by John Oakes
“It’s not great.”
“Too bad.” Jake lay his head on the gurney and closed his eyes. “Cause apparently I’m single now.”
THIRTY
Apologies, Questions and Gratitude
Jake awoke from surgery feeling groggy and thirsty, as if he’d been force fed a bucket of sand. His tongue felt leathery and his cheeks barely produced any saliva to rehydrate it.
“Water,” he croaked before he could even open his eyes. “Water.”
Someone put a straw in his mouth, and the cool water hitting his lips took him by refreshing surprise. He coughed and sipped some more, swishing it around, forcing his mouth to soak up the life-giving substance.
As his eyes flickered open, he felt three mounting pains, one in his back and right buttock, one in his stomach and, curiously, one in his right foot. Jake reached out for the water cup again, but it was like trying to control a puppet on a string. He managed to get the cup and straw near his lips again and drained it.
A grey-haired nurse with a pleasant smile took his cup off the side table. “Do you want more?”
“Much more, please.”
“Well, for now I can get you another little cup like this. Then we need to get you up.”
Jake wasn’t sure what that was supposed to mean. He had no intention of moving his newly sewn-up ass.
The nurse returned and let him drink while she watched. “What about food?” he asked. “I’m awful hungry.”
“In time, dear. Now let’s getcha up and moving.”
“You’re joking.”
“Blood clots, hun. We gotta get you moving about so you don’t get any.”
She helped him sit up and rotate on his unhurt ass cheek, swinging his right leg carefully over the edge of the bed. As his right foot came out from under to covers, he saw it was bandaged.
“What the hell’s wrong with my foot?”
“Well, you were shot weren’t ya? Bullet punched through your boot into the side of your foot, then out the boot again.”
“No kidding?”
“You didn’t know?”
“Nah.” Jake chanced moving his toes. They felt stiff, but everything worked. “I felt the oddest sensation in my leg after I was hit. Like frozen ants were racing in formation.”
“Plenty of nerves run through the area you were hit, guess that’s why you never noticed any foot pain. Sort of a blessing.” The nurse smiled and pulled him to standing where she had a walker for him to lean on.
“Where’s my man, Jerry Unger?” Jake cleared his throat, wishing he could drink more water. “White mustache. Older guy.”
“The Minnesota policeman?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh, he was stabilized and flown to the Mayo Clinic.”
“What about the pregnant woman. Did she make it? Her baby?”
“They delivered by c-section, and the baby’s going to be fine. The mother, though…” The nurse shook her head and leaned in. “Now she was shot by the police? Was she a victim or what? I can score you a brownie if you explain to me what that was all about. The other nurses find it quite shocking.”
“She was the ringleader.” Jake planted the walked further ahead and took careful steps. “She must have had some close association with the men working out of that shop. Family or I dunno.” Jake grew more confident with his walker usage, keeping his weight off his hurt leg. “It’ll all come out in the wash. She was the one who shot Jerry and Agent Nelson. That’s the other Minnesota cop who was DOA.”
“Oh my.”
“Not to mention, this all started with her pulling the black widow on a boyfriend. Now, if we could make that brownie a chocolate chip cookie, I’d be mighty appreciative.”
“Done.” She patted him on the arm. And they circled back to the bed. “That’s all I need for the present. You can rest your tush, now. You hungry for much else than that cookie?”
“Dear, sweet, precious Jesus, yes.” Jake pressed a hand into his stomach, barely registering the pain from his surgical wounds as he rolled back into the hospital bed, thinking only of the prospect of food.
He turned on the TV to distract himself and watched ten minutes of daytime talk before realizing what he was putting himself through. The little walk had wiped him out, and the residual drugs in his system were making him foggy and distant again. He noted to himself that he probably ought not to have given his nurse all the juicy details, but he’d barely registered where he was after waking up. He couldn’t be blamed.
Jake sniffed and jiggled his face side-to-side, trying to shake off the heaviness over his eyes and mind. He sniffed again and changed the channel. The Simpsons was on, and he left that playing, wondering how it had remained on the air since he was young and if it was still funny at all.
