Bloody River Blues

had seen doctors—looking somewhat funny—in plastic booties. They made the same sort of sound. But he doubted what he now heard was made by a doctor. He looked groggily at his watch. Ten o’clock. Did doctors operate at this time of night?
    Perhaps it was a nurse. The nurses sometimes brought around snacks and although the lights in his room were out and Buffett had been dozing, if snacks were on the agenda Buffett was going to get a snack. If this was the case he hoped it was the blond nurse.He liked her. She was gentle and chattered while she did the things she had to do. The redhead was silent and seemed to resent her complicated duties with the tubes and bottles and bags.
    But he didn’t think it was either of these women. Donnie Buffett, husband of a self-proclaimed psychic, suddenly had a bad premonition about this visitor.
    He groped for the telephone. But before he could grab it the door began to open.
    He couldn’t run, he couldn’t hide.
    But he could fight.
    Buffett closed his eyes, forced his breath to slip in and out of his lungs leisurely, like a man in contented sleep. His right hand curled into a fist, a fraction of an inch at a time. The footsteps came closer. Buffett tensed the muscles in his arm. Whoever it was came up slowly on the left side of the bed. Buffett decided he would grab the guy’s crotch with his left and when he howled and doubled up go straight for the nose with his right fist . . .
    He wondered if it was the man who shot him, coming back to finish the job. If the MO was the same as the Gaudia hit he’d have a small-caliber gun. A .22 or .25, which doesn’t hurt very much and doesn’t have any stopping power at all. Buffett would not die immediately and before he did he could do a lot of damage.
    Basketball player, softball pitcher, jump-rope tugger, Donnie Buffett had very strong hands.
    He was suddenly hungry with lust—the same feeling that seized his body just before the kill when he was hunting. His shoulders started to tremble. His arm muscles tensed.
    The footsteps stopped two feet from the bedside.
    “Donnie,” the voice whispered.
    He opened his eyes and looked at the shadowy silhouette above him. A hand disappeared under the lampshade and the room was suddenly filled with jarring light.
    A white-faced John Pellam sat down in the chair beside the bed.
    “Hey, chief,” Buffett said in an unsteady voice, “how’d you get in here? Visiting hours are over.”
    “The back stairs.”
    “Some security. You scared the crap out of me.”
    “I’ve got to talk to you, Donnie.” He stared at Buffett. No, past him. His face was pasty. The cop wondered if he was sick or if he’d fainted. Pellam held something in his hand, something small and dark.
    Buffett felt his own hand start to cramp and realized it was still jammed into a large fist. He relaxed it and felt the pain subside. His heart pounded and he felt a surge of weakness melt through his chest and his abdomen. “What the hell are you doing here at this hour?” He too was whispering.
    What’s he holding?
    Pellam glanced down at his own hand, at the object he held. He looked back up at Buffett and said, “He broke into the camper. The man who attacked Nina, the one who killed my friend. I don’t know how, he just got in. He hit me a couple times.” He looked at Buffett for a long moment. “I took out your gun—”
    “The cold gun?”
    “Right.”
    “Jesus.”
    “I took it out. I shot him with it.”
    “Jesus, Pellam, you shot him?”
    “I wasn’t going to. I was just going to arrest him. He pulled his gun out and . . .”
    “He’s dead? Well, let’s think. Any witnesses? Anybody hear anything, you think?”
    “There’s more,” Pellam whispered.
    “Don’t panic yet. Let’s think. It was a break-in. That’s burglary, and you’ve got a right to use deadly force, even if it’s a mistake. An absolute right. Okay, let me call . . .”
    Pellam held up his hand. The object was a wallet.
    “Where were you parked when it happened?” Buffett took the wallet which Pellam had thrust toward him. Absently he turned it over and over.
    “There’s more, ” Pellam blurted once again.
    The cop was still talking about what Pellam could do, lawyers he knew, what sections of the state penal code covered justifiable homicide. He opened the wallet. He stopped talking. After a moment he blinked. “Oh, my God.”
    Pellam asked him, “I just killed an FBI agent, didn’t I?”

Chapter