Heat Lightning

Jenkins asked. “So: who do we kill?”
    “Hey—I’m naked under here,” Virgil said, peering under the sheet that covered him.
    “That’s cool—don’t have to show us,” Jenkins said.
    The doctor came and told him that he’d suffered a concussion of modest severity—“Not terrible, but not nothing, either. You got hit pretty damn hard. You remember the MRI?”
    “No.”
    “Well, we did an MRI,” the doc said.
    “I remember a loud noise. . . .”
    “That was it. Anyway, there’s no fracture, and we didn’t see any real organic damage, no bleeding, but you took a hit and got your circuits scrambled. We want you here overnight, to make sure that everything continues to work. Make sure that a clot doesn’t pop out of the woodwork.”
    “Is that likely?” Shrake asked.
    “It’s getting less likely the longer it goes, but he doesn’t want to be out in a canoe somewhere if it happens,” the doc told Shrake. To Virgil: “So, stay overnight, and we’ll look at you tomorrow morning and then you can go home.”
    “My head hurts. . . .”
    “We can fix that,” the doc said. “You could use some sleep, too.”
     
 
HE WOKE EARLY, feeling tired, drugged, and disoriented. A nurse looked in on him, gave him a piece of paper, and asked him to read the small type. He did. She said, “What do you want for breakfast?” He ate and went back to sleep.
    Davenport called from Washington and said, “Sounds like you’re making progress. I told you that you’d find him.”
    “Is that what you thought when you got your ass shot? That you were making progress?”
    Davenport laughed, then said, “Wasn’t my ass, it was my leg. Anyway—are you okay? You sound okay.”
    “Got a headache, but I’m not gonna die,” Virgil said. “Can’t say the same for fuckin’ Bunton when I find him.”
    “Don’t shoot him right away,” Davenport said. “Ask him some questions first. Find out if he did Sanderson and Utecht.”
    “Ah, I don’t think he did—but I think he knows why they were killed. I gotta get outa here, he could be anywhere by now.”
    “Jenkins and Shrake called me last night after they talked to you. They’ve been tracking him—or trying to. They oughta be coming by to tell you what they’ve got. You still got your cell?”
    “Yeah.”
    “All right. You’re doing good, Virgil,” Davenport said. “Keep it up. I want this cleared out before I get back there.”
     
TEN O’CLOCK: he had to wait until the doc got to him before he could check out, and the doc took his time. After a perfunctory check, he told Virgil to take it easy for a couple of days and to stay away from aspirin for a few more.
    “What happens if I don’t take it easy?” Virgil asked.
    “Probably nothing, except that your head will hurt more,” the doc said.
    Virgil was getting dressed when Jenkins stuck his head into the room. “You okay?”
    “I’m good to go,” Virgil said. A headache lingered, but he ignored it. “Just signed the insurance papers. What about Bunton?”
    “That house you were at? It belonged to Bunton’s father’s step-brother, so he’s like a step-uncle, if there is such a thing. He’s the guy who called the ambulance. We landed on him pretty hard, and what we got is, Bunton is running around somewhere on a Harley. We’ve got the plates, we’ve got the description, we’re stopping half the Harleys in the state. Haven’t found him yet.”
    “What about my truck?”
    “Shrake and I moved it up here, across the street in the parking garage. I’ll walk you over.”
    “Thanks, man.” Virgil pulled on his boots. “That fuckin’ Bunton. Wonder what the hell was going through his head?”
    “Maybe nothing,” Jenkins said. “I looked at his file—he ain’t exactly a wizard.”
    “He’d know better than to whack a cop,” Virgil said, standing up, tucking in his shirt. “If he goes to Stillwater for ag assault on a cop, he might not get out.”
    “So what’re we doing?”
    “I’m gonna go back and talk to this uncle; make some things clear,” Virgil said.
     
 
BUNTON’S STEP-UNCLE, whose name was Carl Bunton, had been laid off by Northwest Airlines, Jenkins said, and was working as a clerk in a convenience store. Virgil got his truck and followed Jenkins out of the parking garage, down south through the loop, to a no-name food shop on Franklin. A kid, maybe twelve, came running out of the shop, carrying a pack of Marlboros, as Virgil and Jenkins crossed the