And then, without slowing her pace, Garcia glanced back and her arm came up and straightened and she threw a shot at me, that little automatic making a loud little firecracker report in the hallway.
I anticipated the shot enough to duck into the nearest hospital room.
But that slowed me down, and Nurse Garcia was still on the move.
I bolted back out and ran to the cart and uprighted the thing and, with every ounce of strength in me, propelled it down the corridor....
...where it clipped Nurse Garcia, in the right side and leg, just as she was about to round another corner, knocking her off balance.
In her awkward on-the-run fall, Garcia hit her head on the wall, hard, and slid to the floor, leaving a snail’s trail of red blood smear.
She seemed to be out cold, but I made my approach cautiously—after all, my gun was God knows where, back in Roger’s room.
I knelt over her.
Checked the woman’s throat pulse.
But then her hand was on my throat, and she sure as hell wasn’t checking for a pulse....
I winced in pain as she twisted around and brought her other hand to bear, ten fingers choking me now as we squirmed on the floor, me wriggling like a fish on a boat deck and her squeezing the damn life out of me....
Somehow my hand found the hypo in my pocket—the thing was still loaded with that foul black shit.
And as the lights flickered in my head, wanting to go out, I managed to will myself into one final act: jamming the needle into Garcia’s leg.
Her hands loosened on my throat, her eyes goggled and I was free of her grip. She was on top of me but did not really have the advantage any longer, as a look she sneaked confirmed: that needle was deep in her outer thigh and my thumb was poised to dispense medicine.
Her eyes locked with mine. Hard eyes, dark and mean and cold and, best of all, scared shitless.
“Gee,” I said. “I wonder what that drug is, honey? In this helpful hypo of yours?”
Her eyes saucered. “Don’t! Jesus sake, don’t!”
Then we did this shifting of positions that got her off of me, slowly, carefully, until she was on the floor and I was just above her, in control of my unhappy prisoner.
My hand patted her pockets until I found her gun in one. I got it out and held the little .22 in my left hand, gripping it as tight as she had my throat, and jammed its snout in her neck, ready to cure her permanently, if she fucking blinked.
These last minutes had gone down in a sort of claustrophobic close-up world that included only the two of us, me and my nurse.
But I suddenly became aware of a small crowd of doctors and nurses gathering, stunned, wide-eyed, on the periphery of the scene of our two-woman struggle.
I glanced up at my little audience of medicos and my eyebrows climbed. “911, anybody?...STAT!”
In just over an hour, back in my blue trenchcoat now, I was standing outside Roger’s room, keeping a brand-new uniformed officer company; he was a black kid, barely twenty-one, who was seated where the late Officer Clemens had formerly been. We chatted a little and I learned he was an Iraq vet, and he seemed on top of things; I felt Roger was in good hands.
Before long Lt. Valer came down the corridor and faced me, his expression pleasant, even pleased.
“How’s the arm?” he asked.
I touched the spot. “Tad sore,” I admitted. “But I’m not complaining—I’ll bet that hypo, if it took the plunge? Would serve up a real killer cocktail.”
“Lab’ll have that soon enough,” he said with a crisp nod. “And you’ll be glad to know we’ve already identified that ‘nurse’ of yours and Roger’s.”
“Let me guess. Her real name isn’t Garcia.”
“Francesca Marquez. Out of town player. M-13 farm team out La La way.”
That got my attention. “Salvadoran?”
Another nod. “El bingo.”
I leaned in, held his eyes with mine. “Rafe, I’m telling you, the Muertas are still pulling the strings—and they’ve got the other, new O.C. factions out on the front line, taking the hits.”
“And delivering them,” he said. He thumbed toward the closed hospital room door. “How’s Roge?”
“Still sawing logs. You’d think the commotion would’ve—”
I was interrupted by Dan, coming out of Roger’s room with a big grin going. “He’s awake!”
Rafe said, “Hot damn.”
Dan turned to me and half-smiled. “He’s asking for you, Ms. Tree.”
“No kidding?”
“No kidding.”
Soon I was standing near Roger’s bedside smiling down at him as he smiled weakly up at me.
“So,” he said, voice weak but gruff, “you saved my ass?”
“Once or twice.”
“My lap...my....”
I touched his shoulder. “Slow down. Take it easy. All the time in the world.”
He nodded. Managed, “My laptop, Ms. Tree. At my office. Get—”
Dan, right behind me, chimed in: “Don’t worry, buddy! We got it.”
Rafe, back there next to Dan, said, “You do?”
I glanced back and saw Dan realizing what he’d just said, as he turned to the Homicide captain with a caught-with-his-pants-down expression. “Yeah, uh... Ms. Tree kinda liberated it. Stuck it in her car, before you guys got to Roger’s office.”
Rafe said to me, “What the hell for?”
“I have my reasons,” I said.
But Roger was saying, “Good! Good....Rafe....”
Rafe stepped up to the bedside next to me. “What do you want, you old hardass?”
Roger’s hand came up and grabbed onto Rafe’s sleeve; it was an effort, but he did it.
“You I trust,” he said. “All of you. But keep what Mike and I found out...keep that to...to yourselves....Don’t go public till...”
Roger was getting a little too worked up.
“Easy, Roge,” I said, patting his arm. “We’re on top of it. I promise. Get some rest.”
Roger, breathing hard, weaker than hell, some-how found the strength to nod, several times. “Yeah... good....Listen...”
I leaned close, as Rafe resumed his position behind me, next to Dan.
“Yeah?” I said.
“Kinda like to...kinda like my quarter back.”
Behind me, Rafe whispered to Dan, “What’s he talkin’ about? Football?”
I glanced back and caught Dan shaking his head. “No,” he told Rafe. “Something else.”
Roger said, “I...I want to buy back in. I want... wanna come home.”
The regret in his face seemed to pain him worse than anything an assassin could dish out. He’d gone undercover for a whole year, alienating people he valued, like Dan and Rafe and, yes, me.
I told him, “We’re gonna rewrite the Tree Agency partnership, soon as you get out of here—33% Dan Green, 33% Roger Freemont.”
Roger managed a little snort of a laugh. “Just like a woman.”
I frowned. “What is?”
“Keeping that extra percent for yourself....”
TWELVE
“Did you have enough evidence to clear Mrs. Addwatter?” the doctor asked.
“Couldn’t really clear her, Doc,” I said. “Let’s face it—the smoking gun in this case was in her hand, after she killed her husband and his hooker.”
“Yes, but surely her mental condition, this reprehensible manipulation of medications....”
“Oh, I had extenuating circumstances locked up, Doc. Plenty for Counselor Levine to use the insanity defense with confidence.”