wound through the left side,” he said. “Missed the heart, but not by much.”
“So she’s going to be okay?” I said.
“I can’t tell you that. There’s a whole spectrum, from nerve damage to no damage.”
“When will you know?”
“I can’t tell you that, either.”
“How long will she—”
“Can’t tell.” He turned to us. “Check back tomorrow.” And then he was off again.
I looked at Father Bob. “A fount of information,” I said.
“You try doing this job,” he said. “It’s Union Station with blood and guts and no schedule.”
131
SISTER MARY WAS in room 103, bed C. Father Bob and I passed two other beds. The first had an old woman, unconscious. The second had a thin younger woman who was staring blankly at a TV monitor.
At the last bed, back to us, was a jumbo-sized nurse. She was so large she obscured most of Sister Mary. She turned around, looked at us, and said. “And just who are you?”
“I’m her lawyer,” I said. “And this is her priest.”
She gave us a scan, nodded, and walked out. And there was Sister Mary.
She was all hooked up. She looked more vulnerable than I had ever seen her. She seemed about seventeen, as if she’d been in a car accident driving home from a high school dance. Her face was bruised from the fall.
But she managed a weak smile when she saw us.
“Hi,” she said, almost too soft to hear.
Father Bob moved to the bed and took her right hand. I came up and stood next to him.
“I’m sorry,” she said to me. “Is this going to hurt our case?”
“Don’t talk,” Father Bob said.
“I want to,” she said. “I’ve got nothing else to—” Her words ended in a wince. I felt it myself. I wished I could have shifted all her pain to me.
“Any idea who shot me?” Sister Mary said.
“We don’t know,” I said. “But it was probably meant for me. Sorry I was standing in the wrong place.”
“I play ball with you,” she said. “You’re always in the wrong place.”
She smiled again, the way she does when she hits the final shot in Around the World. But it faded quickly and she turned her head away.
For a long moment we were silent. I had no idea what to do. Then I saw a small pull from Sister Mary’s hand, and Father Bob bent over. She whispered something to him.
He came back up and said, “Would you mind if I had a few minutes with Sister Mary alone?”
I wondered what that was all about. Last rites or something? It couldn’t be that bad. I wouldn’t let it be that bad. I wouldn’t let…
There I was again, sticking myself in the middle of Catholic business. “I’ll be back,” I said.
132
I WENT TO the nurses’ station on the emergency wing, and showed my Bar card. I said, “I’m working with Detective Stein.”
Sometimes that works, sometimes it doesn’t. This time it did. “The detective is in 210,” she said.
When I got there I saw a cop was sitting on the chair outside the room. Only one reason for that. Protect a witness. I hung back before he saw me. I backed up into the hallway and thought about my options. I could forget the whole thing. But that wasn’t likely.
Instead, I looked around, then went into a bathroom across the corridor. There was one fellow at the sink, washing his hands. I stepped over to the urinal and pretended to do my thing.
As soon as he left I grabbed a handful of paper towels, made a wad, and stuck them in a toilet. Then flushed. It stopped up nicely, so I flushed again and got the first trickles of water on the floor.
I hit it one more time and walked back to where the cop was sitting. I waited for a nurse to come by, and said, “Something’s wrong in the bathroom. Somebody may be hurt.”
The cop heard me and got up and followed the nurse.
I went into room 210. I found the kid in the first bed. He was not looking good. His face was like yesterday’s meatloaf.
“How you doing?” I said.
He groaned.
“My name’s Buchanan. I was the one who got shot at today. You have any idea who did this to you?”
He shook his head. I studied his face, the way I would a witness. But his injuries made it a much harder read. Still, I was looking for a tell. I wanted to know if he was in on the shooting in any way.
“Did you