A figure appeared in the doorway, and Jake looked over hoping to see a tray of food. But instead of his matronly nurse, it was a muscular, square jawed black man about six feet tall, wearing a casual fleece jacket. Behind him stood a taller, dopey-looking, gum-chewing guy who looked more like an ambulance chasing lawyer than a Texas Ranger in his cheap suit and bolo tie.
“Townie? Ferg?”
Townie was an authoritative man, respected and feared in equal measure, but somehow relatable and likable. It was hard to understand the confluence of traits, at times, but as Sergeant Townsend took Jake’s hand in his and ruffled his hair, Jake felt the man’s genuine love for his compatriots. Ferguson reached out around Townie and held out a bony fist. Jake lifted a fist with an IV attached to meet it.
Ferguson kept his fist hanging above Jake’s torso. “Now, where can I hit you where you ain’t bandaged.”
“Just keep it above the belt,” Jake said.
Ferguson punched Jake in the left pectoral and Jake winced. “That’s what you get for running up here like some crazy person.”
“Easy,” Townie said. “Don’t go using the C-word yet.”
Jake’s nurse arrived with his food tray and set it on the rolling table that extended over his lap in the bed. She exchanged pleasantries with Townie and Ferg before leaving, but Jake didn’t hear any of it. First he ate his cookie, than tore at a sandwich while Ferg stole french fries from his plate.
“Well, I don’t know what I’m supposed to say or not,” Ferg said. “But sure looks like you and those two Minnesota boys kicked the ever living shit out of some criminal types. How many did you clip?”
“A few, I think. There was the big fella in the driveway. Then one in the rear of the shop. Then I winged one good off the shoulder blade, but he oughta live to rethink his life. Then there were these twins. They acted like kids, but they were thirty damn years old. I guess I thought they were funny in their own dopey way.” Jake shook his head and filled his mouth with food to avoid answering any more of Ferguson’s questions.
“Who was the one that shot you? You nail his ass?”
Jake made a non-committal sound as he chewed. He had mixed feelings about Kenny Crowe. If he told Townie and Ferg who’d shot him, there was no telling what they might do to make his life even more miserable than it was already. In Kenny, Jake saw something of himself, a lost soul, part good, part bad, bandied about by forces he couldn’t control. Sure, Jake could strangle the man himself for taking a shot at him, but neither did he want him harmed in any way. This level of dissonant thought was confounding to Jake who normally relied heavily on compartmentalizing. But his well thought out and justified categories didn’t seem up to the task of organizing the world around him anymore.
“You’re looking a little far off in the distance, there, Mister Jake.” Townie had his thumbs tucked in his belt. “You getting one of them thousand yard stares?”
“I’m just thinking,” Jake said.
“Oh, hell. That’s never a good sign,” Ferguson said.
“And I’m still a little foggy from the anesthesia.” Jake squinted up at Townie and Ferguson. “What do you two want from me?”
“Sorry, Jake. We just want you to get be
tter.” Townie smiled and picked up the juice box in the food tray. “We came here to make sure you’re okay. You seem to be in once piece.” He pulled the straw off the back, unwrapped it and punched it through the foil top, handing it to Jake. “Juice?”
“Don’t mind if I do,” Jake said.
“We’re here to make sure you’re healthy all around, now. Body and mind.” Townie gave him a significant nod.
“And we gotta make sure they don’t stick you in some institution,” Ferguson said.
Townie brusquely held up a hand. “Dammit, Ferguson. Could you show some social grace?” He turned to Jake. “But yeah, we’re obviously not gonna let anything like that happen.”
Jake finished chewing and emptied his juice box. “How bad is it?” he asked low.
Townie looked at Ferguson then back at Jake. “To be honest, I have no idea. There’s a whole lot of angles here. And we’ve got two state bureaucracies involved, now.”
“I don’t like it,” Ferguson said. “I think we should get him back to Texas before anyone can decide to make it an issue. It’s like you said, Sarge, there’s always someone waiting to make a career of our mistakes.”
Townie shot him a look. “Nobody’s gonna do that.”
