no time bringing assistance. Less than thirty seconds later, Kelsey was lost to the world thanks to the cocktail the nurse shot him full of.
“I hope he can get over these episodes,” commented Ron. The deputies were shaking their heads as they departed his room.
*****
Sergeant Mike Gwen was a little taken aback at the size of the county abutting Los Angeles. His new territory ran all the way east to the Colorado River at Needles and down the river south to Parker Dam. Detectives Rowe and Hollander had sent information on the double homicides, coupling it with a report on Deputy Kelsey’s attack and injuries, to all agencies in the Great Northwest and to Gwen personally. They received a dozen hits for more information from Salt Lake to Portland, Seattle, and even from Shelby, Montana. This morning it was Sergeant Gwen’s email that stood out. Gwen mainly wanted to know if his friend was going to survive. Kelsey’s and Gwen’s personalities had bonded immediately when they first met. Mike had been trying to get up to speed with the San Bernardino County Sheriff’s Department when the news arrived about Abron’s brush with death. The news would have to wait until the end of the day. Important training overruled his questions for the immediate now.
Sergeant Gwen had not dealt with the harshness of gang activity as found in his new county of work. Today he was being schooled along with several other deputies. Every day he was gaining in knowledge and confidence. There were drugs, drive-by shootings, prostitution, even a terrorist attack by a man and women claiming to be aligned with ISIS. The two had senselessly murdered over a dozen American patriots busy doing their everyday jobs. Mike appreciated the highly organized sheriff’s department. They were adept and armed with information and special training programs to help combat city, county and inland empire crime. Every day Mike looked forward to briefings and assignments. It was a busy world of law enforcement at his new position.
Late that afternoon, sitting in front of the computer, the reply took less than two minutes after his inquiry. “Officer Gwen, Abron out of danger, full recover expected. When can we have a beer?” It was emailed by Terry Hollander.
*****
Ron Rowe had been partnered with Terry Hollander for some time. Through their many investigations, they had worked out ways to tackle different situations as they occurred. Detective Rowe joined the Spokane Sheriff’s Office right out of high school and the police academy. Ron was one of Captain Saunders’s first recruits. Saunders admired Ron’s attitude toward his duties. Before he captured the full scope of Ron’s abilities, Shawn had already aligned him as a kindred spirit. Both officers had a love of the Northwest, fishing, hunting, camping, skiing, motorcycles, snowmobiles, and speed boats. Two kids in the same office. One thirty years the senior.
Ron came from a loving family with both parents solidly entrenched in life around Kamiah, Idaho. With six siblings, his communications skills were inbred. Ron would someday have a large family. Unfortunately, Ms. Right, hadn’t come along yet. His dad first brought Ron’s attention to his ways. “You’re a deputy, son. Why all the drinking and carousing? Your mom and I think you need to join a church. Maybe then you’ll find a loving wife.” Ron believed his dad and took his advice. He didn’t stop at one church. Ron began attending three regularly. Young Officer Rowe figured that his chances of finding a wife were much greater that way. But she has to know how to fly fish, wet and dry. He would marry someday. Right now, the outdoors and chasing several ladies at once were too much fun. Just before winter had set in, Rowe helped a gal move into the apartment next to his. Recently divorced, she had two small kids. Over the next few weeks, all four would become close.
*****
Isabel had been skiing at Schweitzer Basin over in Idaho when the accident occurred. She was about to sit down on the chairlift when a boy standing next to her slipped, causing Isabel’s ski to turn. Down she went, twisting her foot 180 degrees as the chair banged into her and her riding partner. It was a serious accident. Within five hours Isabel Davis was on the operating table having two of her ankle bones fastened back together with plates and metal screws.
Just out of recovery, Izzy was rolled into her own hospital room that looked more like a New Year Eve’s celebration. Her parents and a dozen of her friends were waiting for the patient. Isabel was reminded that today was her birthday. Fortunately for her, one week later, school could continue with the use of the internet and her parents. Isabel’s retired mom and dad lived less than a half mile from her apartment. Unfortunately, she couldn’t work for a while. The two bartending gigs were here first love, her sanity outlet. Izzy was a people person. Her recovery had afforded her more idle time than she was used to. Settling into a routine with her close friends, the crutches, Izzy started each morning with a cup of coffee and time on the internet. At the beginning of the third week of her rehab, she was perusing the local news when she read “Spokane officer seriously injured while investigating a crime scene near Rose Lake, Idaho.” Reading further, “Deputy Abron Kelsey was beaten and shot. Listed in critical condition at a Spokane-area hospital. No further details available at this time, pending investigation.”
Isabel’s mom was hit with a call, in seconds. She didn’t know what to think. Isabel had never been as interested in seeing someone, especially “right this minute”—“Please, Mom, let’s leave for the hospital as soon as you and Dad can pick me up.” With snow still on the roadway, Isabel’s father drove all three to the hospital. Isabel asked at the desk labeled “Information” about Abron.
“No visitors allowed,” she was told. “Officer Kelsey has an armed guard day and night.”
Isabel then asked, “Is he out of surgery? Is he awake? Can he speak? Can he walk?”
The hospital employee in charge of the front desk explained, “Unless you’re immediate family or law enforcement, no admittance, no details.”
A man’s voice, behind Izzy and her parents, asked, “Aren’t you Izzy the bartender out at Bumps?” Isabel turned to see Ron Rowe smiling at her. “Hey, we’ve missed you, but it’s obvious you can’t bartend on those crutches.”
Izzy interrupted. “Is he okay? Can I see Abron? Can you get me into his room?” she asked.
“Are you carrying any concealed weapons? You were pretty tough on him the last time we all saw you.”
Izzy blushed. For the first time, her mom and dad understood. “Isabel,” said Ron, “he’s in pretty rough shape—swollen, discolored. He has metal screws in his head that hold a cage built to keep his neck from moving. I can get you in, but it’s not pretty.”
“I don’t care about that. I want to see him and him see me.”
*****
Isabel was given clearance into intensive care. Her parents waited in the visitor room. Isabel gasped when she saw how extensive the injuries appeared. Abron’s eyes slowly came alive when he saw her. But there was no movement other than that. As she drew nearer, Dr. Marsh entered, nodded to Isabel, and asked his patient if he had regained any more feeling and/or movement in his arms and legs.
Softly, Abron answered, gutting out a “Yes.”
“Can I speak to you in front of the young lady?” asked Dr. Marsh.
Izzy said, “I was just leaving.”
Abron spoke, whispering “Stay.” She sat down.
Dr. Marsh began. “The bullet
