El Gavilan (40 page)

“You’re fine, Shawn. Better’n you think. Given how many there were beating on you, it could have been a hell of a lot worse. I’ve seen plenty of guys after all kinds of beatings, so I know. And I did two tours in Iraq. Saw really nasty stuff there happen to guys. Six months later, guys a lot worse off than you looked great. Give it time, Shawn. Trust me. I’ve seen what the docs can do. But it takes time.”

“Okay.”

“I mean that, Shawn. You hear me?”

“I know. I do too … hear what you’re saying, I mean.”

“I get back, we need to compare notes on Able Hawk. Love to get your take on what happened there.”

“It’s a puzzler,” Shawn agreed. He buzzed for the nurse. Wendy Fahy said, “Problem, Shawn sweetie?”

“My guard’s headed out for rehab,” Shawn said, hating the sound of his own distorted voice … his
s
’s sounded like
th
’s … like that fucking cartoon cat Sylvester. “Wondered if I could get an orderly to get me in the chair again. Had that taste of freedom and I guess it made me itchy for more.”

Wendy chuckled, causing static on the intercom. She said, “Sounds like me after my first divorce. I’ll get Rufus down with your chair, sweetie.”

Shawn waved goodbye at Troy as the sheriff’s deputy clunked his way out on a walker. A little over an hour—that was the average duration of Troy’s physical rehabilitation sessions. More than enough time. As Shawn awaited the orderly to arrive with the electric wheelchair, his computer chirped up again. Its digitized female voice said, “You have mail!”

Well, the hell with that. Why answer mail now? What difference could it possibly make?

And Shawn had already decided he wasn’t leaving a suicide note.

Sorry, Mom … And it would spare Patricia too. You lucked out on that front, Patty.

Resentment … anger … betrayal.

Well, farewell to all that. Not going to guilt you, Patty. Not going to ghost your bones. I’ll be the better human and leave you to your pending newlywed bliss. Still, if you hadn’t left me that one night, it would all be maybe different. We both know that’s so.

“Hey, Mr. O’Hara!”

Shawn looked up, momentarily startled. It was Rufus, the Mexican orderly. The last two faces he’d see … the last two people he would talk to would be Mexican.
Mexicans
. Just like the ones that beat him … and led Shawn to this decision to kill himself.

Some irony in that—their being Mexican. Or
was
that irony? Hell, Shawn was just a reporter. He didn’t last long enough to even start the novel he’d promised himself he would one day write. He had planned to write himself right out of fucking newspaper work like Chris Lyon had.

Rufus helped wrestle Shawn into the power wheelchair. “You still remember how to run this gizmo, Shawn?”

“Sure. No problem.”

“Well, just watch out for the old ladies out there on walkers, Shawn.”

Shawn shot Rufus a thumbs-up.

Rufus left and Shawn slapped his good leg.
Damn!
He should have let Rufus take him to the john. Shawn knew from the few murder scenes he’d observed that the kidneys and bowels release at the moment of death. He had hoped to avoid that indignity. Well, at least he’d be seated when the time came. Might help contain the worst.
If
whatever was left of Shawn afterward stayed seated in the chair.

When the loss was fresh, he’d tried to imagine what his father must have looked like after putting the gun in his mouth. After seeing a few crime scene photos in books, it was easier for Shawn to guess at the aftermath. He pictured himself that way—most of his head blown away. Having seen Thalia made it still more possible to imagine what he might look like after.

Somehow, the notion of doing that to himself—and of what it would leave behind—was less than even abstractly disturbing. It just didn’t matter.
Nothing
mattered.

Shawn rolled over to Troy’s bed and reached under the pillow. He felt the gun, cold and hard. He checked the door to the hallway—all clear—and pulled out the gun. No gunlock—that was lucky. And a clip was already in. That was lucky too. His luck was running
good
. Thank God that Troy, the bloodthirsty leatherneck, was cavalier about gun safety. That was probably going to cost Troy in the inquest phase. Maybe cost him his badge. Well, what was that to Shawn? What was
anything
to Shawn, for whom the world was about to cease to exist?

He slipped Troy’s automatic into his robe on the right side. He’d have to handle the gun with his left hand thanks to Jésus and his buddy’s breaking of Shawn’s right middle finger. Shooting with his “sinister” hand might throw off his aim. That could be bad news for Jésus. Shawn thought maybe
that
was irony.