“Well, hey, that’s why I’m here,” Ferguson said. “And I brought our finest man.” He clapped Townie on the shoulder.
“I’m your boss. I brought you. And I’m already regretting it.”
“He knows no one can get through to you like I can,” Ferguson said to Jake. “But you’re not half as crazy as I thought. Point is, no one’s forgot about ya.”
Townie sighed and gripped Jake’s arm. “You do seem well.”
“I’m not confused anymore, if that’s what you mean.”
“Jake,” Townie lowered his voice and his lip bent in a snarl, as he held back his emotions. “I sent you on so many undercover jobs, big and little, seen you take care of yourself in the most hellacious situations…” Townie shook his head. “When your wife passed, we just figured you were such a tough son of a bitch, you’d weather it.”
“They throw you to the wolves, see you survive, and in return, they assume you’re not human. I was guilty as anyone.” Ferguson held his hands up.
“I speak for all of us when I say how sorry we are that we weren’t there for you,” Townie said. “This, whatever it was, was my fault. I will never forgive myself. I mean that, Adler.”
“It’s okay, fellas. It means a lot.”
A knock sounded at the door. A bespectacled man in a straight back suit and thin goatee with aging brown skin held a briefcase before his waist. “Is this Jake Adler?”
“Who’s askin’?” Ferguson put on hand on a hip in a practiced manner that revealed both his gleaming Ranger star and his chrome semi-auto .45.
“Rodney Huerta. I’m the deputy AG for the State of Minnesota. I’d like a word.”
“Is this a social call, thanking him for his service?” Townie asked. “Cause if it isn’t, you better not take another step into this room before he’s retained council and had more than five minutes to recover from surgery.”
“My apologies. I didn’t know about… Surgery you say?”
“Bullet cut me down my back.” Jake loudly sipping his empty juice box. “Busted through my seat meat, then took out a chunk of my foot. Anyhow. You were saying something?” Jake put the straw to his lips again and slurped.
A woman in a business suit also holding a briefcase squeezed in behind Huerta. “Is this Jake Adler’s room?” she asked in a tinny voice. She looked around at everyone but Jake waiting for some sort of confirmation. She finally settled her gaze on the man in the hospital bed and gave a confused tilt of her head. “Were you involved in a shooting on Woodley Farm today?”
“Woodley Farm?” Jake asked. “How the hell should I know? Wasn’t much of a farm.”
“The Woodley’s were the family that lived there before a good number of them were killed today.”
Jake didn’t break eye contact, but let his eyes go dead.
“I’m Gina Grassley, Internal Review Iowa State Police.” She flashed a badge. “I’d like to ask you a few questions about what happened today.”
“Get in line, Miss Grassley,” Huerta said in a gently ribbing tone.
She looked up at him. “Oh?”
Huerta introduced himself and shook her hand.
Townie intervened. “Now isn’t a great time. Mr. Adler will be happy to field your questions at his earliest convenience. I’ll take your cards.”
Before he could, a big wide-faced, wide-shouldered man squeezed in behind Grassley and Huerta, wearing a wide-brimmed hat and uniform coat with a golden star on the breast.
“You one of the Minnesota cops involved in this shoot out today?”
“Now hold on,” Townie said.
But the big bull of a man stepped forward and grabbed Jake by the shoulders. “Are you hurt bad, son?”
“I’ll be all right, sir.” Jake marveled, half in shock, at the immensity and intensity of the man.
“Good. That’s good. I heard you lost one of your number, though.”
“And one severely wounded,” Jake said.
“God dang it.” He pulled his lips back, and tore his hat off. “God dang it to hell.”
Jake eyed Ferguson who couldn’t take his eyes of the big man.
“We need a proper debrief, but I heard a little of what you boys did back there, flanking them nut jobs with their assault rifles. I can’t imagine how many of my guys and gals we might have lost if not for your actions. But we’ll figure out commendations and whatnot when we get some breathing room on this thing. Til’ then, I’ll leave you to your recovery. And God Bless.”
The unnamed man pulled Jake into a sort of hug and tipped his cap before leaving.
