can’t see it, but I can,” Marta said. “I’m making you an appointment for tomorrow morning.” She pooched out her bottom lip as a sign that any further argument would be futile.
“Okay, okay,” he said, hobbling to the bathroom, appalled that he was beginning to move like his dairyman father. He cleared his throat to hide a cough. “Set it up. This is probably just all the crap I absorbed in Afghanistan working its way out of my system.”
He coughed again. This time it was a rattling, phlegm-filled cough that he was unable to hide. Maybe a visit to the doc wasn’t such a bad idea.
CHAPTER 4
Kim’s heart stopped twice on the frantic ride between the Academy and the hospital. The paramedic at the wheel of the ambulance bypassed the closer St. Francis in favor of the Level II trauma center at Penrose Hospital just off I-25, south of the Academy. By the time they crashed through the ER doors with her strapped to the gurney, Kim had lost roughly a third of the blood in her body.
Emergency room staff had pushed her straight through to surgery. Quinn found himself scraped off as she went through the stark double doors. He couldn’t help wondering if that was the last look he’d ever have of her, covered with bloody sheets and surrounded by stone-faced medical personnel.
She’d been in there for hours and Quinn had yet to bring himself to sit down. Instead, he paced, staring out the windows and beating himself up, oblivious to the fact that he wore only his dress blue slacks and a blood-soaked T-shirt that made him look like he’d been on the receiving end of a messy appendectomy. He could focus on nothing.
An orderly brought him a towel, and Quinn did the best he could to wipe Kim’s blood off his hands and face. There was little he could do about the sodden T-shirt.
At the far end of the room, a young couple huddled together under the buzzing television, waiting for their child to get out of some procedure. The woman shot furtive glances at Quinn and whispered repeatedly to her husband. After a short time, the man walked slowly toward Quinn.
Breathing heavily, with no intention of getting into a long conversation over his present circumstances, Quinn wheeled with the beginnings of a snarling grimace.
The man stopped, then held out his jacket on tentative hands. “Here,” he said simply. “Take this. You need it more than I do.”
Quinn forced a half smile as he accepted the fleece. No matter how much he’d scrubbed with the towel, Kim’s blood still rimmed his fingernails and stained the back of his hands.