A Bullet for the Shooter

by Larry Hoy

  Erebus heard the ambulance driver lean on the horn when an off-duty nurse crossed the driveway that led to the Med’s Emergency Room. The driver’s door slammed shut as he burst from the cab, and footsteps marked him running to the back of the truck. Voices beyond the closed doors were too muffled to understand. The doors flew open and he saw blurry figures outlined against the darker background of the ER entrance.

  He focused on a heavy-set female paramedic crouching next to him. Erebus wondered why she was shaking her head. He saw and heard everything like he’d fallen deep in a well.

  Where was he? He tried to ask but no words came out.

  “BP is 76 over 48 and thready,” she said, calling out the rest of his vitals. Erebus didn’t hear most of it as the world swam from glaring lights to utter darkness. Metallic sounds registered as dull noises. He felt a sensation of motion, of sliding, as people grabbed the gurney he was strapped to and pulled it from the truck.

  There was an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth. His neck was in a collar that prevented him from seeing the knife sticking out of his chest, but the jostling from being moved caused the blade to throb in time with his pulse. His body was sticky from blood.

  A small bump caused Erebus to cry out when the gurney’s legs came down. The bounce made the knife move inside the wound, even though the pressure bandages were supposed to hold it in place.

  “Hold on, sir,” the female paramedic said as she ran trotted alongside the gurney. “You’re at the Med now. They’re going to take very good care of you.”

  There was too much going on for Erebus to keep up with, so he closed his eyes. He was so tired. Someone pinched him on the arm. He wanted to tell them to stop pinching him, but the mask and neck collar prevented him. People kept talking around him but opening his eyelids felt like too much effort.

  “Do you have an ID?”

  “No, he’s a John Doe. We think he was a mugging victim. He was unresponsive when we picked him up. He just woke up, but his vitals are in the toilet.”

  A young, black female face opened an eye and shined a bright light into it. “Sir, do you know where you are?”

  Erebus tried to nod his head, but all he could manage was to blink his eyes.

  “What is your name, sir?”

  His lips moved. Nothing came out.

  “That’s all right, sir, we’ll find out later. You’ve been stabbed and we need to operate. I’m going to take off your mask, please answer if you can hear me. Are you allergic to any medications?”

  He saw ceiling tiles passing overhead, so he knew they were still moving, but the room was getting dark. Distantly, he felt someone pull his mask away. Erebus tried to say no to the allergies question, but all that came out was a mumbled “nrr.” The world went dark again.

  He woke in a panic. Glaring lights blinded him. There was mask was on his face, and he didn’t remember it being there. Someone had stuck a needle in his arm. Squirming, he tried to pull it out, but a black woman with pretty eyes held his arm down. She wore a blue mask, so he wasn’t sure if he knew her or not. He tried to smile at her and blinked.

  His eyes drooped; he was so tired.

  Erebus awoke in a hospital room. Cords and tubes connected him to various machines arranged around the head of his bed. A line of windows, high on the wall, showed it was nighttime outside. Where was he? And why did his torso hurt so badly?

  Using his left hand, which was free of tubes and lines, he pulled down the top of his hospital gown. On the right side of his chest was a thick bandage, held in place with gauze wrapped around his body. It was white with only a small spot of red in the middle. He thought about pulling the gown off so he could see his stomach, but he could feel a large bandage that was taped to his stomach.

  His memory came back in fragments, fully aware that he should be dead. Maybe he was? Thinking hardly seemed worth the effort, so he decided that he was still alive and had been stabbed.

  He drifted back to asleep.

  The next morning, he was awakened by a nurse leaning over him, and beyond her stood a middle-aged woman in a simple brown business suit.

  “Good morning, sir. My name is Dottie LaForce. How are you feeling today?” the nurse asked.

  “What happened?” His mouth felt dry. A moment of double vision left him blinking. “My stomach hurts.”

  LaForce pulled a pen light from her pocket and flashed it in his eyes, first one then the other. He tried to turn his head.