With his left hand, Shawn scooped up the phone and punched in 4-1-1. He asked to be given the patient information number for Horton County General Hospital. He asked for the room number of Jésus Acosta. To sell the notion that his was a harmless inquiry, Shawn said, “He
is
permitted delivery of flowers, isn’t he?”

Shawn committed the room number to memory. Jésus was quartered almost directly over his own room, three floors up. Shawn looked at his bed a last time, then wheeled out into the hall in search of the elevator.

Nurse Wendy Fahy smiled and said, “Look at you go!” Shawn winked back.

As he rode the car up, Shawn took deep, steady breaths, trying to calm his nerves. His stomach was cramping and he felt an urgent need to piss. Well, in a minute or two more, he would do just that.

He wheeled out of the elevator and checked room numbers; he veered right.

Shawn was prepared for disappointment. If a guard was posted outside Jésus Acosta’s room, then he would have to forego vengeance against the gang member. But given the way the sheriff’s department and New Austin police had looked after Shawn initially … ?

Shawn’s heart rate quickened—there was a guard posted at the door, but the sheriff’s deputy looked edgy. The deputy checked his watch, then, walking urgently, bee-lined for the men’s room. Poor bastard, like Shawn, needed to piss.

Shawn wheeled up to the darkened room and glanced inside. Jésus was asleep and he was alone. Shawn looked both ways down the corridor and then gunned his wheelchair through the door.

The whine of the wheelchair motor caused Jésus to stir. The sheet fell flat several inches above the place where Jésus’s right knee should start. God bless Able Hawk and company for costing the vicious spic a leg.

Shawn reached over and pulled the connector cord for Jésus’s handheld remote from the wall. Then he drew Troy’s gun from within the folds of his bathrobe and checked the safety. He flicked it off and pumped one into the chamber. Then he wheeled closer to Jésus’s bed. He whacked the gangbanger’s stump with the gun.

Jésus drew himself up on his elbows, looking scared and angry. He said, “What the fuck?”

“Hey, Jésus, remember me? I used to be Shawn O’Hara.”

The Mexican gangbanger smiled back at Shawn, regarding him with glassy eyes. Vikes. Maybe Percocets. Hell, maybe morphine, with that missing leg. “I did a better job on you than your cocksucker friends did on me,” he said, grinning. Jésus was missing four teeth up front.

Shawn said, “Least I go out on two feet. You still feel that missing leg? Do your missing foot and toes hurt like they always say in the books and movies?”

“I’ve adjusted, cocksucker. How about you?”

“I’m not giving myself time to adjust. Or you, either.” Shawn showed Jésus the gun.

Frowning, wide-eyed, Jésus stabbed at the nurse’s call button on his remote control. Shawn smiled his gummy smile and tossed the loose end of the remote’s cord across Jésus’s chest. “Little trick I learned from your buddy who visited my room a few floors down and gave me this.” Shawn held up his right hand, displaying his broken finger. Then he said, “This is for the kicks between the legs, Jésus.”

Shawn pointed the gun at Jésus’s crotch and tugged the trigger. The roar surprised Shawn—actually made him flinch. The bed sheets kicked and turned red. Jésus screamed—a high-pitched scream. “You scream just like a woman,” Shawn shouted back. He shot Jésus between the eyes; saw the pillow and wall turn red. More screams were echoing down the hallway now. Shawn heard feet running his way.

Shawn had heard horror stories about would-be suicides who muffed the job with guns—put the barrel to their temple or under their chins. They ended up blowing off half their face or giving themselves various degrees of brain damage without getting the job done.

The best way was the barrel in the mouth, its end pressed tight up against the palate. Just like Dad. Fortunately for Shawn, he could go that same route, thanks to the doctors having freed his jaw. Yes, his luck was going very good today.

The pounding feet were getting closer. There was no time for Shawn to fasten on some thought or image to carry him over.

Shawn forced the gun in his mouth, wincing at the touch of metal to his tender gums. He gagged on the metal in his mouth and tugged the trigger again. He heard—no,
felt
—something crack.

FIFTY FIVE

Troy Marshall was aware of a commotion. He saw Nurse Wendy Fahy bustle in, panic-stricken. She was followed by a Mexican orderly with a wheelchair.

“Shawn’s done shot that Mexican who beat him and Shawn’s shot hisself!”

