"Call me Cloud." the Ellyll said, and nodded. "I will have some.. camomile tea."
Danny laughed. "My grandmother used to make camomile tea."
"Was she wise?"
"Yeah." Danny lied.
Mr. Patrise said. "The tea will be in your room. Cloud." He yawned. "It's been a busy week. I think we'll all just relax for the next couple of days. Good night." He went out.
Danny said. "You'll be all right in your room. Cloud? If this starts to bleed at all. or hurt, call me."
"I will. Doc. You have my thanks.''
"Oh. It's my job now. Here, don't forget your scarf." He folded the blue silk, then felt the hard spot within it. "You want the bullet?"
Cloudhunter stared at him in a way that was deeply unsettling.
"I. uh-I knew some people who'd keep things like that. Luck. I guesv
Silently, Cloudhunter accepted the piece of metal, closed his fingers over it.
Danny tried to think of something else to say. "That's really beautiful silk."
Cloud said something that sounded like "Nancy." Danny supposed it was a word in the elf language.
The phone buzzed. "Infirmary"
Staggd Lee's voice said. "Doc. arc vou still working in there?"
"No, just finished."
"Would you stay there, please? There's another job."
"Sure." Cloud nodded and left the room. "Who's-" But Stagger had hung up. Danny hadn't seen anyone else hurt. He paced a bit, then looked around at the cabinets and refilled his bag, adjusting the load-fewer pills, more wound closures, an extra inflatable splint.
A few minutes later there was a knock at the door. Stagger Lee came in, followed by two of the gray-coated house staff. They were carrying a zippered black bag. From its size and weight and the way it folded, Danny had no doubt of what was in it. Without a word it was carried into the surgery room, dropped on the table. The bearers left. Stagger Lee had hung up his coat; he went in, unzipped the bag.
It was the dead elf woman.
Danny said, "What's this for?" He remembered something McCain had said: If they cant crawl back to Elfland, they die. "She won't-I mean, she isn't going to-come back."
Stagger Lee looked faintly amused. "She's quite permanently dead. We need the bullets out." He uncovered a tray of surgical tools. "It'll wait till tomorrow, if you're really worn out, but the job won't get any prettier."
"The bullets."
"Yes. It doesn't have to be done neatly. Just get them out intact." He exhaled. "I am in serious need of a scotch. Can I get you something?"
"Just some coffee. Please."
"Be right back." He stopped at the door. "Wait. You were taught all about body-fluid safety, right?"
"Yeah, sure." Danny looked at the body. "Don't touch the blood, right?"
"It won't soak through unbroken skin. But yeah, don't."
Danny pulled down his suspenders and took off his shirt. There was a waterproof apron hanging against the wall. He reached for a pair of surgical gloves, then found a heavy rubber pair.
The body was wearing a white cotton shirt with ruffles down the front, and thin leather bands with silver buckles wrapped around her forearms. Danny cut away the shirt front with scissors. He cut off the straps, too, so he didn't have to look at them.
There was a hole near the heart, another on the left flank, by the floating ribs, a third in the abdomen-when had that happened? He was impressed that the Ellyll had gone so far with those wounds. The wonderful silver hair was matted and vile. McCain's shot to the forehead seemed like overkill, unless it was something to do with the pale girl… There were a couple of long bluish marks around the throat that didn't make any medical sense, but he put the question aside.
He had seen plenty worse, riding the van, in the County ER. learning the trade. Shotguns. Traffic accidents; a little bullet had nothing on a pickup truck for kinetic energy. And farm machinery-was hell on muscle and bone.
Death made a difference, too. A dead body didn't move or pulse or clutch or moan. When the life had faded out under you. after you'd pounded and stuck, breathed and fought for it, you felt something. You couldn't let it last, because there'd be another run any minute, but it was bad while it held on. A body you just found, though-when the bullets or the truck bumper or the tons of corn falling down the silo had finished the job before you got there- there was nothing but the taxi ride to the morgue. Meat delivery some of the guys called it.
Retractor, probe. He thought he heard a click, but there wasn't enough light. He tossed the probe down and opened drawers until he found a headband light. Yeah, there the little bastard was. Dissecting knife. Forceps. He examined the slug: it hadn't deformed much, looked like an ordinary hardball. At home, people had mostly used hollowpoints on each other. He tossed it into a steel basin, where it gave a rolling clang.
The other chest shot had gotten behind a rib. Danny got a spreader on the bone, cracked it out. Hemostat, to pull back the mangled heart wall; it was tough and kept slipping. Light on metal. Clang.
"Coffee's on," Stagger Lee said, and put a big china mug on the counter.
"Thanks. Halfway there." The coffee was muddy-looking, and had a sharp, sweet smell. It burned the back of his throat, not with heat.
"What's in this?"
"Irish. Just drink it slow. The comfort of mankind."
There was brown sugar in it, and thick cream. It did taste good. Danny took a long sip of it, then noticed his glove left a bloody print and wrapped the mug in a towel.
The bullet in the lower thorax was deep. He undid the woman's belt, started to unfasten the fly buttons, then just got the shears and cut his way in. It wasn't anything like undressing her. Meat forgave everything. He made a Y-shaped cut, pulled back the points and got retractors and elastic on them. The liver was a strange coppery color, and he didn't see a spleen.
Stagger Lee said, "You know what you're doing. I just dug like Fred C. Dobbs."
"You do this often?"
"When it needed doing."
Danny thought about objecting to the answer, but didn't. "What's it for?"
"Mr. Patrise didn't talk to you about this?"
"No."
"The body goes back to the Ellyllon. Sometimes they take it over Division to Elfland, sometimes not. It's their fancy Borgia politics, nothing to do with us." He looked down at the deep incision. "We take all of our stuff back."
The third bullet went into the pan.