She hesitated. “Well, he’s a tough customer. But his condition is extremely critical.”
“His odds?”
“I wouldn’t want to speculate. The bullet went through the lungs and expanded into a pretty massive thoracic wound. He’s lost a lot of blood, and the water moccasin bite made it worse, as the venom triggers coagulopathy. It’s amazing he survived at all. But we’ve got a team of eight surgeons and fourteen support staff working for him, and believe me, they’re some of the best in the world.”
Pendergast nodded silently.
“Can I get you a counselor or clergy?”
“No, thank you.”
She frowned. “Are you going to be all right, Agent Pendergast? Waiting here by yourself? Your leg is bleeding.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Then if you’ll excuse me, I’m needed back in the OR.”
“Of course.”
The doctor gave him a faint smile, replaced the mask on her face, and turned away, disappearing back into the operating suite.
49
It only took seventy-two hours for the med/surg nurses to grow heartily sick of him.
Coldmoon had first woken up in post-op. Initially, he’d thought he was still asleep, in some nightmare of green walls and bright ceilings and masked beings hovering around. Then he fell asleep again. The next time he woke, he realized it hadn’t been a dream, after all, and now he was in what looked like the recovery bay of a hospital ICU. Doctors would come by, peer down at him, then consult with colleagues in low tones; nurses would check his vitals, stick a needle into the injection port of his IV catheter — and he’d fall asleep again. Soft beeping and buzzing and whisperings of machinery filled the silences. This seemed to go on forever, sleeping and waking, sleeping and waking, but he later realized it couldn’t have been more than twenty-four hours.
Finally, he woke up in a private room on a step-down floor. He was hungry and thirsty and, for the first time, in pain. They fed him — after a fashion — and he was ministered to by more doctors. They assured him he was going to pull through. Later, they explained he’d been very lucky, given the caliber of the gun and the location of his wound. By this point, two more days had gone by and he’d recovered sufficiently to complain about the coffee. It was maddening. They would only bring him decaffeinated beverages. Worse, he was unable to explain how to brew it the proper way. There was a drip machine in the med staff’s break room, but just when he’d convinced one nurse to leave the pot on the warmer, there’d be a shift change, and the staff coming on duty would throw out the stale coffee and brew a new pot. If he complained, they’d just sedate him and he’d drift back to sleep.
He stared out the window, seeing majestic royal palms and the clear blue sky of early April. At this rate, he might never recover.
The door opened and, instead of a nurse, in walked three slightly blurry figures. Coldmoon turned to see them better, wincing slightly at the pain. The first, he realized after a moment, was his boss, ADC Walter Pickett. Beside him, wearing one of her trademark pastel dresses, was Dr. Fauchet. Behind them, a black shadow approached, ultimately resolving itself into the form of Agent Pendergast. They all looked down at him.
Coldmoon swallowed painfully. “About time you showed up.”
“I’ve been here before,” Pickett said. “You were just too high on painkillers to remember.”
“They wouldn’t let me in until now,” Fauchet said. “Just imagine — and me, a doctor.”
Pendergast said nothing. And yet, somehow, Coldmoon felt he’d seen the man more than once over the last few days — that pale face and black suit hovering over his bed, pale eyes full of concern.
One of the nurses, Estrellita, came in with a cup of coffee on a plastic tray. She set it down and turned to leave, but Coldmoon objected. With an effort, he reached over, sipped the lukewarm beverage.
“Too fresh,” he said, handing it to her. “Bring it back once it’s sat another few hours.”
The nurse glared at him with what he hoped was feigned annoyance. Then she turned toward Pickett. “Anything you can do to get this one’s discharge expedited would be appreciated.”
As she left, Pickett came closer and gently grasped Coldmoon’s hand. “Think you’re going to remember what I say this time?”
“I’ll try.”
“You’re going to be fine. The wounds are healing, you’ve recovered from the shock and loss of blood, and there’s no sign of infection. Just as important, you’re a hero. You’re going to get the FBI Star.”
“I am?” Coldmoon asked.
“Oh yes,” Pickett said.
“Funny, I don’t remember being a hero. I don’t remember much of anything. We were headed toward that broken-down lodge, and then the bottom fell out.”
“One could say that.” It was Pendergast who spoke.
“Speaking of heroes,” Pickett went on, “Pendergast here saved your skin and brought in Brokenhearts. Must have been some kind of first — him bringing in a perp alive, I mean. We considered him for the Medal of Valor, but then I saw he’d already been awarded it twice. No point swelling his head any more than it already is.”
Was he joking? Apparently not: Pickett’s tone was affable enough, and there was a faint twitch to his lips that was probably the closest thing he could manage to a smile. Coldmoon tried to sit up in bed a little, thought better of it, and lay back. He couldn’t seem to clear his head, and weariness was never far away. “So. Is someone going to tell me what happened?”
“The details can wait,” Pickett went on. “The important thing is, Brokenhearts is in custody.”
“So who was he?”
This time it was Pendergast who answered. “Ronald Vance. Son of John Vance — the man we’d gone out to Canepatch to interview.”
“Was John Vance the old man on the porch?”
“No. That was a local man who rented airboats — may he rest in peace.”
“Ronald Vance,” Coldmoon repeated after a moment. “And is that where he lived? Canepatch?”
“No,” said Dr. Fauchet. “That was an abandoned alligator farm once owned by the grandparents of... well, that’s not important. Anyway, Brokenhearts himself lived in Golden Glades. Tarpon Court.”
“Where’s that?”
“About a dozen miles from here. Ugly old house, too.” She beamed with ill-concealed pride. “I was the one who discovered the address. And the house.”
“You didn’t go out there?” Coldmoon asked.
The M.E. nodded.
“And you walked right in? To Brokenhearts’s place?”
“Hell, no! I knocked on both the front and back doors. Nobody answered, and y’all weren’t picking up your cell phones, so I left. You think I’d walk right into a serial killer’s house, all by myself, with no backup? What do you think I am — crazy?”
Another nurse came in. “Mr. Coldmoon needs his rest,” she informed the room in general.
“Caffeine,” Coldmoon said. “Caffeine is what I need.”
“You already refused a nice fresh cup of coffee, sugar.”
Coldmoon tried to glare at her, with little success. Talking was making his throat hurt. “Give. Me. Real. Coffee.”
The nurse shook her head. “Armstrong Coldmoon, I keep telling you the only way you’re going to get your kind of coffee is to walk out the front door and then make it yourself.”
There was a silence.
“Armstrong?” Pendergast repeated.
“What about it?”
“That’s your Christian name?”
“I don’t know what’s so Christian about it, but it’s my first name, yes.” This was followed by another silence Coldmoon eventually realized he was expected to break. “My great-great-grandfather killed Custer. Helped, anyway. In Lakota, you sometimes take the name of a vanquished enemy. So Armstrong has been a name in my family ever since.”