Eleventh Hour

“You already have,” Dane said. He pulled his FBI shield out of his inner pocket and flipped the case open.

“FBI. I’ve never treated an FBI agent before,” Martinez said as he injected Dane’s arm. “Let’s just give that anesthetic five minutes to kick in. Then, just a few stitches and that’ll be it, apart from a tetanus shot.” It felt to Dane like ten years passed before Dr. Martinez sank his first stitch.

Dane stared straight ahead, felt the push of the needle, the pull of the thread through his flesh. He focused on the array of bandages on the shelf in the cubicle. All sizes of gauze. In and out—it seemed like a hundred times—then, thank God, Dr. Martinez was done. Dane looked down at his arm as they bandaged it, then watched a nurse clean and bandage the backs of Nick’s hands.

“The stitches will resorb, but I want you to have them checked in a few days,” Dr. Martinez said. “We’re going to give you some antibiotics to take for a while. Any problems at all—fever, heavy pain—you get your butt either back in here or to your own doctor.” He looked over at Nick. “Hey, you a special agent, too?”

“She’s above just an ordinary special agent,” Dane said and sucked in his breath when the nurse jabbed a needle into his right arm.

“That’s your tetanus shot,” Dr. Martinez said. “Now, just one more for the pain. It should keep you smiling for a good four hours. And you’re going to need some pain pills, enough for three days. Don’t be a macho, take them.”

“He’ll take them,” Nick said, her bandaged hands on her hips, as if ready to belt him if he got out of line. She was still wearing his bloody jacket. She looked ridiculous.

The nurse said something and the doctor nodded. “Since you’re not his wife, you need to step out, ma’am. She’s got to give him a shot in the butt.”

“I’ve seen a lot of him already,” Nick said, “but not his butt.”

When Dane walked out of the cubicle, his left arm well bandaged and in a dark blue sling, he was trying to get his pants fastened with just his right hand.

Nick shoved his hand out of the way. “Hold still.” She zipped the pants the rest of the way up, fastened the button, then got his belt notched. “There, you’ll do.” She smirked, no other word for it. “Hey, did you have Dr. Martinez check the teeth marks on your shoulder?”

“He said I didn’t have to worry about infection, the antibiotic should cover the teeth marks, too. If you’re rabid, that could, however, be a problem.”

She smiled, a small, stingy one, but still something of a smile. She straightened in front of him, studied his face for a long time. She picked out the last of the glass and stroked her fingers through his hair to neaten it. “You’re pale, but not bad. Thank you for handling that so well, Dane. I owe you.”

“Yeah,” he said. “You do.” He leaned down, kissed her, then straightened again. “Debt paid.”

She laughed, looked off-kilter for a moment, which pleased him, then took off his jacket and draped it over his back. He was about to kiss her again when Lou came up. “Everything’s taken care of. Everyone’s excited to have a real FBI agent in here with a bullet wound. They get LAPD occasionally, but never a Fed. I think that woman over behind that desk wants to jump your bones, Dane.”

“My bones wouldn’t jump back,” Dane said. He felt slight nausea now even though his arm throbbed only a bit. The nurse had shot him up with Demerol. Whatever it was, it was working.

“We’re going back to our Holiday Inn and I’m going to watch Dane rest until tonight.”

“All right,” Lou said, “but you can expect everyone to come over and see for themselves what happened.”

“Oh dear,” Nick said. “We’ll be needing another car.”

“Not to worry,” Lou said. “Bo is already working on it. You’ll have another car there within a couple of hours, guaranteed.”

“You could have been killed. Very easily.”

“Let it go, Nick. It’s my job. The arm will be fine in just a few days, according to Bo, who, according to Lou, has reason to know. How are your hands?”

She waved that away. “I don’t want you to get killed.”

“I won’t. Drop it. Give me one of those egg rolls. Oh, dip it first. Thank you.”

She watched him eat. It was dark, almost seven o’clock in the evening. They’d been alone only for the past four minutes. Savich and Sherlock were the last to leave, Sherlock saying, “Remember, we’re two doors down, in twenty-three, and it’s the same phone number. Enjoy the Chinese.”