Grant winced as a finger prodded the wound. Not in the shoulder as he’d first thought, but just under his right arm. The fleshy part. The bullet had gone straight through but grazed his ribs. The hole out the back was bigger than the entry wound. It took an inch of flesh and a swatch of leather jacket that would be too big to stitch shut. The jacket, not the flesh.
The helicopter was still hovering further up the street but the ground assault was the main focus now. Kimberley Clark forced her way through the media scrum with a WCVB camera crew. The attractive reporter seemed to have a direct line to Grant since the Jamaica Plain story and she parlayed it into an interview at every opportunity.
Grant almost escaped.
The paramedic stripped off Grant’s coat and shirt and dressed the wound. He was loading Grant into the back of his rig when Kimberley Clark broke through the ranks. The microphone was held at parade rest. Low and loose and not recording.
“Almost didn’t recognize you on the news feed.”
Grant looked over his shoulder and smiled. “Have I changed that much?”
Clark held her arms out. “Without the crucifix pose and the orange jacket.”
Grant nodded. “Ah yes. Didn’t seem appropriate this time.”
Clark shrugged. “You gave the next best thing. Eyes to the heavens. Tears of relief.”
Grant climbed the back step of the ambulance.
“That was tear gas. Not relief. And being shot in my new jacket.”
From his elevated position, Grant took the opportunity to scan the crowd. All the way back towards the coffee shop. The mysterious passenger had gone. Damn. He racked his brain trying to remember where he recognized him from, but there was too much going on. Gunshot pain, stinging eyes, and a persistent news reporter. Clark wagged the microphone.
“Got time for an interview?”
Grant held his side and grimaced.
“I’d have thought I was old news by now.”
Clark shook her head.
“Wanted to let you give your side of the story.”
Grant shrugged, then wished he hadn’t. “Two fellas tried to rob the cash delivery. End of.”
Clark’s smile was mock serious.
“Not that story. You just killed a dog on national television.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The ambulance ride to Massachusetts General was a short one. Straight up the road, under the Charles MGH station, past the Longfellow Bridge, then turn right opposite Lederman Park. The park had been called Charlesbank the last time he’d been brought here. Proof that council leaders across the globe couldn’t help changing names or re-branding their cities. They’d even considered creating a Grant Street after the Gregory Hynes incident, but they already had one just off the Southeast Expressway.
Treatment in the ER took longer. Examination. Clean the wound—again. X-ray. Padding and stitching. The smells were the same as always: Antiseptics, voided bowels, air fresheners, and nurses’ perfume to combat the smell. He was there long enough to warrant being fed. The meal smelled nicer than the surroundings, but only just. He left the Jell-O, a wobbly abomination that stopped being appetising once you outgrew children’s parties and day nursery.
The x-rays were clear. The bullet had grazed his ribs but not cracked them. The hole in his side wasn’t as bad as he’d thought either. The exit wound had looked bigger because it tore out a swatch of shirt and jacket, but the hole only needed minimal packing and a few stitches. The anaesthetic needle into the wound was the worst part. That always made Grant feel faint and that always brought a few smart words from the nurses.
“Oh, come on now. It’s only a little prick.”
He’d heard that one before. The look she was giving him made him wonder if there was something more. The pain when the needle went in brought him back down to earth. Not every woman he met wanted to go to bed with him. Not every woman in uniform was a turn on. Prick jokes aside, this one was all business and completely professional.
The pain eased. Cool numbness spread throughout his side. The nurse opened a fresh suture kit, and the sight of needle and thread made Grant feel dizzy again. His head began to spin. The world swayed.
The nurse lowered her voice. “Don’t worry. You won’t feel a thing.”
Grant wished that were true, but in his experience, you always felt the tug of flesh and a heady sweat. The nurse rested a gentle hand over his eyes.
“Close your eyes. I’ll tell you when I’m finished.”
Grant closed his eyes and the world tilted. There was a sour taste in the back of his throat. The needle tugged and tightened, and five short stitches later, the nurse leaned in close and whispered in his ear.
“Was that as good for you as it was for me?”
Her voice had changed. There was more suggestiveness in her tone. This was beyond the little prick joke. His head settled down and he opened his eyes. The smile that greeted him was all about sex and compassion.
Terri Avellone leaned forward and kissed his forehead.
The smile became a grin.
Grant smiled back.
“You should be a ninja. Sneaking up on people like that.”
The nurse took Grant’s temperature and dressed the wound. She stood beside the bed and nodded towards an MGH plastic bag on a chair in the corner of the examination room.
“We didn’t have to cut your clothes off. In case you were worried.”
Grant nodded.
“With your needle skills I’m sure you could patch them up.”
She went to the door. This wasn’t a curtained cubicle but one of a pair of solid rooms at the end of the ER. She tapped her watch with one finger.
“You’ll need to rest a couple of hours, then we’ll check you again.”
She hardened her stare.
“No sneaking out early. Discharge in two.”
