Dead Watch

one of the cops said. “At least you managed to hang on to your wallet and your briefcase.”
    “Maybe they picked you out because you’re disabled, homed in on that cane,” the second cop said. “Believe me, some of these assholes like nothing more than seeing a well-dressed disabled person.”
    They went away, leaving the strong impression that they would file a report but that nothing would be done.
    The headache arrived a few minutes later. The doc came in, said they would keep him overnight, and, “I can give you a little something for that head. When you get home, you can take a Tylenol when you need it, but no aspirin or ibuprofen. You want to stay away from any blood thinners for at least a couple of days . . .”

    When he woke up, at five in the morning, he was embarrassed. Embarrassed that he’d gotten beaten up, hadn’t managed to defend himself better. He enjoyed a decent fight, but what happened the night before, he told himself, hadn’t been a fight. It had been a mugging, cold and calculated. He thought about Cathy Ann Dorn. Not a coincidence?
    But why would Goodman want to slow him down? He’d been cooperating with Goodman . . .
    Another thought popped into his head. They’d known he used the back door, because of the sidewalk. Howard Barber had had trouble with the front door . . . if he remembered right, he’d said something to Barber about using the back.
    Barber? But why?

    Overnight, in the back of his bruised brain, he’d filtered out a few more conclusions.
    The attackers had been large, tough, and in good condition. One of them had a hill accent, Kentucky or eastern Tennessee, like that. They were good at what they did. They hadn’t meant to kill him—they could have done that with a single gunshot, or even a couple of axe-handle or pool-cue strokes to the back of the head.
    Instead, he’d taken two glancing blows to the head, another on his neck, and a dozen on his back, legs, and one hip. They’d meant to do what they had—to put him in the hospital. If Harley hadn’t been there with his shotgun, and if they’d had another minute, Jake might have been in bed for a week, or a month, or a year. They’d hit him hard enough that if they’d hit bone, squarely, instead of meat, they would have broken the bones . . .
    He’d never had a chance: and he was still embarrassed.
    And he thought that if he encountered the two men again, in a place where he could do it, he’d kill them. The thought made him smile, and he drifted away on a new shot of drugs, not to wake until eight.

    At eight o’clock, he rose back to the surface, thrashed for a moment, and a nurse came in and asked, “How are we feeling?”
    “We’re feeling a little creaky,” Jake said. He could feel the bruises, like burns. “Could you hand me my briefcase?”
    “The doctor will be here in a minute.”
    “Yeah, but my wife is probably going crazy, wondering where I am,” he lied. “I just want to call her.”
    He got the phone. When he switched it on, he found four messages from Gina, starting at six-thirty, all pretty much the same: “Jake, where are you? We’re calling, we can’t get you. Call in . . .”
    He called. Gina picked up and he said, “You won’t believe what happened, where I am . . .”
    Danzig came on a moment later, his voice hushed: “Jesus Christ, Jake, how bad are you hurt?”
    “Ah. Not bad. I’m bruised up. I got a few stitches in my scalp, got a headache. They say I’m fine.”
    The doc came in to hear the last part of it, pulled on his lip, and shook his head. Jake said to Danzig, “The doctor just got here. I’ll call you from the house. I’m still working.”
    “You think, I mean—the Watchmen? Or just muggers? Or what? I mean, it’s a pretty big coincidence.”
    “Yeah, I’m thinking about that. Give me an hour or two.”
    “What about this Patterson? We wanted you to go see him, but maybe Novatny . . .”
    “No, no. Keep Novatny out of this part, or you’re gonna see it all over the papers.” He glanced at the doc. “Listen, I can’t talk right now, they’re about to do something unpleasant to me.”
    “Okay. Okay. Well, Jesus, take care of yourself. Call me.” Danzig sounded like his father.
    “I’ll call.”
    He punched off and the doc said, “Not that unpleasant. Get a light shined in your eye, pee in a bottle, give up a little blood. Is it true that you have health insurance?”

    He was on the street at ten o’clock, a