“I can imagine. We have a State Police presence, by the way. Not a good time for folks to be speeding through Posadas. The lieutenant says that whatever we need, we’ve got.”
“Hopefully, nothing,” Estelle said.
“You never know, once the bad luck snowball really gets moving downhill. The Christmas from Hell. Look, I’ll catch you in a bit. You’re going to be ten-seven there for a while more?”
“I think so, Eddie. I keep thinking of a dozen things to be doing, and it’s like I’m stuck in the mud. I don’t want to leave here until I make sure Padrino is going to be all right.”
She saw a door open down the hall, and her husband stepped out of the emergency room, rubbing the back of his neck. “Here’s Francis,” she said.
“Catch you later.”
“Thanks, Eddie.”
Francis ambled down the hall toward her, both hands hooked behind his head. Estelle reached out and put a hand on each of his hips, using him as an anchor. He grinned.
“A very hard head,” he said. “CAT shows that he’s got a hairline skull fracture, and we’re a little concerned about intracranial bleeding, querida. That’s always the joker in injuries like this. Eight sutures, and he has some area added to his bald spot now. However…” He stopped, resting his forearms across Estelle’s shoulders. “You need some photos.”
“I need photos? Why, for when his hair grows back?”
He laughed. “No. Whatever he was hit with left some pretty characteristic marks. Even the sutures don’t cover ’em up.”
Estelle looked up into her husband’s dark eyes, her mind churning as if trying to find the right gear. “Whatever he was hit with?”
Francis nodded. “That’s what Alan and I think. If I had to place bets, I’d say that someone gave him a good one from behind. The wound on the back of his head isn’t like something he might suffer by hitting the edge of that stupid concrete step of his…and if it was, you’d find some hair and blood on that, too.”
He shook her gently, as if correctly reading the confusion. “You had this locked in as an accident?”
When Estelle didn’t answer, Francis said, “He’s conscious, if you want to talk with him. Sedated a bit, but conscious. If you want photos, I’ll remove the dressing for you.” He turned and nodded down the hall. “He’s down in OR recovery. We’re going to keep him at least overnight, maybe even a day or two longer, just to be on the safe side. His vital signs are as good as we can expect from someone who thinks the cure-all for any ill in the world is a jumbo green chile burrito.”
“You really think that someone hit him?”
“Yes, I do.” He put a hand on either side of Estelle’s face. “And at this point, I’d love to be wrong.”
“Then let me make a call, oso.”
To her surprise, Brent Sutherland, the graveyard dispatcher, answered the phone, working his second shift of the day.
“Brent, we need a unit over at Bill Gastner’s house. Until I have a chance to get back there, I don’t want anyone going in or out, or tampering with anything on the property. If the deputy sees anyone hanging around the place, or scouting it out, I want them detained.” She thought for a second, then added, “In fact, pull Taber off the Highland scene, and if you can’t find anyone else who’s clear, ask one of the State Police to take over for her.”
“So you specifically want Jackie at Gastner’s?”
“That’s right. ASAP. Cover Highland with whomever you can find.”
“Ten four. Mr. Gastner’s okay?”
“I think so.”
“Okay, I’m on it.”
“I’m still ten-seven at the hospital, and then I’ll be at Gastner’s. I’ll keep you posted.” She clicked the phone shut, and her husband raised an eyebrow.
“You have an explanation for all this?”
“I wish,” Estelle said. “All I can say is that I’ve been trying to talk with Padrino all evening. Now I have a captive audience.”
“It’s not your fault that he’s here,” Francis said, and Estelle grimaced with irritation.
“I know that, querido. But if you’re right-and you always are in matters like this-then it’s someone’s fault that he’s here. And that’s a scary thought.” She set off down the hall toward OR recovery, dialing Linda Real’s cell phone as she walked. Dr. Guzman had to quicken his step to keep up.
Chapter Eighteen
“Let’s see how many more people we can fit in here,” Bill Gastner said. He managed a weak imitation of his bulldog frown. “Your hubby is damn quick with those needles, sweetheart.”
“How are you feeling?” Estelle asked.
“Like somebody used me as a doormat.” He lifted his right hand, mindful of the various IVs, tubes, and gadgets, and rested the palm on the top of his head. He opened one eye. “Are my glasses around here somewhere?”
“They’re in the closet with his clothes,” the nurse said, and busied herself searching for Gastner’s trifocals. “Ah, here they are,” she said. “They’re a little bit bent.” She straightened one errant bow, and then slid the spectacles ceremoniously into place, the right earpiece hanging on the outside of the mound of bandages.
“Thanks,” he grumbled. “Now I can see who the hell is torturing me.” He squinted at the nurse’s nametag. “Anna, give me a few minutes alone with the minions of the law, if you can,” he said.
“You behave,” Anna admonished.
“Absolutely,” Gastner said. When she was gone, he looked at Estelle sheepishly. “Sorry about all this.”
“Nothing to be sorry about, sir,” Estelle said. “You scared the ay-ay out of me, that’s for sure.”
“Me, too.”
“Do you remember talking to me?”
“You mean while relaxing supine on my threshold?” Estelle laughed at his exaggerated choice of words. “No, I don’t remember,” he added.
“You told me that you didn’t fall. You don’t remember saying that?”
“Well…I’m not always responsible for what I say. We’ve known that for a long time.”
“And the good doctor Guzman doesn’t think that bash on the back of your head is from falling, either.” She turned as the door behind her opened. Linda Real peeked around the door without entering. “Come in, Linda. He’s ready.”
“Ready for what?” Gastner said. “Is this another one of those Playboy of the Month calendar shots?”
“That’s an idea,” Linda said.
“No, it isn’t,” Gastner snapped.
“As soon as my husband gets back here to manage the patient, we want to take a photo or ten of the head wound, sir,” Estelle said.
“Oh.” He frowned and closed his eyes. “Goddamn glad I didn’t get kicked somewhere else. Look, this is what I remember…at least at the moment. I think I know my own name. Bill something. Smith, maybe. I remember clear as a bell trying to find my house keys, and wishing I had fixed that light over the door.”
“I’ve found myself wishing that more than once, Padrino.”
“Yeah, well, I remember that. And then, poof. The next image in my mind is of this angelic face close to mine, asking encouraging questions like did I hurt.” He reached out a hand to Linda, and she took it. “How are you doing, young lady?”
“Fine, I think.”
“You think?”
“It’s been a long, nasty day, Padrino.”
“Yes, it has. One of the worst on record.”
“You don’t remember falling?” Estelle persisted.
“No.” Gastner released Linda’s hand and turned back to Estelle, shifting his head slightly to bring the correct portion of his glasses into position. “The thought that occurred to me here a bit ago was that I had had another stroke. While I was lying here, staring up at the ceiling and ruminating, that thought occurred to me.”
“We don’t think so.”
“I’m glad we don’t,” he said, amused. “Or maybe I should hope for that. It might be less bother. What, you think someone whopped me on the head, or what?”