Part 21 (1/2)
”It's Leo Walsh,” the sheriff replied with pain in his voice. ”He's been shot. His chances don't look good.”
FOURTEEN.
I COLLAPSED ONTO THE SOFA. ”NO!” I CRIED. ”NOT LEO!”
”Calm down, Emma,” Milo said quietly. ”I'm at the hospital. You stay put. I'll call as soon as I find out anything.”
”I'm coming,” I said, my voice shaking.
”Don't,” the sheriff insisted. ”You can't do a G.o.dd.a.m.ned thing. You're in shock, you'll drive your G.o.dd.a.m.ned car into a G.o.dd.a.m.ned light pole.”
Dimly, I realized that Milo must be in shock, too, or he wouldn't have been cussing so much. ”I'll wait to collect myself.” I hung up. And realized I didn't know how or where or anything else about Leo's shooting.
The siren. I remembered hearing it, thinking idly about its source. Vida. She'd seen Leo arrive at the ski lodge. When? As she was leaving before six-thirty to get to KSKY in plenty of time for her program. Had Leo been shot at the lodge? The Advocate. Kip wouldn't have started printing the papers yet. Still trembling, I picked up the phone and misdialed three times before I got it right.
”Kip?”
”Emma? You sound weird.”
”I am. Leo's been shot.”
”What?”
”Leo. He was shot. He's in the hospital. It sounds...bad.”
”Who shot him?”
”I don't know. I'm going to the hospital. Milo's there. Where are you?”
There was a pause before Kip answered. ”Oh-you mean with the paper.” He sounded relieved, probably thinking that I'd lost my mind, which wasn't far from the truth. ”Just finis.h.i.+ng up the front page. Shall I hold a spot open?”
”Yes. I...” How long before we knew if Leo would live? I couldn't imagine anything worse than coming out with a bulletin tomorrow that said he'd been shot and, before the paper could be delivered, learning that Leo had died. ”I'll call you from the hospital. It may be a little while, okay?”
”Sure. Do you want me to come with you?”
”No. Hold down the fort.”
”This is unbelievable,” Kip said, the tremor in his voice indicating that my horrible news had sunk in. ”Leo? Why?”
”I don't know. I've got to go.” I hung up.
I had to call Vida, but suddenly I felt drained. A terrible sense of urgency came over me. I couldn't waste time before getting to the hospital. Not bothering to grab a jacket or a sweater, I ran out to the carport and got into my Honda. At least I had sense enough to take a deep breath and make sure that I'd put the car in reverse. Milo was right: I wasn't in very good shape to drive.
The fastest way was along my own street for a couple of blocks and then down Third to Cedar. It was still light outside, and traffic was minimal. That was lucky because I ran the arterial turning onto Cedar. There was an open parking spot in front of the dental and chiropractic clinic across the street from the hospital.
I hurried through the emergency entrance, heading for the waiting room. Milo wasn't there. I went up to the counter where the receptionist, Bree Kendall, sat with her usual hostile expression.
”Mr. Walsh is in surgery,” she said with what I thought was something akin to pleasure at the opportunity to give me bad news. Bree and I had a brief but acrimonious history resulting from my dogged determination to interview her about a previous murder investigation. ”That's all I know.”
”Where's Sheriff Dodge?” I asked.
”I've no idea.” Bree turned away.
I hesitated, then stomped straight through the emergency area's double doors.
”Wait! You can't do that!” Bree shouted after me.
I didn't bother to look in her direction. She might have been taller, younger, and more athletic than I was, but my mood brooked no interference. If she tried to stop me, I'd deck her.
Fortunately, it didn't come to that. Dr. Elvis Sung came out of one of the examining rooms and quickened his step to meet me.
”Dodge went out front for a smoke,” he said. ”Leo's being operated on by Doc Dewey and Dr. Weinberg.”
”Dr. Weinberg?” I didn't recognize the name.
”We got lucky,” Dr. Sung said with a grim little smile on his broad, good-looking face. ”He's a crackerjack surgeon visiting from New York. He and his wife are staying at the ski lodge and were coming from dinner when they heard about the shooting. Trust me, this guy's good. I've heard of him, even read a couple of his articles in medical journals.”
”Then Leo may be okay?” I asked, feeling breathless.
”Let's say that his chances improved with Weinberg on the case. Not,” Sung added quickly, ”to take anything away from Doc, but we couldn't ask for a better surgeon in the OR.”
”Where was Leo hit?”
”Two bullets in the back, one close to his kidneys, the other just missed a lung.” Sung, a Hawaiian native, ran a hand over his smoothly shaved head. ”One of the ski lodge valets heard the shots and found Leo in the parking lot. The young man at the desk called 911 and then got Weinberg out to tend to Leo. Luck of the Irish, you might say.”
”Not so lucky to get shot in the first place,” I murmured. ”How long will Leo be in surgery?”
Sung shrugged. ”It's hard to tell. A couple of hours, maybe more.” He lifted his hands in a helpless gesture. ”Excuse me, Emma. I've got to finish up with Dixie Ridley. She broke her ankle playing tennis. Rip says he should've benched her a long time ago.”
Dixie was married to the high school football and basketball coach. On the verge of any other last-minute deadline, I'd have called in her mishap to Kip so he could put it on page three. But not tonight. Leo was my priority.
I didn't want to go back through the waiting room and face Bree Kendall a second time, so I slipped out through the rear exit. Sure enough, Milo was pacing and smoking on the corner of Third and Pine across from the Clemans Building.
”Emma.” He dropped his cigarette, ground it out with his heel, and loped toward me. ”A h.e.l.l of a thing,” he said, putting an arm around me. ”You okay?”
”I'm better now that I talked to Dr. Sung,” I said. ”He didn't scare the c.r.a.p out of me like you did.”
”I didn't know about this Weinberg guy,” Milo admitted. ”He rode with Leo in the ambulance, but I thought he was just another citizen tourist doing a good deed.”
”Has Leo said anything?” I asked, grateful to lean against Milo's solid presence.
”No,” he replied. ”Jesus, do you think this is connected with the other shooting? It can't be random, can it?”
”You're asking me?”
”Yes. No.” Milo looked up into the summer sky, where ribbons of pale gold and purple crept earthward to the west. ”Still, you know more about this bunch than I do.”