Fostering Death (29 page)

“Come, on, you.” The men holding me propelled me forward.

“Lieutenant.”

“What now?”

“Everywhere he steps, he’s leaving a bloody footprint. I think he’s been shot.”

The lieutenant sighed. “All right. Have the medics take him to the emergency room. But see if somebody doesn’t have a real set of leg irons. I don’t want him trying to escape. And I don’t want anybody hurt.”

“Post a guard?”

“Of course.”

Chapter 21

H
OSPITAL
E
MERGENCY
R
OOMS
aren’t my favorite places in the best of circumstances, and this wasn’t the best of circumstances.

The waiting room was pretty full, but we didn’t have to wait. Maybe “gunshot wound,” like “heart attack,” were magic words that assured immediate attention.

I was hustled through the waiting room, hands secured to a waist chain, leg irons locked firmly in place. I’ve never understood why those escorting someone fully shackled down, whether prison guards or police, don’t take into account the length of the chain on the leg irons. I stumbled several times, saved from falling only by the burly officers who had a firm—and painful—grip on my upper arms.

My nose dripped blood. So did the sleeve of my shirt. Everyone around me had wisely taken the time to don gloves. The wound on my arm burned, but my entire face ached. My leg was somewhere between burning and numb. Without being able to see much, I had trouble keeping my balance.

It did mean, though, I was spared seeing the undoubtedly shocked looks from the people in the waiting room.

Why did I care what people thought? I didn’t know any of them. I’d probably never see any of them again.

Not as humiliating as Chris and Brianna seeing me restrained, but bad enough.

Since the prison was nearby, the hospital was accustomed to receiving high risk patients and had its procedures well established. I was hurried to a cubicle at the far end where I was shoved onto an examining table and the chains rearranged so I was lying on my back, well enough secured that I could hardly move.

The two police officers flanked either side by my head.

The intake clerk came back to start the paperwork. No one talked to me. One of the cops tossed my wallet over. At least my medical insurance had kicked in. I had no doubt the bill would be in the thousands, and if I hadn’t had insurance, I’d probably end up paying it off for the rest of my life.

Of course, if I ended up going back to prison, would it really matter? Not for years, at least.

I knew I had absolutely no say over what happened, so I lay back as comfortably as I could and closed my eyes. Blood began seeping down my throat, and I could hardly breathe. I turned my face to the side. Blood filled my mouth and pooled next to my face, but it beat dripping down my throat and making me choke. It wasn’t long before I heard the rattle of the rings as the curtain was pulled back.

The triage nurse showed up with a big male medical assistant. “What have we got here?” She wasn’t asking me.

“Injury to the left forearm and lower left leg. Possible gunshot wounds.”

“What happened to his face?”

“He landed on his face when he was tackled. Maybe a broken nose. It’s certainly bleeding enough.”

“Head injury?”

“I don’t think so. Although I guess the face
is
part of the head.”

The nurse probed my arm. “You guys use precautions around the blood?”

“Yep. High risk.”

“HIV positive?” she asked.

No one said anything. Someone poked my shoulder. “Answer her.”

She was talking to me? “No, ma’am.”

“Can’t trust him to tell the truth,” one of the cops said.

She turned to the assistant. “We need to see the injuries. Cut off the shirt, the pants leg and the boot.”

“Don’t cut the boot!” I managed to say. The damn things were expensive steel-toed work boots. Bad enough to be losing the shirt and a pair of jeans. “They’re short boots. It’ll slide off.”

The assistant sighed. “I can get the one off. But the other one is all covered with blood. How about I just cut the laces and see if I can work the boot itself off without damaging it.”

A cop by my head snorted. “He’s headed for an orange jumpsuit and shower shoes anyhow.”

Of course I couldn’t have the boots while I was locked up. But I’d really like to have them waiting for me if I ever did get out again. Which seemed increasingly unlikely.

I could feel him work the boot off. The sore spot on my calf didn’t like the manipulation, but I didn’t complain. And I didn’t protest when he cut into the fabric of the jeans leg.

Someone else came in. How were they all fitting in here?

The burning area of my forearm was poked. “That’s a dirty wound. Might be something still in it. I’m going to numb it and give him some antibiotics. Maybe a sedative, too. He’ll be less likely to give us problems.”

I got two injections in my other arm.

And a series of painful little pricks in a circle around the area that was beginning to throb in earnest.

None-too-gentle hands began scrubbing at my very tender face. Prodding fingers felt my nose. I bit my lip to keep from whimpering.

One of the officers unlocked the cuff from around my left wrist. Someone roughly pulled my arm straight. I knew better than to do anything but let them handle the arm. I didn’t especially want to be strapped down completely immobile so they could work on the wound.

I felt the area being scrubbed with something that burned, but then it became numb.

“Don’t see anything in it,” was the muttered verdict. “I don’t see that it needs any stitches or anything.”

A bandage was applied, then the arm was wrapped. The wound was well above my wrist; my hand was pulled back up where the cuff could be re-attached.

Fingers probed my face again. “Still bleeding. I think we’ll need to pack this.”

Something was shoved up my nostrils; I coughed on the blood in my throat and practically choked. I felt my nose being manipulated. It felt like portions of bone were grinding together and hurt like hell. Something was taped to my forehead.

“We’ll have to wait until the swelling goes down to see exactly what we have here,” the doctor said. “It might need some follow-up treatment. Maybe plastic surgery.”