Then she was gone. The door closed and Terri Avellone came and stood beside the bed. She laid a hand on his forehead and fussed with his hair. She let out a sigh, then pulled the chair over to the bed.
“You’ll have to get a safer job if we’re going to settle down together.”
That brought Grant’s head round. He watched Terri pile his clothes at the foot of the bed and sit down. He tried to buy some time.
“I could have been an innocent bystander and still got shot.”
Terri smiled with a hint of sadness. “You could have been a dog and still got squashed.”
“That wasn’t my fault.”
“You brought a table to a gunfight.”
“I didn’t start the fight.”
“But you finished it. Is that how this works?”
“Somebody had to.”
They fell into silence. Grant was thinking about what she’d said: Settling in together. He’d never considered that before but had to admit he found the prospect appealing. On the other hand, he didn’t want to be tied down. It was a balancing act. The comfort of a good woman versus the freedom to go where he pleased. The indecision showed on his face. Terri’s discomfort showed on hers. Maybe she’d come on too strong. This was something that needed discussing over dinner and a drink, not at the injured warrior’s bedside. She smiled and changed the subject.
“That’s one of the things I like about you.”
Grant followed her lead. “One of the things?”
Her smile turned suggestive. They were back on familiar ground. “Have you got time for one of the other things?”
She leaned forward and kissed him. He brought one arm up and placed it gently around her waist. The kiss was friendly but not passionate. It spoke volumes about her state of mind. Not the usual suggestiveness. More stable and long term. Grant wasn’t sure if it was that or the dull ache in his side, but his body didn’t respond. Terri noticed and sat back. The smile masked her disappointment. Not at the lack of reaction but at the decision she felt sure Grant was going to make. She indicated the unlocked door.
>
“Not as private as you’re used to.”
Grant indicated the dressing strapped to his side. “Not as comfortable. Sorry.”
Terri put her hand on Grant’s. “Better than the other guys.”
Grant took hers in both of his. “Shouldn’t that be my line?”
She lowered her voice. “Or the dog.”
There was no answer to that, so Grant pulled her forward and kissed her again, this time with more feeling. To let her know he hadn’t dismissed the suggestion but needed time to think about it. Terri accepted the olive branch and kissed him back. When they broke from the embrace, they were friends again. Terri stood up and pointed at the clothes at the foot of the bed.
“You need a hand getting dressed?”
Grant shook his head. “I think they’re checking on me.”
Terri nodded. “You do have a history of signing yourself out against medical advice.”
“Only the once.”
“They have long memories.”
“And unforgiving natures.”
Terri put the chair back in the corner.
“Life in the trenches.”
Grant extended the olive branch a bit further. “I’ll be round later.”
Terri accepted it. “I’ll be there.”
Then she left the room and closed the door. The room suddenly felt very empty. It wasn’t until she left that Grant realized just how much he liked being with her. He wished he’d been more receptive to her offer. He promised himself he’d tell her how he felt tonight.
Grant looked at the clock on the wall. He set himself a target. Ten minutes later he swung his legs off the bed and opened the MGH bag. The shirt was stained with dried blood but mostly intact. He slipped his bad arm in first, then got the other sleeve on. He buttoned the shirt and tucked it into his trousers and was putting the jacket on when the door opened.
“And where do you think you’re going?”
Captain Hoyt didn’t look in a forgiving mood.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Five minutes later, the nurse had Grant back in the bed. She let him keep his shirt on but hung the jacket over the back of the chair. She looked even more annoyed than Captain Hoyt.
“You’ve been told about this before. Checking out early.”
Grant tapped his throat. “I was going to get some water.”
The nurse tapped a plastic jug of water on the bedside cabinet.
“You are going to get spanked by an angry nurse.”
Grant gave his best sheepish grin. “Promise?”
She ignored the innuendo.
“I’ll get the paperwork started. Half an hour and you’re on your way.”
When she reached the door, she turned and slapped her backside with one hand. She smiled and winked, then wagged a finger in mock admonishment. She nodded at Captain Hoyt, then left the room.
Hoyt didn’t smile or wink.
“What were you doing?”
Grant indicated his coat on the chair.
“Trying to escape.”
“At Charles Street. What were you doing there?”
Grant sat up in bed, careful not to strain his arm and ribs.
“Having a coffee.”
“In Beacon Hill?”
Grant held a handout flat and wavered his palm. “More like on the edge.”
“Mount Vernon Street is Beacon Hill.”
“I was in Charles Street.”
“At the junction with Mount Vernon.”
“That’s where the coffee shop is.”
“It’s where I told you to stay away from.”
Hoyt came to the side of the bed and pointed at Grant’s open collar. “And why weren’t you wearing a tie?”
That one caught Grant by surprise. He hadn’t been told off for not wearing a tie in a long time. Inspector Speedhoff used to complain about it and Grant always gave the same answer. “Because robbers can strangle me with it.”
This being America, Hoyt had a different retort to Speedhoff: “As opposed to shooting you. You’re not in Yorkshire now.”
