Sten Billick paced restlessly across the small, curtained treatment room in the Newberry Hospital ER, waiting for the nurse to bring his discharge papers.
The searing pain in his shoulder had been reduced to a throbbing ache by painkillers. The ER doc had told him he’d been lucky. The bullet had ricocheted off a bone and exited cleanly out the top of his shoulder. Twenty-three stitches to close the entry and exit wounds. That’s all. If his blood pressure hadn't unexpectedly spiked, he would have been discharged last night. But now that it was back under control, he was itching to be released.
He took three steps, spun around, took three more.
Back and forth. Back and forth.
He checked his watch. Rosie was on the way to pick him up. She had spent the evening with him, but he had insisted that she go home to sleep. Luckily, the kids were grown and out of the house. There was no need to call and upset them. He was going to be fine.
Three steps, spin, three more.
Where was the damn nurse?
Anger burned in his gut, an ache no narcotic could touch. He’d been shot by Carlton Manick. Of all people, it had been that idiot who’d tagged him. The most incompetent police officer he’d ever known had gotten the drop on him.
Izzy should’ve called for backup. She should’ve listened to him.
Three steps, spin, three more.
He knew it could’ve been worse. Someone who actually knew how to use a gun could’ve shot him. He could be lying in a refrigerated, stainless steel drawer in the morgue.
Carlton fucking Manick.
His shoulder—the bad one—caught on the room’s white curtain, causing the coasters from which it hung to skitter along their tracks. The steely scrape of metal against metal pulled him out of his brooding. He stopped pacing and took in a lungful of antiseptic air. His stitches twinged in irritation at being stretched.
Where the hell was his nurse?
He yanked the curtain aside and made his way down the hallway to the nurse’s station. As he drew closer to the long desk, he caught a few words from another treatment room that got his attention.
“…Have a seventeen-year-old male. Multiple contusions. Looks like a fractured nose. Jesus…his fingers. Who’d…?”
The voice belonged to his nurse. The rest of his words were drowned out by a cry from the poor kid they were working on.
A curtain three rooms down was drawn aside, and his nurse strode out. The man was tall and heavy, pushing nearly three hundred pounds. He wore wrinkled blue scrubs. A stethoscope hung around his neck.
When he saw Sten, he said, “Sorry, Mr. Billick. I’ll get your paperwork as soon as I can.” To the nurse behind the desk, he said, “Any word from that kid’s parents? We need to treat him now.”
The other nurse, a brunette with short hair and a sharp face, shook her head. “Luce County put in a call to Kinsey PD asking for help. No word yet.”
His nurse shot Sten a questioning look. “Aren’t you Kinsey PD?”
Sten nodded. “Who’s the kid?”
“Hold on.” The man reached over the desk and grabbed a clipboard. He quickly scanned it and looked up at Sten. “Jack Sallinen, Jr. Know him?”
“Yeah, I know him. I doubt you’ll find his dad. Not sure where his mom is.”
“Great,” his nurse said, tossing the clipboard on the desk. “I’ll check with the doc. This kid’s going to need CT Scans, consults for his nose and hand, probably surgery. But right now he needs something for pain.” When he turned to walk away, Sten stopped him.
“Can I talk to him?”
The nurse shrugged. “Be my guest. There’s a guy in there now waiting to take a statement.” Then the nurse hurried around a corner and disappeared. Sten wondered briefly how a man so big could be so light on his feet.
Sten walked into the room. J.J. lay on a large gurney, covered to his waist with a white sheet. An IV had been inserted into the back of his left hand; clear fluids dripped into a little reservoir, then into J.J. Wires attached to his chest led to a machine that beeped with reassuring precision. A clear plastic tube was looped loosely around J.J.’s face, with two small feeders pushing oxygen into his broken nose. His black-rimmed eyes were closed.
Whoever had done a number on him had been thorough.
Standing next to J.J. was a Luce County Sheriff’s patrolman.
