Cole’s eyes fluttered open and he tried to figure out where he was. Light streamed through a window and from the corner of his eye he made out the IV in his wrist and the tubing that snaked up to a pole holding a bag of some concoction that dripped into his system.
He was in a hospital room. Even groggy he figured that out. He felt a dull ache in his left shoulder and realized he’d had surgery to patch him up after Hubbard’s bullet put him down. A painkiller messed with his system, but he tried to focus his thoughts and piece things together. He remembered being shot and pulling himself over to Hubbard’s fallen body, his clothes sopping up the killer’s blood as he heard his final words. Not long after the paramedics determined there was nothing they could do for Hubbard, they looked after Cole. He lay on the ground while they stopped his bleeding and immobilized his arm. They wanted to move him onto a stretcher, but he waved them off. Fwam helped him to his feet, and when he stopped wobbling, the two joined Chief Mara in making sure the scene was secure and everyone else was okay. He asked to be taken to the airport so that he could get back to Milwaukee and they shot him up with a sedative for the trip. And now here he was. He was almost certain he was at St. Joseph Hospital on Milwaukee’s north side.
He thought about getting up from his hospital bed, but a hand on his good shoulder caught him.
“You doing okay, bud?” Sheriff Vang asked. “Your surgeon told me a 170-grain bullet tore a nice chunk of muscle out of your shoulder. He said it blew away part of your deltoid, but didn’t hit anything too vital. Said you had plenty of deltoid muscle to spare. You won’t win any lift, clean, and jerk competitions in the near future, but that’s more my area of expertise anyway.” He smiled at his old friend.
“You’re a good man,” Cole said, returning a crooked smile. “Nice of you to sit here with me. I’d hoped for a beautiful woman, but beggars can’t be choosers.” He licked his lips; his tongue and throat felt dry and raw.
Fwam noticed and handed him a tall Styrofoam cup filled with ice water and a straw. “Try this. I’d give you a cold beer if I had one.”
Cole scooted into a partial sitting position, grimacing, and slurped from the straw. The ice-cold water felt good going down, but Fwam pulled it away when he was halfway done. “Slow down, big fella. Ease into it. Give your stomach a chance to reset.”
Before Cole could ask Fwam when he’d picked up his nursing diploma, Collin Jeffers burst into the room, with two hulking, young agents behind him. He dismissed Fwam with a curt, “Out. Now.”
Fwam looked at Cole and then back at Jeffers. He was about to snap at Jeffers when he felt Cole’s hand on his forearm. “It’s okay. I’ll be all right. We can talk about old times later.” He gave his friend the best smile he could manage. “Thank you again for being here.”
The two agents left the room with Fwam and closed it most of the way shut behind them. Jeffers looked at the door and then back at Cole. “What the fuck part of ‘Don’t confront the suspect until I get there’ did you not understand?” he screamed.
“You’re a Goddamn cowboy. Walking up to a killer who’s holding a rifle on you might seem brave, but it was actually stupid. Fucking stupid!” he shouted. “This is the kind of fuckup that will keep you in a shithole like Milwaukee for the rest of your career. And that’s only if I can’t personally get you kicked out of the Bureau this afternoon.” He sneered, “Trust me, I will hang your ass over this.”
Jeffers felt emboldened seeing Cole in a hospital bed. He was slow to notice the color flushing into Cole’s cheeks and extremities. He continued his tirade. “And your unprofessionalism with that cunt reporter? I’ll submarine that bitch’s career, too!” Jeffers’ voice bounced around the room and carried into the hall.
By now Cole was crimson and struggling to a full sitting position so he could launch himself at Jeffers. It was one thing to attack him, but he wouldn’t listen to Jeffers’ vulgar attack on Michele. Just as he was about to grab Jeffers by the throat, another loud voice barked out.