Instinctively, Troy knew Shawn must have done it with
his
gun.
Jesus
. Troy could already envision the shit storm that would ensue for him, leaving his gun unattended like that.

The orderly helped Troy into the wheelchair. Wendy said, “That one Shawn killed was Sheriff Walt Pierce’s prisoner. Sheriff Pierce and his men are on the way, but since you’re a deputy too, Dr. Thorpe thought you should be upstairs seeing to things until Sheriff Pierce gets here.”

Troy said, “Is Shawn dead?”

Wendy nodded, all tears. “I hear he is, I do.”

“Take me back to my room,” Troy said. “
Now
. Get me there
right now
.”

* * *

Able Hawk sat alone in his bedroom, thinking about the night ahead. The window was open and the breeze through the screen was soothing, cooled by the shade of the big old trees arrayed around the house. Voices from the kitchen; soft laughter. It was good to have that sort of sound again in the house, something other than the TV or the drone of his and Amos’s own lonely voices.

Able also had the scanner on softly. He heard a report about a shooting at the county hospital; thought he heard the phrase “murder-suicide.” He reached to turn up the radio. They likely wouldn’t use the names of victims or perpetrators on the police band. He reached for the phone. Able decided he would call the hospital and ask for Nurse Wendy. Maybe she still didn’t know he was no longer Horton County sheriff and would tell him who had been shot.

Evelia burst through the door. “Pap-Paw Hawk, where’s my sur-prize? You said you would get me a sur-prize.”

Hell of a time for her to remember his promise to bring her something back after his library trip. But he
had
gotten her something. He had stopped at the Hallmark shop and picked up a couple of small stuffed animals—a horse and a monkey.

“Forgot and left your surprise in my car, honey,” he said.

“I’ll go get them,” she said.

“Not by yourself,” he said. “The car’s locked.” Amos passed by then—moving through the hall to his bedroom. Able said, “Hey, Aim—need a favor.” Amos walked back and looked at him, half-assed surly. They had been avoiding each other most of the day. Amos’s nose was out of joint—he was upset that his grandfather wouldn’t confide more regarding his abrupt resignation as sheriff. Well, better he feel pissed off than feeling guilty or the like.

Amos said, “What do you need from me?”

“Hallmark bag on the front seat of my car. Toys for Evelia.” He tossed his grandson the keys to the Impala. “Can you get it for her?”

“Sure,” Amos said without enthusiasm.

Evelia raced to Amos’s side. “I’m coming too.”

Able heard the front screen door slam as he reached for the phone again to call the hospital.

He dropped the phone when he heard the automatic rifle fire commence—dozens of rounds going off.

Able raced to the window and saw a blue pickup truck out front.

A young Mexican wearing a red bandana around his forehead was behind the wheel. He saw the Mexican—the MS-13 member—draw the AK-47 back into the cab and then accelerate away, looking crazed and scared.

Able grabbed his own gun and screamed to Sofia, “Call 911!”

Able knocked the screen door off its top hinge as he burst through, jumping off the porch and wrenching an ankle.

He ran-limped to the Impala. Its open door was full of holes; most of the glass blown out of the windows. Two legs were visible beneath the open door of the Chevy. Able recognized his grandson’s bloody shoes. He looked around, trying to find Evelia as he ran to his grandson.

Amos was covered in glass; red stains were spreading fast across his pants and shirt.

THEN

It was Thalia’s first day back at work since burying the memory of her husband. That’s what they put in the ground—an empty box she couldn’t really afford. No trace of her husband or the others killed with him had been found.

Able Hawk had taken pains to learn where Thalia worked; then he kept tabs on her intended return to duty.

In the lull between breakfast and lunch rush, Able strode in. He looked around, then chose the booth that he’d make his own over countless visits to come. Frowning, Thalia watched the sheriff choose his booth. He sat down, pressed his palms to the tabletop and looked around like it was home. He turned and smiled at Thalia, winked.

Smiling uncertainly back, Thalia hoisted a pot of piping hot coffee. She squared her shoulders and drifted his way—her first customer since her life was turned inside out.

“Sheriff Hawk.”

Another wink and a smile. “Hi there, Thalia. How are you holding up, darlin’?”

* * *

Three months later, they knew one another’s family names out to parents on Thalia’s side and grandchildren on Able’s end of such things.