Dead Beat(36)

"So it would seem," Marcone said. "Since Mendoza's death, I have asked Miss Gard to collect information on recent events in the local supernatural community."
I glanced at the woman and nodded. "And she told you there were necromancers running around."
"Once that had been established, we attempted to narrow down the location of these individuals, particularly Grevane, but met with very limited success."
"I'm able to find where they've been," Gard said without turning around. "Or at least where they've been weaving their spells."
"And there are a number of hot spots of necromantic energy around town," I said. "I know that already."
Marcone placed his fingers in a steeple before him. "But what I suspect you do not know is that last night at the location on Wacker, a member of my organization had an altercation with representatives of a rival interest from out of town. There was a gunfight. My man was mortally wounded and left for dead."
"That doesn't add up to necromancy," I said, frowning. "What caused the hot spot?"
"That is the question," Marcone said. He took a folded piece of paper from his breast pocket and passed it to me. "These are the names of the responding EMTs," he said. "According to my man, they were the first on the scene."
"Did he talk to you before he died?" I asked.
"He did," Marcone replied. "In point of fact, he did not die."
"Thought you said he was mortally wounded."
"He was, Mister Dresden," Marcone said, his features remote. "He was."
"He survived."
"The surgeons at Cook County thought it a bona fide miracle. Naturally I thought of you at once."
I rubbed at my chin. "What else has he said?"
"Nothing," Marcone said. "He has no memory of the events after he saw the ambulance arriving."
"So you want me to talk to the EMTs. Why haven't you done it yourself?" I asked.
He arched his brows. "Dresden. Try to keep in mind that I am a criminal. For some reason it's quite difficult to get people in uniforms to open their hearts to me."
I gritted my teeth at another agonizing twinge from my leg. "Right."
"So," he said, "we're back to my original question. How serious is your injury?"
"I'll make it," I said.
"Do you think you'll need to see a doctor? If it's too mild a wound, I'll be glad to have Miss Gard make it look more authentic."
I looked at him for a moment. "I'm heading for an emergency room whether I need it or not, eh?"
"As luck would have it, we are near a hospital. Cook County, in fact."
"Yeah. The cut's pretty deep." I looked at the piece of paper and then stuck it in my pocket. "There's bound to be an EMT or two there. Maybe you should drop me off at the emergency room."
Marcone smiled, and it didn't touch his eyes. "Very well, Dresden. You have my deepest sympathies for your pain."

     
 