“Cole! Cole! Relax.” Gene Olson had entered the room and he looked directly at Cole. “I’ve got this.” He turned to face Jeffers, his eyes hardening along with the tenor of his voice. “You don’t know how lucky you are, Jeffers. I just saved you from getting your ass kicked by a little person, and now I’m saving you from getting your ass handed to you by a drug-addled agent with one good arm. I’ve heard everything you said in here and I’m giving you two options. Either put in for a demotion and transfer to the FBI field office in Anchorage, or resign on the spot here and now. I’m giving you a chance to gain a little perspective. Stop looking in the mirror all the time, worrying about how you look and how to advance your career. Spend more time thinking about what you can do to help others. Try to help the Inuit or Eskimos for a while and see if that changes your mindset.
He looked at Cole . “What’s the proper term? Eskimo? Inuit? ”
Cole shrugged his good shoulder. “No clue.”
Olson looked back at Jeffers, stepping into his space. “It doesn’t matter. You either go to Alaska and get your act together or resign. If you don’t take one of those options then I’ll fire you before the day is out. You couldn’t have mucked up this investigation more than you did. Then you come to this hospital room and threaten the two people who did the most to break this case? It shows me that we messed up with you. Right now, you’re an imbecile and unfit for service in the Bureau. Alaska, quit, or fired. Got that?”
Jeffers was shaking. He nodded.
“Then get the hell out of here and close the door behind you.” Olson dismissed Jeffers and turned back to Cole. Jeffers retreated and the door shushed shut.
“He’s not a little person…” Cole said, his throat dry and constricted again.
Olson cocked his head. “What?”
“Sheriff Vang. He’s not a little person,” Cole repeated. He grimaced again, reaching for his ice water. Olson handed it to him.
“I know,” Olson chuckled. “I thought telling Jeffers he almost got taken apart by a little person might sting more. Damn, it felt good to call him on the carpet. He’s had it coming for a long time. I hope he takes this opportunity to turn himself around. He does have some talent.”
“I never noticed,” Cole said, smiling back at Olson, not sure if the smile was due to the painkillers that coursed through his system or because of the scene that had played out in his room.
Olson took the seat next to Cole’s bed that Fwam had vacated. “You and the reporter did great work,” he said. “You’re a hero for walking into a hail of bullets in an effort to apprehend the subject without taking his life. The official story is that he shot at you, trying to kill you at close range. Other law enforcement officers who were on hand for the arrest returned fire. The killer died at the scene.”
“Not exactly how it went down. He meant to wing me. It was textbook suicide by cop. He shot twice. Not what you’d call a ‘hail of bullets.’ The first time he missed on purpose; hoping everyone would open up on him. But our guys held tight. When he hit me with the second bullet, they had to return fire. That’s what happened.”
“Not according to all the official reports that have already been written and accepted,” Olson said. “See, if it looks at all like he was gunned down by an army of law enforcement officials, it could be viewed that he went out in a blaze of glory. Maybe others around the country see him as a martyr and take up his crusade. Frankly, we can’t chance that. He tried to kill you and that makes him a cop killer, or at least a wannabe cop killer. That’s the official story. Not much sympathy for cop killers out there, even amongst his ilk. We’re hoping it discourages others who might otherwise try to follow in his footsteps.
“The director himself is outside your room, waiting to come in and congratulate you. Then, after you get cleaned up a bit, we’ll wheel you down to the lobby and he’s going to pin a couple of medals on your chest.”
“Medals? For getting myself shot?”
“Ah, well, yes, partly for getting yourself shot. But mostly for stopping the killer,” Olson said. “You’re getting the FBI Star for sustaining a serious injury in the direct line of duty. And you’re also getting the FBI Medal of Valor for exceptional heroism in the direct line of duty. In your FBI career, you’ve already received the Bureau’s Medal for Meritorious Achievement and the Shield of Bravery. That’s about all we’ve got to give, son.”
Cole slumped lower into the bed and turned away from Olson. “Why don’t I feel like a hotshot hero then?”
Olson put his hand on Cole’s undamaged shoulder. “I don’t know. But I read the director’s speech on the plane on the way here. I think he’s got it about right. There’s a part where he says, ‘But for the grace of God and Special Agent Huebsch’s superior reflexes, the name Cole Huebsch would be etched onto the FBI Wall of Honor, the 37th service martyr in the Bureau’s history.’ To be honest, I don’t think he’s overstating things.”
“I feel like a fraud.”
