The people at the vet hospital were pleasant and concerned, ready to whisk the tom away to surgery as soon as I brought him in. I watched him go with the helpless feeling of seeing a loved one disappear through those OR doors into a mysterious realm where ordinary people weren't allowed and everything was out of your control, and you knew they might not return alive.
I walked back outside to Gary, who'd stayed in the car to make calls.
"They're losing Jessup; he's passing in and out," he said. "I'm going over to St. Pete's. You want to come?"
"Seeing that evil prick is the last thing in the world I want."
"That ain't really a question, Hugh. You'll feel better in the long run, I guarantee."
The authority in his tone brought me around to something I'd never thought about-whether Gary had ever shot anyone. It was a good bet that in thirty years of Montana law enforcement, he'd been where I was now.
I exhaled tautly, and nodded.
He put the car in gear, flicked on the lightbar, and we started off. I'd never ridden in the front seat of a police cruiser, or for that matter, without cuffs on, before tonight. But there was still no feel of being in a passenger car. Like the construction trucks I was used to, ambulances, and other such rigs, this was a vehicle used for serious business, with the seriousness underscored by the shotgun in its rack.
"This should make you feel better," Gary said. "I talked to Renee. She said she tried calling your place and couldn't get through; must have been while the line was cut. Anyway, she's coming back tomorrow."
I let out my breath again, this time with relief.
"It does, a lot," I said. "Thanks."
Gary was an expert at getting where he wanted to go fast, barreling past traffic that scrambled to get out of the way, and barely slowing for red lights. St. Peter's was clear across town, but we pulled up at the entrance within five minutes.
Personally, I hadn't been in all that much of a hurry.
The sights and smells inside the building were almost alarmingly familiar. I realized that I'd had more dealings with hospitals in the past few weeks than in the past twenty years put together. I felt a lot the same about the medical profession as the police-while I appreciated them hugely, I tried like hell not to make contact.
A charge nurse led us to the ICU, where a pair of city cops stood outside a room and personnel in scrubs hurried in and out. The cops greeted Gary respectfully and gave me curt nods. They didn't seem to know that I was the shooter, or if they did, to care.
We stepped into the room. Jessup looked like a creature being cloned in a sci-fi movie, lying on his back in a reclining chair with a network of tubes attaching him to IVs, oxygen, and blinking, bleeping monitors. He'd have been hard to recognize, anyway, with his beard shaved and his glasses gone. His eyes were closed and his face was bloodless. It was hard to imagine him as the big, hearty-and murderous-man that he had been.
Maybe that helped me stay numb.
I stayed where I was while Gary talked to an ER doc. I could hear enough of what they said to glean that Jessup had extensive internal damage, and his belly was full of blood. Trying to operate would have been futile. He was in his last minutes and probably wouldn't regain consciousness.
But then I glanced at him and saw that his eyes were open. His gaze was fixed on me and focused, and I got the chilling certainty that he recognized me.
"Need-to tell you-something," he got out in a hoarse, painfully slow whisper.
I stepped forward like I was approaching a coiled cobra.
"Just did what I had to," he rasped. "Not personal."
He raised his right hand a few inches, extending it toward me as if imploring me to grasp it and render him absolution-a final con.
"It was personal to us," I said.
The hand dropped back to his lap and his eyes closed again. I turned away and walked out of the room.
Gary followed me and laid a fatherly hand on my shoulder.
"Pretty cold, Hugh," he said. "But right on the money."
I found out later that Jessup died within the next few minutes.