Killers

Lucy thought about her guitar case, wondering if they’d found it. If she had any luck at all, the thing had been destroyed in the wreckage. Under the velvet lining, there were photographs—she was even in a few of them. Then there was that weathered copy of Andrew Z. Thomas’s novel, The Passenger, signed to her and referencing that Indianapolis mystery convention she’d attended fourteen years ago as a young girl.

Great convention—she’d met Luther Kite and Orson Thomas there, two men who’d forever changed her life.

If a smart lawman saw that book, they’d make the co

She had to get out of this room.

Deal with Donaldson.

Escape.

Lucy pressed the NURSE CALL button, and fifteen seconds later a rail of a woman breezed into her room.

She checked the IV bags and heart monitor before turning her attention to Lucy.

“I’m Janine Winslow,” she said. “What’s going on, sweetie? You in pain?”

“My catheter hurts.”

“Really?”

Lucy nodded.

“You’re staying on top of your morphine pump?”

“Yes, but it really hurts,” Lucy lied. “It burns.”

Winslow furrowed her brow. “Dr. Lanz gave you your nerve block less than two hours ago. You shouldn’t be feeling anything at all.”

“What’s a nerve block?”

“A combination of lidocaine, corticosteroids, and epinephrine. Without a shot every twelve hours, you’d be in agony.”

“I thought that’s what the morphine pump is for.”

“That’s just to take the edge off. The nerve block is what’s keeping you from screaming hysterically.”

“Can you take it out?” Lucy asked.

“Take what out?”

“The catheter. So I can use the bathroom.”

“You can’t walk to the bathroom with the condition your legs are in.”

“I’m sure I can make it.”

The nurse swept her hair out of her eyes. “Lucy, you haven’t seen your legs yet, have you?”

“No, why?”

Winslow bit her lip.

“Why?” Lucy asked again.

“I have to change your bandages anyway. I’ll show you.”

The nurse turned off the vacuum pump and walked around to the instrument stand at the foot of the bed. Off the tray, she lifted a pair of scissors and began clipping through the bandage that completely covered Lucy’s right leg.

Lucy watched as Winslow cut all the way up to her thigh, and then returned the scissors to the tray.

“You might want to give your morphine a little squeeze,” Winslow said.

Lucy hit the pump.

Winslow started at the bottom, peeling back a patch of black foam, and then unwinding the bandage around Lucy’s leg.

“You tell me if you start to feel sick,” Winslow said.

“I have a strong stomach…are those scabs?” Lucy asked.

“No,” Winslow said. “You have to have skin to make scabs.”

For the most part, her foot was intact, though when she wiggled her toes she could see three of the five metatarsals twitching.

It was above the ankle that the real damage began.

Portions of her tibia were exposed, along with half of her patella.

She’d seen raw muscle on many occasions, but always after dragging someone at eighty miles per hour for five miles, and by that time, the muscle had been reduced to bloody, dripping strings.

Her tibialis anterior and gastrocnemius were largely intact, and she could even move them, finding the interplay between ligament, muscle, and bone simply gorgeous.

“You doing okay there, hon?” Winslow asked.

“I don’t know.”

“I know it looks bad, but they can work wonders with skin grafts.”

Lucy watched Winslow remove the bandage from her left leg.

Even worse.

Less skin coverage, and it looked as though portions of the muscle in her thigh had sustained damage—when she flexed her left quadriceps, the muscle quivered differently than her right. She could barely make it move.

This was bad—and not because she was anything approaching vain—but because her beauty, her body, had always served as her most effective camouflage. In the summertime, standing on the side of the road in a skirt that stopped two inches above her knees was almost guaranteed to lure someone into pulling over.

Even assuming she recovered from this, her legs would never look the same.

They’d be horribly disfigured.

And Donaldson had done this.

He was responsible.

Lucy had never hurt anyone out of anger or rage. Up until this moment, her only drive had been curiosity and lust and something else she’d never been able to name.

That was all going to change.

Tonight.

She wondered what time it was. The blinds in her room had been drawn all day, but she could tell that the light coming through had weakened into the pale, orange glow of evening.

“Do you have a watch?” Lucy asked.

Winslow was swabbing her right leg with an icky-smelling antibiotic ointment, Lucy wondering how intense the pain would be right now if she wasn’t on morphine.

Winslow checked her wrist. “It’s six-fifteen.”

“It really burns,” Lucy said.

“The ointment? It has a topical anesthetic in it.”

“My peehole.”

“You can feel the burn?”

Lucy nodded.

“I’ll talk with Dr. Lanz, see what he says.”

Lucy screwed her face up and let out a moan. “I really need the catheter out…now.”

Her heart rate monitor displayed a pulse rate at nearly 100 bpm, and if she could only get a moment alone, Lucy knew she could drive it higher.

“Okay, settle down, sweetie. I’ll go get the doctor.”

Winslow scurried out of the room, and Lucy shut her eyes and held her breath, summoning all the anxiety she could muster.

By the time Winslow had returned with Lanz, Lucy’s heart was pounding away at 120 bpm and she was sure her face was flushed and begi

“You’re experiencing a lot of discomfort?” Lanz asked, grazing the back of his hand across Lucy’s forehead.

She nodded. “My peehole is on fire.”

“She could have a ureter infection,” Winslow offered.

“Thank you for the diagnosis, Dr. Winslow,” Lanz said. “Oh, hold on. You’re just a nurse, and unqualified to make a diagnosis.”

Lucy watched Winslow’s face go scarlet.

“Lucy, is the pain also up in your bowels or only close to your vagina?”

“It’s everywhere.”

“Okay, the Foley’s coming out.”

Lanz squeezed into a pair of sterile gloves, said, “Surgical scissors.” Lucy could feel him working down there. “Cutting the inflation valve…draining nicely.”

“I have to shit,” Lucy said.

“Winslow, grab a bedpan—”

“No,” Lucy said. “I’m not using a bedpan. It’s fucking humiliating.”

“We’re all professionals here,” Winslow said. “I’ve done it a thousand times.”

“You shit in a bedpan a thousand times? Why?”

Winslow frowned. “I’ve assisted patients. It could be very painful to move you into the bathroom.”

“Nothing’s worse than pissing and shitting into a bedpan in front of strangers.”

“I understand,” Lanz said.

Lucy felt a wickedly uncomfortable twinge, and then Lanz said, “It’s out. Better?”

“Yes. Thank you so much, Dr. Lanz. You’re the best.”

“My pleasure. Deputy!” Lanz called without even looking at him.

Lucy watched the lawman struggle onto his feet and lumber into her room. “What’s up, Doc?”

“Unlock these handcuffs. We need to take her into the bathroom.”

The deputy hesitated. “I got my orders, and she ain’t supposed to—”

“I don’t give a fuck about your orders. This is my patient, and she needs to use the bathroom.”

Lucy watched the deputy’s face.

So young. Early twenties. Smooth-shaven. A big dough-boy.

“I don’t know, Doc.”

“What do you think, she’s a threat? She weighs all of ninety-four pounds and has such severe damage to her lower body I doubt she can even walk. Look at them.” Lanz pointed to Lucy’s legs, and it warmed her heart to see the deputy wince. “Besides, the level of morphine ru