Rough Country

You taking it hard?”
    So they talked about it for a while, the old man listening attentively, asking a few intelligent questions. He said, finally, “I don’t see that you had any better options, Virgil.”
    “I can’t think of any,” Virgil said. “I could have let it go, but . . . people get trials, you know? You don’t make a deal with a bunch of foreign killers to come here and execute people.”
    Ken Sanders said, “I worry about cops with machine guns, though. We’re turning ourselves into the military. Got machine guns, got squad cars that are like tanks, full of munitions and guys with armor. You get a situation like this morning, it’s going to come to a bad end, all those guys running around with heavy-duty weapons. Hell, you get an ordinary car chase, and half the time somebody winds up dead. And half the time it’s somebody who’s completely innocent. Trying to cross the street . . .”
    “I hear you,” Virgil said.
    “You know, old home week is fine, and all that—but we’ve got some shit to do,” Phillips said.
    Virgil stood up, stretched. “You’re right. I need to break this thing down. I need to know who killed those people. Not so you can convict them; so I know .”
    “Then get your ass down to the Cities,” Phillips said.
    Virgil thought about Sig, and thought about going out there, and thought about the Deuce waking up in a hospital without an attorney right there.
    He needed to go to Sig’s.
    He had to go to St. Paul.

25
    VIRGIL CALLED SIGNY and told her that he had to go away for one more night, and though there might have been a thread of skepticism in her voice, she said, “You’ve got to get this done, Virgil.”
    He said, “Sig, honest to God, there’s no place I’d rather be than up here.”
    “I believe that. . . .”
     
     
     
    A CRAPPY, mindless drive down I-35 to the Cities; not much to look at in the afternoon, without even the romance of the nighttime stars.
    He caught Jimmie Dale Gilmore, with “Dallas,” one of his favor ites, and Lucinda Williams’s cover of AC/DC’s “It’s a Long Way to the Top (If You Wanna Rock ’n’ Roll),” and the music smoothed the flow, but when he drove into the parking lot at Regions Hospital in St. Paul, he hadn’t thought of a single thing that could help.

    BUT HE THOUGHT OF SOMETHING when he stepped into the room and saw the Deuce. The boy’s slack face was a dark island in the middle of a lot of white sheets and white pillows and white bedcovers and electronic equipment that showed red and green numbers, and bags of clear stuff that flowed into his arms through plastic tubes, and flowed out of him through more plastic tubes. His eyes were closed, his breathing light and thready.
    Virgil asked the nurse, “Has he been awake?”
    “Yes. He was awake an hour ago, but he’s in bad shape,” she said. “He hasn’t said anything coherent. He doesn’t know where he is. He’s got painkillers running, I don’t think he’ll be back tonight.”
    “Is he going to make it?”
    “Eighty-twenty,” she said. “They had to repair his rectum, there were some bone fragments that went through. His legs and pelvis are gonna be held together with metal plates. His spine didn’t get involved, but he’s got a lot of damage in his legs. One of the surgeons said they might have to go back in a half-dozen times to get it all fixed. As well as it’s gonna get fixed. And then there’s infection. If that turns bad, it’s all up for grabs.”
    Virgil said, “Thanks,” and went down to the cafeteria and got a Coke and sat down to think about what he’d just seen. After a while, he looked at his watch and called Sandy, the researcher. She was getting ready to go home. “I need a bunch of information. I need to get it in the next few hours. I can get you the overtime. You up for it?”
    “Nice of you to ask, instead of ordering me around like your personal slave,” she said.
    “Sandy—”
    “Shut up, Virgil. What do you want?”
    “Okay, in order. There’s a woman named Janelle Washington in a hospital in Duluth. I need to know which one. Her husband’s name is James, they live in Grand Rapids. . . . I need to get a car registration. . . .” He gave her the rest of the list, which she said shouldn’t be too much of a problem.
    “Where are you going to be?”
    “I’m heading up to Duluth. Goddamnit, I was up there two hours ago, down here for fifteen minutes, now I gotta go back.”
    “A little rain has