Cat's Claw (A Pecan Springs Mystery)

things were being done the way they should be. Do you think he’ll change his mind and come back?”
    Sheila’s smile faded. She didn’t like to think that people—some people, anyway—felt that Blackie had made a mistake when he left the job, even though she wondered the same thing herself. But that wasn’t something she could say to Helen Berger.
    “I understand,” she said quietly. “But he’s doing a different job now—one he wants to do. Today, for instance, he’s down in Mexico, trying to locate that little Austin boy who was abducted by his mother.”
    “Oh, I heard about that child,” Helen said. “It’s awful. I hope Blackie can find him.” She frowned uncertainly. “But—Mexico? That isn’t the safest place to be right now, even for somebody who knows what he’s doing. I heard on the radio a little while ago that two American guys were shot by drug cartel members just south of Juárez. Right on the main highway, too.” Her eyes widened and her hand went to her mouth. “Oh, dear. I suppose I shouldn’t have said that. You’re probably worried enough already. I’m making it worse.”
    Two Americans shot?
Sheila felt a dark edge of fear slicing throughher insides. “Yes,” she admitted, suppressing a shiver. “It’s true. I am worried. Cross your fingers, Helen.” She touched the other woman’s arm and turned away. If she stayed an instant longer, Helen would read the fear in her eyes.
    Palmer’s bed was barricaded with a drip trolley and a monitor panel with assorted dials, displays, and switches. His head was swathed in bandages; his trunk was wrapped in white tape; and his left arm and leg were encased in plaster casts. A clear plastic drip tube was plugged into his right arm. His face bore scratches, almost like claw marks, and one cheek was badly abraded. His eyes were shut.
    Before she left the police station, Sheila had picked up her pocket tape recorder. Now, she made herself stop thinking of Blackie—
two Americans shot?—
and took it out and flicked the switch. Then she pulled out her notebook and went to stand near the door, out of the patient’s field of vision. Bartlett was leaning over Palmer’s still form.
    “Hey, Henry,” he said easily. “You in there?”
    Palmer’s eyelids fluttered. “Who—”
    “Jack Bartlett, PSPD. Remember? We spoke last night, at the shop. You said you wanted to talk. Still feeling like it?”
    “Yeah.” Palmer’s voice was high-pitched, thin and reedy, with a tremor of hysteria. He didn’t open his eyes. “What hit me? Nobody here will tell me.”
    “Gino’s Pizza van,” Bartlett said. “Swerved into the bike lane.” He paused and glanced at Sheila. She shook her head slightly. It wasn’t time to tell Palmer who’d been driving the van. They should save that information. It might be more useful later.
    Palmer moaned feebly. “I’m gonna die.”
    “Naw,” Bartlett said, and put his hand on Palmer’s shoulder. “The doc says you’ll be okay. That van did a number on you, for sure, and youmay be laid up for a while. But you’ll be back on a bike before long. In the meantime, just concentrate on feeling better.”
    “No,” Palmer whispered. “I’m gonna die, and I know it.” He opened his eyes. “That’s why I wanted to talk to you. I’ve got to get something off my chest. It’s about Jason Hatch and me and what we… we were doing.”
    “Oh, yeah?” Bartlett asked.
    “Yeah. And about Hatch and Larry. Hatch killed Larry. I don’t want him to get away with it.” His voice became urgent and he tried to raise his hand. “You can’t let him get away with it! You’ve got to see that he pays!”
    Bartlett turned toward Sheila. She mouthed the word “Miranda,” and he nodded. The courts accepted deathbed confessions without insisting on the need for the Miranda warning. But while Palmer might believe he was on the verge of death, that wasn’t the case. What he was about to say might lead to the filing of criminal charges against him or someone else. When that happened, he might argue that his wasn’t a deathbed confession because he didn’t die. She didn’t want his evidence disallowed on that technicality.
    “Look, fella,” Bartlett said in a sympathetic tone. “I understand why you feel like you’re totally wrecked. Been there myself, after a motorcycle accident. But just in case you’ve got something to say that could incriminate you, I need to give you a Miranda warning. You