Daylight (Atlee Pine, #3)(77)

“So you said he’s fully awake,” said Robert anxiously. “And doing well?”

“He’s on a lot of pain meds, so he’s in and out. That bullet went clean through, but it hit some things along the way.”

“The surgeon mentioned that. Will he suffer any permanent damage?” asked Pine just as anxiously.

“Well, it’s too early to tell that yet. We’ll need to do follow-up with tests, X-rays, and other imaging. But I can tell you that right now he’s resting comfortably, and his condition is stable.”

“When can we see him?” asked Robert.

The doctor studied him. “You’re family, correct?”

“His brother.”

The doctor looked at Pine. “And you’re . . . ?”

“His sister,” said Robert quickly. He turned to Blum. “And this is his aunt Carol.”

The doctor didn’t appear to believe this, but gave a weak smile and said, “Okay.” He looked at his phone. “They just found him a room. I’ll walk you down, but only for a few minutes.”

When they got to the room John Puller was lying on a bed with tubes and lines covering him. His eyes were open and he looked over at them and waved with his good hand.

Pine’s gaze went directly to the monitor recording his vitals. They all looked reasonably okay, particularly for someone who had endured what Puller had.

“You said the bullet had hit some things?” said Robert in a low voice to the doctor.

“Well, there’s a lot around that region. Bone, blood vessels, ligaments. It could have been far worse if the bullet had pinged around in there.”

“But the surgeon fixed it?”

“Katherine is an excellent surgeon, and she did the best she could. But understand that this may not be the last surgery he has, though. And his rehab will be intense.”

“I see,” said Robert, glancing nervously at Pine.

Pine said, “Well, he’s going to come out the other end just fine. Probably better than he is now.”

“Hey, I can almost hear you,” said John Puller weakly. “So stop talking behind my back.”

They drew closer and the doctor said, “How are you feeling? How’s the pain level?”

“When can I get out of here?” Puller said firmly.

“Well, that won’t be for a while,” said the doctor, eyeing Pine with widened eyes.

“I’m feeling okay,” said Puller. “I should be able to leave. I have work to do.”

Robert said, “John, you just underwent major surgery. You need to give yourself time.”

“I don’t have a lot of time to waste, Bobby.”

Pine touched his uninjured shoulder. “John, we’ll carry the ball while you’re laid up here. All you need to focus on is getting better. Even Superman took days off.”

While Pine was speaking, the doctor had manipulated the flow of meds going into his system by punching in a new dosage on the controller next to the IV stand.

The doctor then glanced at Puller, whose eyes fluttered and then closed. “I upped his pain meds to get him back to sleep. The last thing we need is for him to get agitated and pull at his lines or reopen the sutures. I think it’s best we leave him to rest. You will be updated on his condition. And feel free to call in to the nurse’s station during the interim.” He gripped Robert’s arm. “Don’t worry, he’s in good hands.”

“Yes, I know. Thanks for everything.”

As they were leaving the hospital Pine said, “His vitals were good. And the fact that he wants to get back to work is an excellent sign.”

Robert nodded. “Yeah, he’s going to make it. The only question is, in what condition.”

“You mean, as a CID agent?”

“I mean, as a member of the United States Army. It’s his whole life. If he can’t cut it physically anymore?”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” said Pine.

“I saw your look back there. You were thinking the very same thing.”

Pine changed the subject because he was exactly right. “Where are you staying?”

“Near the hospital.”

“How long are you going to be in New York?”

“As long as it takes.”

Later, Pine and Blum drove back to the condo, had a very late dinner, and went to their beds, exhausted.

After breakfast the following morning, Pine went back down to the street level and started to walk, her hands shoved deeply in her pockets and her heels striking the pavement with force.

Shit, shit, shit.

She knew that Puller had signed on for the risk when he joined CID. She knew that. She had done that when she suited up for the FBI. But, still, she felt deep guilt for what had happened. Could she have eyeballed that alley more intently? If she had focused more, could she have seen the shooter or maybe sensed his presence? Puller had relied on her to clear the alley, and she had failed him.

I failed John Puller. And now, maybe he won’t be the same John Puller.

Utterly demoralized, she stopped and slumped down on a bench. Slapping her thigh, she sat up straighter, rubbed her face, and thought, Okay, this sorry-for-me shit is not going to cut it. Start dissecting this case. What are the holes and how do you plug them?