Grant tried to defend Yorkshire. “People get shot in Yorkshire.”
Hoyt shook his head.
“Air rifles and spud guns don’t count.”
“You call them spud guns over here?”
“We’re not talking about over here.”
“Then wearing a tie’s not the problem, is it?”
Hoyt folded his arms across his chest. He was tired of playing these games with a man he didn’t even want to employ. It was time to assert his authority. Me big chief, you little Indian. Why were loose cannons always so hard to tie down? He fixed Grant with his steeliest glare.
“No. But not carrying your sidearm is.”
“I used a table instead.”
“And killed a dog.”
“That wasn’t my fault.”
“We’re taking more heat over the squashed dog than the woman who got caught in the crush.”
Grant pointed at his bandaged wound. “Or the officer shot in the line of duty?”
“You weren’t on duty.”
Hoyt wagged a finger. “That dog’s going to come back and bite us.”
He seemed to realize what an absurd statement that was and swiftly changed the subject.
“Where is your gun?”
“In my locker at the station.”
Hoyt hardened his tone. “The BPD is an armed police force. Either carry your weapon on duty or find another job.”
Grant let a faint smile feather his lips. “I wasn’t on duty.”
The misstep didn’t stop Hoyt. “And you weren’t in Beacon Hill either.” He let out a sigh of annoyance but kept his voice calm. “Three lattes and a Pepsi. That’s a long time to be sitting on the corner watching Daniel Hunt’s address. I don’t know what you call it in Yorkshire, but in Boston that’s a stakeout. And a stakeout is something you do when you’re on duty. Not sitting on your own in an area three districts over from your place of employment.”
The room fell silent. Hospital noises sounded outside. Pulses of activity. Smells of emergency. Antiseptics and voided bowels. No food smells. Wrong time of day. Just like when Grant had been brought in here. Just like every day on the front lines. Police. Ambulance. Fire. Nurses. They all worked hand in hand. They all covered each other’s backs. The place you didn’t get any support from was those upstairs. The bosses. The big chiefs that lorded it over the little Indians. Some things never changed. Shit rolls downhill. Cops live in the valley. Grant’s favorite saying. Hoyt had just rolled the shit from the captain’s office to the cop on the street. There was nowhere for Grant to pass it on. He was at the bottom of the hill. In this case, Beacon Hill.
The nurse came back in without knocking. She had some papers on a clipboard. The mischievous smile had gone. She was all business again. She checked Grant’s pulse and took his temperature.
“How you feeling?”
“Fine.”
That was the answer she wanted. She handed Grant the clipboard. “Sign.”
Grant signed on the dotted line and handed the clipboard back.
The nurse nodded.
“Take it easy for a few days. If you start to feel nauseous or dizzy, come straight back here.”
Grant swung his legs off the bed and stood up. “Thanks.”
The nurse helped him with his jacket. “You’re free to go.”
Grant nodded and went to the door. Captain Hoyt appeared diminished in the face of such professionalism, so he attempted to reassert himself.
“Grant. Stay away from Beacon Hill.”
Grant was halfway out the door, forcing Hoyt to raise his voice.
“And stop getting on TV. Reporters are all over me for an interview.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Kimberley Clark agreed to meet Grant at the Charles River Esplanade just down from the community boating clubhouse and jetty an hour after he left
the hospital. The riverside walkway was busy with early evening joggers and dog walkers. The sheltered cove of Community Boating Inc. was less busy, people preferring to walk their dogs than sail their boats. Grant ignored the dogs. With his back to the setting sun, he concentrated on the WCVB news reporter as they walked.
“I hear you’re giving the captain a hard time.”
Clark walked slowly.
“Not me.”
“Reporters.”
“I doubt they’re interested in him. They’re probably trying to get an interview with you.”
“Because of the dog?”
“Because you’re you.”
“I’d’ve thought that Resurrection Man stuff would’ve got old by now.”
“Without the orange jacket and the crucifix pose, you mean?”
“Without anything happening worth reporting about.”
Clark stopped mid-stride and turned to face Grant.
“You kidding me? You’re like flypaper for shit happening.”
“Not on purpose.”
The reporter counted on her fingers. “Jamaica Plain.” One finger. “Los Angeles.” Two fingers. “That place I’ve never heard of in Texas.”
Grant helped her out. “Adobe Flats.”
Clark counted another finger. “Adobe Flats. Right. And now Boston again.”
Grant shrugged. “It was just a robbery gone wrong.”
“On national TV, with your eyes to the heavens.”
“I was trying to clear the tear gas.”
“You were making good copy.”
Grant continued to downplay it. “Just a robbery.”
Clark put her hands on her hips but didn’t speak. The silent interview technique turned back on Grant. He began to understand why it worked so well. He couldn’t resist breaking the silence.
“According to Ben Affleck, Charlestown is the bank robbery capitol of America. I know a couple of people in LA would argue with that. Either way, this was one of many. And it didn’t even work.”
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