Rudy lay in a hospital bed in a private room with a bandage wrapped tight around his skull and a brace holding his head and neck still. An IV ran from one arm. A computer monitor charted his vitals. His eyes were shut and had been for the more than two hours Wylie and O’Dowd sat with him. Wylie dozed in a plastic armchair, slipping in and out of a recurring nightmare that saw him go bankrupt just months into his retirement. O’Dowd kept one eye on their witness and the other on an episode of Three’s Company. The room smelled like menthol and rubber, and O’Dowd wondered what exactly he was breathing in.
Rudy stirred a little, his nostrils flaring and his fingers twitching, and then came to.
“Hey,” O’Dowd said, snapping fingers. “Hey, he’s awake.”
Wylie rubbed at his eyes, then pushed himself out of the chair.
“But is his brain working?” he asked.
“Only one way to find out.”
They stood on opposite sides of the bed, watching. At first, Rudy seemed conscious but unaware, as if he didn’t know where he was or what had happened to him and was too far gone to ask questions. Little by little, though, his eyes started to focus. He took in his surroundings as best he could without moving his head, then tried to speak but found his mouth too dry.
“The nurse said it would be okay to give him a sip of water,” O’Dowd told Wylie.
He stuck a straw in a Styrofoam cup, transferred water from a green pitcher, and held the cup out to Rudy. The act of pursing his lips seemed to cause Rudy pain, but with a little effort he managed to drink.
“Thank you,” he said, his voice strained, feeble.
O’Dowd wondered if the bruising and swelling around Rudy’s eyes were caused by the surgery or the bullet itself.
“Do you know who I am?” O’Dowd asked.
Rudy raised one hand and pointed to the badge hanging from O’Dowd’s jacket pocket.
“Cops,” he said.
“Do you know where you are? And how you got here?” Wylie asked.
Rudy tried to nod, found himself restricted by the brace.
“Yes,” he whispered.
Wylie and O’Dowd exchanged encouraging glances.
“Can you tell us who did this to you?” O’Dowd asked.
Rudy moved his jaw back and forth as though preparing to speak in full sentences.
“Bonnie?” he asked. “Is she…”
O’Dowd started to answer, but Wylie held up a hand: best not get him excited.
“We don’t know yet,” Wylie said. “What’s important now is that we find who did this.”
Rudy shut his eyes again, either with relief or with the strain of trying to remember.
“I don’t know,” he said.
“You didn’t see him before he fired?” O’Dowd asked.
“It was dark. He was in the shadows.”
“So there was just one assailant?” Wylie asked.
“Yes.”
“Did you notice anything about him at all?”
“He was tall,” Rudy said. “Maybe six four. And big. Very big.”
“Fat big, or scary big?” O’Dowd asked.
“Scary big.”
“Any big, shadowy men in your past?” Wylie asked.
“What do you mean?”
Words seemed to be coming a bit more easily. He seemed to want to cooperate.
“We’ve had a look at your rap sheet, Mr. Manuel,” Wylie said. “You’re more or less a career criminal.”
“Uh-uh. I’ve been clean a long time now.”
“So you switched careers. Still, sometimes a criminal’s past will only stay buried for so long. Maybe someone you double-crossed just got out. Maybe someone you robbed had trouble tracking you down.”
Rudy attempted to clench his fists but couldn’t find the strength.
“No,” he said. “There’s no one.”
“You’re sure?” O’Dowd asked. “You can’t think of a single soul who would want to hurt you?”
“Not like that.”
“What do you mean?”
“Anyone who’d want to do me would come straight at me. They’d have something to say. They’d want something from me first. This guy just started firing.”
“Your blood alcohol was sky high,” Wylie said. “Could be you’re blanking on the conversation.”
“No. I remember.”
“You remember anything else?” O’Dowd asked. “Anything at all.”
Rudy took a minute to think.
“His hair was long and curly. I saw it in his shadow against the wall.”
“Any chance you could give us a color?”
“No.”
“All right, Mr. Manuel,” Wylie said. “We’ll let you get some rest. But chances are we’ll be back with more questions.”
Rudy shut his eyes, already drifting back into sleep.
* * *
The detectives sat on a bench in the hall outside Rudy’s room and compared notes.
“I wish it didn’t, but his story makes sense,” Wylie said.
“How so?”
“If the shooter was one of his old running bunnies, the cash and jewelry wouldn’t have been sitting there for us to find. A career thief doesn’t take a pass just because robbery wasn’t on the agenda that day.”
“So you believe him when he says he didn’t get a good look at the guy?” O’Dowd asked.
“I do.”
“Where does that leave us?”
Wylie rubbed at his eyes like he was still half dozing.
“You know,” he said, “some witnesses reported seeing a tall biker type at the saloon on Saturday night. They thought he had to be waiting for someone, but he just sat there by himself drinking bottles of Heineken all night. It isn’t the kind of place people just stumble on.”
“Maybe he was a guest,” O’Dowd offered.
“Maybe, but his description doesn’t fit the bill. Bonnie was turning the lodge into a yuppie getaway. The registry shows all families that weekend. There were more kids on the property than adults.”
They were quiet for a minute, each trying to figure their next move.
“It’s a long shot,” O’Dowd said, “but let’s have forensics go over Saturday night’s beer bottles with a fine-tooth comb. Maybe our guy’s in the system. If he is our guy.”
“Can’t hurt,” Wylie said. “Meanwhile, let’s make sure we know everything there is to know about Mr. Jim Hood.”