Holy Ghost (Virgil Flowers #11)(70)

He was already jogging away, gun and flashlight in hand, when Shrake shouted, “Kill the motherfucker,” and then groaned, and said, “All right, no more yelling.”

Virgil shifted into gear, and they were gone.



* * *



—

The shooter was five blocks away, breathing hard, listening. Nobody out there. A siren started: they were moving the cop.

I’m okay . . . I’m safe.





19


There may have been faster runs between Wheatfield and Fairmont, but the driver would have been pushing a Porsche. The ten minutes to I-90 was done in six minutes, the fifteen minutes down I-90 to Fairmont was done in eleven. Virgil was steering with one hand and holding his phone, and shouting into it, with the other, and he almost lost it at the Wheatfield on-ramp to the Interstate. Shrake swayed in the seat, groaned, and said, “You’re gonna kill me. I don’t want to die in a car accident.”

Virgil, with the front grille lights and the siren going, was met by a highway patrolman at the Fairmont exit, who rolled them through town to the medical center in what onlookers agreed was probably another land speed record.

Three nurses were waiting with a gurney at the emergency room entrance, and Shrake was out of the Tahoe and gone in thirty seconds.

The patrolman asked Virgil, “How bad?”

“If they can get some blood in him, he’ll be okay, but it’s like somebody dragged a straight razor across his back.”

With nothing else to do, Virgil called Jenkins, who asked, “How’s Shrake?”

“Docs are looking at him. It’s the longest cut I’ve ever seen in my life. He’s got some meat on him, though, and I don’t think it hit his spine anywhere. He pumped a lot of blood. I’ll call you soon as I hear anything.”

“He’s not gonna die?”

“Jenkins . . . what do I know? He was still talking when they took him in, so I can’t believe . . . What happened with you?”

“We’ve got three deputies here now, we’re going bush to bush in these backyards, we got everybody turning on their lights, but he’s gone.”

“This is my fault,” Virgil said. “You all were right: it was stupid. I just thought . . .”

“It should have worked—though, you’re right, it was stupid,” Jenkins said. “Now we’re gonna have to listen to that fuckin’ Shrake bragging about getting shot with an arrow and how he gutted it out. Lunch is gonna be a total shitshow for the next six months.”

“Could be worse.”

“Yeah, it could be. By the way, we recovered both arrows. Maybe . . . Nah, there won’t be anything on them, except blood.”



* * *



—

An emergency room doc came out a half hour after Shrake was taken into an operating room and told Virgil that a surgeon had been called in to do the repairs. “There were no huge bleeders back there, and we zapped the bigger ones with a cautery. We’ve got some Ringer’s ready but haven’t had to hit him with it yet . . . Unless there’s something going on that we don’t know about, he’ll be okay. Though, his back will itch like fire for a few weeks.”

“I’ll take that,” Virgil said. “I need to call his best friend and tell him.”

Virgil passed the word to Jenkins, who said, “I never was very worried.”

And Virgil asked, “Then why’d you pee your pants?”

“I guess it’ll be a long recovery?”

“A few weeks, is what I hear so far,” Virgil said. “Cut into your golf season.”

“Wouldn’t you know it? Bright side is, he’s got that loose swing with his driver, maybe this’ll tighten him up.”

“I’ll give him the good news when I see him,” Virgil said.

“Keep calling me. We’ll wind things up here in the next little while, but I’ll still be up until I hear from you.”

A surgeon came out to talk to Virgil an hour later, and said, “He’s all stitched up. A wicked kind of wound; I’ve never seen anything quite like it. The blade was rotating when it went through, a spiral wound, almost like what you see when somebody gets run over by an outboard motor. We’ve got to worry about infection, is the biggest thing now. Let’s hope the shooter didn’t punch that arrow through a deer before he shot your friend.”

“How long will you keep him?” Virgil asked.

“Three days, four, depends on how it comes together. He’s asleep now; he’s gone for the night. You might as well take off.”



* * *



—

Virgil squeezed a few more details out of the surgeon, then called Jenkins and filled him in. “I’m coming back. You might as well get some sleep. We’ll run over here first thing tomorrow morning soon as we hear he’s awake.”

“About the motherfucker who shot him? I’m gonna kill him,” Jenkins said.

“You already said that.”

“I know. I’m reiterating. Don’t tell Shrake.”



* * *



—

On the way back to Wheatfield, Virgil thought about all the trips he’d made to hospitals, all the unhappiness he’d seen there. He’d been a few times himself and had the scars to show for it, but the worst trips were with cops he knew, or bad scenes he’d tumbled over when interviewing people in emergency rooms.