Backfire

21

San Francisco General Hospital

Saturday, late afternoon

Morphine-induced euphoria was a fine thing indeed, but Ramsey didn’t want to cruise around in oblivion anymore. It left his brain fuzzed and stupid, not at all what he wanted now that Molly and Emma were coming to see him. Without drugs he was better able to cast about his brain to figure out who had shot him. Had someone picked out a judge with a certain reputation, or was it something about him, specifically?

And then there was the other big question: What had happened to Mickey O’Rourke?

Ramsey felt an ache building behind his left eye, and he gritted his teeth against the pain. He looked up to see Emma and Molly standing at the entrance to his cubicle. He felt a leap of pleasure and set himself to forget about his chest and his headache.

He called to them, “No need to tiptoe, I’m not zombied out on drugs. In fact, I’m doing so well the SICU nurses and doctors don’t want me around any longer. They need my bed for someone who really needs to be here, not a slacker like me. They’re going to move me very soon now to the biggest private room in the hospital. They call it the Taj-can you imagine? They’re gathering the troops right now.” He didn’t mention the long conference at his bedside that morning with Dr. Kardak and Marshal Maynard, debating the pros and cons of moving him. There was too much traffic through the ICU to suit the security team, and too many interruptions by law enforcement to suit the nurses and the medical staff. They had compromised by agreeing he would leave the ICU a bit early, for a secure room on one of the inpatient floors, with an extra staff nurse assigned to him.

He said, “Come here, Emma, and give me a big hug.”

She ran to him, drew up short. Was she afraid to touch him? Probably so. She studied his face as she reached out her hand and lightly laid her fingertips on his forearm. When she realized his eyes were clear and focused on her, she seemed to accept that he wasn’t lying to her because she was a kid. “If they’re going to move you away from all these machines, it for sure means you’re getting better.” She moved her fingers to hover over his whiskered cheek.

“I don’t want to hurt you, Daddy.”

He grinned up at her. “Nah, no chance of that. Do you remember a long time ago when I told you I was tough and you could always count on me? Forever?”

She swallowed, nodded.

“Nothing’s changed, Emma. I’m still the same. There’s nothing here your old man can’t handle.”

He knew even a small movement might hurl him into a well of pain, but he raised his hand to gently stroke her face. Slowly, Emma leaned down and hugged him. “Doesn’t it hurt to lie on your back?”

“Not much. They wrapped me up like a mummy. Don’t be afraid, Emma. Everything is all right now.”

But how could everything be all right? Emma wondered. Whoever had shot her father was still out there, and he might try again. Would there be guards around him forever?

Emma said, “Officer Hughes told us he heard you laugh this morning. He said it was a good sign.”

He’d laughed? He couldn’t remember. Ramsey had probably been riding the morphine express to LaLa Land and heard a nurse say something funny, or not funny at all, it wouldn’t matter.

“There you go,” he said, looking over at Molly, who cocked her head toward Emma and nodded. She was pleased he was finally getting some alone time with his daughter. Emma’s fingers stroked his face, as light as butterfly wings.

He said, “Your mom told me you’re keeping a close eye on Cal and Gage in case she gets so worried about me she forgets to feed them. I tried to think what Gage would do if food didn’t magically appear whenever he wanted some. It wasn’t a pretty picture.”

Emma laughed. “They’d both go next door to Mr. Sproole’s house and out-cute each other so he’d clean out his refrigerator for them.”

Ramsey laughed along with her and managed to hug her again, though the pain in the back of his chest spiked. Pain tasted foul, he thought, not for the first time, and how odd was it that you could actually taste pain? It wasn’t coppery, like blood. Maybe like rotted asparagus? He said, “I know Mr. Sproole is an ice-cream junkie; he’s always got some in his freezer. Do you think he’d break out his chocolate-chip cookie dough ice cream for Gage and Cal?”

“No, that’s his favorite. He’d give them an old carton of vanilla. They’d be happy enough with that.” She settled herself on the bed beside him, still clutching his hand like a lifeline. “Sean was over at our house this morning, playing with Gage and Cal while I was practicing. When I finished a piece he tapped me on the shoulder. He was real serious and polite, Dad. He said he wanted to marry me, and even though he would have three wives he could promise me that I’d be his number-one wife, since I was older than his other two. He said if I agreed, I couldn’t date any other boys until he grew up and came to fetch me.” Emma giggled.

A laugh spurted out of Ramsey’s mouth. He couldn’t help it, though it made him groan. He breathed slowly in and out, and when the pain settled into a steady throb again, he asked, “So what did you say about being Sean’s number-one wife?”

“Sean wasn’t done. He asked me if I wanted a big wedding. When I told him I probably would, he said he was going to have to get three jobs, since both Marty and Georgie wanted big weddings, too.”

Emma looked thoughtful. “Maybe two other wives would be good, since they could keep Sean company while I was practicing, or away playing somewhere.”