“Don’t matter much, where he’s probably headed,” one of the cops said.

“You’re taking him to jail?” the doctor asked.

“I imagine so. We haven’t gotten our instructions yet, but he’s definitely in custody now.”

“Then the nurse there will be able to remove the packing in a day or two,” the doctor said. “What’s his substance abuse status?”

“Who cares?” the cop said.

“I mean, does he use street drugs? I don’t see any needle tracks. I’m wondering if I should prescribe additional painkillers.”

“Don’t they all have drug problems?” the cop said. “Whether they admit it or not.”

“Acetaminophen, then. With no codeine.”

I felt drowsy. It seemed like if I could just get some sleep, I’d be able to make sense of all this.

Probably not.

My eyes would only open to narrow slits anyhow, so I let them close. I heard paper being shuffled.

They moved on to my leg. “This bled a lot. It looks worse than it is. It’s really very superficial. We can clean it and bandage it. We don’t want it to get infected.”

The voices faded to murmurs. I knew I was in pain, but it didn’t seem that important right now. I also knew I was in a lot of trouble and should be trying to figure out what—if anything—I could do about it. But first I needed to rest.

The curtain rings rattled as people came in and out, but it didn’t bother me, so I didn’t pay much attention.

No one said anything to me, but why would they? An injured dog at the vet’s had about as much say in what happened to him as I did. And probably got a lot more sympathy.

I was in no particular hurry to find out what would be happening to me next anyhow. It was unlikely to be anything but very uncomfortable and very depressing. I lay there, getting a certain grim satisfaction out of not caring. When they wanted to move me, they would. At least I wasn’t locked in a jail cell. Yet.

The sound of boot-steps approached. One of the cops guarding me stepped outside the treatment cubicle. I expected him to return to and to be jerked to my feet and hustled out, but that didn’t happen.

When he did come back in, he removed the leg irons. Odd. Then the handcuffs. Even more odd. I flexed my stiff shoulder muscles, but didn’t move my hands. No point doing anything that invited the use of physical force. I heard the chains clink as they were rolled up and several people in boots walked off, but I remained unmoving. I tried to make sense of what was happening, but my mind wouldn’t cooperate. My thoughts just kept drifting off. I dozed.

I have no idea how much longer I lay there.

Finally the overhead rings clattered as the curtain was swept open. I hadn’t heard anyone approach, so it was probably a hospital worker in quiet-soled nursing shoes.

“Well, you can go,” she said.

She would be talking to the cops. I didn’t say anything.

She touched my knee. “I said, you can go now.”

I opened my eyes as well as I could and looked around. We were alone in the cubicle.

“Where are the cops?” I asked.

She shrugged. “I just got on duty. They must be gone. You’re discharged. Just stop at the desk for your paperwork.”

I eased myself onto the floor and stood in my grey wool socks.

“I can just go?”

“Far as I know. They’ll tell you at the desk about any follow-up treatment or if they need any more information about your insurance or anything.”

Chapter 22

I H
OBBLED
S
TIFFLY
D
OWN
the corridor between the cubicles, most empty but several with curtains drawn. The desk was at the far end.

The clerk behind the desk shuffled papers. “Name?” she asked without looking up.

“Jesse Damon.”

She confirmed my birth date.

“Here’s your instructions,” she said. “You’re supposed to go to your own doctor in two days to have the packing removed from your nose. Take acetaminophen for pain. You can use ice on the swelling on your face. Have the doctor check the wound on your leg and your arm. And call your doctor or come back immediately if you get any redness or additional swelling, especially on the wounds. It could be a sign of infection. If you can’t get to your own doctor, come back here for follow-up care. Everything’s written down for you. Sign here.” She slid some papers toward me.

I took the offered pen and squinted at the paper. I signed it where she indicated. Then I took the papers she gave me.

“Do you know where I can get my stuff?” I asked.

“What stuff?” she asked.

I looked past the mangled leg of my jeans to my feet. “My boots. My wallet.” My shirt was probably in the trash. It had been cut up pretty well. Last I’d heard of my jacket, it had been awaiting the bomb squad. Might not be too much left of it.

She frowned. “Didn’t anyone come in with you? They probably have all your stuff.”

“I came in with the police.” Like they’d bother to keep track of my stuff.

“Ambulance?”

I tried to remember. All that came to mind was flashing lights and rough hands. “I think so. Might have been a patrol car.”

She shook her head. “You can check at the registration desk. Sometimes the paramedics leave things there. Do you have insurance? They may have looked in your wallet to see if you have an insurance card.”

“Yeah. I got insurance.”

She didn’t seem much interested in my dilemma once she got her paperwork back signed.

Great. I could hardly see. I was in my sock feet. I had no wallet or apartment key. My shirt was gone. One leg of my blue jeans had been cut off at the knee.

If I’d still been in custody, at least I would be getting a ride
somewhere.
As it was, where ever I went, I guessed I was walking. Very possibly without boots.

I made my way out through the swinging doors that led to the waiting room. I’d have to ask at the reception desk if they had any inkling of where my stuff had ended up.

“Looking a bit rough, are we, Jesse?” a cold, cultured voice said behind me. Despite the packing in my nose, I thought I caught a whiff of mint. Montgomery.

I stopped, but didn’t turn to face him. I almost hoped he would take me into custody. Then I wouldn’t have to figure out what to do next.

“Have you been discharged from the hospital?” he asked.

I held up the paperwork. “Yes, sir.”

“So where are you headed now?”