Perfect killer

CHAPTER 41

I felt old and in desperate need of sleep by the time Tyrone and I finished with Lashonna. What little sleep I had snatched between connecting flights on the red-eye from Los Angeles hadn't done much to erase the deficit I had been running since the sinking of the Jambalaya. The wound to my ear was minor, but still it throbbed with every heartbeat, my lower back ached from standing over the operating table, and my feet slogged as if mired in the red, slickery goo of wet Yazoo clay.

Wordlessly, Tyrone and I ditched our gloves, masks, and splatter guards and followed Lashonna's gurney toward the ambulance dock. Outside, heat and humidity smothered us in a steaming blanket. Warm afternoon light painted the street with deep, oblique shadows. We crossed the concrete platform and made for the open doors of an ambulance, where Helen huddled with two EMTs.

Cigarette smoke carried the essence of burning horse manure from the backlit silhouettes of two uniformed police officers and a man in plainclothes to my right. Fear squirmed in my gut. Drive-by shooting investigators or LAPD? My hands turned cold and my heart warmed up for a race.

Jasmine stood upwind from the police, avoiding their smoke. Seeing her cleared my head, shook the mud off my feet, and leavened my fear. She waved at me, then detached herself from the smoking men. A deep voice boomed behind me, "Nice work, Doctor!"

I turned as Clifford Scarborough ambled through the ER's double doors. He examined Lashonna on the gurney and inspected the dressings on her head.

"No doubt your fine work gives her the best possible chance," he said.

"Thank the whole team," I said, looking at Tyrone, Helen, and the nameless nurse who had assisted. I looked at Lashonna. As you can see, there's a lot more for the folks in Jackson to do."

"Will she make it?" Jasmine's voice reached over my shoulder.

I turned toward her and squinted as the sun dazzled my eyes and bathed her face in shadows. Beyond her, the policemen took deep, terminal drags off their smokes, then tossed them on the platform. They ground the butts under their shoes and walked toward us. I wrestled with an irrational impulse to run and instead watched Jasmine go to Lashonna and place the tips of her middle fingers on the wounded young woman's forearm. With her head bent reverently, her face reflected a deep inner tincture of sorrow, fear and concern. Jasmine looked like a Madonna urging a miracle to flow from her touch. Then she straightened up and looked at me.

"Is she going to make it?"

Fatigue lined Jasmine's face. Lashonna's blood had dried brown and puckered on her white silk blouse and trailed onto her dark skirt. Lashonna had also been dressed in a white blouse and dark skirt. The cops drew within earshot but without crowding our space.

"Well? Will she make it?"

"She could."

"Could?"

"I think she stands a good chance but-"

Jasmine's composure imploded. Her arms locked around me as she buried her face in the warm shelter of my right shoulder and sobbed quietly. I returned her embrace, patting her gently on the back.

The moment froze, statues caught in the uneasy creeping shadows of a hot Delta afternoon. Wet, heavy air pressed on us like a hand. After a respectful moment, Tyrone caught my eye. He pointed toward Lashonna. I nodded. When the gurney wheels rattled, Jasmine straightened up and stepped back half a step. She wiped at her face.

"Hold on a moment," I said to Jasmine. She raised her head and squared her shoulders.

As the EMTs secured the gurney and Lashonna's IV rack in the ambulance, I huddled with Tyrone, Helen, and Scarborough about the medications and the preparations in Jackson. When we finished, I eavesdropped as Tyrone and Helen briefed the ambulance crew. Jasmine took a last peek as the ambulance doors closed, then stood silently as the lights and sirens launched the big boxy truck off into the glare of the setting sun, where it turned left on Highway 82 and wailed its way toward Jackson. From the corner of my eye, I caught the mast heads of another thundercloud armada sailing our way.

With the ambulance gone, tension vanished like spit on a hot sidewalk. Scarborough shook my hand and left. Helen gave me her business card. The other nurse said she appreciated the recognition. Most of my fear evaporated as two of the cops made their way toward a Greenwood PD squad car.

"That was one helluva ride, man," Tyrone told me with wonder still in his eyes. "You may have just derailed my specialty."

"Think long and hard before you do that," I said.

He shook his head. "Today turned me around, man. You did." Sirens sounded in the distance. "Damn. Gotta get ready for the next wave."

I nodded as he shook my hand and rushed away.

"Dr. Stone?"

I turned toward a deep, resonant voice and found myself facing a lean muscular man of medium height with cafe-au-lait skin and a tightly trimmed mustache. His uniform identified him as a deputy with the Leflore County Sheriff's Department, the three stripes on his sleeve indicated he was a sergeant, and his nameplate said he was John Myers. I feared LAPD had finally caught up with me.

Jasmine moved close.

"Sergeant," I said, extending my hand.

"Call me John," he said, accepting the handshake.

"John."

The deputy looked me over for a moment, sizing me up as cops did.

"How's the boy doing?" He nodded to the emergency room doors.

"The suspect?"

Myers shook his head. "Uh-uh. Tyrone. What do you think about him? You know with your reputation and all? Has he got it?"

"Clearly."

Myers smiled broadly.

"John mentored Tyrone," Jasmine said. "Took him under his wing after all the trouble."

"Just tried to help the boy develop his God-given talent."

"John also arrested Darryl Talmadge," Jasmine said, "He thinks today is related."

"Don't forget that Lashonna wore clothes almost identical to yours? And her role on the Talmadge case?"

They nodded.

"Of course, Greenwood PD doesn't want any of that," John said.

"You got the shooter, right?" I asked. "The guy cuffed to the gurney?" "One of ‘em. But he ain't talking 'cause he's dead."

"Oh, boy."

"Uh-huh. Why don't you get some sleep and let's us all talk about Talmadge tomorrow."

"Thanks again, JM," Jasmine said.

"'S my job." He turned and headed toward his squad car.

My stomach loosed a kettledrum roll.

"We need to get you something to eat. There's a Sonic not too far away."

I'd been there, over on a busy commercial strip across the Yazoo, right after Mama's funeral. Sonic was a 1950s-theme drive-in with awnings and carhops to deliver your burgers.

"And we need to get you in some clothes that won't have the carhops dialing 911 when they see you."

She glanced down at the blood on her blouse as if she were seeing it for the first time.

"Good point."

We thought about that as shadows crept up the street from the superstructure of the old cottonseed-oil mill to the west. Beyond it, thunderheads tacked across the setting sun.

"Got it!" I said. "Follow me." I made my way to the emergency room doors, pushed one open for Jasmine, then followed her inside.

Ten minutes later, we reemerged in fresh, clean green scrubs. Jasmine carried her blood-soaked clothing in one of the ER's plastic personal-effects bags. I carried my shirt and slacks hung on a hanger along with a plastic bag containing my wallet, phone, and the rest of the contents of my pockets.

"Now all you have to do is avoid requests for medical advice," I told her.

She gave me an easy laugh and a gentle touch on my shoulder. For as long as her fingers lingered against me, I forgot how tired and how old I felt.