His practical girl. And that twinkle in her eyes. It wouldn’t have occurred to her to dismiss a five-year-old boy and make him feel small. Lucky Sean. Ramsey said, “I wouldn’t be surprised if Sean grew up to be as cool as his daddy.”

“And his mama.”

“And his mama. Trouble is, your Aunt Sherlock told me she doesn’t want her son to go to jail. Three wives could push him right into the slammer.”

Again, Emma looked thoughtful. “That wouldn’t be good. Sean couldn’t work three jobs to support his wives if he went to jail.”

A nurse appeared in the doorway beside Molly. “Judge Hunt, are you ready for your trip to your very own private corner room? It’s the same room the president would be given if something happened to him in San Francisco. It even has Monet reproductions on one of the walls. There’ll be room for half a dozen guards to buzz around you.” She frowned at him, seeing that he was in pain and guessing he hadn’t used the morphine pump recently. Then she sighed. She understood why. She smiled at Emma. “Your daddy’s so buff and strong he’ll be better in no time, so don’t you worry.”

“My dad’s real tough, and he’s going to have my back all my life; he told me so.”

ICU nurse Janine Holder hadn’t cried in the hospital for a long time because it never helped, but she felt tears come to her eyes. This beautiful young girl was hovering protectively over her father, and what he’d said to her, so simple, so heartfelt-Janine swallowed and smiled. “If you’re ready, Judge Hunt, I’ll call everyone in and get it done. Mrs. Hunt, you and Emma need to come with me.”

Two days was long enough in the surgical ICU, Ramsey thought. Too much beeping and clanging and buzzing all day and night. At least he hadn’t heard any flatline whines, hadn’t heard anyone dying. He’d have some peace and quiet now, even if there would be half a dozen guards. If he wasn’t yet ready to be released into the wild, at least he would have a more comfortable cage.

Ramsey heard Molly say outside his cubicle, “Emma, we’ll go get some sandwiches in the cafeteria, then go to your daddy’s new room and wait for him there. Did you know Uncle Dillon and Aunt Sherlock are outside? We can say hello.”

Ramsey wasn’t stupid-he pumped in some morphine for the move. No matter how careful everyone was, he imagined there would be jostling, and it wouldn’t be fun.

Officer Mancusso came to stand in the doorway. “You’re not to worry, Judge Hunt. Hughes and I will be accompanying you. Nothing will happen to you, sir.”

Ramsey could only marvel at the odd mix of pride and promise in the young officer’s voice. He realized he didn’t know his first name, and asked him.

“It’s Jay, Judge Hunt,” Mancusso said.

It looked like an honor guard, Sherlock thought, when they finally got the bed wheeling down the hall toward the east elevators. Officer Eddie Hughes was on one side of the bed and Officer Jay Mancusso on the other side. Eve and fifteen-year-veteran Deputy Marshal Allen Milton walked at the head of the bed, and a muscular orderly with a big Fu Manchu mustache steered and kept an eye on the IVs dangling from the headboard and the chest tube pinned to the sheets. Ramsey had tried to smile at them as they wheeled him by.

Sherlock saw Ramsey’s face was white with pain. At least Molly and Emma weren’t here to see him. But Ramsey would live, and they would catch his shooter. She wondered how she’d be holding up if Dillon had been the one shot and nearly killed. She gave him a fast kiss.

Savich, Sherlock, and Harry got in the back of the line behind Ramsey’s bed. Eve stood beside him, her hand resting lightly on his arm. She leaned over for a moment to say something to him and her ponytail swung down to lie against her face. Sherlock smiled. After the interview with Milo Siles, Dillon had told her, “I learn something new every single day. Do you know there appears to be power in the ponytail?” And he’d grinned like a bandit.

When they reached the elevator, they looked up and down the now-empty hospital corridor. They watched the doors open, and five people squeezed into the elevator around the bed. The doors closed behind them.

An SFPD officer waited with them for the other elevator, which seemed to be tied up on the seventh floor, while yet another deputy marshal used the stairs. They stood quietly, watching the arrow of Ramsey’s elevator leave the fourth floor and hover at the fifth floor.

They heard a loud clanging noise and the sound of muffled gunfire.

Savich ran to the stairs door, yelling over his shoulder, “Sherlock, Harry! Find out where the shooter got access to the elevator! Get him!”

When he burst out of the stairwell door onto the fifth floor, he was greeted with the yells of hospital staff and the screams and shouts of patients standing at the doors of their rooms, staring at smoke seeping out between the closed elevator doors. Half a dozen hospital personnel were trying to pull the elevator doors open, but no luck. Savich ran to the fire extinguisher case and pulled out the ax. He shouldered through and slipped the edge between the doors and pulled down across the safety beam. The doors sprang open.

Thick black smoke billowed out. When it was cleared enough to see inside, Savich saw blood spattered everywhere.