Games of State

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

When the car died, Jody had lifted her foot from the gas pedal, lay back on the headrest, and shut her eyes.

"I can't move," she panted.

Herbert turned on the overhead light and leaned toward her. "Sweetheart," he said softly, "you have to." "No." He began pulling wads of cotton-soft padding from the car seat. "Our car's dead. We will be too if we don't get out." "I can't," she repeated.

Herbert moved the collar of her blouse aside and gently dabbed at the blood on her wound. The hole wasn't large.

He wouldn't be surprised if the bullet was a.22 fired from some homemade piece of crap by one of the kids in the crowd.

Stupid punks, he thought. They'd puke at the sight of their own damn blood.

"I'm afraid," Jody said suddenly. She started to whimper. "I was wrong. I'm still afraid!" "It's okay," Herbert said. "You're asking too much of yourself." Herbert felt bad for the kid, but he couldn't afford to lose her. Not now. He didn't doubt for a moment that Karin would be coming after him, alone or in force. The caduceus of Nazism had to be coated with the blood of the conquered to serve as an emblem of power.

"Listen, Jody," Herbert said. "We're close to where we started, about a mile from the main road. If we can get there we'll be okay." Herbert turned to the glove compartment and opened it. He found a bottle of acetaminophen inside and gave two to Jody. Then he reached into the backseat, retrieved one of the water bottles, and gave her a drink. When she was finished, he let his hands drop behind the seat. He was feeling for something.

"Jody," he said, "we need to get out of here." He found what he was looking for. "Sweetie," he said, "I've got to fix the wound." She opened her eyes. "How?" she asked, wincing as she shifted her shoulder.

"I've got to take the bullet out. But there's no tape for a bandage or thread for a suture. When I'm done I'm going to have to cauterize it." She was suddenly more alert. "You're going to burn me?" "I've done it before," Herbert said. "We have to get out of here and I haven't got the horsepower to do that." He said, "What I'm going to do will hurt, but you're hurting now. We've got to fix that." She lay her head back.

"Hon? We don't have time to waste." "All right," she rasped. "Do it." Holding his hands low where she couldn't see, he lit a match and held it to the tip of his Urban Skinner to sterilize it. After a few seconds he blew out the flame and used his fingers to gently open the wound. The back of the shell glinted in the yellow light of the car. Taking a deep breath, Herbert placed his left hand over her mouth. "Bite me if you have to," he said as he raised the knife.

Jody groaned.

The trick to treating a bullet wound was not to cause more damage removing the shell than it caused going in.

But it had to be removed lest it work its way around the tissue, ripping it or even fragmenting itself as they fled.

Ideally, the surgeon would have forceps or tweezers to remove the shell. Herbert had only the knife. That meant he had to get under the bullet and pop it out fast, lest her writhing drive the blade this way and that.

He studied the wound for a moment, then put the tip to the opening. The bullet had entered at a slight left-to-right angle. He would have to go in the same way. He held his breath, steadied the knife, then pushed it in slowly.

Jody screamed into his hand. She struggled hard against Herbert, but he pinned her with his left forearm.

There was nothing like pushing around a wheelchair to build the upper body.

Herbert pushed the blade along the bullet. He felt its end, angled the tip of the knife beneath it, and used the Skinner like a lever to ease the shell out. It emerged slowly, then tumbled down her body.

Herbert tucked the knife into his belt and released her.

He grabbed the matches.

"I need four or five seconds to seal the wound," he said. "Will you give me that?" Her lips and eyes pressed shut, she nodded briskly.

Herbert struck a match and used it to set the rest of the matchbook on fire. The matches would be hotter and faster than if he heated the knife and used it to close the wound. And seconds mattered now.

Once again pressing his hand to her mouth, Herbert pressed the heads of the matches to the bloody wound.

Jody tensed and bit his hand. He knew this pain and knew it would grow worse as the moisture in her skin evaporated. As she dug her teeth into him, he fought his own pain and bent toward her ear.

"Did you ever see Kenneth Branagh in Henry V?" One second. The blood boiled off. Jody's hands shot toward Herbert's wrist.

"Remember what he told his soldiers?" Two seconds. The flesh began to sear. Jody's teeth sliced through the meat of his palm.

"Henry said that one day they'd point to their scars and tell their kids that they were tough cookies." Three seconds. The wound sizzled. Jody's strength seemed to evaporate. Her eyes rolled up.

"That's you," Herbert said. "Except you'll probably have plastic surgery." Four seconds. The edges of the wound knit together under the heat. Jody's hands fell back.

"No one will ever believe you were shot. That you fought with King Bob Herbert on St. Crispin's Day." Five seconds. He pulled at the matches. They broke from the burned flesh with a slight tug. He dropped the book, then brushed away the embers which still clung to her skin. It was a small, ugly job, but at least the wound was closed.

He removed his hand from her teeth. His palm was bleeding.

"Now we'll both have scars to show off," he grumbled as he reached for the passenger's side door. "Think you'll be able to walk now?" Jody looked at him. She was sweating and her perspiration glistened in the car light.

"I'll make it," she said. She didn't look at the wound as she pulled her blouse over it. "Did I hurt your hand?" "Unless you have rabies I'll be fine." He opened the door. "Now if you'll help me with the chair we can get the hell out of here." Jody moved slowly, tentatively as she came around the car. She was more confident with each step and seemed her old self by the time she reached him. She struggled slightly to get the chair out, then held it open for him.

Pressing his hands on the car seat, he hopped in.

"Let's go," he said. "Due east. To the left." "That's not the way I came," she said.

"I know," Herbert replied. "Just do it." She started pushing. The chair seemed to snag on every exposed root and fallen branch. Far behind them, in an otherwise still and silent night, they heard crunching.

"We're never going to make it," Jody said.

"We are," Herbert said, "as long as you keep going in this direction.

Jody leaned into the chair and they moved slowly through the dark. And as they did, Herbert told the young woman one thing more he needed her to do.