come after you again. I’ll see to it. Just give me the name.”
She walked to the door as the patient was rolled in. She shot a stern warning look at Cortez, and he waved in surrender and backed away.
One look at the patient and her stomach rolled. She should be desensitized by now, but the sight of bloody tissue oozing from the skull was not the kind of thing she’d ever get used to. The victim’s chance of survival was next to zero. The miracle was that he had lived to make it to the hospital.
The young man coughed, and blood mixed with spittle spilled from his lips. His mouth kept moving. He was trying to say something. She leaned in close, but the gurgled murmurings were too garbled to understand.
“I’m Dr. Mancini,” she said as she helped the nurse get him hooked up to the heart monitor. “I’ll try to ease your pain.”
“And I’m Dr. Evans,” the young neurosurgeon said as he joined them.
The patient coughed again, this time choking on the blood.
“Shhh … Shell …”
She leaned in close. “Are you trying to tell me who shot you?”
Before he could nod or mumble a reply, the line on the monitor went flat.
“EITHER YOU GO TO the emergency room by ambulance or I drive you,” Jim Angle said.
Dakota shrugged, but winced as he tried to grab a gulp of bracing air. “I don’t need to see a doctor. It’s just a contusion.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I was wearing my protective vest.”
“You could still have a few cracked ribs. Butch Cobb was wearing a vest in Phoenix.”
All the riders knew about Butch. He’d been one of the best until a fractured rib had punctured his right lung. “A freak accident,” Dakota said.
He lifted a bottle of water to his mouth. His chest protested the movement with such vengeance that he grimaced.
Naturally, Jim noticed.
“You need to be x-rayed.”
“I needed to stay on that bull eight seconds.”
“You don’t always have to play the tough guy, Dakota.”
“Who’s playing? But if it makes you happy, I’ll stop by the emergency room, old man, and get checked out.”
“Watch who you’re calling ‘old man’ or I’ll toss you over my shoulder and haul your sorry ass to the hospital.”
“How about you just collect my bull rope and glove for me?”
“Can do, and then I’m driving you to the hospital.”
“Just what I need, a chauffeur in rodeo-clown makeup.”
What Dakota wanted was a couple of painkillers, a six-pack and a soft bed, but he knew that Jim was right. He should get the injury checked out. If it was something serious, the faster he got it tended to, the better off he’d be.
The nearest hospital was only a ten-minute drive. He’d passed it on his way to the arena tonight. He could easily drive himself. He started unbuttoning his shirt. He had a clean one in his truck and he didn’t want the hospital deciding they had to rip this one off of him.
He almost doubled over from a stab of pain as he shrugged out of the shirt. His chest felt like someone had just whacked it with a two-by-four.
“Get in,” Jim said.
This time Dakota didn’t argue.
Chapter Three
“We still need to talk, Dr. Mancini.”
Drats. The detective was still here. She adjusted the strap on her handbag. The nagging headache that had begun at her first sight of the dying gunshot victim intensified sharply.
“Do we have to talk tonight? I was just leaving.”
He nodded. “It’s important.”
What wasn’t? “There’s a small conference room at the end of the hall,” she said. “But can we make this short? It’s been crazy around here tonight, and I’m exhausted.”
A tinge of guilt settled in her chest. She had no right to complain about exhaustion when, unlike two of the night’s patients, she was alive.
Detective Cortez followed her to the conference room, which was little more than a large supply cabinet with chairs and a small round table instead of shelves. She perched on the edge of one of the chairs.
Cortez scratched the back of his head and dandruff snowed onto the collar of his dark cotton sport shirt. “We have some complications.”
“Don’t tell me they’ve postponed the Bateman trial?”
“No, but Judge Carter was relieved of the case.”
“Why?”
“His wife’s been diagnosed with cancer and he’s taking an emergency leave from the bench.”
“Won’t they just appoint a new judge?”
“They have,” Cortez said. “It’s Judge Nelson.”
“Mary Lester Nelson?”
“That’s the one,” Cortez said.
“You don’t sound too happy about the change.”
“Judge Nelson has a reputation for being soft on rotten sons of bitches like Hank Bateman. Pardon my French.”
“Surely she won’t let a child killer off with a slap on the wrist.”
“No, she’ll throw in a little community service.” Sarcasm punctuated his voice. “She already decided his rights were being denied and set bail this afternoon. I’m sure Bateman is out walking the streets by now.”
“Doesn’t she know what happened three months ago when Judge Carter decided that the prosecution was requesting unreasonable extensions and he decided bail was in order?”
“I’m sure the prosecution made certain she knew Bateman made a run for the border.”
“Not just made a run for it, he was crossing it when Border Patrol made the arrest and sent him back to jail,” she said. “And still Judge Nelson released a child killer on bail. The more I learn about the justice system, the more unjust I think it is.”
“At this point, Bateman is just an alleged child killer. His attorney is insisting he’s innocent.”
“But we know he isn’t. He admitted that he’d been with his girlfriend’s baby all evening the