  “I’m sorry for that, sir. Can you tell me your name?”

  Lifting his left forefinger, he tried to point at the bandage on her cheek, squinting to focus.

  “What happened?”

  “Wrong place, wrong time,” she said with a friendly smile. “Can you tell me your name?”

  He hesitated, thinking. Some instinct told him to lie.

  “George Jones,” Erebus said. The woman in the corner raised a notepad and started writing.

  “Thank you, George. Do you have a middle name?”

  “George,” he said. It was the first thing that popped into his head.

  “George George Jones?”

  Unable to think clearly, he nodded.

  “All right then, George George Jones it is.” Even in his debilitated state, Erebus heard the doubt in her tone and cursed himself. “Do you know where you are, George?”

  “Hospital.” Stick to short answers, he told himself.

  “Yes, that’s right, you are at the Elvis Presley Trauma Center, the Med. Do you know why you here?”

  “Stabbed.”

  “Yes, again! You were stabbed five times in the stomach and chest and underwent emergency surgery. Doctor Gupta will be in to see you shortly to discuss your injuries and recovery plan, but in the meantime, this is Mrs. Thomas.” LaForce stood and motioned to the other woman. “If you feel up to it, she has some questions for you.”

  The woman in the business suit pulled over a rolling office chair and sat down at his bedside.

  “If you need anything, Mister Jones, just push this button, and I’ll be with you in a moment.”

  “Thank…you,” he said as she left the room.

  “Mr. Jones,” Mrs. Thomas said. “You came here in such a hurry we were unable to get you into our system. Before we start, is there someone you’d like to call?”

  “My wife.” He said it without thinking.

  “Do you know her number? I can bring you a phone.”

  He paused, remembering his error. His face grew pale as he stalled, trying to think of an answer.

  “Don’t worry, I’m sure it will come to you. If you think of the number, just let me know.” She picked up her note pad. “Can you tell me your address?”

  Erebus froze. He should have thought of all this before…before what? He remembered holding the knife and kneeling on rough ground…a dark parking lot somewhere, and his plan to…to…Luther Sweetwater! Like turning on a faucet, the memories flooded back of his plan to stab himself to get inside the hospital so he could kill Sweetwater, but had he actually done it?

  “My address…” He paused and eventually remembered a house number of a neighbor from years before. “…1879 Willington St.”

  “Is that in Memphis?”

  “East of Memphis.”

  “Really? The ambulance driver said they picked you up here in the city. Do you remember what you were doing?”

  His mouth went dry. “I can’t remember.”

  “That’s fine.” She was writing in her notebook again. Then she asked, “Do you know your social security number?”

  “I can’t remember.” He looked away from the woman and saw his fist was curled in the blankets. He forced it flat and smoothed the sheets.

  “Any chance you remembered your wife’s number?”

  Erebus shook his head, afraid that if he kept talking, he’d give everything away.

  “That’s all right, I’ll go look up your address. Soon as I confirm your address, we’ll get the ball rolling.”

  �
��Right.” He wiped his sweaty palms on the blankets, wondering what she meant by that.

  “You just take your time and get better. Leave all this to me. The police will want to speak with you.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He managed to raise a hand in a wave as she left.

  Chapter 29

  Memphis Police Department Secured Facility below the Elvis Presley Trauma Center, Memphis, TN

  Beneath the Med was a secret section for high-security patients. The wing contained a series of cells the Memphis Police Department used for anyone in custody who might also require medical attention. A specially designed operating room allowed the surgeons to work on patients who, despite their injuries and anesthesia, might still pose a threat to their safety. Once in recovery, the police simply handcuffed people to the bed frames in open rooms, reserving the cells for the violently aggressive. Luther Sweetwater had spent the last three days hiding in one of those cells.

  “It’s me,” Nurse LaForce called out as she entered the room.

  Sweetwater sat up, watching the door. She entered alone, carrying three foam lunch containers like the ones restaurants used for take-out orders. As fewer pain drugs were needed, his mind was beginning to clear, and clarity of thought brought a renewed alertness for danger.

