THE BULLET WOUND in my calf had been badly infected when I came in, but since then, it had been hit with every drug known to modern medicine. Still, I limped as I made my way down the darkened hall to the elevator, past rooms full of sleeping men and women and blinking machines. The hospital lights had been dimmed, so I walked in a soft gold glow toward ward C, checking the room numbers as I went. The nurses on this floor hardly glanced at me. I turned toward room 8 and pushed open the door.
Pops was lying on his back, propped uncomfortably against the high pillows, both hands folded over his round belly like he’d fallen asleep reading a book. I stood looking at him for a while, at the machines all around him and the whiteboard above his head. When I closed the door, he woke but didn’t seemed alarmed by my presence. As I curled on the blanket beside him, he put an arm out and smiled, shifting his head to give me more room on the pillow.
“Sneaky, sneaky, sneaky,” the old man said.
“I had to see you before there’s bulletproof glass between us,” I said, patting Pops’s chest. “How’s the ticker?”
“It’s still going. They’ve sent me a nice little booklet on retirement from the police force and all the benefits I’ll get. They’re subtle, the top brass.”
I’d learned from a doctor when I arrived at the hospital that Pops had suffered a heart attack. There had been a team of people around me, trying to hold me down so that I could be prepped for surgery on my leg. But I’d made a hysterical fuss about knowing Pops’s fate. The doctor had been so troubled by my screaming and kicking that he’d had an intern go down to the emergency room to check on Pops’s progress. They’d told me he was stable.
Pops had since been given a single bypass. It would be a long road to recovery, the doctors had told him. The chances of him clearing, or even being allowed to attempt, a compulsory police fitness test were practically nil.
“They gave me a list of things I’m not allowed to eat,” he said. “Since I’ve been here, it’s been nothing but carrots. Carrot salad. Boiled carrots. Carrot sandwiches. I hate carrots.”
I didn’t mention my gourmet menu in ward D.
“I’ll try to visit again tomorrow night,” I said. “I think they’re taking me on Thursday.”
“You didn’t get bail?”
“No,” I said. Pops’s hand was cupped around the top of my arm. He gave the muscle a squeeze, and a stressed sigh emanated from his chest.
“You’ll do jail time,” he said. “You’ll have to. Resisting arrest, the assaults. Disarming that tactics kid. The department will have to save face, but they’re not sticking a murder charge on you. No way. I’ll pull in every favor I can, and I have favors owed going back decades.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said.
We lay in the quiet together.
“I haven’t heard anything about charges against Whitt,” I said eventually. “I tried to tell them it was me alone who killed Regan, but Whitt was honest in his statement. They’re going with his version. Are they going to go after him?”
“No.” Pops shook his head. “He was off his head. Self-defense, defense of a colleague. It’s your head Woods wants on his den wall.”
“I’m surprised he hasn’t visited me to gloat,” I said.
“He hasn’t visited me, either.” Pops said. “I thought he would have delivered the retirement pamphlets himself.”
“Weird.” I shifted closer to him.
“You need to speak to Tox Barnes about the remand center,” Pops said. “Whichever one they send you to. He’ll have women in there who can look out for you. He knows those kinds of people.”
“Pops, don’t worry about it. I’m not worried about it, so you shouldn’t be, either.”
The old man settled back against his pillow. He seemed calmer.
But we both knew I was lying.