      Chapter Nineteen
Marcone and company dropped me off a hundred yards from the emergency entrance to the hospital, and I had to hobble in alone. It was hard, and I was tired, but I'd been hurt worse before. It wasn't like I wanted to do this every day or anything, but after a certain point of ridiculous discomfort, the pain all feels pretty much the same.
Once I made it to the emergency room, I was a big hit. When you drag yourself inside panting and leaving a trail of bloody footprints behind you, it makes a certain impression. I had an orderly and a nurse helping me onto my stomach on a gurney within a few seconds while the nurse examined the wound.
"It isn't life-threatening," she reported after she cut away my pant leg and took a look. She glanced at me almost in accusation. "From the way you came in here, you'd think this almost killed you."
"Well," I said, "I'm kind of a wimp."
"Nasty," commented the burly orderly. He produced a clipboard layered in forms and a ballpoint pen and handed them both to me. "They'll have to cut this out."
"We'll let the doctor decide that," the nurse said. "How did this happen, sir?"
"I have no clue," I said. "I was walking down the street and all of a sudden I thought my leg was on fire."
"You walked here?" she asked.
"A helpful Boy Scout brought me most of the way," I said.
She sighed. "Well, it's been a slow day. They should be able to see to you shortly."
"That's super," I said. "Because it hurts like hell."
"I can get you some Tylenol," the nurse said primly.
"I don't have a headache. I have a four-inch piece of steel in my leg."
She passed me a paper cup and two little white tablets. I sighed and took them.
"Heh," the orderly said after she left. "Don't worry too much. They'll get you something when the doctor sees to you."
"With this kind of loving care, I probably won't need it."
"Don't be too hard on her," the orderly said. "You should see what people try so that they can get to some painkillers. Vicodin, morphine, that kind of thing."
"Yeah," I said. "Hey, man, can I ask you something?"
"Sure." He had brought a bowl of ice with him, and he started sealing it into plastic bags, which he started packing around my leg. "This should numb it a little, and maybe take down some of the swelling. It ain't a local, but it's what I've got."
The ice didn't actually burst into steam upon touching me, even though it felt like it should have. The pain didn't exactly lessen, but it did suddenly feel a little more distant. "Thanks, man. Hey, I was hoping I could talk to a couple of guys I know while I was here," I said. "They're EMTs. Gary Simmons and Jason Lamar."
The orderly lifted his eyebrows. "Simmons and Lamar, sure. They drive an ambulance."
"I know. Are they around?"
"They were on shift last night," he said. "But it's the end of the month and they might be on their swing shift. I'll ask."
"Appreciate it," I said. "If Simmons is there, tell him a school buddy is here."
"Sure. If I do that, though, you gotta do something for me and fill out these forms."
I eyed the clipboard and picked up the pen. "Tell the doc to sign me up for carpal tunnel surgery when he gets that thing out of me. Two birds with one stone."
The orderly grinned. "I'll do that."
He left me to fill in forms, which didn't used to take terribly long to fill out since I didn't have any kind of insurance. One of these days, when I had the money, I was going to have to get some. They say that when you pay for insurance you're really buying peace of mind. It might make me feel peaceful to think of how much money the company was probably going to lose on me in the long run. If I lived my whole life in the open, as I had been since I'd come to Chicago, they might be dealing with me for two or three centuries. I wondered what the yearly markup would be for a two-hundred-and-fifty-year-old.
A young doctor came in after I was finished with the forms, and true to the orderly's prediction, he had to cut the shuriken out of me. I got a local, and the sudden cessation of pain was like a drug all by itself. I fell asleep while he was cutting and woke up as he was wrapping my leg up.
" …  the sutures dry," he was saying. "Though from the looks of your file I suppose you know that."
"Sure, Doc," I said. "I know the drill. Do you need to take them out or did I get the other kind?"
"They'll dissolve," he said. "But if you experience any swelling or fever, get in touch. I'm giving you a prescription for something for the pain and some antibiotics."
"Follow all the printed instructions and be sure to take them all," I said, in my best surgeon-general-slash-television-announcer voice.
"Looks like you've done this as often as I have," he said. He gestured to the steel tray where the bloodied shuriken lay. "Did you want to keep the weapon?"
"Might as well. I'll have to get a souvenir in the gift shop otherwise."
"You sure you don't want the police to look at it?" he said. "They might be able to find fingerprints or something."
"I already told you guys it must have been some kind of accident," I said.
He gave me a look of extreme skepticism. "All right. If that's the way you want it." He dropped the little weapon into a metal tray of alcohol or some other sterilizer. "Keep your leg elevated. That will ease the swelling. Stay off of it for a couple of days, at least."
"No problem," I said.
He shook his head. "The orderly will be by in a minute with your prescriptions and a form to sign." He departed.
A minute later there were footsteps outside the little alcove they'd put me in, and a large young man drew the curtain aside. He had skin almost as dark as my leather duster, and his hair had been cropped into a flat-top so precise that his barber must have used a level. He was on the heavy side-not out of shape or ripped out, but simply large and comfortable with it. He wore an EMT's jacket, and the name tag on it read LAMAR. He stood there looking at me for a minute and then said, "You're the wrong color to have been in my high school. And I didn't do college."
"Army medic?" I asked.
"Navy. Marines." He folded his arms. "What do you want?"
"My name is Harry Dresden," I said.