A Hard Death (26 page)

J
enner parked the Accent in front of the Super Target. The mall lot was almost empty; there was no sign of Maggie's Mercedes.

He took a towel from the trunk, wrapped the dog in it, and carried him to the shelter entrance; there were lights on inside. Jenner leaned against the buzzer. The dull sound sharpened abruptly as his higher-pitch hearing returned.

A young black woman in blue surgical scrubs and short dreadlocks opened the door for him. He heard most of what she said—enough to tell she had a faint African accent.

“Dr. Jenner? Ms. Craine said you'd be coming. Let's get him into the exam room so I can have a look at him.”

She seemed young. Her scrubs had the logo of an animal hospital in Miami, and her name tag read
DR. GUBI ADE
; she was a first-year veterinary resident.

She saw him looking at her tag and grinned. “Don't worry, doctor. I'm volunteer labor here, but I'm good at what I do.”

Jenner nodded and said nothing. He laid the dog down on the metal table; the dog's eyes were closed, and he wasn't moving.

“What happened?”

“Someone threw a bomb into my cabin, a pipe bomb, with nails and screws. He was on the ground when it went off.”

Dr. Ade palpated the dog's chest, her bare hands feeling through the bloody fur. She said, “When did this happen?”

“Fifteen minutes ago, maybe twenty.”

She was going so slowly. He asked, “Do you have X-ray or fluoroscopy here?”

“X-ray.” She turned to him; her expression grave but gentle. “Doctor,
he's got multiple defects in his anterior chest; some might be penetrating the chest cavity. His pulse is fast and thready—I think he's lost a good bit of blood. Was there a lot of external bleeding at your cabin?”

“A bit. Not a lot.” Jenner wiped his eyes blearily. “But, I don't know—I'm used to humans, and I don't know if that was a lot for a dog. There was a cup of blood, maybe two.”

“That's a lot for a dog.”

She stroked the dog's head gently. “So multiple penetrating injuries of the thorax, possible barotrauma. He's going into shock. I'm going to get some oxygen and fluids going.”

She looked at him. “I have to tell you…”

Jenner said, “I'm a physician—I understand the situation.”

She nodded. “He's in bad shape; I'm sure you understand his chances aren't good. We'll shave his chest, get a better look. Take an X-ray, check for retained projectiles.”

On the stainless steel table, the dog's legs were twitching but his eyes remained shut, his tongue lolling from his mouth onto the bare metal surface. Dr. Ade placed a funnel-shaped mask on his snout, and there was a quiet hiss of oxygen.

She looked up at Jenner. “Okay, doctor: you think you can carry him into surgery? I'll take it from there.”

Jenner nodded and lifted the dog up in his arms. Dr. Ade pointed him toward the operating room, following him with the oxygen canister and dragging a drip stand, a bag of saline, and a drip set.

S
till no answer from Rudge.

Jenner shut his cell phone and continued pacing the waiting room.

Maybe he should go in? He was medical, she'd let him stay.

But she wouldn't want him there, either. He'd done autopsies with family members present, and it was something he never wanted to do again.

Family members
—he hadn't even given the dog a name! Anyway, he didn't know if he could stand seeing that.

He sat. There were stacked copies of
Dog Fancier
and
Show Dog World
on the side table, but nothing…normal.

“Jenner.”

Maggie Craine stood in the doorway, dressed in black and gray. Her hair was loose, spilling onto her shoulders; Jenner thought it looked contrived, like she'd taken the time to style it just so, not because she'd hurried to the shelter.

She looked down at Jenner, then took the cigarette from her mouth and exhaled through pursed lips. She said, “You look like shit. Have you seen yourself?”

He shook his head. “You didn't have to come.”

She stuck the cigarette back between her lips and sat next to him. She rummaged through her big orange Kate Spade beach bag, then pulled out a packet of wipes. She murmured through the clenched cigarette, “Sit up.”