“Who was that?” Townie asked.
“That was John Stephenson,” Grassley said in surprise. “Sheriff of Palo Alto County. Where the shootout took place.”
Huerta looked to stoney-faced Sergeant Townsend, then to Grassley who’s mouth still hung open. “Perhaps we came a little too soon,” he said. “Maybe we can talk to some others involved and get a lay of the land, so to speak. Then at a more opportune time, we can meet, when you’re feeling better.”
“That seems wise,” Townie said.
“Yes,” Grassley said, adjusting her glasses. “Speedy recovery Mr. Adler.”
The two officials left the room.
THIRTY-ONE
Old Wounds
Teddy was a young man with a round, pale face and curly hair, as big as he was inquisitive. They met the day Jerry left the Mayo Clinic, and Teddy drove the medical transport van from Rochester to Jerry’s home in Saint Paul. To Jerry’s surprise, Teddy didn’t leave. He’d been assigned as Jerry’s in-home caregiver, Teddy explained, surprised Jerry didn’t know. Jerry immediately resisted the notion, but Teddy shrugged off his concerns. Jerry’s doctors were the best in the world and he’d been assured he was out of the woods. He didn’t see what all the fuss was about or why he needed an oafish twenty-something looming over him like a wet nurse, especially when his doting wife was so eager to aid in any way.
When Jerry felt the beckoning of nature, he tried to furtively amble to the toilet on his walker. Teddy caught sight of him from the dining table where he sat reading a magazine, and leapt up. Jerry was helpless to stop the big boy from following him to the bathroom, but once inside protested.
“Do you mind?” Jerry asked over his shoulder, unable to turn easily with his walker.
Teddy filled the doorway. “I’m here to help.”
“I’ve done this before.”
“Not like this you haven’t.”
Jerry sighed. “Get out, Teddy.”
Teddy stood outside, asking every few minutes how things were going. After twenty minutes Jerry was sweating and in great pain. “Teddy…”
Teddy entered the bathroom with a satisfied look on his face.
“Well, if
you’re so damn pleased with yourself,” Jerry said, “then have at it.”
After Jerry suffered the indignity of having his ass wiped by another person in his own home, he realized it was vastly better that Teddy do it rather than his wife or god forbid one of his children. Family was family, but there were lines that didn’t need to be crossed.
Teddy had treated Jerry with quiet disinterest at first, then found with some surprise that Jerry answered just about any question he asked. While Teddy was entirely used to wiping butts, he wasn’t used to having patients he could converse with and grew rapidly more talkative. It turned out Teddy was interested in being a cop, and that led to even more questions. Eventually, a week into Jerry’s home recovery, he asked his most pressing question: How had Jerry gotten shot?
Jerry told him a sanitized version of the story, with no mention of Jake’s mental breakdown, more or less the same version he’d told all the state and local investigators who’d come calling.
“Are you glad in a way that your career ended like that?” Teddy asked, laying out Jerry’s dress uniform on his bed near where Jerry sat. “In a blaze of glory.”
Jerry’s mustache twitched. “You ever been shot, Teddy? Don’t answer that.”
“So, did you, like, get in trouble for going into another state? I thought you had to stay in Minnesota?”
“The Iowa side seemed more upset by the bungled response to the shootout. They shoulda had more cars there in minutes. It was a breakdown of procedure at every level, but you know the only person who got fired? A dispatcher who made $11.75 an hour.” Jerry scoffed. “There’s a lesson in that for you, Teddy, should you ever enter any sort of public service.”
Jerry didn’t mention it to Teddy, but investigators in Minnesota and Iowa agreed that Jerry Unger hadn’t been in violation of any regulations, since he’d been sent across state lines to collect Jake, not to pursue an arrest. Following the criminals to the compound had been justified by rescuing Nelson who was now hailed as a fallen hero. If Jerry and Jake hadn’t intervened and flanked the perpetrators, it could have been a very bloody day for Iowa State Troopers and the Palo Alto Sheriff’s deputies. This left investigators with one overarching question. Why had Jake been in Iowa to begin with?