Second Shot

Matt gave the private detective a strangely appealing, boyish grin. “I don’t suppose that argument would work with you, would it?” he asked.

Neagley gave him a straight stare in return. “Not unless you want to need crutches, too,” she said, but there was the suspicion of a smile twitching at the corner of her mouth.

Matt, I’d discovered, had an easygoing charm that included constant mild flirting, but I didn’t get the impression it was a serious attempt. Simone, though, hadn’t taken it so lightly.

Matt’s trouble was that he’s a man, Simone had said, back in the restaurant. He didn’t always think with his head-if you know what I mean.

Now, watching the way he joked with Neagley, I didn’t think Simone had quite understood him. Insanely jealous, Matt had called her and, unwillingly, I could almost believe that about her. And that made the whole business of their breakup, of Simone’s focus on the search for her father and her death, even more of a tragedy than it already was.

The apartment was reasonably spacious and certainly well-appointed, with a large-screen TV and a huge leather sofa, and a whirlpool bath in the master en suite. Any other time, I might have enjoyed staying there.

I turned in early and lay listening to the murmur of voices in the living area for a long time, too tired to sleep. I’d grown accustomed to the incessant noise of a big hospital and the apartment seemed too quiet, too dark, by comparison.

I didn’t hear Sean come to bed. He must have undressed in the dark because I woke to find him alongside me under the blankets. I didn’t know how long he’d been there, but I could tell by his breathing that he wasn’t yet asleep.

“Everything OK?” I murmured, drowsy.

“Fine,” he said softly. His fingers stroked my hair back from my face, their touch a whisper. “I’m sorry I was tough on you today, Charlie,” he said. “But Christ Jesus you gave me a scare.” And, for the first time since I’d woken in the hospital and found him there, his voice shook.

Automatically I rolled in towards him in the darkness, moving carefully, seeking the warmth and the strength of his body against mine. And it occurred to me, vaguely, that perhaps I was giving as much comfort as I was taking by the gesture.

When I woke the next morning, the bed was empty. A glass of water and the first of the day’s selection of medication was waiting for me on the bedside table. Sean, it seemed, was taking his nursing duties seriously, however much he’d claimed reluctance.

I struggled into a half-sitting position and swallowed the tablets and then sat for a moment relishing my freedom from captivity. I may have been feeling like shit and wouldn’t have lasted one round in the ring with a medium-size paper bag, but at least I was out.

There was a tentative knock on the door and Neagley stuck her head round.

“Hi, Charlie,” she said. “We wondered when you were going to surface.”

I looked round, but there was no clock in the room. “Why? What time is it?”

“Nearly ten,” she said.

I gave a guilty start and threw back the covers, only for various parts of my body to bring me up short. By the time I’d finished gasping and my vision had cleared, I found Neagley was crouched alongside the bed, a guarded expression on her face.

“Well, I’m guessing that wasn’t a good move,” she murmured.

“No, I’m fine,” I said, forcing myself up slowly. “Just pass me my crutch, would you?”

“Do you want me to give you a hand to the bathroom?”

“I’m fine,” I said again, through gritted teeth.

“O-K,” she said, drawing it out, dubious. She got to her feet, an easy swift movement I envied instantly. “I’ll leave you to it, then. We got Detective Young coming over in about a half hour. Sean wants Matt to tell her his story and see if we can’t get her fighting in our corner.”

“I’ll be ready,” I said, and hoped it was true.

In the end, I made it out with about five minutes to spare. I’d managed to dress myself only because Sean had been out and bought me a couple of pairs of sweatpants with elastic in the waistband that I could pull on with one hand, unlike my jeans.

The entry and exit wounds in the skin of my thigh had closed up without any apparent problems, leaving deep indentations where part of the muscle had been destroyed by the path of the bullet. With time, the physio had told me, I could build the bulk up again, but I was always going to have an interesting set of scars. At the moment, where it wasn’t wasted it was swollen. It looked and felt like a deformity.

When I hobbled out into the living room, the conversation paused while they watched my halting progress from the bedroom door to the sofa.

“Feel free to break into spontaneous applause at any time,” I said, narked.

“Hell, Charlie, you probably deserve that just for standing up,” Nea-gley said, her voice neutral. “You want coffee?”