  “Fantastic, Dottie, I’m starved. What’s for lunch?”

  A delicious odor of real food filled the room, overpowering the antiseptic smells. She pulled the wheeled table to his bedside, and pulled two bottles of protein drink from her lab coat pocket. She set them on the table with a smile.

  “Liquid chalk? Again? I dearly hope you’re kidding,” Sweetwater said, his face falling. Then his stomach rumbled loud enough to hear.

  “Calm down, Luther, I brought food, too. It’s what my daddy used to call…well, I won’t use that language, but the Army had some unsuitable names for common foods.”

  She opened one of the foam containers on the table. Sweetwater could project a chagrined, boyish smile when he wanted to, and in that moment he wanted to.

  “Shit on a shingle. Why do you hate me, Dottie? What did I do to you?”

  “It’s better than you deserve,” said the moldering corpse of William Bonney, who materialized next to the bed without warning. The dead Shooter glared at him with his arms crossed and long splits in his dry skin, and Sweetwater barely gave him a glance. He was getting used to dealing with the living while ignoring the dead. Sweetwater pressed on his stomach to calm the spasms. The sight of two thin slices of white bread covered in congealed brown gravy crushed his dreams of bacon and eggs.

  “Hate you, dear?” she said, not trying to hide her sarcasm. Sweetwater hadn’t thought her capable of it, but clearly had misjudged her. “I have no reason to hate you. Just because you’re a paid killer and I’ve dedicated my life to saving the lives of others, or that you got one of our rooms blown up, or the fact that poor Scott faces six weeks of physical therapy and probably PTSD, why would any of that matter to me?” She moved around the room, checking the machines and generally acting fussy. “Besides, I thought you were a military man. You’re supposed to like eating that kind of stuff.”

  “We were served it; I’m not too sure how many of us liked it. But isn’t my diet controlled by a nutritionist? White bread and watery gravy doesn’t seem particularly geared to a man who recently had surgery.”

  “Enjoy it while you can, butt-breath,” Bonney said. “When you’re dead, you can’t taste anything anymore.”

  “I didn’t kill you, asshole,” Sweetwater said, turning to face Bonney. “And I’m not responsible, either. Go jack off before your dick shrivels. And if you see Shields, tell him to fuck off, too.”

  Laforce paused from re-tucking the corners of his bedsheets, eyebrows raised.

  “I beg your pardon,” she said.

  “Sorry for my language,” he said, “flashback to boot camp.”

  That brought a hint of sympathy to LaForce’s face, and no sarcasm tinted her answer. “Most of our patients are gang-bangers, dear. I doubt there’s anything I haven’t heard.”

  She came around the bed and removed the first foam container and flipped open the lid of the second one. She added a plastic spork and napkin to his table and pushed it back into place. There was a slice of buttery Texas toast covered in thick ground beef gravy flanked by green beans and mashed potatoes.

  “That looks fantastic, Dottie.”

  Sweetwater pushed himself a little higher up on his bed, dug the spork into the potatoes, lifted it halfway to his mouth, and stopped. “Thank you, Dottie.” Then he popped the food into his mouth. His eyes went wide as he finally tasted flavor for the first time in almost a week and a half. He finished chewing and swallowed. He cut a piece of the toast and rolled it in the gravy. “How come?” he said between bites.

  She didn’t need clarification. “I’m a religious woman, Luther. I believe everything happens for a reason, whether I understand that reason or not. That means God has a part for you to play, and if Jesus was here, he would love you despite your sins.” Then she shrugged, as if she’d said everything she had to say. Luther stopped chewing and nodded. “For my sake, just stay hidden so I don’t have to dodge any more explosions. You do that, and I’ll call it even.” She gently inspected his bandages, probing the worst of the wounds. “Now, how are you feeling?”

  “Better. Relinda—I think that’s her name, Scott’s replacement—had me walking earlier today. I figure next weekend I’m going fishing. I need some time on the water.”

