Page 157 of Beware of Dog

Someone appeared in front of him. “You good? Good job, son.” It was Devin. He was grinning. At first. And then his smile slipped. “Shepherd. Frank.”

He snapped his fingers, and Shep could see the movement, but the sound came three seconds later.

“Charlie,” Devin snapped, over his shoulder. He reached for Shep, and his hand was cool and heavy when it landed on Shep’s waist. When it drew back, it was shiny and red. “Aw, Christ, man. You got stabbed.”

“Did I…” Shep started, and then the bright sparks swallowed him whole.

Thirty-Eight

“We go straight to Maria Salazar on the Upper West Side. Maria, what can you tell us?”

“Police are investigating a deadly altercation at the home of Carson and Deborah Blackmon, a scene that authorities are calling a ‘bloodbath.’ Twenty deceased were found inside the home, with signs of forcible entry at the front and rear doors. Several of the men have already been identified as members of the dangerous street gang the Tres Diablos. Carson Blackmon and his son, Sigmund – who was expected to be in court this week for his alleged rape trial – are also among the deceased. Carson’s wife, Deborah, was not at home at the time.

“Police have found multiple weapons and a variety of illegal substances. So far, the chief of police is calling this a drug deal gone wrong.”

~*~

They made her use a wheelchair. Cass didn’t like it, the helplessness of it, the way everyone they passed in the hallway glanced down at her, their eyes assessing, trying to figure out what was wrong with her. She wore a baggy t-shirt and sweats, and even with soft clothes, and even with the chair, the pain lanced through her. She should have still been in bed, and the doctors in Albany hadn’t wanted to release her, but they’d agreed to transferring her to the care of a Manhattan doctor when Raven threatened to sign her out AMA.

The car ride hadsucked. She had an OxyContin prescription, but she’d made do, or suffered, rather, with Tylenol, because she wanted to be awake and alert when they arrived at Cedars Sinai. And now here they were, and thoughshe’d yelped with pain getting out of the Rover, her pain receded as Walsh pushed her chair along in Raven’s wake as she marched down the bright white halls, a woman on a mission in her gift shop sweatsuit.

“Excuse me,” she called as they approached the nurse’s station. “We’re looking for—”

“Raven.” It was Devin who’d called to them, from the mouth of an intersecting hallway. “This way, love.”

Walsh spun the chair, and when she caught sight of Devin, standing there in his plain white t-shirt and his own pair of gift shop sweatpants, his hair damp at the ends like he’d washed it, and likely his face, in a hospital sink, the enormity of what had occurred tonight slammed into her like a rugby tackle. She sucked in a breath, and regretted it, pain spiking out from her bandaged wounds, the bandages themselves cutting into her ribs and clavicles.

Her hands fluttered on the arms of the chair, and Walsh pushed her forward, toward Devin.

She swallowed with difficulty. “Dad, is he—?”

Devin smiled, terribly tender. “He’s resting. Toly’s with him.”

“He’s not…”

He bent down, and swiped the fresh tears off her cheeks. “He’s fine. Docs said the knife missed all the important bits. He’ll be sore, and on meds for a bit, and we’ll have to watch for infection, same as with you.” He booped the end of her nose like a button. “You’ll match, Mr. and Mrs., eh?”

Her throat was too tight to respond, so she nodded and dashed at her cheeks with her sleeve.

Walsh pushed her down to the room that Devin indicated, and Devin stepped forward to get the door.

It was a room much like the one she’d left in Albany. White, and sterile, with one blinds-covered window, and hardplastic chairs, one of which held Toly, who sat with arms folded and head tipped down, face turned toward the bed.

He glanced around at the sound of their entrance, and then shot to his feet, gaze searching over the chair, past Walsh, for Raven.

Walsh kept pushing the chair, until he could park it right up next to the bed, and the others’ voices faded to soothing background white noise.

Shep wasn’t Mercy big, but he’d always seemed big to her: tall, and broad-shouldered, and strong. He was crazy strong, all muscle, and he could pick her up and toss her on the bed, grinning when she laughed with delight at being manhandled.

He looked small, now, in his white gown with its blue squiggles, and his white sheets and blue waffle weave blanket tucked up under his arms. IV lines snaked from his right elbow; he wore of those little pulsometers on his index finger, and the heart monitor beeped steadily, a reassuringly slow rhythm.

He had a cut high on his cheekbone, but was otherwise untouched. Hair flat and greasy, skin waxy and pale. But she could see the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed.

Shakily, teeth gritted against the pain of sitting forward in the chair, she gathered his big hand up in both of hers and said, “You idiot. You absolute wanker.”

And then she curled down and pressed her forehead to the back of his hand, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks.

Dry and rough from surgery, from the meds, Shep’s voice rumbled above her. “I don’t look that shitty, do I?”

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