Storm Prey

Bee said. “He was a friend of Shooter’s, from California. Uh, he didn’t hang around that much, he mostly just rode.”
    “Big BMW, right?”
    “Yeah. That’s what everybody noticed. The other guys ride Harleys, but Cappy didn’t care. He rode his Bimmer.”
    “You know where he lives?”
    “No idea.” She said it so quickly and solidly that Lucas believed her.
    “How about where he works?” Lucas asked.
    “That ... I’m not sure about, but I know he always had to leave the bar early, before it closed. He worked nights. He doesn’t have any skills—I heard that from somebody. Taking crappy jobs. Never graduated from high school ... he’s only about twenty.”
    “He looked older than that, to me,” Lucas said.
    “He does look older, but Lyle once told me that if the cops came in, get Cappy out of sight. He wasn’t legal yet.”
    “You think he might kill somebody?” Lucas asked. She seemed to think about it for a long time, and he said, “Harriet?”
    She said, “Yeah. I do. He is one scary little motherfucker. He’s got eyes like a snake on Animal Planet.”
     
     
    So LUCAS SAT on the hospital couch, with troops of cops still moving through, and thought, Boxes.
    A crappy job, no skills, after midnight. Boxes.
    He thought, UPS. FedEx. Post office.
    He took out his phone and called Sandy, a part-time researcher for the BCA. She was off, at her apartment, listening to what sounded like a Branford Marsalis disc, and she said she could have the relevant numbers in ten minutes.
    Lucas put his phone back in his pocket.
    What about the doc?

20
    CAPPY LAY ON THE FLOOR in front of the television, tuned it to Channel Three, for the news, put his foot up on a couch pillow. He’d done what Barakat told him, and most of the bleeding had stopped. He hit the cocaine, once, but that seemed to make his mind focus on his toe: the pain grew worse. He stopped with the cocaine, tried to focus on the television: the cops were all over the hospital. A thrill here—he’d done this. He’d caused this chaos. People were paying attention. He was still lying, watching, there when Barakat got home.
    “How bad?” Barakat asked.
    “Not so bad, really. Mostly my little toe. But that’s wrecked. I can’t put any weight on it,” Cappy said.
    “Let me get some things,” Barakat said. He went into his bedroom, did a twist, and another, and went back to Cappy with a brown leather bag that looked like a small briefcase. He popped it open, put it on the floor next to Cappy’s foot, dragged a reading lamp over, and started unwrapping the foot. “Did you take the oxycodone?”
    “Two of them,” Cappy said. He told Barakat about running down the stairwell, and then getting shot. “I don’t think the slug could have missed my head by more than an inch. I mean, it was like my foot being hit with a sledgehammer, but I almost thought I could feel the slug go by. Right in front of my eyes. Two inches back, and I’d be dead.”
    “Uh-huh.” Barakat finished unwrapping the foot and said, “Okay. It’s messy, but not so bad. I’m going to have to ... uh ...”
    “What?”
    “I’m going to have to give you a shot before I can work on it,” Barakat said. “An anesthetic. It’ll hurt too much, otherwise.”
    “Whatever you gotta do,” Cappy said.
    “Need a little hit first,” Barakat said. He did another line of coke, came back.
    Barakat had three single-use syringes in the kit. He took one out, unwrapped it, then said, “This is going to bite a little ...” He slipped the needle in, and Cappy said, “Huh,” and Barakat said, “There’ll be three little sticks, here.” He stuck him the three times, feeding the anesthetic around the base of Cappy’s little toe.
    When he was done, he put the empty syringe on a coffee table, stood up, and said, “I’m going to have to wash your feet. I need to get some alcohol.”
    He was back in a minute with the alcohol and some paper towels, and began washing the wounded flesh. “Can you feel that?” Barakat asked.
    “Not too much,” Cappy said. “Feels lots better.”
    “It’ll hurt again later,” Barakat said. He took out a forceps that looked like a big pair of tweezers, and began probing at the wound. The wound was still oozing, and after a minute, he said, “Hmm,” and then, “You got lucky.”
    “Yeah?”
    “Your small toe is mostly gone, but your fourth toe was only damaged by debris from the shoes. The bones and joints look like they’re