KnockOut

cubicle, her pale little face very still, both her impossibly small wrists tethered to IVs, an oxygen mask on her face. She looked terrifyingly fragile, and Savich hated it. He kept talking to her in his mind, telling her over and over that she would pull through this, that he’d introduce her to Sean and she could be his big sister and boss him around. He told her he wanted to see her smile, just for him, told her about Astro, how when she was well, she and Sean could throw a Frisbee for him, and how he’d lick her mouth if she wasn’t careful.
    He never heard a whisper of her voice, never felt even a shadow of her. He prayed somehow she would hear him. He felt he had to keep talking, since there was nothing else he could do. And he wondered again and again how a small being like that could survive a bullet to her chest.
    It was a good sign, an ICU nurse told them, that she was breathing on her own and didn’t need a respirator anymore.
    Dr. Maddox, Autumn’s thoracic surgeon, fresh from a few hours’ precious sleep, followed Ethan and Joanna out of the cubicle. He said to them, “I won’t lie to you, like I told you, it was close, but she came through surgery like a champ”—a lie, but Dr. Maddox wasn’t about to tell her parents he’d nearly lost her. “She’s a strong little girl.”
    A sheriff and two FBI agents, he thought. At least he could leave it to them to sort out how it was that a seven-year-okl girl got herself shot in the chest. He hadn’t paid much attention to all the wild talk he’d heard about it. There hadn’t been time for that. He touched his hand to Joanna’s arm, shook Ethan’s hand. “The two of you can stay, but I’ll have to ask the agents here to keep it short. We have an ICU to run. Try not to worry too much, either of you, it will do no one any good. She’s in good hands. I’ll be in the hospital if she needs me.”
    “She’s so small,” Sherlock whispered. “She looks smaller than Sean.” She turned in to him. Savich stroked her back as she sucked in a light breath, holding back tears that stung his eyes. He swallowed He remembered his father telling him everyone expected the man to be strong, ho breaking down, and in his opinion that just sucked. The memory almost made him smile. He said to Joanna and Ethan, “I’ve called her more times than I can count. She’s—not there.”
    Joanna’s voice was a thread. “Or maybe she’s just not feeling strong enough. That could be it—sure it could. One of the ICU nurses told me she’s got a long way to go to get well again…” Her voice fell away.
    Joanna and Ethan went back into the cubicle, taking their place beside the narrow bed, Savich and Sherlock behind them, standing at the end of the bed. The same nurse, Elaine Amos, came in. They watched her take Autumn’s blood pressure. She paused, straightened, and said to them, “Look, I’ve seen people die, and I’ve seen some miracles too along the way, and with Autumn, I feel it here”—she touched her fingertips to her heart—”I know she’ll make it. All of us here want to bring her through this. What happened to your leg?”
    Sherlock said matter-of-factly, “He got shot.” She saw Elaine’s eyes go wide, briefly, but she didn’t care. If this hospital was true to form, gossip was already rife now that two FBI agents had come running in, one of them on crutches. If they only knew. She wanted to touch Autumn’s face, to feel the warmth of that small child’s flesh, but Joanna’s head was close to her child’s, and she was lightly stroking her fingertips over Autumn’s cheek.
    Elaine said, “Look, guys, give me a minute with her, all right?” A final kiss, a final touch, and the four of them left Autumn’s cubicle, Joanna looking over her shoulder at her daughter, her face so pale it looked bloodless.
    Ethan said, “You should know, Savich, Theodore Backman died soon after he reached the hospital, a massive heart attack.” He slammed his fist against his palm. “It was too easy for that perverted old man. Blessed, last I heard, is unresponsive—catatonic, they called it. They’ve moved him to a secured psych ward, where we’ve got him isolated and under guard anyway. As for Mrs. Backman, she’s six rooms down the hall, raving and chanting, mad as a hatter. And Cal-dicot, that psycho is still in Chief Parkes’s jail at Peas Ridge.” He paused a moment, turned back, looking through the open curtains at the nurse bending over