Bad Doctor

21

Cameron’s been shot in the back. She’s out cold, lying on her side, her head in Willow’s lap.

“Is Bobby okay?” Willow asks.

“He’s resting quietly.”

I take a knee and wince for the second time in two minutes, wedge my fingers in the hole in her blouse the bullet created, and tear it open enough to check the wound in her shoulder.

“How bad’s your cancer?”

She frowns. “Who told you about that, Bobby?”

“I’m a doctor. I’m trained to notice the slightest symptoms.”

“Really? Then what type of cancer do I have?”

“Breast.”

“Guess again.”

I prod the area around the entrance wound. “Leukemia.”

“You really suck at this. Are you even a doctor?”

“I’m a world-renowned surgeon.”

“I guess we’ll find out soon enough,” she says.

“Do you have a cell phone?” I ask.

“Why? You need to call a real surgeon?”

I smile. “I like you.”

“Bobby’s got my cell phone,” she says. “But it doesn’t work out here.”

“How’d Cameron get this far from the car?”

“She made a run for it. That’s why he shot her.”

“Nice guy you hooked up with.”

“Spare me the lecture, Dr. Asshole.”

“Okay.”

“Dr. Breaking and Entering.”

“Thank you.”

“Doctor Identity Theft. Doctor Crook.”

“Got it. So who taught Bobby how to shoot?”

“What do you mean?”

“He hit Cameron in the shoulder, and missed me from twelve feet away.”

Willow glances at my face. “Who taught you how to fight?”

“I did all right.”

“You think?”

“If you look closely, you’ll see a bruise and a cut on Bobby’s mouth.”

“Cameron did that.”

“She did?”

“You look like Bobby’s punching bag. Why’s there so much blood?”

“On my face?”

“On Cameron’s back, dumb ass.”

“Well, she’s been shot, for one thing.”

“That’s your professional opinion?”

“I really do like you,” I say. “Maybe I can help with your cancer.”

“Just fix my friend, okay?”

“Okay.”

I rip Cameron’s blouse enough to check her chest for an exit wound. There isn’t one, but there is a little ridge protruding slightly from her skin that tells me the bullet came within a hair of getting out on its own. I touch it with my finger, and Cameron gasps.

“Bobby’s gun’s a piece of shit,” I say.

“How bad is she?” Willow asks.

“It looks worse than it is.”

“Will she live?”

“Yes.”

“Will she be able to dance?”

“No. I’m sorry.”

“Seriously?”

“I mean, she couldn’t dance before,” I say. “This won’t change things.”

“I heard that,” Cameron says, through gritted teeth.

“She’s in a lot of pain,” Willow says.

“She should be. A molten bullet ripped through the meat of her shoulder at approximately 385 miles per second, leaving a channel of boiling, bloody tissue in its wake. Her body’s trying to bring the temperature of that bullet down to 98.6 degrees. As it transfers heat to the surrounding blood and tissue, the result is exactly what you’d expect.”

“What’s that?”

“Pain.”

“What can we do?”

“There’s a small leather handle on the floor of the trunk that accesses the spare tire compartment. My medical bag’s in there. If you bring it to me, I can fix her up. There’s some bedding in there, too. Are the sheets clean?”

“Yes. And the pillow cases and bedspread.”

“Bring the bedspread.”

“Okay.”

Willow gets up and sprints to the car.

Then screams bloody murder.

For a moment I figure she’s found Bobby’s dead body.

Then I realize she’s screaming for a completely different reason.