“Bullshit,” Olson said, taking on a sterner tone. “I was being soft on you because you’re in a hospital bed. But don’t lie there and tell me you didn’t know walking up to that deputy that he was going to shoot you. It’s Geno you’re talking to. Don’t forget that. I know about your ability to see a guy’s move before it happens. That little warm glow you get in your head or whatever. Before that second shot was fired you could have stepped left, then reached in and grabbed the rifle away. The deputy had a lever action for Christ’s sake! No way he gets another shot off. But you took one for the team because you knew if you didn’t, he might be seen as a cult hero and others might follow him. So, yeah, you’re a bona fide hero. Almost two billion people were involved in World War II on one side or the other. I’ll bet during the whole war someone took a bullet meant for someone else or jumped on a grenade to save his buddies less than ten times. That stuff mostly happens in movies. You took a bullet to save lives of physicians you not only don’t know, but who you think don’t represent the best mankind has to offer. So, doing the math, ten in two billion is, what, one in two hundred million? You’re not a one in a million hero, you’re one in two hundred million. Heroic shit indeed!”
Cole turned and smiled again. “Did you rehearse that speech?”
“Maybe a little,” Olson admitted. He got up. “We aren’t doing an autopsy. And no ballistics checks. I figured a number of the team you lined up to help bring in Hubbard knew him personally. They don’t need to know who hit the mark and who didn’t. They’d feel crappy either way.”
“Thanks for that.”
“Now, I’m going to get a nurse and tell her to come in here and get you cleaned up…but not too pretty,” Olson said. “It’s going to help the optics if you keep that pasty complexion for now and the mussed hair. And that bloody gauze on your shoulder is the convincer. A little theatrics maybe, but we need to sell this a bit to keep more murders like these from happening again any time soon.”
Before he got to the door he turned around and appraised Cole again. His eyes were watery. “We could’ve lost you, Cole. It was probably closer than you realize. I hope you know how much I think of you. From now on you can continue to work in Milwaukee and I won’t try to transfer you to DC. But from time to time, I’m going to reach out to you to ask that you assist in special assignments. It won’t be because you owe me. It will be because I need you.”
He rubbed his eyes and then brightened a bit. “Think of me as Commissioner Gordon and you’re Batman. Instead of shining a spotlight with a bat decal, I’ll shine a big ‘M’ for Marquette or Milwaukee. That’s when you come get my ass out of the sling. Deal?”
“Deal,” Cole said, smiling.
Olson was at the door when he turned around. “There’s one other small thing I forgot to mention. You’re going to the White House next week. The President of the United States himself is going to pin the Medal of Freedom on your chest. That’s our nation’s highest honor. The icing on the cake is that he’s sending Air Force One here to pick you up. Imagine that…”
Olson turned to open the door when Cole stopped him. “Wait,” he said. “Gene, wait.”
Olson looked back.
“This is really happening? The medals now? The White House next week? And Air Force One picking me up?”
He was grinning. “Yes. It’s really happening.”
“And there’s nothing I can say to you, the Director, or the President to stop it?”
“Not that I see. No.”
“Then can I ask a favor?”
“Go for it.”
“Give Grant Grae White House press credentials for the DC ceremony so he can cover the event. And let him hitch a ride on Air Force One with me.”
“That seems easy enough to arrange,” Olson agreed.
“Great. How many people fit on Air Force One, anyway?” Cole asked.
“I’ve only flown on it a few times myself, but I’m pretty sure it holds seventy people, give or take, besides the crew.”
“Any way I can have Fwam and Chief Mara come along, too? Maybe the state troopers?” he asked. “Hell, it might be better to bring everyone in Prairie du Chien who was part of bringing down Hubbard to DC, along with Li, Lane, and Ty from my end. Michele, too. That way the President can tout the way city, county, state, and federal law enforcement all worked together to end the murders. That should look good for both him and the Bureau.”
“You proud of yourself? You thinking of being a politician now?” Olson asked.
“No. But why waste space and fuel for a trip like that if you aren’t going to make the most of it. Besides, I’m pretty sure my hometown could use a shot in the arm after this. Pun intended.”