He sat straight, and looked into her face.

Maggie dabbed the damp tissue around his forehead and temples, around his eyes, washing him down like a cat grooming a kitten; there was a faint smell of rubbing alcohol.

“Chin up.”

Jenner tilted his head back and she wiped his neck. She leaned back and looked at him critically. “Better.”

Not once had she made eye contact.

“Oh, God, your arms! I can't do those—that's too much.” She stood. “Come on—go into the bathroom and wash yourself down, Jenner. You can't sit around bloody like that.”

He stood, a little dazed. “I'll be back in a minute.”

“Okay. I should finish this outside anyway.”

He was exhausted. He watched her sweep out of the waiting room, then he walked slowly to the bathroom. The first rush of pure adrenaline was settling, and now Jenner felt every step, and every step hurt. He didn't understand her.

In the tiled quiet of the bathroom, Jenner looked himself over. He was like one of those cartoons where a black cat gets dipped in flour; his hair was black with soot but Maggie had left his face glowing white.

His arms weren't funny, though, torn up and smeared red and brown; no wonder she'd complained.

He washed his arms gingerly. His shirt was soaked in blood; it stuck to him, clung to his face and neck as he fought through the pain to lift it above his head. As the garment peeled off his back, it tethered and caught; Jenner kept pulling at it, wincing each time something popped out of the skin and the cloth tore free. He heard dry gravel sounds as shrapnel fragments hit the floor.

And then the shirt was off. He turned slowly; the left side of his back was leopard-spotted with shrapnel punctures and scratches, many now freshly bleeding, some with torn tags of metal still embedded. Staring at his back in the mirror, he tried to stretch back to reach them, but the pain got worse, and blood began to leak out, and he stopped.

His hands were bloody again; Jenner leaned against the sink, dazed, trying to decide what to do.

There was a tap at the door. Maggie.

“Come in.” He didn't turn.

He heard a gasp and straightened. In the mirror he saw Deb Putnam
peeking around the door. She froze, and her eyes filled with tears. She stepped inside, and closed the door shut behind her.

“Oh, Jenner, my God! I'm so sorry…”

He kept rinsing.

“I'm okay, Deb. It could've been worse—they're just cuts.”

“Jesus, Jenner—they're worse than that. Wait here.”

She disappeared, came back a couple of minutes later with some towels, a spray bottle of Bactine, a kidney-shaped steel bowl and a scrub suit top. She was wearing a flannel shirt and jeans; she took off the shirt and tied it around her waist. She had on a ribbed white cotton tank top underneath, when she stood next to him, it felt close, intimate.

“Bend over the sink. I'm going to clean you up.”

“How did you find me?”

“Saw it on the news, went by the motel. Bobby Gentry from P.F. Fire and Rescue said you'd run away with the dog; I figured you'd bring him here. How's he doing?”

“They're looking at him now.”

Deb tore open a paper envelope and removed a sterile forceps. She soaked one of the towels in warm water, and he did his best to stay still as she softly wiped his back, and then went over it slowly, plucking out small chunks of metal, dropping them in the bowl, then wiping the skin clean.

He tried to say something, but she shushed him. “Let me finish.”

After about ten minutes, Jenner couldn't stand anymore, so Deb dragged in a chair from the waiting room, turned it so the back pressed against the sink, and had him straddle it facing the sink; she talked to him in the mirror.

She smiled. “My dad once got peppered on a turkey shoot. My mom picked the birdshot out of his back in our garage, then hosed him down in the garden before she let him inside the house.”

Jenner flinched as she pulled out one of the larger pieces.

“I'm sorry, but the surgical tape isn't very sticky—it's not gonna hold that well. Call me tomorrow, I'll redo the dressings. It'll give us some time to chat about Maggie Craine—I have to say, I didn't see
that
coming. How long have you been seeing her?”

“I don't think ‘seeing' is the right word. Are you almost finished?”

