Page 146 of Joker in the Pack

“You tried, and I’ll always be grateful for that. Now, lie still until the ambulance gets here.”

Warren lay back again, but a groan from Tate on the other side of the sofa sent me reeling onto my backside, and I scrambled in the opposite direction. Emmy didn’t even flinch.

“He’s alive! What do we do?” I squeaked.

“How about you pop out to the helicopter and get my first-aid kit? The big green bag in the back.”

“But what about Tate?”

“Don’t worry about Tate. Nye needs fluids.”

I paused, torn between helping Nye and making sure Tate didn’t hurt anybody else, but Emmy flicked her wrist at the door and I went through it. I got the distinct impression it wasn’t a good idea to argue with her. The helicopter was parked on the back lawn between the swimming pool and the tennis court, and I yanked the door open. Green bag… Green bag… There it was. From the size, it was more of a portable hospital than a first-aid kit, and I lugged it back inside as fast as I could.

“I’ve got it.”

“Thanks. Left-hand compartment, I need a bag of Ringer-lactate, an IV administration set, and a packet of QuikClot EMS dressing—the little squares.”

“Do you know how to use all of this stuff?”

“I watched a couple of episodes ofGrey’s Anatomya while back.”

“Uh, I’m not sure…”

Nye cracked an eye open. “Ignore her bullshit. She knows exactly what she’s doing.”

Oh, thank goodness. “Then what about Tate? Should I tie him up or something?”

“No need,” Emmy said.

“I really think we should. What if he wakes up properly?”

“No, what I mean is Tate died. While you went to get the first-aid kit.”

What?“But he was waking up.”

“Head injuries can be funny things.” She shrugged. “Unfortunate.”

Her demeanour said it was anything but. “They can?”

“Do you have a problem with that?”

Did I? After all the pain Tate had caused to not only me, Nye, and Warren, but to his own family? Hell no. “Not at all. Sometimes it’s just easier.”

She smiled, more to herself than me, it seemed. “It is indeed.”

“But I feel fine,” Nye told the doctor six hours later.

“Mr. Holmes, you lost several pints of blood and took a nasty crack to the head. You need to stay in overnight for observation.”

“Can’t someone observe me at home?”

“I can do that,” I offered.

“You’ve already tested me for everything. How the hell is a stool sample relevant to getting shot in the shoulder?”

Apparently, Blackwood had a great insurance package, and the hospital had taken full advantage of that. I swear I heard the technician working the MRI machine mention something about today’s patient paying for a great Christmas party.

“You never know,” the doctor said. “And head injuries can be unpredictable. Look at Mr. Palmer. Miss Porter here clonked him with an ornament, and now he’s in the morgue.”

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