Page 5 of Left Behind

“Yes, Chef!” they all echoed and jumped to obey, while B.J. fretted that he was here and not there with the rest of his family.

***

By the time the ER staff had Wiley’s upper body devoid of clothes, the contusion on his chest was turning a deep shade of purple, and they were moving in a portable X-ray machine to check for broken bones, followed by a CT scan to check for internal bleeding.

Blood tests on the wounded men revealed high contents of meth, which explained the manic behavior they’d exhibited. They were all still alive as they were being taken to surgery, and if they survived, they would be moved to a prison ward for recovery, then to court to face charges of attempted bank robbery, murder, and the attempted murder of a law officer. They were going nowhere fast, and the coroner was on his way to Jubilee, while outside the bank, officers were stringing crime-scene tape across the sidewalk.

***

Sean and Shirley Pope walked into the ER and straight to Wiley’s exam room. His chest was bare, revealing the dark-purple contusion. They’d raised the head of the bed to make breathing easier, and Police Chief Sonny Warren was with him as they entered.

When Sonny saw Wiley’s family walk in, he waved them over.

“Shirley. Sean. I was just commending Wiley for the body armor. He’s going to be miserable for a few days and will need to rest. He’ll also be off duty until the doctor releases him.”

Shirley nodded, then walked straight to Wiley’s bedside, kissed his cheek, then eyed the spreading bruise in the middle of his chest. But for the vest and the grace of God, he could have died today.

Wiley patted Shirley’s arm. “I’m okay, Mom. Just a cracked rib and a bruise that hurts like hell, but as you always say, ‘This too shall pass.’”

Shirley cupped his cheek. “I honor you and the job you chose, and I’m so grateful you’re okay.”

“You and me both,” Wiley said, then grinned at Sean. “So, I had to get shot to get you out of your cave.”

Sean grinned. “I had no idea you were yearning for company, considering all those women you have on speed dial.”

Wiley frowned. “They’ve been blocked.”

Shirley’s eyes widened. Something had happened, but now was not the time to ask.

Sonny Warren decided it was time to make an exit. “They’re getting his release papers ready. I am assuming you will take Wiley home. Wiley, we’ll get your patrol car back to the lot and your personal car back to your house. Consider yourself clocked out until further notice, and take care of yourself, Pope. I don’t want to lose you.”

“Thanks, Chief,” Wiley said.

Moments later, Sean’s wife, Amalie, appeared, wild-eyed and breathless as she hugged Sean, then hurried to Wiley’s bedside. There were tears in her eyes and her voice was trembling. The bruising on his chest was shocking and the pain in his eyes was visible.

“Wiley, honey! I heard gunshots from my office. I didn’t know until then that the bank was being robbed. I didn’t know you were in the middle of it. Then they wouldn’t let any of us out of the building until they’d cleared it for accomplices. I’m so sorry you were hurt. What can we do to help?”

Wiley patted her hand. “I’ll be okay, but thanks for caring. I am one lucky dude. I have the best family.”

“Do you want to come home with us for a few days?” Shirley asked. “At least until you’re a little more comfortable?”

“I’ll be okay, Mom, but thank you for the invitation. However, I won’t say no to receiving home cooking you care to share.”

Shirley smiled. “That, I will gladly do.”

A short while later, Wiley was waiting for his release papers when Linette appeared in his doorway.

“Hey, you! Come talk to me,” he said.

She hesitated, eyeing the family around him, then slipped past them to get to his bed.

“What’s the verdict?” she asked.

“Cracked rib. Big-ass bruise. They’re getting the paperwork ready to sign me out.” Then he reached for her hand. “Thank you for everything. You are one cool lady under fire. Please tell me none of that blood is yours.”

She glanced down at the gray shirt with the big red no and realized the word was a good statement for the hell they’d lived through.

“It’s not mine. It’s Mr. Trotter’s.”

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