“As a matter of fact…” There was a quiet click as Deb dropped a fragment into the bowl. “That's the last of it.”

She washed his back down, ignored his wincing as she patted him dry. She stepped back to look at his wounds; she whistled quietly. “I hope you like scars—you're going to have some nice ones.”

Her voice was thick, and when he looked in the mirror, Jenner was surprised to see that Deb was crying again. She saw him see her, and looked away.

She grabbed the Bactine. “Okay, Romeo. This is going to hurt you more than it hurts me.”

D
r. Ade was in the waiting room, talking with Maggie. Maggie glanced at Jenner and Deb as they came out of the bathroom, then turned to the vet.

Doctor Ade said, “He's pretty lucky he's a fat, hairy thing—that extra padding probably saved his life. One of the projectiles breached the chest cavity—there was some subcutaneous emphysema and a small hemopneumothorax. I put in a chest tube, drained a little blood, and the lung seems to have expanded nicely.”

Jenner said, “Is he going to be okay?”

“I don't know how extensive the injuries in the thorax are, but I want to avoid opening the chest unless I absolutely have to; the shrapnel injuries are probably shallow, but any lung damage from the shock wave could get worse if I do a thoracotomy. I've packed the chest, sealed the wounds. I'm going to see how he does like that.”

She looked Jenner in the eye. “Your dog's not out of the woods yet—he's lost a lot of blood, and he's not a puppy anymore—but I'm hopeful.”

Jenner shook her hand and said, “Thanks, doctor, I understand. I really appreciate it.” He turned to Maggie and said, “Thanks, Maggie.”

She nodded, then stood and draped her wrap around her shoulders. “I should get home. Lucy's with Rosa; I don't like to leave her alone for too long.”

She barely glanced at Deb as she swept out, but her glance was long enough for her to appraise and judge.

J
enner needed to see Rudge, talk it out, figure out how everything was connected.

He tried to spot Deb's dark blue Miata among the shifting arrays of red taillights floating in front of him on the highway; he was sorry he'd agreed to her “shortcut” back. She was an aggressive driver, and, in the night and on unfamiliar roads, he'd quickly lost her.

When he caught up, she was sitting in her car opposite the Palmetto Court, the top down. He pulled in and stared at what was left of his place. The crowds and fire trucks had departed, and the ragged paving of the parking lot had almost dried. His cabin was now an exposed, half-charred shell of a building, a ribbon of yellow crime scene tape strung limply across the porch.

Deb tapped on his window. “You want to go in and get your stuff?”

Jenner shook his head. “It'll wait. I need to talk to Rudge first.”

“You shouldn't leave your things in there—this isn't the best neighborhood.”

“I don't have anything left that's worth much. My laptop was in the car, and that's about it.”

Deb headed back to the Miata, and he leaned out to call after her, “Hey, try not to lose me this time.”

I
t was past eleven p.m. when they reached Rudge's place, a brown ranch house on a half acre of land, roughly separated from the neighboring lots by stands of slash pine. The Taurus was in the driveway, and Jenner saw the light of a television flickering in the living room.

Deb leaned against her car.

“You need me, Jenner?”

He shook his head and smiled. “I'm good. Thanks for getting me here.”

“Where are you staying tonight?”

Jenner rubbed his face wearily. “I guess I'll find a hotel.”

“You can stay with me, if you want. I have an empty room—take me a second to air it out, put out some towels and such for you.”

“You feel like rescuing someone?”

She shrugged. “You seem like a guy who could use a little rescuing.”

He smiled. “I think the hotel's a better idea. And the county can pay.”

She hooted. “Yeah, boy—good luck with that!”

He stepped over to her and pecked her on the cheek, smiling. “Fuck 'em—I think I'm now officially sicker of Douglas County than it is of me.”

“Awww…” Deb made a sad face and hugged him gently, her hands on his waist to avoid his wounds. “I'll call tomorrow, check in on you. Say hi to Rudge from me, eh?”

