St. Vincent’s Hospital, or as locals referred to it, St. Victim’s, was just off the interstate on St. Michael’s Drive. The only hospital in this city of sixty-thousand inhabitants, the facility had been in existence since the mid 1860s. Several times large Albuquerque hospitals attempted to provide services in this community, but the Board of Directors of St. Vincent’s fought them. The single hospital continued to monopolize health care for the citizens of Santa Fe, heedless of the complaints about long waits and lack of beds.
Dr. Amos Hillyer, chief surgeon at the hospital, came out of the scrub room, walked into Room 3 of the surgical ward, and leaned over the patient on the table being prepped for surgery.
“McCabe, what are you doing here?”
McCabe grunted something indistinguishable.
“Found any decent relics lately?”
Another grunt.
“You can hear me, can’t you?” the surgeon asked.
“Yes,” whispered McCabe.
“Are you having trouble breathing?”
“Some.”
“Are you in pain?”
“Chest.”
“You know you were shot about an hour ago?”
“Hurts.”
“Is your family around?”
“Wife. Home.”
“We need to call her, get her over here.”
McCabe whispered the number. “Two ... nine ... four ...” His voice trailed off.
“Never mind. We can get it from information. Right now you’re going to into the OR. We’re going to patch you up.”
The anesthesiologist fastened the blood pressure cuff around McCabe’s arm and pumped it up. When it shut off, he glanced at the doctor. “200 over 140. I think you’d better let Oldham take over.”
To Hillyer the anesthesiologist looked like he still belonged in high school. Panic was written all over his face. He wasn’t going to be able to handle the pressure. “Get Oldham.” Hillyer turned back to McCabe.
“Won’t be but a minute or two. Hang in there. Were you digging in the ruins when you were shot?”
“Uhmmm.”
“Probably some gold buried there.”
“Not.”
“Did you see who shot you?”
“Uh-hunh.”
* * *
Romero wound his way through the hospital entry, which might have been the set of a television soap opera. An orderly directed him to a woman who stood at a long oval counter, shuffling papers and explaining to a patient that he could not leave until formally dismissed.
“Excuse me, Ma’am,” Romero said.
“Sorry, you’ll have to wait your turn.”
Romero flashed his badge.
“Well, how was I to know?” she snapped.
“You’re not wearing a uniform. Is Tommy Hilfiger now on the Sheriff’s payroll? Talk to that woman over there.” She pointed to the nurse making notes on the patient board.
The nurse’s name tag identified her as Priscilla Garcia, RN. He approached her, badge in hand.
“How can I help you?”
“Estoy buscando un paciente—”
“Don’t you speak English?”
Romero blushed in irritation. Seemed like nobody spoke Spanish anymore, or were too embarrassed. “I’m looking for a patient brought into the ER within the last hour. Bullet wound in his chest.”
“Could that be Timothy McCabe? I believe he’s undergoing emergency surgery,” she said, turning back to the board.
“Do you know if his family has been notified?” Romero asked.
“We’re checking records for a phone number.” She pointed toward a room at the end of the hallway. “You can wait there, Officer. Help yourself to the coffee.”
“Thank you. I’d appreciate it if you’d keep me posted.”
Romero checked his cell phone and sat down in the waiting room. He had missed a number of calls. He returned the most recent, figuring the earlier ones were no longer important. Two hours later the nurse came to find him, a grim look on her face.