Sten stuck out his good hand. “Detective Sten Billick. Kinsey PD.”
The man shook Sten’s hand. “Steve Campbell.” He took in Sten’s sling and bandages. “Rough day?”
Sten gestured to J.J. “Not as bad as the one he’s had.”
“You know him?”
“His dad’s a big-shot dirtbag back in Kinsey. Any chance you could fill me in on what happened?”
Officer Campbell recounted the events at the Hiawatha Trails Motel.
“Three guys,” said Sten when Campbell had finished. “One calling himself Jack Snow and another who gave the owner the creeps.”
Campbell pulled out his notebook. “Any idea who they might be?”
“Believe it or not, I think Jack Snow is Jack Sallinen, this kid’s dad. Christ, he may have been involved with his son’s beating.” Sten gave Campbell the CliffsNotes version of events that had happened at the Sallinen home yesterday.
Officer Campbell’s mouth twisted as he slowly closed his notebook. “What’ve you got going on in that town? And what kind of father does that”—he hooked his thumb at the unconscious J.J.—“to his own son?”
Sten shrugged, wincing as a sharp stab of pain cut through his wounded shoulder. “Damn that hurts,” he muttered. “Anyway, I was being charitable when I called Jack Sr., a dirtbag. Douchebag would be more like it. Still, I never thought he’d sink so low as to beat his own son. Obviously the guy’s more disturbed than I’d thought.”
Officer Campbell opened his mouth to say something, but J.J. groaned loudly. Sten turned and found the boy had opened his eyes slightly. J.J. blinked slowly, his mouth working, his cracked lips starting to seep blood.
Stepping over to the gurney, Sten said, “Take it easy, J.J.. Try not to move.”
J.J. blinked again. His eyes opened a little wider. “Where…oh fuck…hurts.”
“You’re at the hospital,” explained Sten. “The nurse went to get you something for the pain.”
J.J.’s face clenched. “Know…you. Cop.”
“That’s right. Detective Billick.” He leaned in closer to J.J.. “Who did this to you? Who hurt you?”
“No,” J.J. panted. “Katie…danger.”
Sten gave J.J. a puzzled frown. Katie Bethel? The last Sten had seen of the girl, she’d been with Izzy, Owens and Gene.
“I think she’s okay. She’s with Chief Morris and—”
J.J. started to shake his head, then cried out in pain. “House,” he said through fresh tears. “Katie’s.” The boy started to tremble. “Going there.”
“What?” said Sten. “No. No, you can’t go there. Not now.”
J.J.’s agitation grew. His eyes were wide and wild. “Not me. They are. They are.” Spittle flew from his lips. “Dad. Webber. Katie’s house.” His eyes found Sten’s. “Stop them. You have to.”
Sten heard a telephone ring shrilly outside the room. He turned to Officer Campbell. “Go get that nurse.” As the man left, he turned back to J.J.. “Calm down, son. Please.” He put a reassuring hand on the boy’s shoulder. When J.J. had stilled some, he asked, “What do I have to stop? What’s going to happen at Katie’s house?”
“They’ll get him,” wheezed J.J.. “I hid him, but they’ll find him.” The bruises around his eyes darkened. “Oh my God. Brittany’s there.”
The male nurse entered the room. He was holding a syringe filled with amber-colored fluid.
“Who will they get? Who’s there?”
“Give me a second, Detective,” said the nurse. He uncapped the syringe, slid the needle into J.J.’s IV port, and pushed on the plunger. The drug rushed into J.J.’s system.
“J.J., who’s at Katie’s?”
With his eyes starting to glaze over, J.J. whispered, “Him. My…brother. Kevin. He’s…he’s…there….” Then J.J. was asleep, blissfully removed from his pain.
Oh shit, thought Sten.
“Excuse me,” interrupted the nurse. “I wanted to tell you. There’s a phone call from your Chief of Police. At the nurse’s desk. She’s looking for this kid. You want to talk to her?”
Sten Billick practically ran from the room.