He walked up the driveway and stepped onto the path. She called over to him, “Hey, Jenner! The Gulf Breeze over on the bay will give you a government rate.”

“Thanks.”

He was nearing the porch when she called out to him again. “Jenner? My offer still stands, okay?”

Jenner waved, then stepped up onto Rudge's front deck. He watched Deb climb back into her Miata, pull a tight three-point turn, then roar off down the road.

He pushed the doorbell, heard the buzzer inside, and waited.

There was a pair of dark wicker rocking chairs on the porch; it looked like a nice place to sit and do whatever people did around there when sitting on their porches. Drink ice tea, he imagined. Lemonade.

Then he thought of Rudge, and thought:
Whiskey.

After a little while he grew impatient; he pressed the button again and stepped back. The blinds were drawn; the living room lights were on low, and the TV was flashing dry white and blue-gray shadows onto the blinds.

Jenner opened the screen door and tapped on the frame.

“Rudge! It's Jenner.”

He could hear the TV, but there was no sound of movement inside. No scurrying from the kitchen, no hurried flush of a toilet.

Jenner noticed a light switch next to the doorway and flicked it. Nothing. He flicked it up and down again; looking up, he saw that the socket of the porch light was empty.

Then he saw a bulb resting neatly on the wooden deck railing. He picked up the bulb, and, curious, shook it; the bulb was good.

He reached up, screwed it into the slot; the bulb flickered and came on brightly, dazzling him slightly.

Jenner walked along the deck and tapped at the big living-room window. He pressed his ear to the glass; he heard nothing beyond the TV set.

Something wasn't right.

He moved quickly now, back to the door, and tapped again. He waited a second, reached down to the door knob, turned it, and pushed gently; the door swung open.

The air inside was thick and stale, smelling of smoke and dry metal. And swimming beneath that, Jenner caught the copper whiff of blood.

He pushed the door wide-open.

“Rudge.” He realized he wasn't even raising his voice; he already knew.

He stepped inside the house.

The living room was to his right, much of the space taken up by a bulky rear-projection TV set, a good eight or nine years old. Humphrey Bogart was onscreen;
Treasure of the Sierra Madre
had just begun.

There was an ugly dark wicker sofa with cushions upholstered in a bright tropical pattern, and a pair of matching ugly chairs like the ones out on the porch. The floors were bare white tile, except where the blood had pooled.

Rudge lay sprawled in a recliner directly opposite the TV set, tilted back, legs comfortably supported by the leg rest. The bullet had entered his temple by the orbit of his right eye; it had gone through his head, exited the back, and embedded in the wall, a gray hole surrounded by an ugly red sunburst of blood and blown-out tissue.

His body had slumped to the right; heavy bleeding from the entrance wound had caked the right side of his face, the drying blood puddling in his lap around his right hand, which still held the revolver, and dripping onto the floor to flow across the tile to his feet. The steady dripping had spattered tiny droplets over the TV remote at the base of the chair.

On the table beside the chair was a line of empty Budweiser cans, a near-empty bottle of Jack Daniels, and a neat row of shot glasses; one of the shot glasses had five unfired cartridges pushed into it, bullet tips down, submerged in amber liquid.

Jenner glanced around the room. It was pretty much what he'd have expected. One wall was taken up by bookshelves filled with several hundred DVDs and a small library of film books. On the bookshelves, there were trophies, too, plaques and certificates for valorous service, stacked rather than displayed.

In the kitchen, there were more empties stacked by the sink, mostly beer, but liquor too.

Jenner saw the phone on a coffee table in front of one of the ugly
chairs. He sat down and dialed 911. He identified himself, reported the death, indicated that the decedent was a police officer. He didn't know the address, just that he was in Golden Palms, but the dispatcher said they had 911 call-location software, and officers would be responding immediately; he should just wait with the body.