  “Don’t we all? How is the pain?”

  Sweetwater talked around another bite of his breakfast. “It aches but nothing to worry about. I’m fine.”

  “They monitor the narcotics, but I might be able to find you something.”

  He took another bite and waved the spork. “Really, I’m good. This food is what I needed. I’m not afraid of a little pain.” He shoveled in another bite. “The biggest thing is just to thank you for keeping my secret.”

  She nodded and sat a bottle of protein mix beside his meal. “I know you don’t like it, but it’s good for you, dear. The protein will help you heal faster.”

  “Yes, ma’am, anything for Nurse LaForce.” He saluted her with his fork.

  She turned to go, but stopped in the doorway and, without turning around, said, “I’m glad you didn’t die.” She disappeared around the corner, and, less than five seconds later, Teri Warden entered.

  “I’m glad we didn’t die either,” she said.

  He took a swig of the protein shake. “She meant that for me because I’m so cute. Nobody cares about you.”

  “Nobody?” One corner of Warden’s mouth curled upward, along with her eyebrows.

  “So maybe somebody does.”

  “I wonder who that could be.” She continued without giving him a chance to respond, “Something smells good.”

  “Dottie brought food.”

  “I saw her in the hallway. She was smiling so I figured you died or something.” She grabbed the remaining container and popped it open. “Well now, I hope it tastes better than it looks.” She showed it to Sweetwater.

  “Hey, no fair, you got meat loaf.”

  “I wasn’t shot.” She poked at it with her spork, tore off a small bite of meat and bread, and popped it into her mouth. “Nope, can’t do it. It’s terrible.” She closed the lid and put it on the window ledge.

  “I’ll take it if you don’t want it.”

  “You Memphis people like some weird stuff.”

  She retrieved her breakfast and slid it onto Sweetwater’s tray.

  “I’m not from Memphis, I’m from Semple.”

  “Same thing.”

  “Don’t say that in Semple. What did you learn?” he asked while chewing.

  “Nobody would tell me anything until I called Witherbot, then they couldn’t shut up. They were righteously pissed, but they gave it up. They said the bomb could have been a lot worse, but the pot they used for the flowers was some metal alloy. It f
ocused the explosion up, which is why it blasted into the room above more than yours. Also, your door being opened probably saved my life because it channeled most of the blast force away from me. It was a cheap pipe bomb, just like the one that took out Mark last week.”

  “Who’s Mark?”

  “Mark Shields. Don’t you remember you met him?”

  “Was he the Crispy Critter?”

  “I think you called him Barbeque Boy.”

  “Oh yeah, him. He wasn’t very happy about being dead.”

  “I doubt many people are. Anyway, you had a talk with him. I could only hear your part, which didn’t tell me much, but there were long gaps so I think he did most of the talking. Anyway, his code name was Mad Mok; he was another Shooter here in Memphis. It looks like Erebus stuck a pipe bomb under his car, which means he’s not just looking for you anymore. We think he’s declared war on LEI itself. That puts all assets in danger.”

  “Good God, have you notified HQ?”

  “Of course, this is currently the top priority across all of LEI North America.”

  “Do they know how this guy got his info?” Sweetwater asked.

  “That is job number two on the list.”

  “Any guesses?”

  “That’s confidential, but I don’t think I’m leaking anything to say it has to be a mole, and finding a mole takes time.”

  “Y’know, if I was gonna sell confidential company data, I don’t think I’d do it to a corporation that kills people as its business model.”

  “People are whack, dude,” she said. It was a hard point to argue.

  Sweetwater picked up Warden’s breakfast and held it over his own empty container. “You sure?”

  She waved her hand.

  “Knock yourself out.”

  Sweetwater dropped her container into his open box. “Were you able to get anything off your computer?”

  “Yeah, the screen shattered but the hard drive was good. So, I slaved it to a new machine the company overnighted, and I’m back in action. Hey, are you getting tired? Suddenly you don’t look so good.”